by Matt Braun
Still, however much he enjoyed Denver, his sense of wanderlust proved stronger. A restlessness came over him, and on the spur of the moment he’d decided to have a look at the High Plains. He planned to travel the northern circuit with a stop in Cheyenne and then on to Deadwood, Dakota Territory. Time was not a consideration in his plans, assuming he found sufficient action at the poker tables to hold his interest. He would move on as the mood suited him.
The Stockman’s Hotel was a three-story structure with a wide, shaded veranda. The porter saw to his steamer trunk and he entered a lobby filled with men dressed in range clothes. He had been told that Wyoming was cow country, and from all appearances, the cattle season was under way. His light gray suit and royal blue tie stopped conversation and left a wake of silence as he crossed the lobby. He halted at the registration desk.
“Yessir,” the clerk greeted him. “May I help you?”
“Good afternoon. The Brown Palace in Denver wired ahead for a suite in my name. Dr. John H. Holliday.”
“Yessir, that’s all arranged. We put you in a suite with a nice view of the capitol.”
“Thank you most kindly.”
The clerk glanced past him and nodded imperceptibly. A man of medium height, engaged in conversation with a group of cattlemen, caught the look. He was slender, with sharp eyes and a square jaw, and had a badge pinned to his vest. Excusing himself, he crossed the lobby, stopping beside Holliday. He nodded, extending his hand.
“I’m Amos Rodman. Town marshal.”
“Are you my reception committee?” Holliday accepted his handshake. “I take it I’ve no need to introduce myself.”
Rodman smiled. “Claude White wired me from Denver. Told me what train you were on and where you’d be stayin’.”
“Marshal White is something of a gadfly. He takes uncommon interest in my affairs.”
“Well, that’s to be expected. You’re a man of some reputation, Mr. Holliday.”
Holliday was not misled by his genial manner. He saw in Rodman the cool confidence of an experienced lawman. “So tell me, Marshal. Am I welcome in Cheyenne?”
“Why don’t we take a walk? I’ll show you around.”
“Good idea.” Holliday glanced at the desk clerk. “Kindly have someone put my trunk in the suite. I’ll return directly.”
“Yessir, Dr. Holliday!”
Rodman led the way out of the hotel. On the street, Holliday fell in beside him. “May I inquire the purpose of our excursion?”
“Want to introduce you to someone. His name’s Tom Kennedy. Owns the Cattleman’s Saloon.”
“Saloon?”
“The best place in town. You’ll like it.”
“Will I?” Holliday said. “Why is that?”
“You’re a gambler,” Rodman replied. “All the big ranchers and Eastern cattle buyers hang out there. They play high-stakes poker.”
“You surprise me, Marshal. I’m unaccustomed to such courtesy.”
“One hand washes the other, Holliday. I’ll treat you right so long as you treat me right. Don’t kill anybody and we’ll get along just fine.”
Holliday knuckled his mustache. “I sometimes feel hounded by this so-called ‘reputation.’ I’ve never yet killed a man who wasn’t trying to kill me.”
“So I’ve heard.” Rodman was silent a moment. “Understand, I don’t aim to tie your hands. I just like a peaceful town.”
Holliday let it drop. “Tell me about your town, Marshal. I understand there’s a good deal of money in Cheyenne.”
“No two ways about it. We’re right in the middle of cattle season. Everybody’s flush these days.”
Rodman went on to explain. The United Pacific had selected Cheyenne as its Western headquarters in 1867. In the ten years since, the town had grown from a single ribbon of steel to a bustling plains metropolis. As the capital of Wyoming Territory, it was growing rapidly and the population was approaching the twenty thousand mark. Cheyenne was now a center of commerce and the major Western railhead.
On the south side of town, bordering the railroad tracks, saloons and gambling dens, dance halls and bawdy houses, composed a thriving vice district. Farther uptown, the business district was packed with stores and hotels, restaurants and banks and two daily newspapers, and the territorial capitol building. A horse-drawn trolley car clanged through the center of town, and on a summer day, upwards of five hundred cowhands crowded the sporting district. For good reason, Cheyenne was known as the Magic City of the Plains.
