by Matt Braun
Holliday got a pleasant surprise. Upon pushing through the batwing doors, he found that the Lone Star catered to gamblers. Opposite a mahogany bar were faro layouts, dice and roulette, and chuck-a-luck. To the rear were four tables reserved for poker. The place was empty, except for a bartender, table men, and one faro dealer. Everyone stopped, silent a moment, inspecting his unusually debonair attire. To his amazement, the faro dealer was a woman. She gave him a dazzling smile.
“Care to try your luck?” she said. “No time like the present.”
She was attractive, with high cheekbones, a pert nose, and upswept red hair. She wore a pale green gown which accentuated her slim waist and full breasts. Her eyes danced merrily, watching him as he approached the table. She laughed.
“I do love a man who dresses well. You are definitely a rarity in Jacksboro.”
“No more rare than you,” Holliday said, seating himself before the table. “I’ve never met a lady faro dealer.”
“Lottie Deno,” she said, introducing herself. “Are you a gambling man?”
“A pleasure, Miss Deno. And yes, I am a gambler of some small repute. My friends call me Doc Holliday.”
She blinked. “The Doc Holliday? From Dallas?”
“The same,” Holliday confessed, suddenly wary. “How do you know of me?”
“We receive the Dallas newspapers by stage mail. Your name made the headlines.”
“An unfortunate incident all the way round.”
“From what I read,” she said in a cultured voice, “there was more than one incident. The newspapers say you killed two men over cards.”
“Yes, that’s true,” Holliday admitted. “A matter of honor, and both were fair fights.” He paused, assessing her. “Will I have trouble with the authorities here?”
Lottie Deno laughed. “There are no authorities in Jacksboro. Haven’t you heard? No law west of Fort Worth, and no God in west Texas. You’re perfectly safe.”
“Well, I’m glad to hear that. I thought we might have to postpone our game.”
“Spoken like a true sporting man, Doc. I take it you enjoy faro.”
“Only if it’s a square game. Do you deal straight, Lottie?”
“Try me and see.”
Holliday’s question, and Lottie Deno’s reply, were sides of the same coin. Some dives hired faro dealers, and others leased the concession for a percentage. Either way, everyone took it for granted that all dealers were crooked. Holliday signaled the barkeep for a bottle of bourbon. He then bought five hundred dollars in chips.
“Suppose I catch you?” he said with a slow smile. “What’s my reward?”
She batted her eyelashes. “We’ll talk about it when it happens. But I must warn you—I’m good.”
“I admire a woman with confidence. Deal, Lottie.”
Holliday bet the nine to win and coppered the king to lose. He watched her hands closely, for cheating at faro required the skill to manipulate a deck of cards. The most common method was to use “strippers,” a deck with certain cards trimmed slightly along the edges or on the ends. A dealer with sensitive fingers could then “read” the cards before slipping them from the box. By dealing “seconds”—holding back the top card and dealing the one below—a dealer could determine the outcome of bets on the layout. The house odds were vastly improved by an adept dealer.
Lottie Deno was unusually talented, smooth and quick. Alert to any irregularity, Holliday was still unable to spot her sleight of hand. Yet he knew she was cheating, for he lost twice as often as he won. She was gracious, her hands flashing as she kept up an engaging patter, and she slowly ground him down. At the end of an hour, all his chips were on her side of the table. He shook his head with a rueful smile.
“I have to take my hat off. You are the best I’ve ever seen.”
“Why, thank you, sir,” she said lightly. “I consider that high praise.”
A sudden spasm struck Holliday. He knocked back a shot of bourbon, then poured another and drained it off. When the coughing subsided, he wiped his mouth with a handkerchief. “Too much fresh air,” he said with an offhand gesture. “One day it will be the death of me.”
Lottie knew consumption when she saw it. She matched his casual manner. “A smoky gaming parlor should be the perfect cure. We always have a large crowd at night.”
“Speaking of tonight—” Holliday gave her a bold smile. “After you close, perhaps we could have a late supper. I would count it an honor.”
