by Matt Braun
The game lasted far into the night. Holliday won handily, bluffing and pressing his luck almost by rote. Yet he was distracted, his mind not fully on the cards. A thought kept buzzing through his head.
He wondered what sort of scheme the Earps were hatching.
CHAPTER 35
Holliday was attired in a dove-gray suit. A gold watch chain was looped across his vest, and a rich magenta tie was knotted at the throat of his shirt. He came downstairs shortly after the noon hour.
The lobby was filled with politicians. The legislature was in session, and lawmakers made the hotel home away from home when they were in Prescott. They were stuffed from the noon meal, and stood talking politics in small groups. A cone of silence followed Holliday as he moved through their ranks, his sartorial elegance a spark of color against their drab attire. Several of them smiled pleasantly, greeting him by name.
For the past two weeks many of the legislators had regularly taken a chair at his poker game. He was often amazed at the amount of money they lost, for few of them were personally wealthy. The other regular players, mine owners and local cattle barons, possessed the wherewithal to absorb heavy losses. But politicians were public servants, and he gathered that the annual salary for legislator was a mere pittance. He thought corruption was indeed a profitable enterprise.
The dining room was all but empty. At a table by the far wall, Holliday saw Morgan and Warren Earp, and they motioned to him. The younger brothers of the Earp clan had arrived in Prescott only yesterday, October 30, and he had met them when Virgil brought them by the Gem for a drink. Walking toward the table, he was struck again by the family resemblance all of the Earps shared. Their size and rough-hewn features, and a preference for handlebar mustaches, were remarkably similar. He was reminded of four peas in a pod.
“’Afternoon, Doc,” Morgan said. “Grab a chair and take a load off your feet.”
“Thank you most kindly. Good company always improves a meal.”
Morgan and Warren were through eating, and the waitress came to collect their plates. She brought Holliday a cup of coffee, which he laced with a shot from his flask. As she moved away, Warren tapped a newspaper lying on the table. His expression was one of eager interest.
“We were just reading about you, Doc. You made the front page.”
“Journalists make too much of too little. I weary of seeing my name in print.”
Holliday glanced at the newspaper. The headline was below the fold, in bold print. DR. HOLLIDAY CONTINUES TO COURT LADY LUCK. The article dealt with his hot streak, lasting now for two weeks, and speculated that he had won in excess of thirty thousand dollars. There was the usual reference to the “notorious” Doc Holliday, shootist and gambler par excellence. He pushed the paper aside.
“There must be a dearth of news in Prescott. A poker game hardly merits such attention.”
“Devil it don’t!” Warren said earnestly. “Thirty thousand bucks in a couple of weeks. That’s some haul!”
“Yes, I suppose so,” Holliday agreed. “But then, you have to consider the caliber of men playing at my table. Their combined wealth makes my winnings look picayune.”
“Yeah, but you’ve clipped them good, Doc. How’d you get ’em hooked on your game?”
“No secret there,” Morgan said, rapping the newspaper. “Laid out in black and white, for everybody to read. They all want to play the Doc Holliday.”
There was no arguing the point. Men of wealth and power were compelled to test themselves against a noteworthy professional. To keep himself interested, Holliday had turned it into a table-stakes game just within the last week. A man needed at least five thousand for a seat at the table, and there was no limit on the amount of a single wager. The pot on a hand was often ten thousand or more, and men dropped small fortunes every night. Yet there was a waiting list to get into the game.
“Still mystifies me,” Warren said. “You’ve got ‘em outclassed so bad they’re losin’ their butts. Why do they keep coming back for more?”
“A congenital condition peculiar to gamblers.” Holliday paused, took a sip of laced coffee. “They believe my streak will end and the cards will turn in their favor. Quite simply, they believe in luck.”
“You’re saying luck’s got nothin’ to do with it?”
“Luck enters into any game of chance. But at the risk of braggadocio, skill separates the winners from the losers. Of course, I continue to foster the notion that luck comes to any man who waits.”
“And while they wait,” Warren whooped, “you clean their plow. Jesus H. Christmas! Flat takes the cake.”
Warren’s youthful enthusiasm was contagious. Holliday knew by now that Warren was twenty-four, and Morgan was twenty-eight. Though he’d met them only last night, he found himself somewhat partial to Warren. Morgan seemed to him a younger version of Virgil.
The waitress brought his eggs and toast. Weary of talking about himself, he moved to change the subject. As he cracked open an egg, he glanced from one to the other. “Have you heard anything further about Wyatt?”
