by Matt Braun
“Sober devil,” Holliday commented. “Do you think he has money, Gus?”
“Sure oughta,” Gus said with conviction. “Owns one of the biggest cattle spreads in these parts. I just expect he’s loaded.”
“How is it he’s never inquired of my game until now?”
“Maybe his wife wouldn’t give him a night off.”
Holliday laughed. “Then we’ll give him a New Year’s to remember.”
“’Evening, Doc.”
Frank Tyler, a gambler new to Pueblo, leaned into the bar. Gus drifted off to wait on other customers. Holliday nodded pleasantly. “How are you this evening, Frank?”
“Never better,” Tyler said jovially. “All set for a big New Year’s?”
“I am the soul of conviviality, Frank.”
Holliday was on speaking terms with every gambler in town. He recalled hearing that Tyler had arrived in Pueblo three weeks ago, and specialized in low-stakes games. Some members of the profession ground out a living a few dollars at a time.
“Good crowd,” Tyler said, looking around the room. “Are you open for business tonight, Doc?”
“How better to ring in the New Year? I suspect there’s a game to be found.”
“I’d lay odds you’re right. Would you mind if I sit in at your table?”
“Why would I mind?” Holliday was nonetheless surprised. “I generally play fifty-dollar limit, Frank. Are you up for that?”
“Hell, I’m flush!” Tyler grinned confidently. “Have to warn you, I’m on a streak and feeling lucky. Won a bundle the last couple of nights.”
“So you plan to press your luck. Hmmm?”
“When you’re hot, you’re hot. Figured I’d try my hand at a high-stakes game. Start the New Year off right.”
Tyler was a genial man, easygoing and quick to smile. He seemed particularly exuberant tonight, anxious to play. Holliday had trimmed many gamblers whose cocksure manner exceeded their skill. One more, on his last night in Pueblo, would be an amusing diversion. He downed his bourbon.
“Frank, a man on a roll shouldn’t be kept waiting. Let’s play poker.”
Holliday led the way back to his table. His game attracted high rollers, and hardly before they were seated, other men rushed to claim a chair. A local merchant was first, followed by the superintendent of the Denver & Rio Grande, and then the rancher, Gabe Miller. The last man was a notions drummer, attired in a loud checkered suit and a bowler hat. He introduced himself as Horace Sprigg, from St. Louis.
The men agreed on a fifty-dollar limit, check and raise, with three raises. Every man at the table had at least a thousand dollars in front of him, and the merchant cut high card for the first deal. An hour or so into the game Frank Tyler appeared to be as good as his word. He had won several large pots, usually with cards that gave him only a slim margin. He seemed to have a sixth sense for when to fold and when to stay, and more importantly, when to raise. He won on modest hands, nothing higher than three of a kind.
Holliday slowly became suspicious. He noted that Tyler won more often when Horace Sprigg, the notions drummer, was dealing. Yet Sprigg was heavyset, with stubby fingers, and seemingly too awkward to manipulate the deck. Holliday noted as well that Sprigg stayed in whenever Tyler won, and was already a heavy loser. He inconspicuously tested the deck for shaved cards, or pinpricks, but found nothing out of order. The glaring tipoff was that Tyler won from the other men, but quickly folded anytime Holliday held a decent hand. To Holliday, it seemed clear that Tyler was at pains not to offend him. He knew then the game was somehow rigged.
Some while later the deal passed to Holliday. He called five-card draw, folding when he dealt himself a poor hand. After the draw, everyone folded except Tyler and the cattleman, Gabe Miller. Holliday thought it ironic that he’d dealt Tyler a strong hand. All the more so since he couldn’t spot how the game was rigged. He watched with mounting frustration as Miller, who was the heavy loser for the night, called a fifty-dollar raise. To his astonishment, Tyler turned over four deuces.
“What a night!” Tyler crowed. “Gents, I can’t be beat.”
Miller flung his cards on the table. He glared at Tyler, then nailed Holliday with a hard scowl. “You two are in cahoots,” he said coldly. “I’m callin’ you for what you are—cardsharps!”