She detected in his courtly bearing, and his Southern accent, a man of breeding. A gentleman rogue, perhaps, but nonetheless a gentleman. The quality was uncommon in the wilds of Jacksboro, and she decided to overlook his cough. She nodded happily.
“Late supper for two sounds very nice. I accept.”
Holliday quit her faro game. She had trimmed him quickly and expertly, and he thought it enough for one day. But the crowd, just as she’d promised, began building shortly after sundown. By early evening, the Lone Star was packed with buffalo hunters, cowhands, and soldiers. They were a rough and raucous bunch, there to swill whiskey and test their luck. Every table in the place was soon jammed with players.
At the rear of the room, Holliday found a poker game with a notions drummer, three ranchers, and a buffalo hunter. The ranchers considered themselves high rollers, and the buffalo hunter, who had sold three wagonloads of hides that afternoon, was loaded with cash. The stakes were set for anything up to fifty dollars, with a ten-dollar ante.
Holliday was out of their league. The men were mediocre gamblers, several notches below the competition he’d faced in Dallas. They lacked insight into percentages and odds, often playing on the come, hoping to improve a poor hand. The buffalo hunter, a tough, thickset man who smelled of rancid hides, was the worst of the lot. A heavy drinker, loud and belligerent, he bluffed wildly trying to buy pots. He was a steady loser.
By late evening, Holliday was ahead by at least a thousand dollars. A good part of it had been won from the buffalo hunter, who was as easy to read as an open book. He became more pugnacious as his losses mounted, his anger fueled by whiskey. His resentment was directed more at Holliday than the others, for he saw his money neatly stacked on the opposite side of the table. Toward midnight he and Holliday were the only players left in a hand of five-card draw. Holliday bet fifty after the draw, and the hunter raised. Holliday returned the raise, and the man grunted coarsely. His features twisted in a scowl.
“Gawddammit, I’ll just call. But you better have ’em!”
“I do,” Holliday said, spreading his cards. “Three nines.”
A shouted curse from the bar attracted their attention. They turned as two cowhands squared off in a windmilling slugfest. One of the men went down from a clubbing blow, and rolled away, trying to lever himself upright. The other one booted him in the ribs, then kicked him in the teeth, and he crumpled to the floor. The crowd cheered the victor, who called for a round of drinks. The men at the poker table turned back to the game.
Holliday reached for the pot. The hide hunter gave him a baleful once-over. “Bet you never had a fight in your life, did you?”
“I prefer poker to fisticuffs. Let’s play cards.”
“Listen to him, will you! Gawddamn runt all tricked out in his fancy duds. Whyn’t you find a game with girls?”
Holliday fixed him with a level stare. “I’m not looking for trouble.”
“Well, you done found it,” the hide hunter growled. “Think I’ll just whip your ass for the hell of it.”
“‘His looks do menace heaven and dare the Gods.’”
“What’s that again? You makin’ fun of me?”
“Indeed not,” Holliday said. “The line was written by Christopher Marlowe, an Englishman of letters. He might have written it for you.”
“That does it, you pansy sonovabitch! I’m gonna cripple you.”
Holliday stood as the man started out of his chair. He smiled. “I see you are heeled. Use it or turn tail.”
&n
bsp; “You wanna try me with a gun?”
“Only if you insist.”
The hide hunter laughed out loud. His eyes crazed, he grabbed for the pistol at his side. Too quick to follow, Holliday’s hand dipped beneath the skirt of his jacket and reappeared with the Colt. He fired, and a puff of dust kicked off the buffalo man’s shirt beneath the breastbone. Holliday fired again as the man struggled to bring his gun arm level. His eyes went dead, and his legs suddenly failed him. He toppled to the floor.
The crowd stood as though mesmerized, frozen in silence. No one moved as Holliday holstered his pistol in a smooth, fluid motion. Lottie Deno, watching from her faro table, was no less stunned than the crowd. Yet, somewhere deep inside, she felt a jubilant, tingling sensation. She thought the word would soon go out.
Doc Holliday had arrived in Jacksboro.
