by Matt Braun
“And some have no honor at all.”
“Hah! A good many of them to be found in Jacksboro.”
She playfully squeezed his arm. “What code does the fearsome Doc Holliday follow?”
“Live and let live,” Holliday said equably. “I won’t be insulted and I won’t be threatened. These are courtesies I extend to other men.” He paused, underscoring the thought. “I require the same of them.”
“No insults. No threats. That sounds simple enough. So what provokes men to try your temper?”
“The gods.”
“Pardon me?”
“‘As flies to wanton boys, are we to the Gods. They kill us for their sport.’”
“Do they really?” She looked skeptical. “Where did you hear that?”
“Shakespeare,” Holliday said with a faint smile. “King Lear, I believe.”
“And I believe you’re full of it! You don’t actually think the gods provoke men to fight—do you?”
“Folly and fools are often traveling companions. Perhaps the gods winnow them out for lack of better sport.”
She sniffed. “I would hardly call that sport.”
“Well, after all,” Holliday deadpanned, “the gods don’t play poker. Or for that matter, faro. Of course, the way you deal it’s far from a sporting proposition, either.” He cast a sly, sidewise glance at her. “Wouldn’t you agree?”
“Thank you, sir,” she said with a delightful laugh. “I take that as a compliment.”
“You should,” Holliday told her. “I doubt there’s a man alive who’s your equal at dealing seconds. I speak from personal experience.”
“Why, Doc, I only took you for five hundred.”
“Lottie, I consider it money well spent. An education of sorts.”
She uttered a low, gloating laugh. “I’ll bet you still couldn’t catch me.”
“All too true,” Holliday agreed. “But watching you these last couple of weeks has given me a decided edge. I think I could catch anyone else.”
“Yes, I just imagine you could.”
She was silent a moment. Her mind went to three nights ago, and the tinhorn Holliday had called out. She remembered the man’s face as he went for his gun, and found himself staring into the muzzle of Holliday’s pistol. She had witnessed many gunfights, in gambling dives from the Kansas cowtowns to the western reaches of the Texas frontier. But she had never seen a man so quick, or so deadly, as Holliday. Nor was she alone in that view. All of Jacksboro agreed.
Stranger still was the manner in which he killed. Twice now she had watched as he goaded other men into making the first move. He was cool and calculated, never raised his voice, relying instead on ridicule to force the other man’s hand. His manner seemed somehow detached, oddly amused, as though he were an observer to some absurd, comic ritual. Which was perhaps the case, after all. He killed men with absurd ease.
The buggy rolled to a halt. Her reverie broken, she saw that Holliday had stopped on a low bluff overlooking the Western prairie. The sun shone brightly on verdant grasslands stretching endlessly to the horizon, cottony clouds scudding along on a southerly breeze. She was aware that he hadn’t spoken in a long while, his gaze fixed on some distant point beyond sight. She wondered if his thoughts were on the future. Or perhaps the past.
“What do you see out there, Doc?”
Holliday stifled a cough. He pulled the flask from his pocket and took a long swig of bourbon. Then he capped it, balancing it on his knee, his eyes suddenly brighter. A curious, enigmatic smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
“I see the plains, Lottie. I’m often touched by the harsh beauty of this land. Cruel and inviting, all at the same time. I think I like it.”
She knew he was lying. Or at least being evasive. Whatever his inner thoughts, he chose not to share them. Yet she was struck by the timbre of his voice, and his gift for the language. Words that flowed, expressive words, a portrait of sound.
She thought him a paradox. A man who saw beauty in the cruelty of the plains. A man who quoted Shakespeare and obscure poets. A quiet, witty man who goaded other men to foolish anger.
And killed them while he smiled.
CHAPTER 9
The sun was high when Holliday emerged from the Lone Star. His features were sallow and a throbbing ache seemed rooted deep in his chest. He filled his lungs with crisp morning air.
The poker game had lasted two days and three nights. A cattleman, just returned from a trail drive to the Kansas railhead, had refused to quit, determined to recoup his losses. Holliday, as the big winner, had been obliged to stick with the game until the end. He figured he’d won close to three thousand.
