by Matt Braun
Holliday was seated at a poker table with Ben Thompson and another gambler, Frank Loving. Over drinks, conversing in low tones, they discussed the night’s action at the gaming tables. Loving, who dealt faro at the Long Branch, had walked down to the Lady Gay a short while ago. Saloons north of the Deadline usually closed an hour or so before the sporting district quieted for the night. By four in the morning the South Side dives were virtually empty.
A month had passed since Holliday’s arrival in Dodge City. He was by now widely respected as a gambler of surpassing skill among those in the sporting crowd. For the most part, he played in high-stakes games at the Long Branch, routinely trimming Eastern cattle buyers and Texas ranchers fresh off the trail. But occasionally, when the action was slow uptown, he found a game at one of the dives below the Deadline. Tonight, he’d taken a chair at Thompson’s table in the Lady Gay.
Kate had insisted on coming along. She had kept her promise, referring to herself as a “reformed whore,” and rarely ventured south of the tracks. But tonight was her birthday, and she felt entitled to celebrate among her own kind, the saloon girls of the South Side. Earlier, Holliday had given her an expensive mother-of-pearl brooch as a birthday present, and she was thrilled. She was nonetheless adamant about accompanying him to the Lady Gay. She wanted to party.
Holliday watched her now with mounting irritation. She was wobbly from too much liquor, and hanging on to the cowhand with a dreamy smile. Before taking a seat in the poker game, he had danced with her a couple of times. But afterward, left to her own devices, she had mingled with the saloon girls, informing anyone who would listen that it was her birthday. Texans bought her drinks, and she had spent the night whirling around the dance floor with a dozen or more trailhands. Short of a public quarrel, he saw no way to stop her.
“What do you think, Doc?”
Thompson’s voice intruded on his woolgathering. He looked around. “I confess my mind was elsewhere, Ben. Did you say something?”
“Frank and me figured to grab a bite to eat. How about you?”
“Yes, of course. I’ll just reclaim Kate. A meal would do her good.”
Thompson and Loving exchanged a look. They were seasoned gamblers, and gunmen of some repute, and they felt a kinship with Holliday. Yet their respect for him was tempered by his relationship with Kate. In their opinion, he treated her with far more consideration than she deserved. Neither of them believed she was worth the effort.
Kate and the cowhand were the only couple on the dance floor. Holliday caught them in a slow turn and took her arm. “Time to go,” he said. “The party’s over.”
“C’mon, Doc, not yet,” she said in a woozy voice. “I’m just getting started.”
“You heard me, Kate. Let’s go.”
“For chrissakes! You sure know how to spoil a girl’s fun.”
The cowhand released her, stepping back. Like every Texan in town, he was unwilling to provoke the anger of Doc Holliday. Stories around the campfire had it that the consumptive gambler, though frail and wasted, was sudden death with a gun. He watched as Holliday dragged her off the dance floor.
“Damn you anyway!” she screeched. “You’re an ol’ stick-in-the-mud, Doc. The night’s still young.”
“Behave yourself and act like a lady.”
“I keep trying to tell you—I’m not a lady!”
Holliday led the way out of the saloon. On the street, with Thompson and Loving following along, he walked Kate to an all-night cafe on Second Avenue. She was still fussing and complaining as he got her seated at a table. A waiter came over, and the men ordered steak with fried potatoes and biscuits. Kate refused the thought of food, and Holliday told the waiter to bring her black coffee, lots of it. She lapsed into a pouty sulk.
A short while later Wyatt Earp came through the door. He started toward the counter, then saw them, and walked to the table. “’Evening,” he said, nodding to them in turn. “You folks calling it a night?”
“An end to the festivities,” Holliday said with a trace of irony. “We are celebrating Kate’s birthday.”
“Congratulations,” Earp said, smiling at Kate. “Many happy returns.”
“Yeah, sure,” she replied in a huffy manner. “All I need is a birthday cake. Fat chance of that.”
There was a moment of strained silence. Holliday finally broke the tension. “Won’t you join us, Wyatt? Always room for one more.”