Yet for all its growth, Cheyenne remained a curious admixture of cowtown and citified elegance. The Union Pacific had transformed it into a hub of trade, an ever-expanding business and financial center. As the territorial capital, frequented by lawmakers and wealthy cattle barons, the city had slowly assumed an aura of respectability and cultivation. At the same time, it was the central railhead and shipment point for Wyoming’s vast cattle industry.
Every summer herds were trailed into Cheyenne from ranches all across the High Plains. After being sold to cattle brokers, the cows were shipped east for slaughter. A great deal of money exchanged hands, and in the process the town prospered. However progressive their outlook, everyone from the governor to storekeepers catered to cattlemen for the most basic of reasons. Cows were big business, the mainstay of Cheyenne’s economic growth.
The territorial capitol was located on the outskirts of the business district. Rodman waved to it with some pride as they waited for the trolley car to pass, then crossed a busy intersection. Ahead, positioned between a bank and the town’s largest mercantile emporium, was the Cattleman’s Saloon. He noted that it was the only saloon north of the sporting district, and by long-standing tradition, barred to cowhands. The clientele was restricted to the uptown crowd and visiting cattlemen. The power brokers of Wyoming Territory.
“None of the rough crowd,” Rodman said, as they walked toward the saloon. “Haven’t had so much as a fistfight in here in the last five years.”
“I confess I’m curious.” Holliday gave him a keen, sidewise glance. “Why would you arrange for me to play in the town’s holier-than-holy establishment? Aren’t you concerned I’ll … injure … one of your upstanding citizens?”
“Three reasons,” Rodman informed him. “One, there’s no way I could keep you out of Cheyenne. No warrants or charges on you in Wyoming.”
“And second?”
“A house rule in the Cattleman’s. Anybody caught cheating at cards is barred for life. Folks would sooner drink arsenic than risk disgrace. So you won’t have to brace any cardsharps in here.”
Holliday looked at him. “You mentioned three reasons.”
“Third one was I got waylaid,” Rodman said with a lighthearted chuckle. “When the wire came in about you, half the folks in town got the news before I did. Our telegraph man spread the word like his pants was on fire.”
“I somehow missed your point.”
“Why, the point’s real simple. Every high-roller cowman in Wyoming wants a chance to play against Doc Holliday. They’ll be braggin’ on it for months to come.”
“You don’t say?” Holliday was genuinely astounded. “I hadn’t realized that notoriety lends itself to celebrity.”
“Oh, hell, yes!” Rodman said quickly. “I got my marchin’ orders damn near before your train left Denver. Told to personally deliver you to the Cattleman’s.”
“I begin to feel like a trophy put on display.”
“Don’t let it bother you. By your lights, there’s not a decent poker player in the bunch. You’ll probably wind up rich as Midas.”
Tom Kennedy hurried forward when they came through the door. He was a portly man with beaming features and a broad smile. He clasped Holliday’s hand in a firm grip.
“Welcome to the Cattleman’s, Mr. Holliday. Honored to have you as a guest in my establishment.”
Holliday reclaimed his hand. “The marshal tells me your customers like to play poker.”
“Do they ever!” Kennedy could
hardly contain himself. “They’d stand in line for a seat at your table. And I’ve given you the best table in the house.”
“When does the game start?”
“Why, right now! Right this way.”
Kennedy led him to the center of the room. Seated around a baize table were six men in tall-crowned hats. Kennedy grinned, his eyes bright with cheer.
“Gentlemen, permit me to introduce Doc Holliday.”
Amos Rodman turned and walked to the door. His job was done.
Holliday was late for breakfast the next day. He entered the hotel dining room shortly after the noon-hour rush. His waitress tried to sell him on the blue-plate special, but he declined. She brought him eggs, toast, and coffee.
The game had ended around five that morning. The cattlemen went away happy losers, elated to have played at his table. Holliday figured he had won about a thousand, and another game was set for tonight. But he wasn’t certain how long he could continue the charade, despite the easy money. There was no sport to shooting fish in a barrel.
