Doc Holliday

by Matt Braun

  A corral with some thirty head of horses was positioned off to the side of the cabin. As he rode past, Holliday noted that many of the horses wore fresh brands, the hair and hide still singed. He was no expert on such matters, but it appeared that the brands had been recently altered. Four men stood outside the cabin, ranged along the front wall. They were a rough lot, unshaved and unkempt, armed with pistols and knives. A fifth man, sporting a brace of holstered Colts, stepped into the doorway.

  Holliday reined to a halt. “Good afternoon,” he said, nodding from one to the other. “Who’s in charge here?”

  The man in the doorway looked him over. “Who’s askin’?”

  “The name’s Doc Holliday. Late of Jacksboro.”

  “We’ve heard the name. How do we know you’re him?”

  “I just told you,” Holliday said flatly. “I’m not accustomed to having my word questioned. You can accept it or I’ll ride on.”

  “Feisty as a rooster, aren’t you?”

  “No offense intended. A simple statement of fact.”

  The man held his gaze. “What brings you out here?”

  “Necessity,” Holliday replied. “The Texas Rangers took an interest in my personal affairs. I thought I’d try my luck in Colorado.”

  “Grapevine has it you’ve killed a few men.”

  “The grapevine has it correct.”

  “Anybody we’d know?”

  “Ask around Tascosa,” Holliday said. “Four nights ago a cowhand braced me over a card game. You might have known him.”

  “Tend to doubt it,” the man said with a slight smile. “We don’t have much truck with cowhands.”

  “Then you’ll have to take my word for it.”

  “Guess I will at that. Climb down off your horse and stay a while.”

  Holliday stepped out of the saddle. His blunt manner, much as he’d expected, had paid off. Toughnuts abhorred weakness and respected strength, and boldness was the key. The man in the doorway walked forward. “Glad to meet you, Doc,” he said, his hand outthrust. “I’m Henry Borne.”

  The name was legend. All across Texas people spoke of Dutch Henry Borne with awe. He was considered the greatest horse thief on the frontier, a will-o’-the-wisp who had never been caught. His notoriety earned the wrath of peace officers and the grudging admiration of common men. He was all but a folk hero.

  “A pleasure,” Holliday said, shaking his hand. “You are a man of reputation, yourself.”

  Borne laughed. “I reckon there’s no need to deny it. I’ve lasted longer than most.”

  “I’ve heard it said that lawmen stay clear of No Man’s Land. Are you responsible for that, as well?”

  “Took a spell, but we made ’em believers. Hate to tell you how many lawdogs we buried.”

  “Nor would I ask,” Holliday said. “Do I call you Henry or Dutch Henry?”

  “Friends call me Hank.” Borne paused, openly inspecting him. “You as fast as they say you are?”

  “Faster,” Holliday said without expression. “I have the gift.”

  “Godalmighty!” Borne whooped. “I like a man that speaks plain. I think we’re gonna get along, Doc.”

  “I never doubted it for a minute, Hank.”

  Borne motioned to his men. “You boys tend to Doc’s horses. Treat ’em better’n your own.”

  The men led the horses toward the corral. Borne threw an arm over Holliday’s shoulders. “C’mon, Doc, let’s have ourselves a drink. Maybe you’ll tell me how you got so fast.”

  Holliday smiled. “Perhaps we can trade secrets, Hank. I know nothing of stealing horses.”

  “Well, you sure as hell come to the right place!”

  Borne roared at his own humor, leading the way into the cabin. Holliday hoped he wouldn’t serve corn liquor.

  Supper was antelope steak and beans. The cook of the outfit apparently believed taste was secondary to quantity, and the men clearly agreed. They ate like wolves gathered over a carcass, Dutch Henry Borne included, devouring every last scrap on the table. Their appreciative belches brought a smile to the cook’s face.

  Holliday ate lightly. He laced his coffee with liberal doses of rye whiskey. Earlier, drinking with Dutch Henry, he’d been pleasantly surprised to find that the gang stocked several cases of rye. The whiskey, like the beans and other essentials, was imported to Wild Horse Lake from a distant trading post. Though he preferred bourbon, the sharp bite of the rye kept his cough under control. He thought the men nonetheless suspected he was a consumptive.

