by Matt Braun
The great financial panic of 1873, spreading early that fall from Wall Street across the nation, was the ruination of many Western communities. But Dallas, with two railroads and river navigation to the Gulf of Mexico, thrived as the center of trade for a sprawling frontier. The rail yards became a way station for the transshipment of goods to the reservations in Indian Territory. A string of military garrisons, stretching from Central Texas to New Mexico, were supplied out of Dallas by the government. All of this added to the normal trade of settlers and buffalo hunters scattered across the vast region. The population swelled to almost ten thousand by the close of 1875.
Even now, a frenzy of construction continued far beyond the banks of the Trinity. Carpenters and brick masons by the hundreds erected buildings as the boom went on unabated. The price of real estate skyrocketed, doubling and doubling again, fueled by enterprising speculators with an eye for profit. Southerners in particular, forsaking their war-ravaged homeland, flocked to Dallas seeking a fresh start, a new life. All in all, as Holliday listened to the porter’s prideful boosterism, he thought he’d made an excellent choice. A man with no future might find a measure of cheer in a roaring boomtown.
The porter halted in front of the hotel. As he unloaded the steamer trunk, he ducked his chin farther upstreet. “A gentleman like yourself wants to be careful up thataways. Folks call it the sporting district, if you take my meaning.”
“Do they?” Holiday said, amused by the warning. “Danger awaits the unwary, is that it?”
“Mister, it’s three city blocks of unfettered hell. Grifters and whores the likes of which you ain’t never seen. They’d rob you blind faster’n scat.”
“I’ll heed your advice.” Holliday slipped him three dollars. “And I’m obliged for the commentary on your fair city.”
“Helluva town! You’re gonna like it here, mister. Ever’body does!”
Inside the hotel, Holliday crossed a carpeted lobby appointed with sofas and overstuffed chairs. As he approached the desk, the room clerk snapped to attention. “Good afternoon, sir.”
“Good afternoon,” Holliday said. “I’d like one of your best rooms. I prefer a street view.”
“Certainly, sir.” The clerk swiveled the registration ledger around and handed him a pen. “How long will you be staying with us?”
Holliday smiled. “Indefinitely.”
Upstairs, with a window overlooking the street, he waited while a bellman unlatched his trunk. He then ordered a tub and hot water brought to the room. After the bellman departed, he opened one of the trunk drawers and removed a quart of bourbon. He took a long slug straight from the bottle.
Walking to the window, he pulled a leather case from his pocket and extracted a cigarillo. He lit up in a haze of smoke, wryly aware that the tobacco would only kill him faster. Still, the whiskey held his cough in check, and he saw no reason not to indulge himself with a smoke. A man’s vices, whatever the state of his lungs, were not easily discarded.
Yet his thoughts were not on mortality, or doom. He had decided that whatever time was allotted to him, he would live it to the fullest. His outlook was fatalistic: take the bitter with the sweet and make the best of it. The bitter, he’d told himself more than once, was in having lost Mattie. The sweet was to be found in the life he made for himself in the time remaining. He refused to enforce concessions on himself simply to prolong the inevitable.
Still staring out the window, he savored the pungent aroma of the cigarillo. His attention was drawn upstreet, and he idly wondered if the sporting district was all that dangerous. He recalled reading that everyone in the Wild West went armed, routinely settling their disputes with gunfire. Though amused at the time, he thought now the porter’s warning was probably worth heeding. His lungs would kill him, but no man should be allowed that privilege. Irony had its limits.
The cigarillo wedged in the corner of his mouth, he moved back to the trunk. From the top compartment, he removed a Colt’s New Line Pocket Revolver. The pistol was small and compact, perfect for concealment, and fired a .41-caliber slug. Before departing Atlanta he had purchased it on the premise that newspaper accounts, at the very least, bore an element of truth. Every man in the Wild West needed a gun.
He loaded five rounds into the chambers.
Early that afternoon, Holliday emerged from the hotel. After a soaking bath, which restored his vitality, he was ready to explore Dallas. He was attired in a dark serge suit, with a gold watch chain draped across his vest, and a narrow-brimmed hat. The pistol was tucked into his waistband.
