by Matt Braun
The meal, though simple fare, restored Holiday’s spirits. For the past five days, he’d eaten rabbits killed with his pistol. His cough, strangely enough, seemed improved from sleeping on the ground, exposed to fresh air, wrapped in a rain slicker he’d found on the horse. For another dollar, the Chickasaw replenished his flask with corn liquor, a homemade concoction with the taste of liquid fire. He rode out with renewed vigor.
Late that afternoon he sighted Ardmore. The town was a crossroads, with a trading post, a general store, and a livestock dealer. Throughout the day, much to his surprise, Holliday had passed one farm after another. Unlike anything he’d expected, the Chickasaw Nation was an agrarian society, farmers rather than warriors. The town was crowded with wagons, drawn by stocky workhorses, and everyone was dressed in store-bought clothes. Apart from the color of their skin, the tribesmen might have been Texas settlers.
Holliday dismounted outside the general store. He was dusty and bedraggled from five days on the trail, his face stubbled with whiskers. But it was his gray suit and pastel shirt, clearly a novelty in the backwoods, that drew attention. As he entered the store, he noticed two white men loading supplies into wooden crates. They glanced in his direction, inspecting him, then went back to work. A Chickasaw man behind the counter watched him with a stoic expression. He stopped, nodding pleasantly.
“Good afternoon,” he said. “I would like to purchase a straight razor and a bar of soap. By any chance, do you stock cigarillos?”
“Got all the smokes you want.”
“I’ll have a dozen.”
“Anything else?”
“Yes, there is,” Holliday said. “Perhaps you could direct me to a man by the name of Ed Blanchard. I understand he lives somewhere around Ardmore.”
The Chickasaw’s eyes flickered past him. He turned to find the two white men staring in his direction. One of them, short and muscular with sandy hair, moved across the aisle. His gaze was cold, and guarded.
“Who’s askin’?”
For a moment, Holliday almost gave his full name. Then, remembering who he was now, he kept it simple. “The name’s Doc Holliday.”
“What’s your business with Blanchard?”
“That’s my affair.”
“Not anymore.” The man jabbed himself in the chest with a thumb. “I’m Ed Blanchard.”
“Are you?” Holliday said. “Then you know Cole Younger. He told me to look you up.”
“Why would Cole do that?”
“I found it necessary to depart Dallas … in a hurry.”
“Don’t say?” Blanchard woofed a dry laugh. “What’d you do, kill somebody?”
Holliday cut a glance at the storekeeper. Blanchard caught the look and idly waved it off. “Nobody around here carries tales. Go ahead, what’d you do?”
“I was involved in a dispute over cards. The other man lost.”
“So you did kill somebody. You a cardsharp?”
“A gambler,” Holliday clarified. “I play a straight game.”
“Take your word for it.” Blanchard stuck out his hand. “Welcome to the Chickasaw Nation, Doc. The law won’t bother you around here. Not unless you run across a federal marshal.”
“Oh?” Holliday shook his hand. “What authority do the federals have here?”
“Let’s get these supplies loaded. I wanna get back to camp before dark. We’ll talk on the way.”
Blanchard and the other man, one of his gang, loaded the crates into a wagon outside. Holliday paid for his cigarillos and the razor, then joined them in front of the store. He mounted, riding alongside the wagon, as they turned east out of town. Blanchard gave him a rundown on the oddities of an outlaw’s life in Indian Territory.
The Five Civilized Tribes comprised what was known as the Nations. Apart from the Chickasaw, there were the Cherokee, Choctaw, Creek and Seminole tribes. By federal mandate, the tribes had been relocated from various southeastern states to Indian Territory in the late 1830s. All of the tribes had adopted the white man’s ways, turning to farming as their principal means of livelihood. But their bitterness toward the federal government created a virtual haven for white outlaws.
Gangs made wild forays into Kansas and Missouri and Texas, and then retreated into the Nations. There they found immunity from the law, and perhaps the oddest sanctuary in the annals of crime. Though each of the Five Civilized Tribes was a sovereign nation, their authority extended only to Indian citizens. White men were untouchable, exempt from all prosecution except that of a federal court.
