by Leon Loy
Before Caleb could get another swing with the ax handle, the drover again had the revolver in his face.
“What’s your problem?” he said. “We were just playin’ around with that Ind’n.”
“I told you that Indian is my wife,” Caleb said. “And she is not to be played with.”
“You marry a squaw, that’s what happens,” the man said. A wave of snickering rippled through the room. The drover grinned nervously, gaining courage from the crowd’s reaction. “See, everyone around here knows Ind’ns ain’t for marryin’. Screwin’ maybe, but not marryin’. Now, turn around and leave me alone.”
Caleb glared at him, his face growing hotter.
The drover pushed the muzzle of the gun against Caleb’s forehead. “Git, I said. Before I put a ball in your Ind’n-lover brain.”
The drover’s eyes went suddenly wide, his head twisted around, and a loud boom roared from across the room—all at once. The bullet struck the drover in the shoulder spinning him around. His knees buckled, and he fell forward onto several men who were huddled behind him. They wriggled from under him, and the drover went to the floor, kicking and groaning.
Caleb turned to look at where the shot came from. Behind a cloud of powder smoke, he saw a thin man in a black suit standing with a Colt’s revolver in his hand, the muzzle now pointed toward the ceiling. He had been seated at a table, playing cards with three other men, all of whom were now under the table.
“I was weary of his whining,” the thin man said in a lazy Southern drawl. “I could never abide whining. Would someone remove that dreadful whiner from the premises? I can still hear him.”
The bartender came around the end of the bar and motioned for someone to help him. They dragged the wounded man out the front door, where the bartender sent someone to find a marshal.
The thin man slid the revolver into a shoulder holster beneath his coat and sat down.
“You boys can come out now,” he said to the men under the table. “Our whiner has left the room.”
The thin man was very pale, with cold blue eyes, a bearded chin and moustache, and oiled hair the color of sand. As the men regained their seats around his table, Caleb approached them.
“I should thank you for that,” he said. “But it wasn’t necessary. He wasn’t going to shoot me.”
The thin man smiled, and said, “I beg to differ, Sir. In another second, he would have added a new orifice to your cranium. I have seen that look before. Besides, if I heard correctly, he was insulting your woman. That’s reason enough to shoot him. Would you join us for a drink?”
“No, thanks; I have to get back and see to my wife.”
“Certainly. That’s a noble thing to do. Pay your missus my respects, mister….”
“Thomason. Caleb Thomason. I work at Charles Rath and Company. What is your name?”
The thin man’s attention was diverted toward the front of the saloon. Two men had come in from outside and were approaching them.
“Well, looky here, Mr. Thomason. It’s the law,” he said.
A tall man with a drooping moustache, and eyes as blue as the thin man’s, stood beside Caleb. With him was a younger man who looked like he could be his brother. Caleb had seen this man around town before but not the blue-eyed man. Both of them wore wide brimmed black hats with flattened crowns, and marshal’s badges on the lapels of their black overcoats. The younger one held a shotgun.
“Doc, I’ll have that six-shooter,” the blue-eyed man said.
The thin man winked at Caleb. “Deputy Wyatt, I would rather hand over my beatin’ heart. I might could live without my heart, but I don’t think I could survive without my Colt. Would you deprive me of such a vital organ?”
“I would, and I will,” Deputy Wyatt said. “Let’s have it.”
Doc reluctantly removed the revolver from its holster and slowly handed it to the marshal. “I would have you to know, Deputy Wyatt, that pistol saved this man’s life not more than three minutes ago. A most ill-mannered cowboy had a gun to his head.”
Caleb held the ax handle out where Wyatt could see it and said, “I was about to use this on him, deputy.”
Doc scoffed. “See what I mean?”
“Name is Wyatt Earp,” the blue-eyed deputy said to Caleb. “My brother Morgan here found that man you left outside Rath’s store. And we just saw the man Doc shot outside. I think the ax handle inflicted the more severe wound.”