“You’re right and you’re wrong,” Holliday informed him. “The game is crooked, but I’ve no hand in it. Nor can I prove it.”
“What the hell’s that supposed to mean?”
“Our chubby friend”—Holliday gestured to the drummer—“somehow deals winners to Tyler. I haven’t yet figured out exactly how.”
“You take me for a dimwit?” Miller fumed. “You just dealt your partner four deuces!”
“I’m embarrassed by it myself. But think back … who’s been dealing him winners all night?”
Miller turned his gaze first on Sprigg, and then Tyler. “You dirty sonsabitches are all in it together. See it in your faces.”
Sprigg froze like a toad on a stump. Frank Tyler rose from his chair. “Watch who you’re calling names, old man.”
“I’ve got you pegged, sonny.”
Miller shoved away from the table, fumbled for his gun. Tyler pulled a Remington derringer from his vest pocket, thumbed the hammer. All in a motion, Holliday jerked his Colt Lightning and fired. The slug caught Tyler in the throat and a fountain of blood splashed over his shirt collar. He reeled away, mouthing a strangled sound, and crashed to the floor. His eyes went blank, fixed on the ceiling.
Miller stood rooted in shock, gun in hand. Holliday motioned with his pistol. “Don’t make me kill you,” he said quietly. “Place your gun on the table.”
After a moment of deliberation, Miller obeyed. His features knotted in a grimace. “You’re not off yet, Holliday. You’ll answer to the law.”
“Excellent idea,” Holliday agreed. “Someone send for the marshal.”
An hour later Marshal Wilbur Stone stood talking with Miller at the table. Horace Sprigg had disappeared into the night, and Holliday was sipping bourbon at the end of the bar. Stone finally nodded, turning away from Miller, and crossed the room. He stopped beside Holliday.
“Two things,” he said curtly. “One, you killed a man—”
“Who was trying to kill Miller.”
“—and second, Miller says you killed him to keep his mouth shut.”
“I run a straight game, Marshal. Tyler was not my confederate.”
“Your word against Gabe Miller’s. He’s a God-fearing, tax-paying citizen, and you’re a gambler. Get my drift, Holliday?”
“Are you charging me with something?”
“Nope.” Stone stared at him. “I’m posting you out of town. Be on the noon train tomorrow. Savvy?”
“Nothing simpler,” Holliday said with a sardonic smile. “Why not escort me to the station? Wish me bon voyage.”
“What’s so damn funny?”
“A private joke, Marshal. Not worth repeating.”
Holliday collected his hat and coat, and went through the door. Outside the snow swirled on gusts of wind, the air crisp and sharp. He tugged his hat down and walked off toward the hotel. The idea that he had been posted out of town was amusing in itself. But doubly so when he’d already made plans to leave for Denver. Life was, after all, a droll jester.
He laughed and wished himself a Happy New Year.
CHAPTER 13
The engineer set the brakes with a racketing squeal. A moment later the train rocked to a halt before the Denver station house. Dusk was settling over the land and the snowy spires of the Rockies rose majestically against a backdrop of fading light. Passengers from Pueblo and points in between began deboarding the train.
Holliday stepped from the rear coach onto the platform. He pulled the collar of his greatcoat tighter against the evening chill, signaling one of the porters who waited outside the depot. When the baggage car was unloaded, the porter collected his new steamer trunk and wrestled it onto a handcart.
As he followed the porter across the platform, he noticed a man watching him from the doorway of the station house. A badge was pinned to the man’s overcoat, and he wondered if the law had been informed of his arrival in Denver. The idea of it amused him.
In front of the depot, he engaged a horse-drawn cab. He tipped the porter and told the cabbie to take him to the Brown Palace Hotel. From all he’d heard, it was the finest hotel in Denver, and he planned to establish residence in proper style. On the trip uptown he noted that the streets were cobbled and many of the buildings were constructed of brick masonry. Lamplighters were busy with approaching dark, and he was reminded that he hadn’t seen gas streetlights since dental college in Baltimore. He thought he was going to like Denver.