Yet there were no extradition laws governing the Nations. Federal marshals had to pursue and capture the wanted men, and return them to white jurisdiction. In time, the country became infested with hundreds of fugitives, and the problem was compounded by the Indians themselves. They had no use for white man’s law, and the marshals were looked upon as intruders. The tribal Light Horse Police refused cooperation, and the tribesmen, more often than not, connived with the outlaws. A man on the run found asylum in the Nations.
“Don’t that beat all!” Blanchard concluded with a laugh.
“The lawdogs gotta come in here and dig us out, and that ain’t no easy chore. Hell, we’re pretty near heroes to the Injuns.”
“Unusual, to say the least,” Holliday observed. “Are the marshals aggressive in their pursuit?”
“Them that are got a fight on their hands. Me and my boys have killed our share.”
Holliday made a mental note to proceed with care. Like most gamblers, he carried his bankroll in a moneybelt, usually in large denominations. Beneath his shirt, strapped around his waist, was something more than ten thousand dollars. Ed Blanchard and his gang would find such a sum tempting, perhaps too tempting. Killing one man was far easier than robbing a train.
For all that, he liked what he’d heard about the Nations. A lawless land, where anarchy reigned, was the perfect spot for a man unjustly charged with murder. A sanctuary where marshals ventured at their own peril.
Far better than being hanged in Dallas.
The hideout was a crude log cabin along the banks of Elk Creek. There were five men in the gang, all of them cutthroats of the first order. They robbed banks and trains, and retreated to the Nations to whore with Indian women and gamble among themselves. None of them expected to live to old age.
Holliday found them to be dangerous company, like a pack of wolves. Yet they accepted him as one of their own, a killer outside the law. His educated manner fascinated them, and they were amazed that he’d once been a dentist. Still, it was his mastery of cards that kindled their greatest respect. For hours at a time they sat watching him stack a deck and deal seconds, all quicker than the eye. They looked upon him as small boys behold a magician.
The cabin was sparse on comforts. Three double bunks stood end to end along one wall, and a rough-hewn table, flanked by a potbelly stove, occupied the central living area. Beyond the table, at the far end of the room, was a wood cooking stove and shelves packed with tinned goods. A jumble of saddlebags, filthy clothes, and weathered gear was strewn about the floor. The place smelled like a bear’s den.
Holliday marked his first week among them on a Sunday night. A poker game was in progress, but he had them outclassed and they knew it, and he never gambled with them. As repayment for his card tricks, one of the men, Roy Smith, had taught him a skill learned from the Indians. Smith was a swift and deadly knife fighter, and he’d made a present to Holliday of a small, double-edged stiletto. The dagger was six inches long, with German toolmarks, and sharp as a scalpel.
Smith had crafted an ingenious scabbard which enabled Holliday to carry the knife in the breast pocket of his suit jacket. He’d then demonstrated quick, surgical strokes to various parts of the anatomy, all of which were meant to kill. A cut to the jugular, or a slash to the artery in the forearm, was certain, if not instant, death. A ripping stroke to the lower abdomen would disembowel a man, and spill his guts on the floor. Smith, who enjoyed his work, preferred a knife to a g
un.
On a more practical note, Blanchard took it upon himself to find Holliday a reliable mount. He laughingly referred to Holliday’s stolen horse as “crowbait,” and yesterday he’d arranged a trade with the livestock dealer in Ardmore. The swap cost Holliday an extra sixty dollars, but he got a handsome new saddle and a spirited sorrel gelding. The horse was broad through the chest, fifteen hands high, and built for endurance. Blanchard joked that Holliday could now outrun the law from the Nations to Wyoming. Holliday wryly expressed the hope that the need would never arise.
Later that night, when the poker game ended, Blanchard’s underlying motive became apparent. Good horses, he explained to Holliday, were a must for those who rode the owlhoot trail. After pulling a job, they required a mount with stamina for their escape, one capable of outdistancing a posse. A man on a slow horse wound up with his head in a noose.
“Reason I mention it,” Blanchard went on, “me and the boys are fixin’ to hit a bank up in Kansas. Oughta make a nice haul.”