“Go on, take the clerk’s side,” Doc said. A sudden bout of coughing racked his body, and he brought a handkerchief to his mouth. It was not hard to see he was suffering a lung disease.
“My, how thirsty I have become,” he said when the coughing stopped. “Gentlemen, let’s drink to Mr. Thomason here, the tenacious clerk with a voracious club.”
The men at the table poured drinks from a bottle and downed them. One of them said to the brothers, “Deputies, we all are witnesses. Holliday shot that man to save this clerk from having his brains blown all over the ceiling.” The others nodded in agreement.
Wyatt looked at his brother and said, “Morgan, what do you think?”
Morgan said, “I think we’re done here.”
Holliday smiled, and lifted his glass toward them in salute. “When you Earp boys get off duty, come back and I’ll buy you a round of drinks.”
“Maybe,” Morgan said. “It looks to be a busy night.”
“Take care, Doc,” Wyatt said. “And stay out of trouble.”
“I shall try, Deputy Wyatt, but Trouble has a way of finding me. I would like my pistol back, in case Trouble cannot stay out of my way.”
“You can pick it up at Deger’s office tomorrow,” Wyatt said.
“Mr. Thomason, it was a pleasure to meet you. I hope to have the honor to meet your missus someday,” said Holliday, as Caleb followed the Earp brothers to the door of the saloon. A woman was throwing a bucket of water over the boardwalk where the wounded drover had bled. Earlier, the Earps had directed another deputy to take the man to Dr. McCarty’s for treatment.
Once outside, Wyatt said, “Those drovers insulted your wife, I heard.”
“Yes, they put hands on her,” Caleb said.
“You had every right to protect her,” Morgan said. “There won’t be any charges.”
“For me, or them?”
“For you. We won’t be charging you. Those two drovers will be out of commission for some time.”
“That shooter…you called him Doc?”
“Yes, John Henry Holliday,” Wyatt said. “A dentist, believe it or not. He’s been in town for several months. He helped me recover a horse thief in Texas.”
“He’s not so bad, unless you cross him,” Morgan said. “As long as he keeps his nose clean, we have no beef with him.”
“What about those men?” Caleb asked.
“That one Doc Holliday shot is a no-account drover that came up with a Texas herd during the summer and stayed around,” Morgan said. “We’ve had to deal with him before. Goes by the name of Buck Hester.”
“If I ever see him again on the street, I can’t promise an ax handle is all I’ll use,” Caleb said.
“When he heals enough, we will escort him out of town. I will do it personally,” Wyatt said.
“My wife is half Tonkawa,” Caleb explained. “She has not had an easy time adjusting to our new life here. I would appreciate it if you let it be known that I won’t tolerate rudeness to her.”
The Earp brothers exchanged looks. “Once word of this gets out, Mr. Thomason, you won’t have to worry about that,” Morgan said. “You have Doc Holliday on your side.”
The next day, when Dr. McCarty heard what his patient did to Sparrow and Caleb, he regretted that he had so fastidiously treated Buck Hester’s wound, wishing instead he had left the bullet inside his shoulder. He denied Hester’s plea to be sent to the infirma
ry at Fort Dodge, which resulted in his convalescence in the Dodge City jail.
The Dodge City jail house was a double-cell fortress built out of two-by-six boards laid flat and spiked together with iron rods at each end and placed in the middle of Front Street just south of the railroad tracks. It was dark, drafty, and the noise and soot from passing trains was unnerving to inmates. The noisy construction of a second story to house a police court added to the agony.
It was three days before Joe’s concussion cleared enough for him to realize he and Buck were sharing a cold, damp cell. Joe sat up in the cell’s only cot, and watched his friend as he slept on a pallet on the floor.
“Are you clear headed, Joe?” asked Buck, when he became aware that Joe was staring at him. For the past three days, all he could get out of Joe was slurred speech and non-sensible words.
“I’m not sure. Is that you talking to me?”
“No, it’s General Robert E. Lee. Of course, it’s me. Who else do you see in this damn cell?”
