Jones walked into the bar, a confident spring to his step.

Robbie Catskill Jones Sr. was a tall young man, about twenty-five in appearance. His chin was covered by a blond bristle that he never seemed to shave, and his eyes were a greenish-brown colour of little note. He worked down at the Ayersons' ranch, just a bit south of their little town, Kettle Saskatchewan.

Not a lot of people knew about Robbie when he appeared in Kettle with nothing to his name except an American silver dollar he wore around his neck and a little squirt of a kid by his side. There was a lot of speculation about where and how Robbie Jr. had come into existence, but it looked like their past was a well-kept secret between father and son. Once Jones had proved his mettle on the Ayerson ranch, everyone knew to leave him alone, anyhow; he was a good man, and entitled to his privacy.

Robbie Catskill Jones Sr. turned to Bill, the bartender, and said, "Molson's please. Just the bottle."

"You got it, kiddo," Bill said in a voice scratched by tobacco, and sat into the garbage can underneath the bar before getting the other man's order. "So, what are you up to tonight, Jonesy?"

"Just unwinding a little tonight, Bill. Little Rob's at Darlene's for the night with her kids, so I decided to have a couple drinks. And I'm expecting someone who should be here any moment now," Jones said vaguely.

For a cowboy, Jones had a very thoughtful way of speaking, considered lofty by the other boys on the ranch. He very rarely used coarse language or slang, and his voice was well-cultivated, almost upper-class. The boys at the ranch said he was talking with airs, like he was too damned good for them. Their jealousy could be understood. After all, Jones led a charmed life.

One thing that was known about Jones was that he didn't come to Kettle to escape bad luck. From the day he and his son arrived, Jones met with nothing but ridiculously good fortune. Well, it could be said that he had a knack for avoiding bad luck, in any case. For his first week in Kettle, Jones rented a room in the little motel by the outskirts of town. The very day he left, the motel burned to the ground in a fire that was caused by a couple of weed-smoking cow-tipping stable boys. Shortly after, Jones rented a little cottage not far from the Ayerson ranch, then left because he claimed there were roaches in the attic. That cottage later collapsed to the ground, apparently blown over by a gust of wind. Several other incidents like this had come to pass, but Jones always came out of it without a scratch. So maybe it's safe to say that bad luck followed Jones wherever he went, but he was always oblivious of it or just missed it as he went out.

Bill shook himself from his reverie as Jones started talking again.

"... Haven't seen him in a long while. Surprised he managed to find me here," was Jones' last phrase before he looked up at the bartender. "Then again, with his rep, maybe I shouldn't be so surprised."

"Newcomer, then?" Bill said as he started washing glasses, barely registering Jones' nod. Across the room, young Joe Hartley had clearly consumed too much for the night... again. Bill discreetly patted Joe's car keys against his pocket, and went to the old rotary dial telephone to call his mother. He dialed the number, frowned, and tried to dial again. He was only met with a garbled white noise, evenwhen he dialed zero.

"Damnit. Are the phone lines down that you know of, Jonesy?" Bill asked the young man, who had suddenly looked up at the door.

"Nope, not that I know of," Jones said, once again with that detached tone, just as another walked into the bar.

This guy sure didn't look like he was around these parts, Bill mused as he pretended to continue washing glasses. He looked more like a yuppie from Ontario or thereabouts. He was wearing a tailored black suit and his black hair was slicked back. Around his wrist looked to be a genuine and shiny Rolodex, and not one of those imitations that looked exactly like the real thing. Bill cleverly disguised a derisive snort as a tobacco-thickened cough. He'd seen some of these suits before, when they'd been foreclosing family farms in favour of big production farms owned by companies from the east; they all looked like this dickhead.

To Bill's acute surprise, Jones stood up and shook the dickhead's hand.

"Good to see you again, Catskill. You seem well," said the suit in a crisp accent of some kind. Bill continued to roll his eyes and look at the odd couple before he was distracted by Joe Hartley yelling, "'Ey, barkeep, where are my fucking keys?"

While Bill went to Joe to try and convince him to let someone else drive him home, Jones and the Devil sat down and Jones grabbed another Molson's from the counter. The Devil held out a hand to decline the drink, and said, "Your time's up, Catskill."

"I know," Jones said.

"So, you have until midnight to come with me, or I'll have to take you downstairs by force, and let me tell you, I really don't want to do that," the Devil said with a sensible smile.

"Crissy and I had a kid," Jones said, looking at the bottom of his glass through the amber depths of the beer. "And Crissy died in childbirth."

"That's pretty common in cases like yours," the Devil shrugged.

"I can't help but think that you had a hand in it," Jones muttered.

"I'm not responsible for every bad thing that goes on around here, Catskill. You should know that. If you want someone to blame for Cristina's death, then blame one of my underlings. In the meantime, come along. I haven't got all night," the Devil said impatiently.

"I really don't want to go with you," Jones finally said, "but at the same time, I know that we made a deal in blood. So how about a game of chance instead of the usual routine?"

"What sort of game?" the Devil asked, his eyes glistening. "And what are the stakes?"

"How about a coin toss?" Jones proposed, breaking off the silver dollar from the string around his neck. "We'll call it in the air. You can toss, if you don't trust me. If I win, I get to stay here. If you win, you can take me to Hell."

The Devil looked into Jones' eyes, scrutinizing them for any hint of deceit. Surely there was some kind of trap; Jones knew that the Devil could easily manipulate the coin to work to his will. When he realized that Jones was completely honest, the Devil threw back his head and laughed.

"Catskill, you are by far the most naive demon I've ever laid eyes on," he said, wiping away an imaginary tear from the corner of his eye. "You're on, Catskill. If you win, you can live out your days with your mongrel son. When I win, I'll take you back to where you belong. I'm glad you had a good time on Earth, but a bit too much of these mortals' dumb hope has rubbed off on you."

"It's a deal, Scratch," Jones said, and a grin flitted across the former demon's face. The Devil didn't notice though. He placed the silver dollar on the fat of his thumb in mock ceremony, and said, "You can call first, Catskill."

The coin flew into the air, the dim light of the bar catching and reflecting of of its tarnished metallic surface. The Devil watched with a facade of awe plastered on his face, but Jones merely took another sip of his Molson's.

"Heads," said the Devil.

"Tails," said Jones.

The coin landed, on the uneven surface of the wooden table, and Jones' hand slammed down on the coin. Then he lifted his hand to reveal that the silver dollar had landed on tails.

The Devil looked in a mixture of amazement and anger, and after a moment of shock, he asked, "How is that possible?"

"Fifty-fifty chance, Scratch. The fact that you're Prince of Darkness don't affect gravity, you know," Jones said quietly.

"Tell me what you did to that coin?"

"Borrowed it off of a guy down in Oregon, little after Cristina died. Nice fellow. Went by the name of Michael. Said as long as I had it, I'm safe from the likes of you," Jones said with a hint of a smile. Then he stood up, took the silver dollar off the table, and threw a couple of toonies down for the beers. "See ya around Scratch. Better luck next time."

The Devil sat in the bar for a little while longer. Then he laughed. He'd been duped, by Michael no less, but he felt strangely pleased by the turn of events. Catskill had learnt well.