Doc Holliday

by Matt Braun

  She hoped they would meet again before his time ran out.

  CHAPTER 10

  The brassy dome of the sky shimmered under a midday sun. High overhead buzzards swooped and circled, quartering something on the land below. The rolling plains marched onward into endless distance.

  Holliday paused to water the horses on a bend in the Canadian River. He was twelve days out of Jacksboro, by rough estimate some three hundred miles to the northwest. Yesterday he had skirted Palo Duro Canyon, once the impenetrable stronghold of the Comanche. He held steadily to a northwest course, occasionally sighting a ranch house and herds of longhorn cattle. His destination was Colorado.

  Upon, leaving Jacksboro he had traveled north, toward the Red River. His first thought was to once again take refuge in the outlaw sanctuary of Indian Territory. But then he remembered he’d quit the Nations to avoid involvement with renegades and train robbers. So instead, figuring the law would never track him to Colorado, he had turned west along the Red. He knew Colorado was somewhere off to the northwest.

  Four days later he stumbled upon Doan’s Crossing. The trading post was situated on the south bank, a way station for Texas cattlemen driving herds along the Western Trail to railhead at Dodge City. There he’d bought provisions for overland travel, as well as a Winchester carbine, and purchased a mackinaw to ward off the chill of autumn nights. The owner of the trading post obligingly sketched a rough map, tracing a latticework of rivers that led westward across the plains. His route lay through the Texas Panhandle, once the domain of warlike tribes.

  From the Prairie Dog Fork of the Red, Holliday had turned north, to the Canadian, where he now sat staring over the limitless plains. The terrain swept onward to the horizon, flat and featureless, evoking a sense of something lost forever. There were no trees, no ridges or distant hills, just endless space. Nothing moved as far as the eye could see, as though, in some ancient age, the land had been frozen for all time. A chill breeze, like the cold breath of a ghost, rippled over the curly mesquite grass, disturbing nothing.

  Holliday had the feeling he was looking upon something no mortal was meant to see. For in an eerie sense, the vast trackless barren was like the solitude of God, somehow unreal and strangely ominous. Yet Texas cattlemen, following the defeat of the warlike tribes, had brought their herds to the fabled Llano Estacado, now called the Panhandle. The land was still sparsely populated, with a handful of ranches scattered along Palo Duro Canyon and the winding Canadian. There was a spooky sensation that man was an intruder here, forever an alien on the windswept plains.

  For all that, a town had sprung to life along the upper reaches of the Canadian. At Doan’s Crossing, Holliday had been told the place was called Tascosa, and its location was marked with an X on his crudely drawn map. From what he gathered, the town was a collection of saloons and whorehouses, thrown together to serve the randy tastes of cowhands throughout the Panhandle. Still, it was an oasis in the middle of nowhere, and he was weary from twelve days on the trail. He thought to replenish his supply of whiskey, and maybe, with luck, find a hotel. A bedroll on hard ground was not his idea of comfort, and his bones ached. One night in a real bed sounded good.

  Late that afternoon he rode into Tascosa. The town’s one street was located on the north bank of the Canadian, roughly parallel with the river. The buildings, hastily erected from ripsawed lumber, were a squalid testament to the allure of vice. Along one side of the street were two saloons, a couple of whorehouses, and a blacksmith shop. On the other side was a third saloon, flanked by a cafe, a general store, a small hotel, and a livery stable. The whole thing looked to have been built in one day.

  Holliday left his horses and trail gear at the livery stable. With the Winchester in one hand, and a warbag in the other, he walked upstreet to the hotel. He was wearing rough range clothes, bought a week ago at Doan’s Crossing, and the clerk took him to be a cowhand. The room he rented was four walls, with a bed, a washstand, and no windows. After testing the bed, which sagged in the middle, he stripped and took a birdbath in the basin. A short while later, attired in the mackinaw and a fresh shirt from his warbag, he returned to the lobby. He nodded to the clerk.

  “Which saloon would you recommend?”

  “The Exchange,” the clerk said without hesitation. “Don’t water down their whiskey, like some I could mention. Owned by Mick McCormick and his wife, Frenchy.”