CHAPTER 8
Late morning sunlight streamed through the window. Holliday stood at the washstand, his face lathered with soap. His hand was steadied by bourbon, three heavy slugs since he’d awakened. The straight razor glided smoothly over his jawline.
After he finished shaving, he trimmed his mustache with a small pair of scissors. Then he splashed his cheeks with bay rum. Studying himself in the mirror, he noticed that his features were gaunt, his jawbone somewhat more pronounced, but his eyes were clear. He thought there were mornings he’d looked worse.
Almost two weeks had passed since his arrival in Jacksboro. His nights were devoted to poker, and though the crowd at the Lone Star was a rough, uncouth lot, the tables had treated him well. Today he felt chipper and reasonably healthy, his mood buoyed by memories of last night. Lottie was like an elixir, some magical potion that invigorated his life. He considered himself a lucky man.
A clothing rack had been installed along one wall of his room. On it were hung four new suits, and half a dozen shirts, fitted for him by the tailor at the mercantile store. He chose a light blue worsted, with a pale apricot shirt, and a patterned four-in-hand tie. His boots, new as well, were handmade of soft leather, with a low walking heel. He took his hat off a wall peg as he went out the door.
In the hall, he walked toward the end of the corridor. Three doors down from his room he stopped, rapping lightly with his knuckles. From inside, he heard footsteps on creaky floorboards, and the door opened. Lottie was still in her bed clothes, a filmy peignoir covering a low-cut nightgown. She inspected him with a sultry smile.
“My, my! Don’t we look dapper today?”
Holliday grinned. “Tailoring makes the man.”
“Or the other way round.” She motioned him into the room. “As you can see, I’m not ready yet. Make yourself comfy on the bed. Your spot’s still warm.”
Holliday had left her room around four that morning. Their relationship had begun his second night in town, and he’d shared her bed every night since. She was a fiery lover, almost wanton in her needs, and he felt somehow rejuvenated by their affair. He never spent the entire night, for his cough kept her awake, and as she delicately phrased it, “robbed her of her beauty sleep.” Though he suspected there was some lingering fear of his consumption, she never evidenced it by her actions. She smothered him with kisses when they made love.
“Why aren’t you dressed?” he asked, seating himself on the bed. “I thought we were going for a drive.”
“Of course we are! But I’m a working woman, remember? Just let me finish here.”
Holliday enjoyed watching her. She was svelte, with shapely legs, and moved with the grace of a languid cat. She resumed her seat at the table where she’d been working when he interrupted. Before her was a small rectangular device known as a card trimmer, a tool of the trade essential to rigged faro games. The metal device was flat on top, with a gauge to position and measure cards, and what resembled a hinged cleaver on one side. She flashed him a smile, then bent to her task.
One card at a time was positioned in a recess on top of the device. By turning a knob on the left side, a thin plate moved the card a millimeter to the right, the edge held firmly in place. The razor-sharp cleaver, decorated with an onyx handle, was then snapped downward in a slicing motion. The blade trimmed a millimeter off the side of the card, discernible only to an educated finger, and left the edge smooth. A deck of cards put through a trimmer allowed a skilled dealer to “read” individual cards simply by touch.
“There!” Lottie set the deck of cards aside. “That will hold me for tonight, anyway. I’ll trim another deck tomorrow.”
Holliday raised an eyebrow. “I wonder if your patrons suspect you’re a cardsharp? Perhaps an attractive woman is all the excitement they require.”
“Why do you think I wear peek-a-boo gowns? Those chumps would rather look at my cleavage than win at faro.”
“Pity the rascal who sneaks too long a peek. Hmmm?”
“Honestly, Doc!” she said with a minxish smile. “A girl has to make a living.”
Lottie was his confidante as well as his lover. In quiet moments they had revealed themselves, one to the other. Haltingly, though he’d said little of Mattie, he had told her of his pilgrimage westward. She in turn related the story of a Kansas City girl, born to a good family, who had fallen for an itinerant gambler. A year later, when he left her stranded in Abilene, she had put to use all he’d taught her about crooked cards. She became a faro dealer, traveling from town to town, pausing wherever money was loose and men were foolish. Jacksboro was the latest stop in her odyssey.