  Borne was amazed by his tolerance for alcohol. He quickly gave up trying to match Holliday drink for drink. Instead, under Holliday’s casual questioning, he expounded on Wild Horse Lake. There were six gangs who made the basin their headquarters, only one as large as Borne’s outfit. Some rustled cattle, others robbed banks and trains, but none dealt in stolen horses. Borne reserved that right to himself, and he enforced the mandate with an iron will. The other gangs went along, aware that Borne would fight to protect his interests. No one cared to tangle with him or his outfit.

  After supper, with oncoming nightfall, coal-oil lamps were lighted. The men switched from coffee to rye, sloshing whiskey into their tin cups. Borne, who had clearly taken a liking to Holliday, ignored the other men. They watched, silently sipping their whiskey, as he rolled himself a cigarette. He popped a match on his thumbnail, then lit up and held it for Holliday’s cigarillo. He snuffed the match, exhaling smoke.

  “How’s the whiskey?” he said. “Need a refill?”

  “I’m fine for the moment, Hank. Thank you.”

  Borne nodded. “You talk like an educated man, Doc. Don’t see many like you out here.”

  Holliday realized it was a subtle question. He was aware as well that the other men were watching him closely, awaiting his reply. He puffed his cigarillo, wondering where the conversation was headed. His mouth quirked in a wry smile.

  “Schooling has to be taken with a grain of salt. I’ve found experience to be the greatest teacher.”

  “No argument there,” Borne agreed. “All the same, there’s something to be said for book learnin’. Wish’t to hell I’d got more.”

  “I’d say you’ve done quite well for yourself.”

  “Doc, you might be surprised. Lemme tell you how it works.”

  Borne warmed to his subject. He likened the operation to a game of checkers. Several livestock dealers, spread throughout surrounding states and territories, represented the squares on the board. Every week or so the gang would conduct a raid into Kansas, Colorado, New Mexico, or Texas. The stolen horses were then trailed back to No Man’s Land, where the brands were altered with a running iron.

  Once the new brands cured, Borne went on, the horses were never sold on home ground. Horses from Kansas were trailed to New Mexico, and those from Colorado to Texas. The herds were always moved in rotating order; horses stolen in Kansas were never sold twice in a row in Colorado. To muddy the waters further, the order of the raids was also rotated among the states and territories. As a result, local ranchers could never establish any pattern to the random nature of the raids. Yet it was all very methodical, nearly impossible to defend against.

  Borne then explained how the checkers game was played out. The stolen horses were split into small herds, generally numbering ten head or less. After being trailed to a different location, never on home ground, the herds were sold to livestock dealers over a widespread area. Usually, there was a mix of altered brands, and to all appearances, the stock had been bought here and there by an itinerant horse trader. In the end, horses stolen in random order had been split into small bunches and sold across the breadth of four states. The checkerboard effect was complete.

  “Damn near foolproof,” Borne concluded. “Even if it wasn’t, livestock dealers are crooked as a barrel of snakes. We’ve never come close to gettin’ caught.”

  Holliday was impressed. By its very complexity, their operation virtually eliminated any chance of being detected. “From
the sound of it,” he said, “you should have been a general. You are a born tactician, Hank.”

  “Suppose you’re wonderin’ why I told you all this?”

  “The thought had crossed my mind.”

  “Like to have you with me,” Borne said simply. “I admire a man with education, and two heads are better’n one. We could double the size of the operation in no time.”

  Holliday wished he weren’t so popular with gang leaders. Not two months ago, in Indian Territory, Ed Blanchard had tried to enlist him as a bank robber. Now, after an obvious attempt to impress him, Dutch Henry was trying to recruit him as a horse thief. He knew he should feel flattered, for Dutch Henry clearly meant it as a compliment. He warned himself to proceed with caution.

  “I’m honored by your offer,” he said. “But I genuinely believe it would not serve your best interests. You see, I have a fever—”

  “Fever?” Borne interrupted. “You talkin’ about your consumption?”

  “No, not that. A fever to gamble, Hank. I’m drawn to it like an addict to an opium den.”