Holliday was aware of the other men watching him. He nodded, saying nothing, waiting for the gang leader to continue. “Well, anyway,” Blanchard said expansively, “me and the boys took a vote. We’d like you to join us.”
The compliment needed no elaboration. For a gang of robbers to invite a relative stranger into their ranks was a singular honor. Holliday knew a refusal would offend them, and the situation might turn sticky. He chose his words with care.
“You flatter me,” he said, looking from man to man. “To ride with you would be a high honor, indeed. But I must decline your offer.”
A mumbled protest arose, and he stilled it with an upraised hand. “Hear me out. You gentlemen pride yourselves on being professionals at your trade. Am I right?” Blanchard and the others bobbed their heads. “Well, then, imagine that you are as skilled with a deck of cards as I am. Would you willy-nilly toss it aside—quit your profession?”
“Hell, no!” Roy Smith blurted. “Way you play, it’s legalized robbery. Shore beats the shit outta pullin’ holdups with a gun.”
The others murmured quick agreement. Blanchard nonetheless looked disappointed. “Sorry you’re out, Doc. We’d have been proud to have you along.”
“I sometimes think God cast me in the lot of a gambling man. I’m sorry, too, Ed.”
“Well, what’re you gonna do with yourself? You won’t find no poker games worth a squat in the Nations.”
“Good question,” Holliday replied. “Perhaps I’ll try California. I doubt the Texas Rangers would find me there.”
Blanchard scoffed. “No need to travel that far. Christ, there’s places in Texas ain’t never seen a Texas Ranger.” He chuckled scornfully. “Bastards’d likely get shot on the spot.”
“What sort of places?”
“I reckon Jacksboro would head the list. Toughest gawddamn hellhole there ever was.”
“Jacksboro?” Holliday inquired. “I assume that’s a town.”
“After a fashion,” Blanchard said. “Grew up around Fort Richardson. Nothin’ but saloons, gamblin’ dives, and whorehouses. Rough crowd.”
Holliday looked quizzical. “Seldom much money around military posts. Are these gaming establishments of the penny-ante variety?”
“Godamighty, no! Hide hunters and cowmen are thick as fleas out there. All of ‘em rollin’ in money, too. They’re what drew the sportin’ crowd, not the soldiers.”
“Out there?” Holliday repeated. “Where is Jacksboro, exactly?”
“Off in the middle of nowheres,” Blanchard said. “I’d calculate it’s mebbe a hundred miles west of Dallas.”
“And you say they have no law out that way?”
“A man makes his own law in Jacksboro. Judge Colt and a jury of six hold court every night.”
“You’ve been there, then?”
“Just once,” Blanchard allowed. “When I was young and dumb, workin’ for a cow outfit. Lucky I got out alive.”
“You may have solved my problem, Ed. Jacksboro appears made to order for a gambling man.”
“Well, one thing’s for damn sure. You won’t see no Texas Rangers out thataway.”
Holliday thought it might work out very nicely. No law, no Texas Rangers, just the sporting crowd. Judge Colt and a jury of six.
He liked the sound of it.
CHAPTER 7
Holiday rode into Jacksboro early in September. The town was situated along Lost Creek, a tributary of the Trinity River. Fort Richardson was three miles west of town, on the south bank of the creek.
The garrison was one in a chain of army posts that guarded the western settlements of Texas. For generations, the Comanche and Kiowa had swept out of the north, crossing the Red River, to raid and pillage Texican settlers. The Red River war, a vast military campaign concluded only a year ago, had at last put an end to the bloodshed. The hostile tribes were now interned on reservations in western Indian Territory.
A stagecoach splashed across Lost Creek as Holliday entered town. Some thirty miles east lay the Chisholm Trail, the overland route for herds of longhorns into the Kansas cowtowns. The plains surrounding Jacksboro were now open rangeland, the terrain dotted with stunted pecans and scrub oak. Large ranchers, claiming thousands of square miles of graze, operated cattle spreads to distant points of the compass. Farther west, vast herds of buffalo still roamed the rolling plains.
