by Matt Braun
An early September sun stood at its zenith in a cloudless sky. “Yessir,” the clerk agreed. “Guess we’ve seen the last of summer.”
“A cool snap would be most welcome.”
Holliday moved through the lobby into the dining room. He had returned to Dodge City three days ago, and immediately fell into his old routine. He took a table beside the window overlooking Front Street, and ordered his usual breakfast. The waitress brought coffee, which he laced with bourbon.
The envelope lay before him on the table. A month had passed since Mattie’s unannounced visit, and he hadn’t expected any further communication. He stared at the familiar script, and felt an inward sense of dread. When she departed Dodge City, he’d thought she had finally accepted the futility of their relationship. But now, opening the letter, he was no longer certain. He read it with growing unease.
Dearest John,
I do hope this finds you well, and of good spirit. When we parted, I know you were more concerned with my welfare than your own. Your selflessness is but one of the qualities I have cherished throughout our lives.
I write this final letter to allay your concern. God works His wonders in mysterious ways, and never more so than in my regard. As you read this, I will have taken vows as a nun in the Sister of Charity convent, here in Atlanta. You above all others will understand that I have found unimaginable peace as a bride of Christ.
Holliday was stunned. He paused, grappling with the mental image of her in a nun’s habit. No less staggering was the fact that she had converted to Catholicism. The thought of it boggled his mind, left him momentarily incredulous. He read on with deeper misgiving.
You must not feel that this was in any way precipitous, or hasty, on my part. I long ago decided that, apart from you, there was but one life for me. I am content to devote myself to God and His works, in the certainty that I will experience a divine state of grace. Few in this life, or the hereafter, are so blessed.
A cloistered order permits no correspondence, so you have no need to reply. You will forever be in my thoughts and my prayers, and I ask our Lord to grant you happiness and good health. Know that the happiness we shared will be with me always in fondest memory.
Yours in faith,
Mattie
Holliday dropped the letter on the table. He sloshed more bourbon from his flask into the coffee cup, and drank it down. The waitress returned with his eggs and toast, her eyes darting curiously from the letter to the stricken look on his face. When she moved away, he stared at the plate a moment, suddenly robbed of appetite. His gaze drifted off through the window, fixed on nothing.
The thought uppermost in his mind was one of sorrow for Mattie. He believed what she had written, that without him, she was content to be a bride of Christ. She was the most religious woman he’d ever known, and he was certain she did indeed feel blessed. Yet he wondered at the same time if she had chosen a convent as a sanctuary from life, cloistered from the world and all its disappointments. A place to escape the past.
A rap on the window broke his reverie. He glanced up and saw Earp looking at him from outside. Before he could react, Earp motioned along the boardwalk, then turned toward the hotel entrance. He quickly folded the letter, stuffing it into the envelope and slipping it in his pocket. He tried to collect himself as Earp appeared through the dining room door, moving to the table. He gestured to a chair.
“Join me,” he said. “Have you had dinner?”
“I already ate.” Earp seated himself. “Off your feed today, Doc? Your eggs are getting cold.”
Holliday pushed the plate aside. “Today may be my day for a liquid diet.”
“Never saw anybody get by on liquor the way you do.”
“Well, it’s the old adage, an apple a day. In my case, bourbon serves as nectar.”
Earp studied him a moment. Something seemed oddly out of kilter, and he noted the hollow cast to Holliday’s eyes. He wagged a hand back and forth.
“You look like a lost soul, Doc. What’s up?”
“I’ve been more chipper, no question of that. Some days are better than others.”
“Anything you want to talk about?”
Holliday was a private man. He neither sought nor welcomed the opinions of others. By his lights, it was a weakness of character to air personal matters in public. Yet he felt a kinship with Earp, and he knew it was mutual. Trust and respect were the bond between them, a bond of friendship. There was no need for artifice with Earp.
“You remember the lady who visited me here the first part of August?”
Earp nodded. “The one you put on the eastbound train. A fine-looking woman.”