The first order of business was to arrange a location for his dental practice. Finances were no great concern, for he’d cashed out his investments in Atlanta, and carried a bank draft for almost eight thousand dollars. But he was trained in dentistry, and he had no intention of falling into slothful habits merely because of illness. He was not yet infirm, and by no means lazy. He meant to practice his profession.
On a sidestreet, not far from the hotel, he found a vacant storefront suitable to his needs. He arranged with the owner to rent it by the month, and paid two months in advance. Through the owner, he was directed to a cabinetmaker, and ordered a reclining chair with a padded headrest. All of his dental instruments were packed in the steamer trunk, and it was a simple matter to purchase the necessary pans and other materials. He planned to open shop within the week.
An hour or so later, exploring the downtown area, Holliday wandered into the courthouse square. On the south side of the square, a small crowd was gathered before an oval-topped wagon. He heard the jaunty strains of a banjo, and strolled over to have a look. Emblazoned on the sides of the wagon were bright, gaily colored signs: HAMLIN’S WIZARD OIL & BLOOD PILLS. The back of the wagon dropped to the ground, supported by retractable legs, to form a stage.
The crowd was attracted to the medicine show by free entertainment. When the banjo player finished his tune, a large muscular man took center stage and proceeded to swallow a glistening sword fully half his body length. As he extracted the sword, bowing to cheers and applause, another man popped through the curtains at the rear of the wagon, brandishing a fiery torch. He drank from a bottle of clear liquid, then spat flames high in the air, and concluded by dousing the torch down his gullet. The crowd went wild.
The banjo player then strummed loudly, and brought out, with august pronouncement, Professor Omar Blackstone. The professor strode to the edge of the stage, attired in swallowtail coat and top hat, clutching bottles of patent medicine in either hand. His voice raised in sonorous cadence, he proclaimed the wonders of his wares, concocted from a secret formula discovered in the wilds of Borneo. Hamlin’s Wizard Oil, he thundered grandly, would cure lumbago, rheumatism, heart trouble, and the loss of hair. The Blood Pills, he noted with a sly smile, were for those ailments peculiar to the female condition. “A dollar a bottle,” he roared mightily, “and a cure in every bottle!”
The crowd surged forward. Holliday was tempted to ask if the professor’s secret recipe would also cure consumption. But instead he turned away, certain in the knowledge that the Wizard Oil was at least fifty-percent alcohol, guaranteed to temporarily relieve any suffering known to man or beast. As he crossed the courthouse square, he blithely mused that the flask in his pocket was far more potent, and no less curative, than the professor’s Wizard Oil. Unbidden, too sardonic to suppress, a more troubling thought flashed through his mind. The crowd, however fleetingly, took hope from Wizard Oil.
He wished the same could be said for bourbon.
That evening, after a light supper, Holliday went for a walk. His appetite was diminishing day by day, and no matter how tasty the dish, he had to force himself to eat. Whiskey and cigars, though short on sustenance, were an acceptable solace. He lit a cigarillo.
Drawn by curiosity, he took an excursion through the sporting district. He was no stranger to whores, or games of chance, nor to the rougher element whose stock-in-trade was vice. In Baltimore, during his college years, he had freque
nted seamy gambling dives, and when the urge came over him, an occasional bordello. But he was nonetheless curious as to whether vice in the untamed West compared favorably with vice in the more sophisticated East. He quickly discovered that sin in Texas was the same, simply rowdier.
The sporting district occupied three city blocks. On both sides of the street there were saloons, gaming dens, dance halls, and a galaxy of whorehouses. Some of the dives were sleazier than others, and a few, clearly for select clientele, possessed a touch of class. The men crowding the streets were a democratic admixture of burly teamsters, rawboned cowhands, and well-dressed businessmen. They came there to satisfy lust, or drown their sorrows, or court Lady Luck. The sporting crowd catered to their every whim.