The Brown Palace was everything he’d heard from other gamblers. Thick carpets covered the marble floor of the lobby, and a central seating area was furnished with leather chairs and sofas. The whole of the lobby ceiling glittered with an ornate mural, and a wide, sweeping staircase led to the upper floors. The place had the look and smell of wealth, home away from home for the upper class. At the reception desk, he noted a calendar with the date January 1, and he thought it an excellent start to the New Year. He nodded to the clerk.
“Good evening,” he said. “I would like one of your finer suites.”
“Of course, sir. How long will you be staying with us?”
Holliday peeled a thousand dollars off his roll. “Let me know when that runs out.”
“Yes, sir. I will have it credited to your account immediately. Welcome to the Brown Palace.”
The clerk handed him a pen. With a flourish, he signed the register Dr. John H. Holliday. Upstairs, led by a bellman, he was shown into a lavish suite. A lush Persian carpet covered the sitting room floor and grouped before a marble fireplace were several chairs and a chesterfield divan. The bedroom was appointed in the Victorian style, connected to a bathroom with hot and cold running water. A series of handsomely draped windows overlooked the city.
Some while later, with his steamer trunk delivered and logs blazing in the fireplace, Holliday poured himself a tall glass of bourbon. He wandered through the suite, pleased with his accommodations, and halted before the sitting room windows. Flickering streetlamps marched into the distance, and windows in buildings across the town were lighted in a cider glow. Looking out, he recalled that Denver was now a center of finance and commerce for a large part of the West. A city grown from origins that were anything but humble.
Gold was discovered on Cherry Creek in 1859. Over the next decade thousands of men in search of fortune crossed the Great Plains to Colorado Territory. Some perished, and some found gold, and the mining camp reproduced itself a hundredfold, until finally a glittering metropolis rose along the banks of Cherry Creek and the South Platte. Denver became a cosmopolitan beehive, with theater and opera, newspapers and a stock exchange, and three railroads. By 1876, with a population of twenty-five thousand and growing, the city was unrivaled on the Western plains.
Holliday’s woolgathering was interrupted by a sharp knock at the door. He turned from the window, placing his glass on a table, and crossed the room. When he opened the door, a beefy man with stolid features stood in the hallway. The man wore a high-crowned hat, a badge pinned to his coat, and a pistol strapped at his side. Holliday smiled at him.
“The law in all its majesty.”
“Are you Doc Holliday?”
“A nom de guerre of recent times.”
“I’m Claude White. City marshal of Denver.”
“Well, come in, Marshal.” Holliday waved him through the door. “Won’t you have a seat?”
“I’m not staying.” White turned, thumbs hooked in his gunbelt. “I’ll come straight to the point, Holliday. I’m here to put you on warning.”
“Are you? And the nature of the warning?”
“We don’t tolerate troublemakers in Denver. I’ve heard you could start a fight in an empty room.”
“Let me guess,” Holliday said lightly. “You received a wire from the marshal in Pueblo. Then you posted one of your men at the train station. And now you’re here.” He paused with a waggish look. “How am I doing so far?”
“Here’s the message,” White said with a dark frown. “You kill anybody in Denver and you’ll answer to me. You got that clear?”
“I tremble at the thought.”
“Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
White brushed past him. When the door closed, Holliday reclaimed his drink and walked back to the window. For a moment, looking out into the night, his mustache curled with a crooked smile. He held the glass to the lights of the city in a satiric toast.
Welcome to Denver.
Later that evening, Holliday took a stroll through the sporting district. During his stay in Pueblo, talking with gamblers who traveled the circuit, he had heard wondrous tales of Denver’s nightlife. He thought to acquaint himself with his new place of business.
For reasons lost to time, the sporting district was called the Tenderloin. There, within a few square blocks of Blake Street, every vice known to man was available for a price. Saloons and gaming dives catered to the sporting crowd, and variety theaters featured headline acts from the vaudeville circuit. Whiskey and gambling mixed with top-drawer entertainment was a unique combination. The racy blend attracted high rollers from all across the West.