“We were engaged to be married. But I felt it an unlikely prospect, given the state of my health. I broke it off.”
“She took it badly?”
“Judge for yourself.”
Holliday handed him the letter. Earp read it through, surprise slowly registering on his features. He carefully refolded the letter and passed it across the table. His expression was sober.
“Quite a woman,” he said. “She knows her own mind.”
“Yes, that would be an apt description of Mattie.”
“There’s worse places than a convent, Doc. Sounds like she made the right decision for her.”
“Strange,” Holliday said in a low voice. “I feel like a man in mourning. It’s almost as though she died.”
A closed look came over Earp’s face. “I was married once. Not many people know that.”
“I’ve never heard you speak of it.”
“She died in a typhus epidemic, seven years ago. I still mourn her, but what’s past is past. You learn to put it behind you.”
Holliday was momentarily at a loss. He realized that Earp had revealed a hidden part of himself, and all to a purpose. The message was couched in subtlety, one friend to another, but nonetheless straightforward. Leave the past behind, and get on with life.
“Wyatt, you give sound advice.” Holliday raised his coffee cup in a toast. “Here’s to the women in our lives. Gone but not forgotten.”
Earp smiled. “I’ll drink to that.”
“So now, let’s move on to cheerier things. Anything new around town?”
“Your old friend Dave Rudabaugh robbed another train. Masterson took off after him this morning.”
“Bat has the knack for making headlines. I’ve no doubt he’ll get his man. Nothing more noteworthy to report?”
“Depends on who’s talking,” Earp observed. “Word’s around the Texans are on the prod again. Tobe Driskill’s the ringleader.”
“Driskill?” Holliday repeated. “I’m not familiar with the name.”
“One of the biggest cattlemen in the business. He’s got a high opinion of himself.”
“An opinion you don’t share, correct?”
“You might say we’ve had our differences.”
Earp went on to explain. Driskill was a cattle baron, trailing upward of twenty thousand head to Dodge every season, and thought himself above the law. A year ago, with his herds sold and himself tanked on liquor, Driskill attempted to tree the town. Earp buffaloed him upside the head with a pistol barrel, and carted him off to jail. Driskill swore he would have revenge.
“Whiskey courage,” Earp concluded. “Driskill talks a big fight.”
Holliday lit a cigarillo. “How is it I haven’t heard his name before?”
“Well, he only just got into town. Waited to come up the trail with his last herd of the season.”
“From what you hear on the grapevine, there’s to be trouble of some sort. Perhaps he’s here to settle the score.”
“Maybe so, maybe not,” Earp said. “Hard to predict what Texans will do.”
“Even so, keep your guard up,” Holliday warned him. “As some sage once counseled, better to err on the side of caution.”
“I never take anything for granted.” Earp rose from his chair. “I’ve got places to go and people to see. Let’s have a drink later.”
“I expect to be at the Long Branch all night.”
Earp walked toward the door. Holliday took a drag on his cigarillo, exhaling a plume of smoke. His eyes fell on the letter, and he unfolded it, staring at one paragraph. The words seemed to leap off the page. A bride of Christ.
He poured himself another drink.
A full moon bathed the town in a spectral glow. The South Side was packed with trailhands, shafts of light spilling from dives along the street. Drunken laughter mixed with discordant music filled the night.
Tobe Driskill emerged from the Lady Gay saloon. A beefy man, broad and tall, he swayed unsteadily on his feet. Behind him, battling their way through the door, were some twenty cowhands, all of them ossified on rotgut whiskey. Driskill scowled up and down the street.
“Where’s all the gawddamn lawdogs? You boys see anybody?”
The cowhands swiveled in unison, following his gaze. When no one replied, Driskill motioned toward the railroad tracks. “Yellow bastards are probably hidin’ out uptown. Let’s tree ourselves a coon!”
Someone loosed a Rebel yell as Driskill stepped off the boardwalk. He led the men in a ragged phalanx upstreet, their shouts and laughter rocketing off buildings as they moved through the sporting district. Trailhands lining the boardwalks paused to watch as they marched past.