Holliday inspected several of the dives, pausing for an occasional drink. Finally, his curiosity dampened, he returned to the Acme Gaming Palace. The interior was pleasantly furnished, the atmosphere quiet if not genteel, and the patrons intent on the pursuit of fortune. The Acme was clearly the haunt of serious gamblers, wagering serious money on dice, roulette, poker, and faro. Holliday assumed many of them were professionals, and he drifted from table to table, casually watching the play. At length, determined to test the waters, he took a chair at a poker table where the players appeared to be evenly matched. No one commented as he placed a hundred dollars in greenbacks on the table.
The game was draw poker, jacks or better to open, check and raise permitted. The ante was five dollars, with a betting limit of ten dollars, and three raises allowed.
The first night in Dallas, he finished fifty dollars ahead.
CHAPTER 3
“Which tooth is it?”
“Last one on the bottom. Hurts like a bastard.”
The burly teamster pointed to his lower left jaw. He was stretched out in the reclining dental chair, which was positioned in a spill of sunlight from the window. Holliday selected a steel probe from a tray on a nearby table, and peered into the man’s mouth. He gently tapped the suspect tooth with the probe.
“Holy shit!” the teamster bellowed. “I felt that plumb down to my toes.”
“Small wonder,” Holliday said, placing the probe on the tray. “You have an abscessed molar, rather far along. The tooth has to come out.”
“You’re gonna pull it?”
“I see no alternative.”
“How bad’s it gonna hurt?”
Holliday silently remarked that large, rough men were often the most squeamish about such matters. There was something childlike about them when fear lanced the tough outer shell.
“No need to alarm yourself overly much. We’ll have it out in no time.”
“Hope to Christ you know your business.”
“Would you prefer to consult another dentist?”
“Naw, hell, I’m already here. Just go easy on me.”
Holliday took a pair of extractor pliers from the tray. He nodded with a reassuring smile. “Open wide, please.”
The teamster stared at the extractor with a look of wide-eyed fright. Holliday clasped his lower jaw in one hand, and inserted the pliers into his yawning mouth. He gripped the tooth in the pincers, applying pressure, and gave it a forceful tug. When he met resistance, he strained harder, rocking the tooth back and forth. The teamster stiffened with a strangled moan.
“Awww. Awww!”
Holliday abruptly stepped back from the chair. His face flushed from the exertion, he was suddenly seized by a coughing spasm. He jerked a handkerchief from his pocket, wiping a wad of thick phlegm from his mouth. He wheezed harshly, took a slow, deep breath.
“Jesus,” the teamster muttered. “Sounds like you need a sawbones yourself. You a lunger?”
“A slight cough, nothing more.” Holliday got hold of himself. “You’ve no need for concern. Shall we proceed?”
“Yeah, if you’re sure—”
Holliday grabbed his jaw in a viselock. He clamped onto the tooth, put one knee on the man’s chest, and hauled upward with a mighty heave. The molar popped out in a mass of blood and rotted roots.
“Ohhh!” the teamster groaned, holding his jaw tightly. “You like to tore my head off!”
“I have no doubt you will recover.”
Holliday dropped the tooth into a porcelain pan. As he returned the extractor to the tray, his features contorted and another coughing seizure shook his frame. He moved unsteadily to a cabinet, removed a quart of bourbon, and gulped a long dose. He corked the bottle, his color slowly returning to normal.
“Gawddamn.” The teamster rose from the chair, watching him. “You’re sure enough a lunger, ain’t you? Feller in your shape oughtn’t to be workin’ on people.”
“How very perceptive of you,” Holliday commented. “I suggest you rinse your mouth with salt water three or four times a day. You owe me two dollars.”
The teamster dug silver cartwheels from his pocket. “I still say you got a helluva nerve. Last time you’ll see me.”
“A loss of incalculable proportions. Good day to you, sir.”
The teamster hesitated, vaguely aware that he’d been insulted. But then, looking deeper into Holliday’s eyes, he saw something that stifled any reply. He walked out the door.