“Do you want an outing or not?” Holliday said now. “At this rate, I could have slept another hour.”
“Give me a chance to get dressed, will you? I’ll just be a moment.”
A short time later they emerged from the hotel. She was wearing a respectable gown, her flaming hair covered by a fashionable bonnet, and carried a parasol. They had a quick breakfast in the nearest cafe, and then walked downstreet to the livery stable. The owner, a reedy man with scarecrow hair, met them as they came through the door. His head bobbed with a nervous grin.
“Mr. Holliday,” he said in a squeaky voice. “I’ve got the buggy all hitched and set to go. Just like you ordered.”
“Thank you kindly, Arnie. Expect us back before sunset.”
“No rush, Mr. Holliday. No rush a’tall. Enjoy your ride.”
The buggy was drawn by a coal-black mare with ginger in her step. Holliday had a good hand with horses, and he gently popped the reins, urging her along at a brisk clip. They drove west from town, on a wagon trace skirting the creek. Dappled sunlight spilled through tall cottonwoods bordering the road.
“Lord love us,” Lottie said, unable to suppress a giggle. “I thought Arnie Fisher was going to bow down and kiss your boots. He was absolutely petrified to please you.”
Holliday shrugged. “You make too much of it. He probably treats all of his customers with the same courtesy.”
“Oh, of course he does! Especially if they kill a man a week.”
“Well, as to that … I think you overstate the case.”
“Don’t go modest on me, Doc. You have a reputation to uphold.”
There was no arguing the point. Holliday had been in Jacksboro scarcely two weeks, and he’d sent two men to the graveyard. The buffalo hunter, killed his first night in town, had set the sporting crowd buzzing. Then, three nights ago, he had called a tinhorn cardsharp for dealing from the bottom, and doing it poorly. The sharpie made the mistake of reaching for his gun, and found himself outclassed at more than cards. Holliday killed him with one shot.
The local undertaker sent Holliday a box of cigarillos. Some among the sporting crowd, though they never said it within his hearing, spoke of him as a shootist. The term was peculiar to the frontier, reserved for those considered to be a mankiller of some distinction. Everyone in town, aware of Holliday’s previous disputes in Dallas, now placed the score at four men killed. His reputation, much as Lottie had observed, was spreading. Doc Holliday was not a man to cross.
“So how does it feel?” Lottie sai
d at length. “To be the talk of the town?”
Holliday laughed shortly. “A dubious honor. Not one I would have sought.”
“You know, I’ve often wondered about that. The way men fight and kill one another. Does it really matter who’s cock-o’-the-walk?”
“I suppose it comes down to a matter of pride. Or perhaps male vanity. Every man likes to think he wears the badge of courage.”
She smiled. “Spoken like a true Southerner.”
“What does one have to do with the other?”
“Well, I’ve always heard that the Holy Grail for Southern men was the code duello. Death before dishonor.”
“From all I’ve seen,” Holliday said wryly, “the custom never traveled west. Out here things are a bit more practical.”
“Oh?” She appeared puzzled. “In what way?”
Holliday briefly explained. The code duello of the Old South, he noted, was indeed based on honor. The parties to a dispute stood back to back, stepped off ten paces, then turned and fired. There was a protocol to such affairs, and a certain dignity, all conducted under a rigid and rather elaborate set of rules. A duel in the Old South was a ceremony steeped in tradition.
The code of the West, Holliday went on, was strictly a matter of survival. The practical approach to a gunfight was to shoot first, shoot straight, and answer to the law later. There were no rules, certainly no protocol, that governed conduct in a shootout, except the rule of fairness. A man could not fire on an unarmed opponent, or open fire without warning. Apart from that, every man looked for an edge, some slight advantage. The idea was to win, to walk away. To survive.
“Old fashioned pragmatism,” Holliday concluded. “The loser gets buried, and the winner lives to fight another day. All very practical.”
“What about honor?” she said mischievously. “You sort of skipped over that part.”
“Like most things in life, it’s haphazard. Some men are more honorable than others.”