The score was his largest since arriving in Jacksboro. He was exhausted, hollow-eyed and drained from almost sixty straight hours of poker. Apart from trips to the outhouse, the men had never left the game, their meals served while they played. Yet he was filled with a sense of triumph, and elation stoked his engine. However bad he looked, he was riding high from the big win.
A freight wagon rolled past as he crossed the street to the trading post. The place was a rainbow of odors, the smell of cured buffalo hides mixed with new saddle leather, foodstuffs, and tobacco. He was down to one cigarillo, and he ordered a fresh box from one of the clerks. As he dropped bills onto the counter, the clerk suddenly remembered that a letter had arrived with yesterday’s post. It was addressed to Dr. John H. Holliday, and the clerk wisely refrained from any humorous remarks. The handwriting was all too familiar.
On his way out, Holliday noticed a calendar on the wall. He marked the date as September 24, reflecting that he’d been in town almost three weeks. Upon arriving, he had written Mattie, advising her of his move to Jacksboro. He explained his departure from Dallas by revealing that his dental practice had failed, due to his cough. To earn a living, he told her, he had turned to gambling, and was now following the western boomtowns. He casually remarked that he had “fallen from grace,” and plied his new trade as a member of the sporting crowd. He thought perhaps the revelation would persuade her to cut him loose.
In the privacy of his hotel room, he read her reply. She was saddened by the failure of his dental practice, expressing sympathy for his loss. As for gambling, she was surprised by his choice of a new enterprise, but in no way critical. Her concern was not for the occupation itself, but rather for his health. She begged him to keep regular hours, to eat properly and get sufficient rest, and not to overtax himself in pursuit of fortune. The important thing, she said, was that he regain his health, and speed the day they would again be reunited. She closed by reaffirming her love and her commitment. She prayed their separation would soon end.
Holliday dropped her letter on the nightstand. He scrubbed his face with his hands, suddenly riddled with guilt. How could he face a man with a gun, he brooded, and yet lack the courage to tell her outright that there was no hope for them? Granted, his intent was to avoid hurting her; but perhaps he wronged her more with lies of omission. His affair with Lottie Deno abruptly seemed to him a betrayal, still another hard truth left untold. Or perhaps, because it had been four months since they parted, the betrayal stemmed more from his memory of Mattie. A memory of the past, all the things gone from his life. A life that was no part of his future.
Some time elapsed before he gathered himself. Seated on the bed, he took pen and paper, and hunched over the nightstand. Even before he began writing, he knew he would hint and prompt, and once again skirt the truth. Her endearing words robbed him of resolve, the strength to break her heart. Time and distance were still his allies in that regard, dark forces that would bring her to accept what he was unable to write. There was no hope. No future.
Your letter was a touch of brightness in this forlorn outpost. The accommodations are starkly crude, and my “clientele” are, for the most part, an unsavory lot. Days and nights run together for a gambler, and I fear you would be appalled by the demands of the vocation. I can only say that it is more lucrative than
dentistry.
News of Atlanta, what seems now another lifetime, is ever most welcome. Still, reading between the lines, I detect that you have further isolated yourself from the gaiety of that city. You must not allow my absence to deprive you of an entertaining, and fulfilling, social life. I urge you to think less of me and more of yourself. To know that you have done so would please me greatly.
Holliday finished the letter in a similar vein. His overriding wish was that she would become disillusioned with the passage of time. With no encouragement, and no good news regarding his condition, she might succumb to the temptations of Atlanta’s social swirl. A girl of her charm and family position never wanted for suitors, and there was an inevitability about such things. The right man would make her forget.
Exhaustion finally overtook him. His lungs rebelled, and a harsh, wracking cough bent him double. He fumbled for a bottle of bourbon beside the bed and knocked it over. As the bottle rolled away, eluding his grasp, there was an insistent rapping at the door. He lurched across the room, gripped by the spasm, and twisted the door key. Lottie stood in the hall.
“Are you all right?” she asked anxiously. “I was passing by and heard you coughing.”