  “Well, hell, maybe you could break yourself of the habit. Lots of money to be made in horses.”

  “For a gambling man,” Holliday told him, “money is merely a tool. The stuff that allows him to feed the fever. The need to wager it all on the turn of a card.”

  “Damn shame,” Borne said, clearly disappointed. “You got the makin’s of a first-class horse thief. Don’t see that too often.”

  “I consider that a high praise, Hank. High praise, indeed.”

  “You’re so full of shit it stinks!”

  The outburst came from one of the men at the table. Holliday remembered him being called Dunbar, or maybe Dunston. The man glared across the table, his hands knotted into fists. Borne gave him a corrosive look.

  “What got your bowels in an uproar?”

  Dunbar snorted. “Christ, Hank, listen to the bastard! Too damn good for us, him and his snotty ways. All the rest is horseshit.”

  “I’ll be the judge of that.” Borne glowered at him. “I want you to apologize to Doc—right now.”

  “Won’t do it.” Dunbar stubbornly shook his head. “I stick by what I said.”

  Borne drew his pistol, sighting quickly. He fired across the table and Dunbar’s left earlobe vanished in a puff of red mist. Dunbar squealed, grabbing at his ear, blood spurting over his hand. Borne again thumbed the hammer on his pistol.

  “Next one’s between the eyes. What’d you say, Floyd?” Dunbar gritted his teeth. “Take it back,” he muttered, glancing at Holliday. “Spoke out of turn.”

  “That’s better,” Borne said sternly. “Won’t have a man in my outfit with no manners. You satisfied with his apology, Doc?”

  “I believe that will suffice, Hank. Consider the matter closed.”

  Holliday reminded himself to avoid horse thieves in the future. He thought the quicker he saw the last of Wild Horse Lake, the better. Sunrise sounded none too soon.

  He poured himself another cup of rye.

  PART TWO

  CHAPTER 12

  Holliday adjusted his tie. After stepping back, he inspected himself in the full-length mirror of the armoire. He thought he would pass muster at the New Year’s Eve celebration. Tonight they would usher in 1877.

  A scratchy sensation spiraled upward in his throat. He walked from the bedroom to the sitting room, and moved quickly to a table opposite the sofa. A decanter and glasses were arranged on the table, and he poured a glass of bourbon. He downed it in a gulp, waiting for the bourbon to suppress the onset of a spasm. His breathing slowly returned to normal.

  All in all he thought Colorado agreed with him. In late October, upon arriving in Pueblo, he had sold his horses and engaged a suite in the Manitou House Hotel. The rooms were handsomely appointed, and the hotel staff obligingly catered to the odd hours of a gambler. His health was neither worse nor better, despite the climate. He still relied on whiskey to control his cough.

  From the vestibule closet, he removed a woolen greatcoat and his hat. Downstairs, the lobby was festooned with Christmas decorations and logs blazed in the fireplace. He exchanged greetings with the desk clerk, moving to the door, and stepped outside. A swirling snowfall, blown about by a north wind, was silhouetted against the pale, yellowish glow of streetlamps. He walked toward the sporting district.

  Pueblo was situated in the southern foothills of the Rockies. The surrounding countryside was arid and rough, despite the proximity of the Arkansas River to the town. Eastward lay a vista of broken plains, and to the west towering summits were blanketed with snow. The mountains marched northward like an unbroken column of sentinels.

  By the close of 1876, Pueblo had achieved prominence as the railway center of southern Colorado. The Denver & Rio Grande rails extended some ninety miles northward to Denver, and the Santa Fe line provided a link to points eastward. The downtown district was dominated by the county courthouse, and the streets were lined with all manner of stores, shops, and business establishments. A once-isolated outpost, Pueblo had been transformed by the arrival of two railroads in as many years. The town was now a bustling mecca of commerce.

  Holliday noted a festive air in passersby on the street. Snowfall was an unusual experience for him, rarely ever seen in Georgia, and he thought it contributed to the lingering Yuletide spirit. Last week he had received a cheery Christmas letter from Mattie, and he reminded himself to comment on the snow when he replied. They had exchanged two letters since his arrival in Pueblo, and Christmas without her had left him despondent for a day or so. Yet her letters were still bright and bubbly, filled with hope, and what he considered a depressingly rosy outlook for their future. He oftentimes wondered if she would ever let him go.