“Not yet,” Morgan said. “’Course, we were set to meet here by the end of the month, and that’s tomorrow. Knowin’ Wyatt, he’ll make it.”
Warren laughed. “Wyatt was never late for anything in his life. He’s liable to pop through the door any minute.”
“I wish he would.” Holliday spooned egg, took a bite of toast. “I’m on tenterhooks waiting to hear of this grand scheme. Virgil treats it like a sealed dictum.”
“Yeah, that’s Virge,” Warren said humorously. “Always was the tight-lipped one in the family. But don’t worry yourself none, Doc. We’re all gonna make a million—”
“Hold up right there,” Morgan interrupted. “Virge said to wait on Wyatt, and that’s that. No need to talk out of school.”
“Hell, Morg, I didn’t say nothin’. Don’t get your bowels in an uproar.”
“I’m just tellin’ you, that’s all. Virge knows best.” Watching them, Holliday was reminded that blood was thicker than water. The four brothers, until now, were scattered to the winds, and their parents owned a farm in California. Yet they were a westering family, having migrated from Iowa to all points of the compass, and their closeness was clearly untouched by time or distance. Together again after several years, it was as though they had never been separated. They were four, but oddly one. All of a mind.
“Doc, don’t take it personal,” Warren said jokingly. “Once Virge and Wyatt get their minds set, that’s all she wrote. We’re just along for the ride.”
“That’s a helluva thing to say,” Morgan objected. “Nobody gave anybody else marchin’ orders. We all agreed.”
“Never said anything about marchin’ orders. But we’re here … aren’t we?”
Holliday thought that Warren had got the last word. The youngest brother was a single man, and free to follow his fancy. But from conversation last night, it was apparent that Morgan had left his wife in Montana, and would send for her as circumstance dictated. Virgil, who was also married, had never once made reference to his wife, either directly or in passing. Whatever their plans, they were in it together, their wives excluded, and sworn to silence. All else awaited Wyatt’s arrival.
Someone gave marching orders, and no one broke ranks. Holliday was left to ponder his role in what still remained a riddle.
Wyatt Earp arrived late the next afternoon on the westbound stage. After collecting his warbag, he walked over to the hotel and took a room. The desk clerk verified that Morgan and Warren, as well as Doc Holliday, were guests in the hotel. He was confident they could all be found at the Gem Saloon and Gaming Parlor.
A short while later Wyatt entered the Gem. Virgil, along with Morgan and Warren, were standing at the bar with Holliday. The table-stakes game was by now the main attraction in Prescott, and usually started around seven every evening. The Earps, like many of the townspeople, were there as spectators.
Wyatt greeted his brothers with a round of handshakes.
The kinship was evident, and within moments it was as though they had never been apart. Then he turned to Holliday, extended his hand. He nodded with a slow smile.
“Long time, Doc,” he said. “You don’t look any the worse for wear.”
“Welcome to Prescott,” Holliday replied genially. “Your arrival has been much anticipated.”
“I stopped off in Las Vegas and got a surprise. Found out you’d come on here.”
“No doubt our paths were fated to cross.”
“There’s big things in the wind. Where can we go to talk? We need someplace private.”
“You want to talk now? Won’t it wait until tomorrow?”
“Some things won’t keep, Doc. By tomorrow, we’ll be on the trail.”
The remark fired Holliday’s curiosity. A few of the regular players were already waiting at his table, and a groan of protest went up when he excused himself from the game. After promising to return within an hour or so, he followed the Earps from the saloon. On the way uptown he suggested that they meet in his suite, which was large enough to accommodate everyone and still afford privacy. Some minutes later they trooped into the hotel.
Upstairs, Holliday got everyone seated. He removed glasses from a cabinet and passed around a bottle of bourbon. After pouring himself a drink, he took a chair across from Wyatt. He arched an eyebrow.
“Virgil says you have a proposition. But so far, he’s kept the cat in the bag. I am all ears.”
“Don’t blame Virge. I wanted to tell you myself. Have you heard of Tombstone?”
“The mining camp?” Holliday said. “Yes, I understand it’s somewhere in southern Arizona. Quite a strike, from what I hear.”
“Doc, it’s the biggest silver strike since Leadville. Some say it’s even richer.”
A year ago a lone prospector struggled along the mountain slopes of southeastern Arizona. His name was Ed Schieffelin, and almost by accident, he stumbled upon the richest silver strike in history. With ore assaying at twenty thousand dollars a ton, the discovery sparked the greatest mining boom in the Southwest. Schieffelin named his strike Tombstone.