A man appeared in the doorway. He was young, with a wild thatch of reddish hair, his face dusted with freckles. His suit was rumpled, almost baggish on his tall, gangly frame. He rushed forward, doffing his hat, and stopped beside the table. His expression was eager.
“Pardon me, sir.” His voice seemed an octave too high. “Do I have the privilege of addressing Mr. Doc Holliday?”
Holliday looked him over. “Who are you?”
“Tad Watson,” he said too loudly. “Reporter for the Cheyenne Sentinel.”
“Does your father own the paper?”
“How the dickens did you know that?”
“Have a seat.” Holliday poured bourbon from the flask into his coffee cup. He lit a cigarillo as the reporter whipped a pad and pencil from his coat pocket. “Was it your father’s idea to send you here?”
“No, sir!” Watson blurted. “Not many chances to interview a … uh—a figure like yourself. I told Pa it was front-page news.”
“Just a matter of curiosity, Mr. Watson. How old are you?”
“Well … I … I’m twenty-three. What makes you ask?”
“No reason.” Holliday felt ancient, though he was only two years older. He sipped his laced coffee. “How may I help you?”
“For starters—” Watson hunched forward, his pencil poised. “Why are you called Doc?”
“Once upon a time, I was a dentist. I chose to become a gambler.”
“The Deadly Dentist.” Watson scribbled furiously. “People say you’ve killed twenty men, Mr. Holliday. Could you confirm that?”
Holliday no longer kept count. He thought it was more on the order of seven, maybe eight. “I never bothered to keep score, Mr. Watson.”
“Say, that’s rich! ‘Never bothered to keep score.’ You know, some people are comparing you to Wild Bill Hickok. Do you think you could have taken him?”
“You may quote me as saying Wild Bill was in a class all his own. I have no such aspirations.”
Watson continued to pepper him with questions. Holliday was evasive on personal matters, revealing little of himself or his family background. On questions related to gambling and gunfights, he answered with a series of half-truths and wry fabrications. He was amused by the interview, and the gullible naïveté of young Watson. He thought fairy tales were concocted in just such a manner.
“By golly!” Watson finally said, closing his notepad. “This will make a whale of an article, Mr. Holliday. I don’t mean just for our paper, either. I’ll bet the Police Gazette will snap it up.”
Holliday nodded wisely. “What more could a journalist ask?”
“You’ve been swell, Mr. Holliday. Just swell. I can’t thank you enough.”
“No thanks needed, Mr. Watson. Happy to oblige.”
The young reporter hurried out, waving as he went through the door. Holliday stared after him, contemplative a moment. Though amused, something about the interview struck an odd chord. He rose and walked to the lobby. The desk clerk came to attention.
“Yessir? Help you with something?”
“Perhaps you could recommend a physician. The best in Cheyenne.”
“That would be Dr. Cowen. Are you feeling poorly, Mr. Holliday?”
“On the contrary,” Holliday said. “I believe I’m feeling too good.”
An hour later he was shown into the office of Dr. Ambrose Cowen. The physician was a stout man, with shrewd eyes and a beneficent manner. He listened attentively as Holliday related his medical history in some detail. Consumption was a common problem, and he had attended many patients with the dread disease. To himself, he thought his patient today looked like death warmed over.
“I feel too good,” Holliday concluded. “Hardly seems natural for a man given a year to live. Could the disease be in remission?”
“How bad is your cough?”
“No worse than six months ago. Fairly constant.”
“Are you coughing up blood?”
“Generally more in the morning. Or when I’m unusually tired.”
“I tend to doubt you’re in remission. Let’s have a look.”
Holliday stripped down to his bare chest. The doctor listened to his lungs with a stethoscope, asking him to breathe deeply. For several minutes, with Holliday breathing in and out, he moved from chest to back, his expression alert. He then checked Holliday’s throat and studiously inspected his eyes. He finally dropped the stethoscope on his desk.
“I smell liquor on your breath. Tobacco, too. How much do you drink?”
“A quart a day.” Holliday shrugged. “Sometimes a little more.”