  West of the downtown area, he entered the sporting district. He told himself that Mattie would find it tawdry and vulgar, indecent beyond anything she might ever imagine. But the seamier side of Pueblo had proved a turning point for him, an unexpected revelation of a whole new world. He found immediate acceptance among the sporting crowd, for his name was known from an article in the Police Gazette, written by a journalist who regaled readers with overblown tales of Western gunmen. He was now a figure of no small notoriety.

  The revelation came about in conversation with fellow gamblers. He discovered that there was something known within the brotherhood as the “Gamblers’ Circuit.” From all he heard, the circuit extended from Dakota Territory southward to Texas, and westward from the Kansas cowtowns to Arizona. Within that vast land mass, there were dozens of boomtowns where money flowed freely and chumps were just waiting to be separated from their bankrolls. When the cards turned stale, or a man wore out his welcome, he simply took off for the next stop on the circuit. There was always another boomtown.

  The idea held great appeal for Holliday. God and circumstance had already conspired to remake him into a vagabond gambler. He enjoyed the life of a drifter, without ties or roots, free to come and go as he pleased. The notion of a circuit, towns where gamblers congregated, seemed to him the best of all worlds. Listening to the tales of other gamblers, he had decided to travel the northern circuit, moving along as time and luck dictated. His first stop would be Denver, where some of the more fabled gaming dens on the circuit were located. He planned to leave tomorrow, on the noon train. A fresh start for the new year.

  Not that Pueblo hadn’t treated him well. As he walked through the flurrying snow, he calculated that he was over five thousand ahead for the two months. He was known as a square gambler, one who gave all comers an even break, and high rollers were drawn to his game. His name was respected, and while he was essentially a loner, he maintained cordial relations with the sporting crowd. His reputation with a gun was an asset of sorts, often forestalling trouble before it got started. He hadn’t been forced to kill anyone since he’d arrived in town. All things considered, he thought Pueblo had been a wise choice.

  The Tivoli Gaming Parlor was packed. A large barnlike structure,
the Tivoli boasted the longest bar in town, assorted games of chance, and a stage theater. Holliday came through the door as a magician produced a rabbit from a top hat, and then immediately brought forth a pair of doves from a silk scarf. The crowd applauded the feat, some of them already drunk, clearly in a gala mood. They were there to celebrate a year of thriving prosperity, largely due to the railroads, and the recent admission of Colorado into the Union as a state. New Year’s Eve was an excuse to stomp and shout.

  Holliday checked his greatcoat and hat at a cloakroom reserved for regular patrons. His suit was new for the occasion, a subtle charcoal worsted, the drape of the jacket tailored to conceal his pistols. As he walked to the end of the bar, an act billed as the “Ethiopian Minstrels” pranced onstage. The troupe of fifteen men, all in blackface, proceeded to rattle their tambourines while they sang and danced and ribbed one another with colorful badinage. He nodded to the bartender working the end of the counter.

  “Good evening, Gus.”

  “‘Evenin’, Doc. And a New Happy Year to you.”

  “Thank you most kindly, Gus. Many pleasant returns.”

  Gus placed a glass on the counter, poured from a bottle of aged bourbon. “You playin’ tonight, Doc?”

  A table was reserved for Holliday every night of the week. The management considered him a draw, and the courtesy had been extended his first week in town. He rarely missed a night.

  “Yes, I’ll play,” he said now. “New Year’s or not, I’m sure to find a game.”

  “Reason I ask—” Gus ducked his head down the bar.

  “The feller in the big hat and mackinaw was askin’ about you. Told me he’d heard you’re the best in town.”

  “Do you know him?”

  “His name’s Gabe Miller. Just after Thanksgiving Day, I read in the paper his wife had passed on. Guess he got lonesome on New Year’s.”

  Holliday took a sip of bourbon. Over the rim of his glass he studied the man, who was watching the minstrel show. Miller was broad and muscular, somewhere in his late forties, dressed in range clothes. He never once laughed at the Ethiopians’ ribald wisecracks.