Jacksboro was little more than a frontier outpost. There was no organized town government, and the military was barred by law from involvement in civilian affairs. Yet the small community was vital and prosperous, a center of commerce for buffalo hunters, ranchers, and homesteaders, and the garrison at Fort Richardson. The principal connection with the outside world was the stage line, crossing east to Fort Worth and west to El Paso.
The town itself was a crude collection of buildings, thrown together with ripsawed lumber and narrow boardwalks. The main street was rutted and dusty, baked hard by the plains sun. Shortly before the noon hour, Holliday reined to a halt outside a livery stable at the end of the street. He was wearing rough range clothes, purchased during his stay in Indian Territory, covered now with grime from five days on the trail. For six dollars a week, he made arrangements to stall his sorrel gelding at the livery. Warbag in hand, he turned uptown.
The street was lined with saloons and dance halls, a mercantile emporium, one hotel, and a trading post. There were three cafes and several smaller establishments, but no sign of a bank or a newspaper. The hotel was a ramshackle affair, with plank floors and bare walls, and an outhouse out back. At the desk, Holliday engaged a room for a dollar a day, and inquired about laundry service. His one remaining outfit, the gray suit and pastel shirt he’d worn upon fleeing Dallas, was stuffed in his warbag. The desk clerk agreed to have it sent out to a Chinese laundry which also pressed suits.
“By the way,” Holliday asked. “Does Jacksboro have such a thing as a tailor?”
“Matter of fact, we do,” the clerk said. “Officers out at the fort get uniforms tailored over at the mercantile.”
“Your town is more civilized than it appears. I’m impressed.”
“Yessir, we’re lots more citified than we look.”
Holliday ordered hot water, a tub, and a quart of bourbon brought to his room. His supply of corn liquor from Indian Territory was almost exhausted, and he savored the thought of a return to bourbon. His room was spartan as a monk’s cell, with a bed and washstand, a cracked mirror and one chair, and a johnny-pot to avoid hurried trips to the outhouse. The sight of it brought on a mild coughing fit, and he drained the last of the corn liquor from his flask. He thought the only saving grace was a window looking westward onto the plains.
The tub, brought by the hotel handyman, was a galvanized washtub. But with it were several buckets of hot water, and Holliday managed to bathe while jackknifed into the confined space. By the time he shaved, and stepped into his one fresh set of underdrawers, the handyman returned with his clothes and the bottle of bourbon. All in
all, the suit was reasonably presentable, sponged of spots and sharply pressed.
With the Peacemaker on his hip, and the Colt Lightning in its shoulder-holster, he once more felt properly attired. The stiletto, with spring clips on the sheath to hold it secure, was secreted in his breast pocket. The flask, filled now with bourbon, went into the inside pocket of his jacket. After dusting his hat with a damp cloth, he inspected himself in the mirror. He was dressed for business.
Fortified by bourbon, Holliday left the hotel. His appetite was still at low ebb, but food was a necessary essential for energy. Upstreet, he stepped into a cafe and found the menu limited if somewhat exotic. He ordered antelope steak, a stack of buckwheat cakes covered with sorghum, and black coffee. The steak was tender, though gamey in taste, and he ate less than half of what was on his plate. He lingered over a second cup of coffee, spiked with bourbon. Lately, it seemed the best part of any meal.
Outside, surveying the street, he lit a cigarillo. Horses stood hip-shot at the hitch racks, and three wagons loaded with buffalo hides were parked in front of the trading post. There were few passersby on the boardwalks, and the town seemed somnolent in the warmth of a September afternoon. A post office sign, nailed beside the door of the trading post, reminded him of Mattie. Her letters were likely gathering dust in Dallas, and she was doubtless worried because he hadn’t replied. He considered letting her believe he’d disappeared, or died; but deceit was more repugnant than the alternative. He made a mental note to write.
The thought was quickly put aside. A month had passed since his last time at the tables, and he was eager to try his hand. Directly across the street, with the name emblazoned on a plate-glass window, was the Lone Star Saloon. After scanning the other dives, he decided the Lone Star, based on outward appearances, looked to be the top spot in town. He crossed the street.