by Matt Braun
“You got me good, Doc. Thought for sure I had you high-carded.”
Johnson’s good humor abruptly faded. Two men, each wearing crossed gunbelts, halted beside the table. Their mouths were set in a tight line and their eyes were fixed on Johnson. He returned their look with a steady gaze.
“Farnum. Rosser.” His features were impassive. “What can I do for you gents?”
Farnum was the taller of the two, lean and hard. “Time to settle accounts, Johnson. We’re here to call you out.”
“I’d sooner talk than fight. Why don’t I buy you boys a drink?”
“Sorry bastard!” Rosser bridled. “We’re all done talkin’. You gonna fight or crawl?”
Holliday knew the men from around town. They were suspected of stage robbery, and though the reasons were unclear, their animosity toward Johnson was known throughout the sporting crowd. Two against one seemed to him a cowardly advantage, and on the spur of the moment he decided to take a hand. He looked at Johnson.
“You have poor odds, Jack. Would you like me to even it out?”
“Hold on now,” Farnum said quickly. “We got no beef with you, Holliday.”
“You gentlemen interrupted my poker game. I’m offended by your bad manners.”
“Thanks all the same,” Johnson broke in. “This here’s a personal matter, Doc. I’ll tend to it.”
“Are you sure?” Holliday asked. “You’re playing against a stacked deck.”
“Maybe there’s a way to lower the odds.”
Johnson dictated his terms to Farnum and Rosser. From what he described, it would be more of a duel than a barroom gunfight. Still, they had him outnumbered, and the alternative was to deal with Doc Holliday. They agreed.
Half the crowd in the Bella Union tagged along to watch. A short while later they halted outside the graveyard on the edge of town. Holliday thought Johnson’s intended irony, selecting the cemetery, gave him a slight edge. Farnum and Rosser, eyeing the grave markers, no longer looked so confident.
The cemetery bordered the road for some fifty yards. Johnson took a position at one end, facing toward town, and Farnum and Rosser positioned themselves at the opposite end. On signal, the men were to advance, two against one, and open fire at any point along the way. The duel seemed to Holliday as much about nerve as it did marksmanship. He held a handkerchief high overhead, then dropped it.
Farnum and Rosser opened fire the moment they started forward. The distance was too great, particularly when firing on the move, and their shots were wide of the mark. Johnson walked steadily down the road, pistol in hand, seemingly unrattled by the buzz of lead all about him. After advancing no more than ten yards, Farnum and Rosser had each exhausted the loads in one gun. They holstered the empty Colts, hastily drawing their second guns, and shifted the weapons to their right hands. Johnson had yet to fire a shot.
Then, as the distance closed, Farnum and Rosser lost their nerve. They began blasting away in a staccato roar, triggering shots so fast that it sounded like the pop-pop-pop of a Gatling gun. A slug plucked at the sleeve of Johnson’s shirt and another sent his hat dancing in the air; but he never faltered, ignoring the near misses, moving forward at a measured pace. When the distance dropped to about twenty yards, he stopped, brought his pistol to shoulder level, and fired. Farnum windmilled backward, his shirtfront splotched with blood. He fell dead in the road.
Rosser got off a last, wild shot. Johnson thumbed the hammer, took an instant of deliberate aim, and feathered the trigger. His Colt spat a streak of flame and the slug drilled Rosser straight through the brisket. The impact spun him around, his legs tangled, and he went down, the gun still clutched in his hand. One leg jerked, as though kicking at the doors of eternity; the crotch of his pants stained as his bladder voided. His eyes stared blankly into the sunlit sky.
Johnson stood in the middle of the road, looking at the bodies. A prolonged moment of silence slipped past, then the crowd rushed forward, shouting with excitement and pummeling him across the shoulders. Holliday watched with a thoughtful expression, impressed by Johnson’s nerve. The gunfight seemed to him affirmation of what he’d determined long ago about a contest of arms. The outcome was seldom decided by speed alone.
By his count Farnum and Rosser had fired somewhere around fifteen or sixteen shots. Turkey Creek Jack Johnson had fired only twice. The result was indisputable.
Accuracy, in the end, was final.