“Here we come!” Driskill roared drunkenly. “You boys just remember, Earp’s mine. Gonna cut the wolf loose!”
Earp stepped out of the jailhouse as they crossed the Deadline. All evening he’d been expecting trouble, warily alert as Driskill and his men caroused in the Lady Gay. But a saloon brawl had claimed his attention, and he had just finished locking away three of the combatants. Jim Masterson, the other night deputy, had been summoned to a melee in one of the whorehouses downtown. He was on his own.
Driskill and his trailhands began shooting as they crossed the tracks. Their first target was the Alhambra, owned by Dog Kelly, the mayor. They blew out the windows in a volley of gunfire, laughing uproariously, yipping wild Rebel yells. Then, turning west along the plaza, they paused to blast the storefront of Wright & Beverly’s Mercantile Emporium. Shattered glass exploded in the silvery moonlight.
Earp sprinted behind a building east of their position. He turned west, running through the alleyway, headed for the Long Branch. There were at least twenty men with Driskill, and his one hope was to reach the sawed-off shotgun kept beneath the bar. His plan, concocted on the run, was to surprise them as they moved from store to store along Front Street. He thought they might back down in the face of a scattergun.
The plan went haywire when the Texans moved faster than he’d expected. As he emerged from a passageway alongside the saloon, he found the trailhands already gathered in front of the Long Branch. One of them spotted him, and they wheeled in his direction on the instant, their guns drawn. Driskill bulled his way to the head of the pack, his features twisted in an ugly leer. He wagged the snout of his pistol.
“Well, looky here!” he crowed. “Done caught Mr. Hardass his own self. Howdy do, Earp.”
Earp kept perfectly still. “Driskill, you’d be smart to call it off. There’ll be other deputies here any minute.”
“Let ’em come, you sorry sonovabitch. We’ll settle your hash long before then.”
“Your fight’s with me, Driskill. Let’s settle it between ourselves—just you and me.”
“Like hell!” Driskill countered. “You done killed two Texicans this summer. Time to pay the piper.”
“You expect me to draw on your whole gang?”
“Don’t make no nevermind. We’re gonna kill you anyway, Earp. Start sayin’ your prayers.”
“Nobody move! I’ll kill the first man who blinks.”
Holliday stepped through the door of the Long Branch. He was framed in a shaft of lamplight, directly behind the Texans. The Peacemaker in one hand, the Lightning in the other, he advanced into the street. His voice was cold.
“I am death itself, gentlemen. Do not try me.”
None of the Texans moved. They stood locked in a rigid tableau, waiting for a signal from Driskill. Earp pulled his pistol.
“Drop your guns,” he ordered. “Now!”
Driskill hesitated, staring hard at Earp. A trailhand in the middle of the pack suddenly raised his six-gun, thumbing the hammer. Holliday sighted, the Peacemaker extended at arm’s length, and fired. The cowhand’s skull blew apart in a mist of brains and bone matter, and he pitched to the ground. Earp moved before anyone could react, rapidly closing the distance, and thunked Driskill over the head with his pistol. The rancher went down as though chopped off at the knees.
“Hands up!” Earp thundered. “Ditch those guns!”
The trailhands jumped to obey. Their six-guns hit the ground, and they raised their hands overhead. Jim Masterson appeared out of the moonlight, his pistol cocked, and covered the Texans from the opposite flank. Driskill moaned, trying to lever himself erect, and one of the men helped him to his feet. Earp motioned toward the railroad tracks.
“Get moving,” he commanded. “You boys are going to jail.”
Holliday fell in beside him. The Texans trooped off across the plaza, with Masterson herding them from the front. After a moment, Holliday chortled softly. “You are a man to attract a crowd, Wyatt.”
“Driskill will wish he’d come alone. He’ll pay fines of a hundred dollars a man.”
“Not to mention the cost of a funeral.”
Earp looked around. “You saved my bacon, Doc. I’m obliged.”
“Think nothing of it. After all, what are friends for?”