“I—”
Holliday pulled at his shirt collar, gasping for breath. His face purpled and a strangled cough tore at his insides. Lottie slammed the door, hurrying to the bottle, and pulled the cork. He took it greedily, gulping a long draught and then another, his eyes watering. His words came out in a low wheeze.
“I’ll be all right now.”
“Oh, sure you will,” she said crossly. “You and your damn marathon poker games! Come on, I’m putting you to bed.”
Holliday tried a burlesque leer. “Would you take advantage of a sick man?”
“You’re a regular riot,” she said, moving him to the bed.
“Hush now, and let’s get you out of those clothes. Save your jokes for later.”
She got him seated on the bed, then pulled his boots off. Working quickly, she peeled away his clothes, dropping them on the floor. When he was down to his underdrawers, she handed him the bottle. He took a long, gurgling pull, his breathing easier. She reclaimed the bottle, swinging his legs into bed, and covered him. He gave her a drowsy smile.
“You are a gem of a woman.”
“And you are a damn fool, Doc! Go to sleep.”
Holliday obediently closed his eyes. Within moments, his breathing ragged but steady, he was fast asleep. She placed the bottle on the floor, pulling the room’s one straight-back chair close to the bed. She sat down, heaving a sigh of relief, and watched him a moment. Her gaze strayed to the letters on the nightstand.
The struggle between conscience and curiosity was quickly lost. She first read the letter written in the oval script of a woman’s hand. Startled, though she knew a little of Holliday’s past, she was struck by the consummate love expressed in Mattie’s letter. She then read his reply, and read it again, studying the words. She realized with a shock that the letter, however subtly phrased, was meant to dissuade. He was trying to extinguish the desperate longing of a woman’s love. A gentle smothering of the flame.
Lottie’s eyes welled with tears. Though they had never spoken of it, she knew he was dying. The day-by-day death that ultimately claimed the life of any man with consumption. Yet his concern was not for himself, or how long he might live, as borne out by his letter. His concern was for a fragile young girl in Atlanta, and her life. A girl he clearly loved.
She thought Dr. John H. Holliday was one of a kind. She wished she’d met him first.
Holliday slept all day and through the night. Lottie checked on him periodically, and the next morning she had breakfast brought to his room. Her plan was to keep him confined to bed another day, force him to rest and recoup his strength. But she found him to be a poor patient.
A hearty breakfast, liberally chased with whiskey, seemed to restore his spirits. By early afternoon, feeling energetic and restless, he declared himself recuperated. When he tried to coax her into bed, she knew it was a losing battle. She reluctantly agreed, and discovered that nearly twenty hours of sleep had worked wonders. He made love to her like a frisky stallion.
Late that afternoon they strolled down to the Lone Star. Lottie opened her faro game, and Holliday spent the next hour or so chatting with Burt Elliott, the owner. The sporting crowd was still buzzing about Holliday’s big score, and Elliott bought several rounds of drinks. By early evening the place was crowded, and Holliday, floating on a cloud of bourbon, began looking for a game. He was ready to play poker.
There were no high rollers around, and the best he could manage was a low-stakes game. Still, any game was better than no game, and he decided to amuse himself until something better developed. He took a seat at a table with the local barber, a couple of cowhands, and three soldiers. From the conversation, he gathered that one of the soldiers, a sergeant named O’Meara, was new to Fort Richardson. A pug-faced Irishman, he had been transferred from a cavalry regiment stationed in Kansas.
Holliday played with his usual erratic style. He had found that men in a low-stakes game were little different from those in a table-stakes game. A cowhand placed as much value on a month’s pay as a high roller did on several thousand dollars. One was as easy to bluff, or sandbag with a concealed hand, as the other. The secret was to confuse them, keep them guessing. Their uncertainty gave him the edge.
After an hour of play, Holliday was ahead almost a hundred dollars. The deal passed to him and he called five-card draw. The barber opened, the cowhands dropped out, and O‘Meara raised. The other two soldiers folded, and Holliday bumped it with another raise. O’Meara and the barber merely called, each taking three cards on the draw. Holliday also took three, riffling his cards as the other two players checked. Holliday bet the limit, three dollars, and the barber folded. O’Meara gruffly called the bet.
“Two pair.” Holliday spread his hand. “Sevens and treys.”