“Twenty simoleons.”
“Raise you fifty.”
“I fold.”
“Too rich for my blood.”
“I’m right behind you.”
“Call the raise!”
Holliday turned his hole card. “Three ladies.”
“Judas Priest.” The miner shook his head in mild wonder. “You’re sure enough a hard man to beat.”
“Luck favors those who are pure of heart.”
Jack Johnson laughed. “That ought to make you an angel, Doc. You’re plumb blessed tonight.”
Holliday and Johnson were seated at a table with three miners. All evening the miners had been losing steadily, exchanging bags of gold dust for poker chips. As Holliday raked in the pot, the orchestra blared from the variety theater. He began stuffing chips into his coat pockets.
“Gentlemen, you will excuse me. The play is about to commence.”
“The play!” Johnson groaned. “Goddamn actors don’t hold a candle to poker. Stick around, Doc.”
“Hold my seat until I return. I hear the call of the Bard.”
“Who?”
“An old friend, Jack. I’ll explain later.”
Holliday hurried toward the arched doorway at the rear of the room.
The variety theater was large enough to accommodate two hundred people, and already filled to capacity. The audience was seated at tables arranged before a proscenium stage, brightly lighted by oil lamps arranged across the footboard. A table had been reserved for Holliday, and he took a seat as waiters scurried to serve the crowd. He signaled one of them for a bottle of bourbon.
Tonight’s entertainment was a production of a traveling stock company. John Langrishe, the impresario and a thespian of some renown, wandered the West with his troupe of actors. Even in remote mining camps, there was an eager and appreciative audience for stage plays. The evening’s main attraction was a wrenching melodrama with the evocative title of A Husband’s Vengeance. To add a touch of culture, John Langrishe was to open the show with a selected reading from Hamlet. A sampling of Shakespeare was considered adequate in a rough boomtown.
The orchestra trumpeted a fanfare. A hush fell over the audience as the curtain rose and Langrishe walked to center stage. He was a handsome man, with a classic profile and an arresting manner, dressed in a period costume. His every move, particularly the gesturing of his hands, was effortlessly fluid, at once studied and wholly natural. His voice floated across the footlights in a sonorous baritone.
To be, or not to be: that is the question:
Whether ’tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles,
And by opposing end them? To die: to sleep—
A miner pounded his table. “You’re puttin’ me to sleep, you gassy windbag.” He stood, motioning around the crowd. “What d’you say, boys? Let’s have the gawddamn melo-drama!”
Holliday pulled his Colt Lightning. He fired and the miner’s hat sailed into the air. “Sit down,” he commanded. “I won’t ask again.”
The miner hastily obeyed. A stilled silence descended over the theater as Holliday holstered his pistol. He looked toward the footlights, nodding to the stunned actor. “All the world’s a stage. Please continue.”
Langrishe bowed gratefully, then struck a dramatic pose. He resumed the soliloquy and carried on as though never interrupted. Holliday listened attentively, nodding to himself, particularly taken with the passage. The rich language alluded to the “sleep of deat
h,” and he found a personal meaning in the words. Given the state of his lungs, he wondered when he might “shuffle off this mortal coil.” Hanilet, he discovered all over again, spoke to the heart of the matter.
To his surprise, Holliday enjoyed the melodrama as well. An overdrawn tale, the story was wrought with angst and played to the hilt by the actors. The audience applauded wildly at the end, and the cast took an extra curtain call. Holliday remained in his seat, waiting for the stampede to subside as the crowd filed out. He poured himself another shot of bourbon.
John Langrishe came through a door leading backstage. He hurried forward, still dressed in costume. “Good evening,” he said, halting at the table. “I’m told you are Doc Holliday.”
“One among my many sobriquets, Mr. Langrishe.”
“I wished to thank you personally for intervening tonight. Drunk or sober, that miner has no appreciation of Hamlet.”
“‘When we are born, we cry that we are come to this great stage of fools.’”
“King Lear!” Langrishe exclaimed. “You are indeed a student of the Bard. I’m surprised that a—”
Holliday smiled. “A man of my profession?”
“Please take no offense, Mr. Holliday. But you are a man of some—”
“Notoriety.”