“Just the same, I owe you.”
“Well, if you insist—”
“Yeah?”
“Buy me a drink and we’ll count it even.”
They marched the Texans toward the jailhouse.
PART FOUR
CHAPTER 30
“Kings bet fifty.”
“I am forced to raise. Fifty more.”
“Your fifty and another fifty.”
“And one last time.”
“Christ on a crutch, Doc. I’ll just call.”
“You are a gamecock, Josh.” Holliday flipped his hole card. “It appears I have a pair of nines … with an ace kicker.”
“Nines! Thought for sure you had two pair. Got you that time, Doc.”
“I have only a modest talent for the game.”
“Yeah, and bird dogs fly, too.”
Joshua Webb raked in the pot. He was a gambler and sometimes peace officer, currently without a badge. The other players, seated at a table in the Long Branch, were Frank Loving, Dave Mather, and Ben Thompson. To while away the time, waiting for the 1879 cattle season to commence, they were forced to play among themselves. Their afternoons were generally spent at the Long Branch, and their evenings at the Lady Gay.
A warm May sun, dipping westward, slanted through the windows. Holliday poured himself a shot of bourbon, and tossed it off neat. He had wintered in Dodge City, and he welcomed the coming of spring. Cold weather played havoc with his lungs, but he’d decided that Kansas was marginally better than the Colorado mining camps. The snow had melted, and the moderate springtime temperature was like a balm for his coughing fits. He longed for the heat of summer.
Loving dealt a hand of five-card stud. After a peek at his hole card, Holliday waited until the bet came around, then dropped out. He watched the play with no great interest, for he found himself bored with the same company day in and day out. For that matter, he was bored with Dodge City, having been there eight months, what seemed an eternity. The daily poker sessions with his fellow gamblers were now more ritual than sport. Win or lose, the tedium was ever present.
Yet, in what he considered the irony of ironies, Holliday had become an accepted member of the community. The citizens of Dodge City applauded his johnny-on-the-spot rescue of Wyatt Earp. Everyone agreed that his intervention had prevented another lawman being gunned down by the Texans. Even Bat Masterson, who viewed
him with a jaundiced eye, was now cordial, if not friendly. His new respectability was further enhanced by the fact that his lone killing in Dodge—a trailhand—was thought deserving of a medal. He found it droll, but nonetheless a bore.
The deal passed to Thompson, who called five-card draw. Watching him shuffle, Holliday reflected that his long stay in Dodge had only one high point. In January, when snow lay heavy on the ground, he had marked his twenty-seventh birthday. Despite the odds, the Western climate generally agreed with his lungs, and he had survived another year. Some days were better than others, and any thought of Mattie, locked away in a convent, invariably depressed his mood. But he was alive, still mobile if not a strapping physical specimen, and he hadn’t killed anyone lately. All in all, he could have done worse.
Dave Mather opened for twenty dollars, and Webb called. Holliday, who was holding a pair of queens, raised fifty. Loving folded, Thompson raised another fifty, Mather groaned but called both raises, and Webb got out. With an idle gesture, as though tossing money to the winds, Holliday took the last raise. On the draw, Mather discarded three, Holliday held two, and Thompson dealt himself one card. Mather, who was the opener, checked to the raisers. Holliday spread his cards, looking at three queens. He checked.
Thompson grunted. “Price of poker just went up. Cost you fifty to stay.”
A moment elapsed, then Mather folded. Holliday wet his thumb, counting bills. “As the spider said to the fly, step into my web. Raise you fifty, Ben.”
“Your web, huh?” Thompson grinned with amusement. “I got an itty-bitty hunch you’re bluffin’. Bump you fifty, Doc.”
“One more time,” Holliday said with a sardonic smile. “All contributions are greatly appreciated.”
“Listen to the man talk, will you? Call the raise!”
Holliday fanned his cards. “Three ladies.”
“Kiss my dusty butt,” Thompson groaned. “Went in with two pair and come out with two pair. Damn the luck, anyway!”