Holliday scrubbed his hands in a pan of soapy water. As he toweled dry, he sourly reflected on this latest incident. A month had passed since he’d opened the office for practice. At first, with his framed diploma on the wall, and his well-bred Southern manner, he had attracted an enviable clientele, the gentry of Dallas. But word of his condition slowly made the rounds.
Talk spread, and the higher class of trade steadily dwindled off. Few people were willing to be treated by a dentist afflicted with what was commonly termed “galloping consumption.” His cough had worsened over the last month, and he was often unable to hide the bloody refuse spat into his handkerchief. Though he was drinking more, sometimes a quart a day, the bourbon brought only temporary relief. His cough was constant, from the time he awoke until he drank himself to sleep.
Strangely enough, he felt energetic and otherwise healthy, which he attributed to the drier climate. He had discovered as well that he had an astonishing tolerance for alcohol. No matter how much he drank, he never became drunk, and the whiskey seemed to fuel his stamina. For all that, his dental practice had dropped off sharply, limited now to walk-in trade, teamsters and laborers, the rougher crowd. Some days he had only two or three patients, and some days none at all. His fees scarcely covered the rent.
In the quiet of the office, dwelling on it, he decided he’d had enough for one day. Even though it was still early afternoon, he quickly washed his instruments and laid them out to dry. Then, gathering his hat, he moved through the door, locking it behind him.
He walked toward the hotel.
Seated at the desk in his room, Holliday stared at the blank sheet of paper. Her response to his first letter had arrived last week, and he’d put off answering day by day. But now, knocking back a shot of whiskey, he labored to find the right words, subtle yet not painful. He dipped a pen in the inkwell.
My Dearest Mattie,
Yours of May 20 arrived in good order, and most welcome it was, too. Not a day goes by but that I think of you, and wish myself back in Atlanta. Texas, for all one hears, lacks greatly in social amenities, hardly the place people of our background would choose.
I nonetheless concede that the dental trade here is brisk. One prospers at the expense of Texans who value many things above a full set of teeth. Only today I extracted a tooth from an affluent gentleman of modest age and exceptionally disturbing dental habits. Like many here, he will soon have a set of the false variety. A D.D.S. could scarcely fail to succeed in this frontier outpost.
Be that as it may, I cannot report that the climate here is as beneficial as Tom Eckhart suggested. My condition has improved to no noticeable extent, and I am still plagued by bouts of coughing. Not that I offer this as a complaint, but merely as an observation. The affliction I live with, as you know, recognizes n
o healer apart from time. Even so, there are no convenants that warrant cure. Still, one hopes.
I do most heartily regard the encouragement and kind wishes so lovingly expressed in your letter. Should ever a man seek salvation he would utter your name, and I do so with regularity. Yet I dread the thought of you waiting there, too patient and too faithful, with no life of your own.
I most sincerely urge you to avail yourself of the social activities always present there, and not deny yourself by my absence. To know that you heed my wishes in this respect would bring me inordinate pleasure, and great happiness. For you surely know that the certainty of happiness for me is to be found in your joy, your fulfillment in life.
I remain, as ever, most fondly yours,
John
Holliday stared down at the words. He wondered if she would read between the lines, see the message penned there. To say it more openly was beyond him, for he could not bear to inflict pain on her. He had to hope that she would forgo hope, and forget.
In that moment, he realized that he had never felt more lonesome, or alone. He was a stranger in a strange land, and he damned the illness that had brought him there. He damned life.
Quickly, before he could change his mind, he sealed the envelope.
Early that evening Holliday emerged from the hotel. He walked to the Bon Ton Cafe, where he now took most of his meals. These days, as his appetite continued to wane, he looked upon food as fodder, a source of energy. He had to force himself to eat.
By now a regular, he usually sat at a table near the window. Tonight, he ordered beef stew, laced with vegetables, and fluffy buttermilk biscuits. His waitress, a stout woman named Bertha, had taken to fussing over him. When he finished, having eaten little of the stew and only half a biscuit, she stopped by the table. She wagged her head as he lit a cigarillo.