O’Meara flung his cards on the table, revealing a pair of jacks. “You’re good at that,” he said sullenly. “Dealin’ yourself winners.”
Holliday smiled. “Luck of the draw.”
“Too goddamn lucky! Man don’t raise the first go-round on a little pair. Lessen he knows he’s gonna catch another pair.”
“What are you trying to say, Sergeant?”
“He ain’t sayin’ nothin’,” one of the other soldiers interrupted, frowning at O’Meara. “This here’s Doc Holliday, Sarge. Nobody you wanna mess with. Just leave it go.”
“Hell I will!” O’Meara rumbled. “Goddamn tinhorn don’t scare me off. The bastard cheated.”
Holliday stared at him. “Sergeant, I am neither a cheat nor of illegitimate birth. I believe you owe me an apology.”
“Apology, my ass! I wouldn’t doubt you’re a son of a bitch, too.”
“And you, sir, are a whore’s son liar.”
O‘Meara flushed beetroot red. He cursed, slamming out of his chair, knocking the table over. Cards and money rained through the air as he clawed at the flapped, crossdraw holster on his belt. Holliday shoved the upturned table aside, pulled the Colt Lightning from beneath his jacket, and fired. The slug struck O’Meara in the left eye, exploding the back of his skull in a bloody halo. He went down like a felled tree.
A leaden silence settled over the saloon. Everyone stared at the body as a wide puddle of blood spread across the floor. Then, as though galvanized, the other two soldiers bolted for the door. A moment later the drumming thud of hoofbeats sounded from the street.
Burt Elliott, assisted by one of his dealers, dragged the corpse outside. As they pushed through the door, play slowly resumed at the other tables. Holliday walked to the bar, ordered bourbon, and lit a cigarillo. Lottie closed down her faro game, hurrying forward. Her features were masked with concern.
“You have to get out of Jacksboro. And fast!”
Holliday calmly tossed off his drink. “Why would I run? Everyone saw it. He pull
ed first.”
“You killed a soldier,” she said hastily. “That’s altogether different from killing a civilian. The army will come after you.”
“Well, let them come and be damned. I will not be bul-lyragged by Yankee soldiers.”
“Lottie’s right,” Elliott said, joining them at the bar. “Happened once before. A hide hunter killed a soldier and the army took him into custody. Threw him in the stockade and held him for the Texas Rangers. Only time I ever saw a Ranger set foot in Jacksboro.”
“Doc, listen to him,” Lottie pleaded. “You have an hour, two at the most. Then a whole cavalry detachment will come swarming in here.”
“Lookin’ for blood, too,” Elliott added. “You put up a fight and they’ll kill you. Figure you killed one of theirs.”
Holliday deliberated a moment. “You make a strong case,” he said with a bitter laugh. “Perhaps I’ve overstayed my welcome in Jacksboro.”
Lottie took his arm. “Come on, I’ll walk with you to the hotel. You have to get moving.”
“Not so fast,” Holliday said. “I’m not leaving without my clothes this time. I’ll need a packhorse.”
“God, I hope your vanity doesn’t get you hung!”
“I have to stop by the livery, anyway. I’m sure Arnie Fisher will be delighted to sell me an extra horse.”
“Well, let’s go, then. Come on!”
Not quite two hours later they stood outside the hotel. Lottie had arranged for provisions from the trading post while Holliday emptied his room. The packhorse was loaded, his sorrel gelding saddled, and nothing to hold him longer. He kissed her softly on the mouth.
“I’ll miss you, Lottie Deno.”
“Me, too.” Her voice was husky. “Take care of yourself, Doc.”
“Who knows, maybe our paths will cross again.”
“Look for the redhead dealing faro.”
Holliday stepped into the saddle. He smiled, waving to her with an offhand salute, then reined north out of town. She watched from the hotel as he forded the creek and disappeared into the night. Now that he was safely away, she had no fear that he would be caught. A man on the run, given even a few hours’ lead, could vanish forever into the mountains and plains across the West. But she nonetheless feared for him in ways that had nothing to do with lawmen and the law. For he rode with a companion far more certain than a hangman’s rope.