“And of course, I’ve read of your exploits.”
“To my great regret,” Holliday said affably. “‘Men’s evil manners live in brass; their virtues we write in water.’”
“King Henry the Eighth!” Langrishe marveled. “A man of letters who lives by the sword. You must pardon my amazement.”
Holliday waved it off. “‘The prince of darkness is a gentleman.’”
“You pluck Shakespearean snippets out of the air like a magician. You are indeed a man of parts, Mr. Holliday.”
“‘One man in his time plays many parts.’”
“From As You Like It. You have an astounding gift, sir.”
“I’m showing off,” Holliday said with amiable good humor. “There’s scant opportunity to quote the Bard these days. And few who would understand.”
“Yes, well—” Langrishe fumbled for an appropriate response. “Once again, my most sincere thanks. You saved the show.”
“Happy to be of service.”
The actor bowed, moving toward the stage door. Holliday poured himself another shot, and held the amber liquid to the glow of the footlights. His mouth curled in a wry smile.
“‘That which hath made them drunk hath made me bold. What hath quench’d them hath given me fire.’”
He thought there was some truth to be found in Macbeth.
CHAPTER 17
Holliday stood in front of a full-length mirror. The tailor fussed about, muttering through a mouthful of pins, adjusting the lines of his suit jacket. The material was an imported lightweight blend called tropical wool.
Through the streetfront window, Holliday stared at the distant Rockies. The peaks were still snow-capped, but the August heat had bared the slopes to a dull umber. Towering skyward, the spires touched the clouds, a majestic sight. He felt good to be back in Denver.
Toward the end of July he had grown bored with Deadwood. Once his interest flagged, the old wanderlust had come over him, and he’d decided to move on. From the mining camp, he had traveled by stage to Cheyenne, and then by train to Denver. He was again installed in a suite at the Brown Palace, and found himself exhilarated by the faster pace of city life. He thought he might stay a while.
“There!” The tailor stepped back, admiring his handiwork. “A perfect fit, Mr. Holliday.”
Holliday studied himself in the mirror. The drape of the jacket concealed his shoulder holster, and the Colt Peacemaker on his hip presented only a slight bulge. Then, looking closer, he saw an oversight. He motioned to the tailor.
“I need something from my other jacket. Would you mind?”
The tailor took his old suit jacket from a hanger on a nearby rack. Holliday unclipped the sheath knife and transferred it to the breast pocket of his new suit. He squared his shoulders, looking in the mirror, and wagged his head. He tapped his breast pocket.
“Far too obvious,” he said. “You’ll have to let out the pocket. Allow more room.”
The tailor gingerly worked around the knife. While he chalked and pinned, he clucked to himself, his eyebrows arched. He was appalled that anyone felt compelled to carry two pistols and a sheathed dagger. But Holliday was a valued customer, one who settled every bill in full, in cash. He dutifully adjusted the pocket.
“All done,” he said as he finished. “Let me help you out of the jacket, Mr. Holliday. Careful of the pins.”
“When will you have it ready?”
“Day after tomorrow. Would you like it delivered to your hotel?”
“Thank you most kindly.”
Holliday shrugged into his old jacket. He clipped the knife into his breast pocket, nodding pleasantly to the tailor, and went out the door. On the street, he caught a crosstown trolley and some minutes later stepped off at the corner of Seventeenth and Glenarm. He walked toward an imposing stone building, four stories high and occupying nearly half a block. A monolithic structure, it commanded the intersection.
The Denver Club was the sanctum sanctorum of the city’s power brokers. Membership was restricted to those of wealth and position, the elite of the business world and politics. Their numbers included bankers and merchant princes, railroad barons and financiers and lawyers. Their influence was incalculable, and their connections extended to the statehouse itself. They were, in a word, the aristocracy of Denver.
The interior of the club was scarcely less imposing. Dark paneling predominated, and a staircase facing the entrance rose upward like an aerial corridor. An attendant escorted Holliday into a room immediately off the central hallway. The decor was opulent, with velvet drapes and damask-covered walls, all heightened by a black marble fireplace and luxuriant leather furniture. An immense oil painting of the Colorado Rockies hung resplendent over the fireplace.