Joe grinned. “I thought it was you, Buck, but my head’s been hurting so bad, I wasn’t sure. Did that clerk get you, too?”
Buck scoffed. “Hell, no. Doc Holliday shot me. That clerk would be dead if it weren’t for him.”
“Doc Holliday!” Joe said. “What did you do to get shot by Doc Holliday?”
“He come to the defense of that store clerk. I ain’t through with them, Joe. I’ve been lying here thinking about it.”
Joe lightly touched the bandage wrapped around his head, working his fingers to where the axe handle had busted his head.
“Oww,” he said, “You might ought to leave them folks be.”
“They’re going to let you out of here as soon as you can see straight. I heard the marshals say so. Joe, my brother Harold is over in Wichita. Go find him. Ya’ll wait for me, south of here, on the Cimarron.”
“I know Harold,” Joe said. “He won’t like waitin’ around for long, even if he is your brother.”
“Tell him I got a plan to make some money.”
“How you going to make money on the Cimarron in the dead of winter?”
“It ain’t all worked out yet, but you’ll see. You get Harold and make camp down there.”
He noticed the worried look on Joe’s face. “You alright?” he asked.
“It will be winter soon, Buck.”
“You ain’t ever let weather interfere with making money, before. You gettin’ soft?”
“No, I ain’t soft. Just don’t like sleeping on ice, is all. How long will you be?”
“They won’t be keeping me in here forever. As soon as this shoulder heals, they’ll run me out of town, too.”
He was interrupted by the cell door swinging open, bathing the cell with so much light from outside, it made Joe cry out.
“Good God!” he said, covering his eyes with both hands. “Shut that door or my head’s gonna explode.”
Deputy Wyatt Earp stood in the open doorway, framed by the bright sunshine. “If it did, it would do the world a big favor,” he said.
“That ain’t no way to talk to a private citizen,” Joe complained.
“You can be a private citizen somewhere besides Dodge City,” Wyatt said. “You seem to be well enough. As the Thomason’s aren’t pressing charges against you, you can go, but you have to leave Dodge City immediately.”
Joe spread his fingers apart, and tested his vision against the light, squinting and blinking.
“I’d like to take a bath first,” he said.
“Take a bath somewhere besides Dodge,” Wyatt said. “Go on, get out of here.”
Joe stood up from the cot, swayed a little, and walked past the marshal deputy. “Stand aside, law man. I ain’t walkin’ too straight,” he said.
Wyatt let him pass through the door, and then locked onto Buck with a steely stare. This annoyed Buck immensely.
“I got nothing to say to you,” Buck said.
Wyatt continued to glare at him, silently.
“Well, if you ain’t got nothing to say to me, can you close the door?” Buck said, pulling the blanket over his chin. “You’re lettin’ in cold air.”
“The cot’s empty,” Wyatt said, before he closed and locked the cell door.
Five weeks later, having recovered from the bullet wound in his shoulder, Buck was released from jail. Sparrow convinced Caleb to not press charges against him, providing he leave Dodge City, something Marshal Deger readily decreed. The Earp brothers asked to be assigned as his escorts out of town. They collected Buck’s horse from the livery barn, picked him up at the door of the jail, and rode across the toll bridge headed due south. Riding with them was John Henry Holliday.
Holliday had assumed a personal interest in seeing Hester leave Dodge City. Since shooting Buck in the shoulder in the Lone Star saloon, he had acquainted himself with Caleb Thomason, and his young wife. Caleb would not visit saloons, a habit Holliday admired in the man, even though he himself practically lived in them. Holliday would send orders to Rath’s store, and Caleb would deliver them to the Dodge House hotel, where Holliday kept two rooms: one to sleep in, and the other in which to conduct dentistry.
He even offered the couple free dental examinations. Holliday marveled at Sparrow’s teeth. They were in perfect condition, a testament to the nutritious qualities of the dietary staple of her youth, buffalo. Caleb’s teeth needed a professional cleaning, but were in good shape, due in part to his abstinence from tobacco and alcohol.