“Thanks all the same, Doc. I just stopped off for a cup of coffee. Still got to make my rounds.”
“Another time, then.”
“Sounds good.”
Earp crossed to the counter, straddling a stool. The meal continued in silence, with Kate pointedly ignoring Holliday. A few minutes later, Earp dropped a coin on the counter and went out the door. Thompson shoveled potatoes into his mouth, chewing thoughtfully. He looked across at Holliday.
“You mind a personal question?”
“Not at all.” Holliday shoved his plate away, the steak barely touched. “Ask me anything.”
“Everybody’s wondering how you and Earp got to be such chums. Whole town’s talking about it.”
“Do you find it unnatural, Ben?”
Thompson was stoutly built, with a walrus mustache and piercing eyes. He feared no man, and considered himself any man’s equal with a gun. But he was nonetheless careful not to offend Holliday. He lifted his fork in a shrug.
“You’ll have to admit it’s not ordinary. I mean, you being who you are.”
Holliday lit a cigarillo. “I suppose you have a point. Wyatt wears a badge and I wear a crown of infamy.” He paused, exhaling smoke. “An unlikely pair, hmmm?”
“After a fashion,” Thompson said, nodding. “Lawmen don’t usually have much truck with our sort.”
“True.” Holliday’s gaze went to Loving. “Are you curious as well, Frank?”
Loving shook his head. “Your business is your business, Doc. I tend to my own knittin’.”
“An admirable trait.” Holliday fixed Thompson with an enigmatic smile. “To answer your question, there is no answer. Wyatt and I choose to be friends.” He tapped an ash off his cigarillo. “Who knows why?”
Thompson laughed. “You’re a corker, Doc. Never saw your like.”
“I sincerely hope not.”
Later, walking toward the hotel, Kate gave Holliday a sullen look. “You ought to listen to your real friends. Ben Thompson was trying to give you a warning.” She sniffed. “Nobody in our crowd likes Earp worth a damn.”
“Let me give you some worthwhile advice. Never question a man’s choice of friends. Yours is not to reason why.”
“You make that sound like a threat, or something.”
“Kate, you are more sober than you appear.”
Holliday was shaving when Kate awoke. A shaft of sunlight from the window blinded her and she put an arm across her eyes. Her head throbbed with a dull hangover.
“God,” she moaned. “Close the curtains.”
“Time to get up, lazybones. Let’s go.”
“I think I’m dying.”
“Small wonder.” Holliday held his jawline tight, stroked with the razor. “Fortunately, you have only one birthday a year.”
She licked her lips. “I need a drink.”
“What you need is a solid meal. Get out of bed and get dressed. I’ll take you to breakfast.”
“What time is it?”
“Going on two o’clock.”
She groaned, levering herself upright, and sat on the edge of the bed. She shielded her eyes from the sun. “How come you never have a hangover? Not natural, the way you drink.”
“I have a covenant with John Barleycorn.”
Holliday dried his face, then moved to the bedstand. He poured a small dollop of bourbon into a glass and handed it to her. “A bracer to get you started. Don’t ask for more.”
She drank it down greedily. “I think you just saved my life.”
“Yes, I am widely known for good deeds.”<
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Holliday waited while she took a sponge bath. She brushed her hair, applied rouge to her cheeks, and got herself dressed. When they walked from the room, she looked presentable if not altogether steady on her feet. Her eyes were still slightly bloodshot.
Downstairs, the desk clerk handed Holliday a letter. The stationery as well as the delicate penmanship was familiar. Kate recognized it even as Holliday stuffed the envelope into his pocket. Her eyes flared, but he quickly hustled her into the dining room and got her seated. A waitress took their breakfast orders.
“Don’t mind me,” Kate said testily, as the waitress turned away. “Go ahead and read your love note.”
“No rush,” Holliday said. “I’ll wait till later.”
“Oh, don’t be bashful, Doc. See what your Georgia sweetheart has to say. I’m sure it’s just too precious for words.”
“Sarcasm does not become you. Let’s hear no more of it.”
“You’ve got a hell of a nerve! How do you think I’m supposed to feel?”