Ed Chase turned from a sunlit window. He was slim and angular, with iron-gray hair, impeccably attired in a black broadcloth coat and an elegant silk cravat. He moved forward, extending his hand. “Glad you could make it, Doc. What would you like to drink?”
“Bourbon,” Holliday replied, shaking his hand. “Thank you for the invitation.”
“I thought we might talk a little business. Let’s have a seat.”
Holliday was intrigued. Chase was the undisputed boss of the Tenderloin, Denver’s sporting district, and perhaps the most powerful political figure in town. Whenever he was in Denver, Holliday made his headquarters at Chase’s Progressive Club, the finest gaming establishment in Colorado. Over time they had become passing friends, the respect of one gambler for another. But there had never been any overture about a business relationship.
Chase led the way to leather armchairs. After a waiter brought their drinks, he settled back with a disarming look. “You’ve become a man of no little fame, Doc. Even the newspapers take note when you visit Denver.”
Holliday lit a cigarillo. “I find it a questionable distinction. Not one I would have sought.”
“Even so, you’re known to the public at large. Your name alone is a draw.”
“A draw for what?”
“I’ll be frank,” Chase said earnestly. “I’d like to have you as a faro dealer at the Progressive Club. At a high-stakes layout, you would be a natural attraction, Doc.”
“A natural attraction,” Holliday repeated slowly. “Sounds more on the order of a sideshow freak. I think not, Ed.”
“We could make a great deal of money. I’d even give you a piece of the action. A partnership arrangement.”
“I’ve no wish to be a curiosity on public display. I believe I’ll stick with poker.”
“Take my advice,” Chase said with a shrewd look. “Capitalize on your name and turn it to profit, Doc. Opportunity only knocks once.”
A spasm erupted deep
in Holliday’s lungs. He hawked a wad of reddish phlegm and swabbed it into his handkerchief. Then, stubbing out the cigarillo, he took a long shot of bourbon. “Excuse the cough,” he said, catching his breath. “I know you mean well, and I appreciate the offer. But it’s not for me.”
“The proposition is solid gold, Doc. At least think about it.”
“Tomorrow or the next day, the answer would be the same. Thanks anyway, Ed.”
Chase walked him to the door. They parted amiably, and outside Holliday turned toward the center of town. He thought he should feel complimented, particularly by an offer from a man the caliber of Ed Chase. Instead, he felt offended, somehow irked.
A circus fat lady might have as easily filled the bill.
The Alcazar Theater was hushed. All eyes were fixed on the stage, where Lola Montana stood bathed in the cider glow of a spotlight. Her exquisite features were tilted in a woeful expression, and her clear alto voice filled the hall. She sang a heartrending ballad of unrequited love, and her eyes were misty. Her voice somehow gave the lyrics a haunting quality.
Holliday was no less captivated than the rest of the audience. Upon returning to Denver, he’d heard that a bewitching creature with the voice of an angel had taken the town by storm. The owner of the Alcazar had arranged a front-row table for him, even though the house was sold out. Watching her now, he was taken by the way she acted out the song with poignant emotion, creating an overall effect of lost innocence. He found himself lost in her performance.
Yet the anguish in her voice somehow reminded him of Mattie. He thought perhaps it was guilt, evoked by the lyrics; but it was no less real. A week ago, when he’d arrived at the Brown Palace, several letters awaited him from Mattie. He had not informed her of his trip to Cheyenne, or Deadwood, and he hadn’t written her in all that time. His hope was that she would become infuriated, or simply disgusted, and finally dismiss him from her life. He had misjudged her devotion.
Her last letter was frantic. With no word from him in almost two months, she was desperate with worry. He immediately penned a reply, assuring her that he was not yet at death’s door, though his health continued to deteriorate. He offered no apology for failing to write, but rather provided a travelogue of his sojourn into Wyoming and Dakota. Once again, he urged her to rejoin the social swirl in Atlanta, noting that he’d been gone over a year. The Western climate, he gently informed her, was clearly no curative for his condition. He closed with a fond wish for her happiness.