  “Unusual name for a woman.”

  “Well, she ain’t no whore, if that’s what you’re thinkin’. Deals faro.”

  Holliday was surprised. “I’ve known only one lady dealer.”

  “Give the Exchange a try. You’ll meet another.”

  Dusk was settling over the land as Holliday emerged from the hotel. The general store was closed for the evening, but lamplight spilled through the window of the cafe. He turned into the Exchange, a boxy room brightly lighted by coal-oil lamps. Three cowhands stood hunched over the bar, opposite a couple of poker tables, which were empty. At the far end of the room, an attractive woman with dark hair riffled cards at a faro layout. No one was playing at the moment.

  The bartender was a large man, with a square jaw and a handlebar mustache. He finished serving one of the cowhands, placed a bottle on a back shelf, and turned as Holliday stopped at the end of the bar. His mustache rolled upward in a smile as he moved forward.

  “’Evenin’,” he said pleasantly. “What’ll it be?”

  “Good evening,” Holliday replied. “I’ll have four quarts of bourbon.”

  “Quarts, you say?”

  “I’m traveling through, and a long ways yet to go. A man doesn’t want to run dry on the road.”

  “Indeed not.”

  The bartender produced a shot glass and pulled a bottle off the back shelf. He poured to the brim. “Have one on the house. Not often I sell four quarts at a lick.”

  Holliday sampled the bourbon. He nodded appreciatively. “You must be Mick McCormick.”

  “In the flesh.” McCormick extended his hand. “I’m pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr … . ?”

  “Holliday.” Holliday accepted his handshake. “John Holliday.”

  McCormick gave him a quizzical look. “Holliday? Holliday? The name has a familiar ring.”

  “Probably someone else. Not all that uncommon a name.”

  “Wait!” McCormick stared at him. “Now it comes to me! Would you be the one called—Doc Holliday?”

  Holliday frowned. “Some people call me that. How do you know me?”

  “By the Jeezus! An honor to meet you.” McCormick grabbed his hand, again pumped his arm. “What with people coming and going, news travels out here, Mr. Holliday. You’re more famous than you know.”

  “I’m sorry to hear it. Suppose we keep it to ourselves?”

  “I will, indeed! You have my word on it.”

  Holliday changed the subject. “I understand your wife deals faro. Maybe I’ll try a hand.”

  “Uh—” McCormick stammered, his eyes round. “A professional courtesy, one gambling man to another. I must caution you … she cheats.”

  Holliday smiled. “Well, I wouldn’t want to compromise a lady. What about a poker game?”

  “Oh, there’s always a game at night. Most of the cowboys drift in around seven or so.”

  “I haven’t had supper, anyway. I’ll get something to eat and come back.” Holliday fished a roll of bills from his pocket, dropped money on the counter. “Meantime, perhaps you could have that bourbon delivered to the hotel. Leave it with the clerk.”

  “I’ll see to it personally,” McCormick said. “No trouble at all, Mr. Holliday.”

  “You might as well call me Doc. I’m not one for formalities.”

  “An honor and a privilege, Doc. Enjoy your supper.”

  Holliday walked next door to the cafe. A lone cowhand was seated at a table, flirting with the waitress. She broke away as Holliday seated himself at a table by the window. He ordered the evening special, a tangy beef stew with s
ourdough biscuits and coffee. As he ate, picking at the food, he stared moodily out the window. His expression was dour.

  In Jacksboro, he had grown accustomed to people treating him with wary deference. He was aware that the sporting crowd, among themselves, referred to him as a shootist, or a gunman. But it never occurred to him that his reputation would have traveled to the wilds of the Texas Panhandle, passed along by word of mouth. The notion left him perplexed, for it tagged him with an unwanted infamy. He had no wish to be placed in the same league with mankillers such as John Wesley Hardin or Wild Bill Hickok, who had been assassinated only last month in Dakota Territory. The idea that he was infamous was repugnant, and dangerous. Infamous men attracted trouble, not to mention the law. A double jeopardy of sorts.

  He wondered if his reputation had spread to Colorado, or beyond. The thought gave him pause, and the irony of it soured his appetite. Life was sometimes more complicated than dying.