It was two o’clock in the afternoon. The Earps had waited for Holliday to get ready, since he was a late riser. The dentist gambler rode his horse with expert posture, his thin frame poised, and his head high, belying his frail health. Wind was whistling through the sage and whipping their long coats about, and a light flurry of snow had begun to fall.
The men rode quietly, bracing against the cold, until Buck broke the silence.
“Tell me something, Doc. I can understand these two turd-kicking Yankees persecuting a Texas boy as long as they can get away with it. But why a son of the south like yourself would join them, puzzles me.”
“Well, Buck,” Holliday said, “I would guess there isn’t much that doesn’t puzzle you.”
Morgan Earp laughed. But his brother, Wyatt’s, expression was grim, agitated even.
Hester scoffed. “A man might say you talk like a damned carpetbagger, Doc.”
“You watch your mouth, Buck, or I’ll leave you out here with a few less teeth,” Wyatt warned.
But Holliday was unaffected by Hester’s insults. “A man might say a lot of things. But a Texas progenitor like yourself should occlude the oratory. Every time you open your mouth, you betray your asininity”
“I don’t even know what that means,” Buck said.
“You vindicate my assertion, Texas,” Holliday said.
Morgan looked at Wyatt and grinned. “Doc, I love to hear you talk, even if I don’t understand half the words you say.”
“I can’t talk to you boys,” Buck complained.
Wyatt leaned toward Buck, and spit at the ground. “Then shut up,” he said.
They rode for another mile; then, Wyatt reined his horse to a stop. “This is far enough,” he said. He pointed south. “That way is Texas. Don’t stop until you reach it, and don’t come back to Kansas.”
“Where in Texas are you from, Buck?” Morgan asked.
“Where I’m from is none of your business,” he replied, at which Wyatt shot him a threatening look.
“It’s a long trip to Texas for a lone man in this weather,” Morgan said.
“I got a brother who’s coming to meet me.”
“My God,” Holliday said. “Your poor mother birthed another one?”
Buck’s face flushed. “I got two brothers and three sisters, for your information. And don’t say nothing about my mother.
”
Holliday flashed a wide smile. He loved provoking the oblivious, and Buck Hester was more oblivious than most.
“I am sure your mother is not all to blame for your doltishness. You must have had a simple father.”
Buck twisted in his saddle, eyes glaring at Holliday.
“Give him a Colt, Wyatt,” Holliday said. “He should be given the opportunity to defend his mama’s honor.”
“I ain’t going to duel with you, Doc,” Buck said, “But I will tell you this; don’t come down to Texas anytime soon.”
“Oh, I declare, is that a threat, or an invitation? I might take a notion to…” A sudden spell of coughing cut Holliday’s sentence short. He doubled over the pommel to his saddle, chest heaving.
“Let’s get back to town,” Morgan said to Wyatt, his voice laced with concern. “This weather isn’t doing him any good.”
Wyatt pulled a Sharp’s carbine from a sheath tied to his saddle and passed it to Buck, who took it and held it across the saddle in front of him. Wyatt then tossed him a box of cartridges.
“That belongs to you. You’ll need it for game,” he said. “Don’t get any peculiar ideas.” He pulled his Colt revolver from its holster and pointed the muzzle at Buck. “Go on, Buck. You’re done in Dodge.”
“You planning to shoot me in the back?” Buck said.
“If I wanted you dead, I would have done it before we rode all this way in the cold,” Wyatt said.
Buck studied Wyatt’s face to see if he could read his intention. Reading Wyatt Earp’s face was a difficult chore, as his expression seldom revealed his intention.
Holliday stopped coughing, and Morgan turned toward Buck. “Buck, if you don’t leave now, I’m going to shoot you myself,” he said.
Buck set his horse off at a lope. The three men watched him go until he was almost out of view; then, they turned back toward town.
The next day, when he crossed the Cimarron River, Buck met his brother Harold, and Joe, who had made a camp in some cottonwoods on the south bank. The trio spent a snowy night in their make-shift lean-to and the next morning headed west, following the river upstream, and away from Texas.