“Good God,” Cowen muttered. “Keep that up and you’ll pickle your liver.”
“I’m more concerned with my lungs. What’s your prognosis?”
“You strike me as a man who prefers the truth.”
“Speak plainly, Doctor.”
“From the sound of your lungs, you should have been dead months ago. I have no idea what’s kept you alive. It’s one for the medical books.”
Holliday began dressing. “Ascribe it to the medicinal qualities of sourmash bourbon. Stranger things have happened.”
“Not in my years of practice. You are an anomaly, Mr. Holliday.”
“I believe that sums it up perfectly, Doctor.”
On the street, Holliday walked toward the hotel. He was neither surprised nor disturbed by the verdict. Nor was he any worse off than he was an hour ago. Some ancient sage had penned what was still an eternal truth.
Life was but a journey from the womb to the tomb.
CHAPTER 16
Holliday emerged from the hotel in the early afternoon. He paused a moment, lighting a cigarillo, and stared up at the mountains. The pine-forested slopes shimmered under a warm July sun.
The town of Deadwood was surrounded by the rough terrain of the Black Hills. Three weeks ago, after tiring of Cheyenne, he had boarded a stagecoach for the three-hundred-mile run to Dakota Territory. He sometimes missed the luxuries of a city, but he thought of it as a trade-off. The raw vitality of a mining camp was a welcome stimulant.
The town twisted through a narrow gulch. In all directions, wooden stairways intersected terraced sidestreets up and down the slopes. Wagons drawn by oxen clogged the main street, and bullwhackers scorched the air with the sharp pop of their whips. The boardwalks were thronged with men, and the bustling atmosphere of a gold camp pervaded the town. There was a sense of carnival madness to the hubbub and the milling crowds.
Some two years ago, the gold rush had transformed a wooded gulch into a boomtown. Deadwood’s population swelled to almost twenty thousand, with more arriving every day, and no end in sight. The upper end of Main Street was packed with stores and cafes, three banks and some thirty hotels, and one public bathhouse. The lower end of town was reserved for the sporting district, saloons, gaming dives, and cheap brothels. A local wit had dubbed it the Badlands.
Holliday turned downstreet. A few blocks along
the way, he passed what was now considered a landmark. The No. 10 Saloon, located on the edge of the Badlands, was famed as Wild Bill Hickok’s last watering hole. There, not quite a year ago, a deadbeat named Jack McCall had shot Hickok in the back of the head. The assassin was hanged, and Hickok was laid to rest in Deadwood’s budding cemetery. The turnout for the funeral was the largest in the town’s brief history.
Farther downtown, Holliday turned into the Bella Union. The best that the Badlands had to offer, the establishment was a combination saloon, gaming dive, and variety theater. He had made it his unofficial headquarters, and he was by now considered one of the regulars. Everyone in Deadwood knew his name, and his reputation, for his notoriety had spread through yet another article in the Police Gazette. The sporting crowd accepted him as one of their own.
Opposite a long mahogany bar were gaming layouts and several poker tables. Toward the rear, through an arched doorway, was a spacious variety theater. Holliday took a chair at one of the high-stakes tables, where a game was already in progress. Seated across from him was Turkey Creek Jack Johnson, a gambler of some skill, and a man he’d come to respect. The origins of Johnson’s nickname were hazy, but rumor had it that he was originally from Texas. Like many men on the Gamblers’ Circuit, he was vague about his past.
“’Afternoon, Doc,” Johnson greeted him. “You’re lookin’ pretty spry today.”
“Never better.” Holliday signaled the waiter for bourbon. “In fact, I feel uncommonly lucky.”
“What the hell, get a bunch, bet a bunch. Let’s play poker.”
The other four men at the table were outclassed. The game seesawed back and forth between Holliday and Johnson, with neither of them the clear winner. They enjoyed butting heads, bluffing on nothing and sandbagging on strong hands. An hour or so later, after driving the other players out with heavy raises, Holliday took a pot with a pair of deuces. Johnson, who had stayed for the last raise, laughed heartily.