  “Ace high bets.”

  The dealer nodded to Holliday. The game was five-card stud, and all the cards were on the board. Holliday pretended to hesitate, then shrugged. “Bet two dollars.”

  A jingle of spurs chimed musically as one of the men shifted in his chair. There were five cowhands seated at the table, three to Holliday’s left and two on his right. The player beside him tossed his cards onto the table. “Too rich for my blood.”

  “Same here,” the next man said. “I’m out.”

  The third cowhand was the heavy drinker of the bunch. A ruddy man, his face flushed with liquor, he studied Holliday through bloodshot eyes. “Think you’re bluffin’, but I’ll just call.”

  The next man folded, and the last, with a queen high showing, called. Holliday turned his hole card, an ace. “Caught a pair, gentlemen. Beat the aces.”

  “Shit!” the drinker rasped. “Had tens wired the whole time.”

  “Quit your bitchin’, Buford.” The other man flipped his hole card. “I was holdin’ queens.”

  Holliday was bored. The stakes were low and the cowhands provided little competition. When the deal passed to him, he decided to play one last hand and call it a night. The ante was a quarter, and he dealt five-card draw. The man on his left checked, and the next one, after studying his cards, bet fifty cents. Buford grinned, chortling drunkenly to himself, and raised two dollars. The last two men tossed in their cards.

  Holliday fanned his cards, almost disappointed to see three fours. On the verge of raising, he broke into a coughing fit. Several times during the night his cough had interrupted the game. A bottle sat at his elbow, and he quaffed a shot of bourbon. He noted flecks of blood on his handkerchief when he wiped his mouth.

  “Your two,” he said, nodding to Buford. “And raise two.”

  The man beside him folded. Buford muttered something unintelligible, and called. On the draw, Buford took three cards and Holliday took one. After squeezing his cards open, Buford cackled gleefully. He bet two dollars.

  “Go ahead,” he gloated. “Raise on your two pair now.”

  Holliday smiled indulgently. “I regret to say I have no choice. Your two … and two more.”

  Buford glowered at him, then called the raise. Holliday spread his hand. “Three fours.”

  “You suckered me!” Buford flung his cards down, revealing aces and jacks. “Drawed one to three of a kind. Never saw such!”

  “All’s fair in poker.” Holliday raked in the pot, glancing around at the other cowhands. “I believe I’ll call it a night. Thank you for a stimulating evening, gentlemen.”

  “Whoa, now!” Buford thundered. “You ain’t walkin’ away with our dinero that easy. Nobody quits big winner!”

  Holliday ignored him, pushing back his chair. Buford suddenly stood, his features hostile and twisted. “You gawddamn fancy-talkin’ lunger! You deaf, too? Sit your ass down!”

  “No trouble there,” McCormick called out from the bar. “Buford, hold your tongue and mind your manners. That’s Doc Holliday you’re talking to.”

  “Shut your trap, Mick! I don’t care if his name’s Jesus Christ. I’ll plug him if he tries walkin’ out of here.”

  Holliday spread his hands. “Don’t even think about it, cowboy. You couldn’t win.”

  “Cut your wolf loose, lunger!”

  Buford grabbed at the pistol on his hip. Holliday pulled and fired before the cowhand’s gun arm came level. A look of blank surprise came over Buford’s face, and his eyes rolled back in his head. His knees buckled, the gun dangling from his hand. He slumped to the floor.

  The cowhands started out of their chairs. McCormick stepped around the end of the bar with a sawed-off shotgun, thumbing the hammers. “You boys sit real still.”

  “No need for that, Mick,” Holliday said. “I tried to warn him off. They know he started it.”

  “Won’t wash,” McCormick said dully. “Way they look at it, you’re a pistolero and he was just a drunk cowboy. They’d hang you from the nearest tree.”

  Holliday glanced at their faces, and saw it was true. “What do you suggest?”

  “I’ll hold ’em here till you’re clear of town. You’d best leave now.”

  “What happens to you after I’m gone?”