“‘The fault is not in our stars. But in ourselves.’”
“What?”
“Shakespeare,” Holliday remarked. “A line from Julius Caesar.”
“So?” she demanded. “What’s your point?”
“You allow yourself to get carried away with emotion. You have no reason to be jealous.”
“Prove it! Quit with your fancy quotes and prove it. Ask me to marry you.”
Holliday looked uncomfortable. “All in good time, Kate.”
“To hell with time!” Her eyes darkened with anger.
“Ask me now or I swear to God I’ll go back on the line. I mean it.”
“Extortion hardly makes for a sound marriage.”
“Does that mean no?”
“Yes,” Holliday said brusquely. “That’s exactly what it means.”
She slammed out of her chair. Before Holliday could stop her, she marched from the dining room and through the lobby to the street door. The other diners gave him a strange look, and in the next instant, the waitress appeared. Her eyes were questioning as she placed the plates on the table.
“Don’t worry about it,” he said casually. “I eat enough for two.”
Holliday was unconcerned. Kate was temperamental, but in the end, she always came to her senses. He took out the letter, opening the envelope, and began reading as he salted his eggs. The contents were much as he expected, an expression of unwavering hope mixed with a belief in divine intervention. Time had done nothing to rob Mattie of her determination, or alter the depth of her feelings. She refused to take his hints, to read between the lines of his letters. She would never give up hope.
Brooding on it, he ordered another cup of coffee. He refolded the letter, shoving it into his pocket, and took out his flask. As he laced the coffee with bourbon, Luke Short suddenly burst through the door of the dining room. The gambler hurried forward, halting at the table. His features were grim.
“Doc, you’d better come quick. Kate’s over at the Long Branch raising holy hell.”
“Women,” Holliday grunted with disgust, rising from his chair. “What’s she doing?”
“Well, for one thing, she’s guzzling liquor like there’s no tomorrow. For another, she’s offering to turn tricks for anybody with the right price. That’s not allowed north of the Deadline.”
“What she needs is a good switching. Lead the way, Luke.”
A few minutes later they walked into the Long Branch. Kate was at the bar, arguing loudly with Chalk Beeson, the owner. When he saw Holliday, he stepped around her, rushing forward. His face was mottled with indignation.
“Get her out of here, Doc,” he said, motioning wildly. “Otherwise I’ll have her arrested.”
“No need for that.” Holliday brushed past him, taking hold of Kate’s arm. “Don’t say a word or you’ll regret it. Come along.”
Her eyes were glazed with drink. “Lemme go! Lemme go!”
Holliday abruptly stopped. Levi Richardson, a gambler of small repute, stood at the door with a pistol in his hand. A deathly silence settled over the saloon as customers at the bar, and those ranged along the gaming tables, scattered for cover. Richardson was known to have a running feud with Frank Loving.
“Time to settle accounts, Loving! Defend yourself.”
Loving, who was dealing faro at the rear of the room, moved from behind his table. He halted beside a potbelly stove as Richardson raised his pistol, fanning the hammer with the heel of his left hand. The reports blended together, slugs thunking into the stove and crashing through the back wall. Richardson fanned off five shots before Loving was able to draw his gun. Untouched, Loving coolly sighted, and fired three spaced shots.
The slugs pocked red splotches along the front of Richardson’s shirt. He reeled backward under the impact, dropping his empty pistol, and bounced off the wall beside the door. The light went out in his eyes and he slumped to a bloody heap on the floor. There was a moment of prolonged silence, and then the crowd broke out in cheers for Frank Loving. The faro dealer took a bow.
Holliday marched Kate toward the door. As he passed the body, he was reminded again that speed in a gunfight inevitably took second place to deliberation and accuracy. On the boardwalk, Kate began struggling, trying to free herself. Holliday gripped her arm in a viselock.
“I want you to stop acting like an alley cat. Get hold of yourself.”
“Dammit, Doc, you’re never going to change me. Why don’t you give it up?”
“You are my hair shirt, Kate. I wear you for penance.”
“Your Georgia peach sure put the guilt on you. What’d her letter say?”