One block over, on Holladay Street, was Denver’s infamous red-light district. The similarity to his own name amused Holliday, and he wondered if some wayward kinsman had changed the spelling. Known locally as the Row, Holladay Street was a lusty fleshpot, with a veritable crush of dollar cribs. Girls posed in the windows, soliciting customers, available by the trick or by the hour. Hook shops dominated on the Row, but there was no scarcity of high-class whores.
The parlor houses offered younger girls and a greater variety, all at steeper prices. Something over a thousand soiled doves plied their trade on Holladay Street, and the expensive bordellos were the domain of the more exotic tarts. Yet, given Denver’s down-to-earth municipal code, each in her own way was a civic benefactress. Their license fees kept the city treasury afloat.
Hop Alley satisfied the more bizarre tastes. A narrow passageway running between Larimer and Holladay, it was Denver’s version of Lotus Land. Chinese fan-tan parlors vied with the faint, sweet odor of opium dens, and those addicted to the Orient’s heady delights beat a steady path to this backstreet world of pipe dreams. To a select clientele, China dolls were available day or night.
Holliday spent several hours roaming the Tenderloin. His inspection led to the conclusion that nothing he’d heard had done it justice. Finally, chilled from the night air and tired of walking, he stopped for a drink at Murphy’s Exchange. Dubbed by its habitués as the Slaughterhouse, it was a hangout for the shady characters of Denver’s underworld. Games of chance were a mere diversion for the grifters and bunco artists who frequented the dive.
Trade was brisk at the bar but slow at the tables. Holliday took a seat at an empty faro layout. The dealer was so inept that it entertained him to watch the man’s clumsy attempts at dealing seconds. He bought fifty dollars in quarter chips, warming himself with bourbon, and tried to outguess where the crooked cards would fall. The dealer seemed lonesome, and loquacious, and Holliday gradually steered the conversation around to the Tenderloin. From what he’d seen, the Row and its girls, as well as Hop Alley, operated with the blessing of city hall. He was curious how it worked.
On a slow night, with Holliday the only chump in sight, the dealer happily gave him the lowdown. A man named Ed Chase owned the Progressive Club, a gaming den frequented by high rollers and the top professionals. Chase was considered the czar of the Tenderloin, as well as Denver’s underworld element. He enforced his authority through a gang of hooligans who collected weekly payoffs from every saloon, gaming dive, and whorehouse in the sporting district. Their strong-arm tactics kept everyone in line.
Holliday occasionally asked
a leading question. But the dealer was enjoying himself, revealing nothing that wasn’t already public knowledge, and he needed little prompting. The rackets, he related with a sly smirk, operated under the protection of Denver’s political machine. On the first of every month one of Chase’s thugs, carrying a black bag, made the rounds at city hall. From the mayor on down, every elected official in Denver shared in the spoils. The payoffs were the grease of politics.
Ed Chase’s power, the dealer noted, was even more apparent at election time. The sporting crowd represented the swing vote in any election, and Chase controlled the Tenderloin. No politician got to city hall, or stayed there, without the swing vote, and that meant working hand-in-glove with Chase. His hooligans turned out the vote on Election Day, and everyone from bartenders to faro dealers voted the way they were told. Control of the ballot box, along with monthly payoffs, ensured a partnership between the politicians and the sporting crowd. The Tenderloin operated wide open, night and day, without interference of any sort. Everyone involved benefited by the arrangement.
Holliday made a mental note to check out the Progressive Club. From what the dealer said, it was where high rollers congregated, and that was the place to establish his headquarters. He thought it would be a wise move, as well, to cultivate an acquaintance with Ed Chase. A man with influence was a man worth knowing.
“This Ed Chase?” Holliday wagered a quarter on the queen. “How would I go about meeting him?”
The dealer clumsily slipped a queen from the box, followed by a nine, and collected Holliday’s chip. “You got to understand, Chase only hobnobs with high rollers. No offense, but a quarter bet wouldn’t get his attention.”
“Does he play poker?”
“Uh-oh,” the dealer grunted, staring past his shoulder. “Here comes trouble.”
Holliday turned in his chair. He saw four men enter the door, one of them carrying a cane. They spread out on line, approaching three men who stood at the end of the bar. He twisted around, glancing at the dealer. “What’s the problem?”