  “Nothing much.” McCormick grinned, wagged the snout of his shotgun. “The sporting crowd sticks together in Tascosa. These boys wouldn’t try anything stupid.” He smiled at them. “Would you, boys?”

  The cowhands looked downcast, their eyes averted. Holliday moved away from the table, holstering his pistol. “I’m in your debt, Mick. The marker’s good anytime.”

  “Doc, I consider it an honor. Be off with you now.”

  Holliday rode out within the half hour. He was leading the packhorse, with four quarts of bourbon tightly wrapped inside his bedroll. Outside town he took a fix on the North Star, and gigged his horse into a ground-eating trot. Distance, given the circumstances, seemed the prudent move.

  The indigo sky sparkled with starlight. All around, the plains seemed to shimmer, bathed in a silvery glow. As he rode along, it occurred to him that he’d spent less than seven hours in Tascosa. His plans for a night in a comfortable bed had gone to hell in a hurry. Apart from buying whiskey, he had managed to win a few hands of poker and kill a cowboy. There was no pride in it, and an unsettling sense of regret gave him pause. But the vagary of it nonetheless made him laugh.

  A gambler’s life was never dull.

  CHAPTER 11

  Three days later Holliday crossed into No Man’s Land. The Texas line, according to his crude map, was at a spot where the North Canadian made a sharp bend to the northwest. Once he forded the river, he felt an inner sense of relief. He was beyond the arm of the law.

  During his time at Jacksboro, Holliday had heard talk of this remote strip of wilderness. Centuries ago Spanish explorers had called it Cimarron, which meant “wild and unruly.” Through a hodgepodge of confused and poorly written treaties, it now belonged to none of the Western states or territories. So it was aptly dubbed No Man’s Land.

  Yet there was nothing confusing about its borders. Texas and Kansas were separated by its depth of some thirty-five miles, while its breadth extended nearly two hundred miles westward from Indian Territory to New Mexico Territory. Along its northwestern fringe, the isolated strip of grasslands formed a juncture with Colorado as well. To a large degree the raw expanse of wilderness had been forgotten by God and government alike. Texas Rangers never crossed the line.

  Holliday marked the date at somewhere around October 6. After fording the river, he angled off toward the northwest, and Colorado. From the days of his youth, when he’d spent all his time off in the hinterlands of the family plantation, he was able to reckon direction by the angle of the sun. He felt comfortable in the wilderness, as though reliving his explorations as a boyhood hunter, and his Winchester carbine kept him supplied with game. Still, wrapped in his bedroll at night, he was anxious to have the journey ended. He missed the fast pace, and the rivalry, of the sporting crowd.

/>   The following afternoon he rode into Wild Horse Lake. The spot was roughly located on his map, situated on the divide between the Beaver and Cimarron rivers. A prominent landmark, it was known to be the haunt of renegades and killers. Those who came there were predators, wanted men on the dodge, and the law of the gun prevailed. A man survived on cunning and nerve, and by minding his own business. Holliday thought he could manage it for one night.

  The lake itself was centered in a large basin. Somewhat like a deep bowl, it served as a reservoir for thundershowers that whipped across the plains. Above the basin, sweeping away on all sides, was a limitless prairie where the grasses grew thick and tall. Wild things, the mustangs that gave the lake its name, no longer came there to feed and water. The basin was now the domain of man.

  Every stripe of outlaw found refuge there. A sanctuary where those who rode the owlhoot could retreat with no fear of pursuit. Not even U.S. Marshals dared venture into the isolated stronghold, for lawmen were considered a form of prey anywhere in No Man’s Land. Discretion being the better part of valor, peace officers stayed away, and a man on the dodge could find no safer place. There was absolute immunity from the law at Wild Horse Lake.

  Several cabins dotted the perimeter of the lake. A trail from the south dropped off the plains and followed an incline into the basin. Holliday held his gelding to a walk, leading the packhorse, and rode toward the nearest cabin. He reminded himself that he was a stranger here, and in a land of outlaws, any stranger was suspect. Yet he was a fugitive himself, and given the rules of the game, that made him one of the brotherhood. Which nonetheless required that he establish his credentials as a desperado. He decided on the bold approach.