Holliday managed a sphinxlike expression. Yet he thought her comment was a perceptive retort. One that struck much too close to home. He walked on toward the hotel.
CHAPTER 25
A dwarf on roller skates whizzed around the stage. Dressed in a clown costume, his face was painted white with crimson cheeks and a bulbous red nose. He leaped into the air and performed a flying, head-over-heels somersault, landing smoothly on his skates. Arms pumping, he rocketed upstage. The crowd roared approval. Texan trailhands, who packed the theater, had never seen anything like it. The Comique was combination saloon and gaming dive, with a spacious theater at the rear of the building. The variety acts were imported from around the country, some from as far away as New York. There was rarely an empty seat in the house.
Lloyd Franklin, owner of the Comique, personally escorted Holliday and Kate through the crowd. Their reserved table was down front, positioned directly before center stage. Franklin got them seated, snapping his fingers at a waiter, who quickly produced bourbon for Holliday and a bottle of iced champagne for Kate. Heads turned when the waiter popped the cork.
Onstage, the dwarf glided full speed in a circle, balanced on one leg, his arms outstretched. Then, sailing toward the footlights, he executed a dizzying pirouette, spinning round and round on the toe of one skate. He suddenly snapped to a stop in mid-spin, his tiny arms flung overhead, his clown’s face gleeful in a peg-toothed grin. The audience applauded madly as he bowed and waved, skating backward offstage.
Kate clapped with merry abandon. Holliday watched, amused by her childlike antics, as a line of cancan dancers exploded out of the wings. For the past week, since her tantrum over Mattie’s letter, he had devoted part of every evening to keeping her entertained. Sometimes he took her dancing, and other times they spent a few hours drinking and socializing with friends among the sporting crowd. By late evening, despite her grumbling protests, he escorted her back to the hotel room. He then went in search of a poker game.
Holliday understood that she was bored. She missed the excitement of saloons and dance halls, the carefree gaiety of the sporting life. Her only friends were below the Deadline, for the respectable women of Dodge City would have nothing to do with a former whore. Though he lavished her with fashionable clothes and fine jewelry, her manners, and her language, were still those of a saloon girl
. She was simply out of her element with the uptown crowd. She longed for revelry and wild times.
Yet he was determined to transform her into a lady. He was fond of her, and though marriage was not a serious consideration, he nonetheless wanted a respectable woman to share his bed. On a deeper level he realized that he was trying to replace Mattie, to rid himself of demons. Still, as a practical matter, Kate was trustworthy, loyal in her own way, and a good companion. So long as he gave her attention, she said nothing more about going back on the line, and that seemed a step in the right direction. He was willing to make the effort to keep her straight.
The chorus line kicked and squealed, flashing their legs, and pranced offstage to thunderous applause from the crowd. The headline act was Eddie Foy, a song-and-dance man from the variety circuit back East, and the house was packed for his opening night. As the girls disappeared into the wings, the orchestra segued into a sprightly tune, with the horns muted and the strings more pronounced. Eddie Foy skipped onstage, tipping his derby to the audience, and went into a shuffling soft-shoe routine. The sound of his light feet on the floor was like velvety sandpaper.
Foy was short and wiry, with ginger hair and an infectious smile. Halfway through the routine, he began singing a bawdy ballad that brought bursts of laughter from the trailhands. He ended the soft-shoe number at center stage, and the orchestra fell silent with a last note of the strings. Framed in the footlights, he walked back and forth with herky-jerky movements, delivering a rapid comedic patter that was at once risque and hilarious. The Texans honked and hooted with rolling waves of laughter.
On the heels of a last, riotous joke, the orchestra suddenly blared to life. Foy nimbly sprang into a high-stepping buck-and-wing dance routine that took him cavorting around the stage. Toward the end of the number, his voice raised in a madcap shout, he belted out the lyrics to a naughty tune involving a girl and her one-legged lover. His rubbery face stretched wide in a grin, he whirled, clicking his heels in midair, and skipped offstage with a final tip of his derby. The audience whistled and cheered, rocking the walls with ovation. Foy, bouncing merrily onto the stage, took three curtain calls.