In a matter of months, the mile-high camp mushroomed into a boomtown. Men and machinery began pouring in, followed by merchants and speculators, and the largest contingent of the sporting crowd ever gathered in the Arizona barrens. From a few hundred tents and squalid shacks, Tombstone burst upon the map as a rip-roaring helldorado, with a population pushing ten thousand. A motherlode of silver still fueled the boom.
“The reason we’re here—” Wyatt motioned around at his brothers. “We plan to take over Tombstone. Lock, stock, and barrel.”
“Take it over?” Holliday repeated. “What does that mean?”
“It means the whole shebang. Tell him, Virge.”
Virgil looked relieved to be released from his oath of silence. He explained that Tombstone was located in Pima County, with the county seat seventy miles away, in Tucson. The area was too large to effectively govern, particularly with the problems created by a boomtown, and the territorial legislature planned to split it into two counties. Tombstone would shortly become a part of the new county, Cochise County.
“Law enforcement’s at the top of the list,” Virgil went on. “I’ve got friends in the legislature, and I managed to pull a few strings. We’re gonna be all the law there is in Tombstone.”
Holliday appeared bemused. “All the law?”
“All that counts. I wrangled myself a commission as a Deputy U.S. Marshal. I’ve resigned here as town marshal effective November first, tomorrow. I’ll be the top lawman in Tombstone.”
“And Wyatt?”
“That’s the kicker,” Virgil said, grinning. “I got Wyatt appointed a deputy sheriff, stationed in Tombstone. His campaign for sheriff of the new county—Cochise County—starts the minute we hit town. He’s a cinch to get elected.”
“I see.” Holliday glanced around at their faces. “What about Morgan and Warren?”
“One way or another we’ll get ’em a badge. That’ll make it legal when we make our play.”
“By your play, I assume you mean the political takeover of Tombstone.”
“That’s just part of it,” Wyatt interjected. “Once we control the political machinery, the door’s wide open. Every mine owner in town will jump at the chance to have us as partners.” His mouth quirked in a crafty smile. “Same goes for the sporting crowd.”
“For a man with an aversion to politics, you’ve certainly changed. Why the turnabout?”
“I finally saw the light. Politics makes the world go round, and politicians always ride the gravy train. Time to make my fortune.”
Holliday thought it a grander scheme than he’d imagined. He reflected that it was Virgil, with the political connections in Arizona, who had put the pieces together. But he saw now that Wyatt, though a few years younger than Virgil, was the driving force, the leader. He had no doubt they would take Tombstone by storm.
“I’m impressed,” he said. “Granted, it is an audacious plan, but you have the audacity to pull it off. How does it involve me?”
“You’re a full partner,” Wyatt told him. “We stand to make a million, maybe more. You get an equal share.”
“And how do I earn my share?”
“There’s bound to be opposition. Nobody takes over a town as rich as Tombstone without a fight of some sort. We want you with us when it happens.”
“Let me understand,” Holliday said, watching him. “Am I to be a hired gun?”
“Doc, listen to me,” Wyatt said solemnly. “There’s five men in this room, and you’re the only one not an Earp. We wouldn’t invite anyone else into this deal. Am I right, Virge?”
Virgil spread his hands. “Wyatt says we need you, and I go along. We’d like you with us, Doc.”
Morgan and Warren bobbed their heads in agreement. Holliday was touched by the sincerity of their invitation, almost as though he were being accepted into the family. From a personal standpoint, whether or not they made millions in Tombstone was of small import. But he found great appeal in the idea of a grand adventure with friends. Perhaps the one worthwhile venture left to him in the time remaining. A time to live.
“How could I refuse?” he said with an idle gesture. “Of course, if you’re leaving tomorrow, I’ll have to follow along. I will not quit a winning streak. No self-respecting gambler would.”
“Then it’s settled,” Wyatt affirmed. “We’ll get things rolling, and you come on when you’re ready. Knew I could count on you, Doc.”
“Yes, I am reliable to a fault. One of my few virtues.”
Wyatt stood, and everyone got to their feet. He raised his glass in a toast, and all five glasses clinked together. His eyes were alight with the moment.
“To Tombstone!”
Holliday walked down to the livery stable late the next morning. The men were saddling their mounts, purchased by Virgil for the overland journey to Tombstone. The trip would consume the better part of two weeks, and Morgan and Warren were leading packhorses. Wyatt turned from checking the latigo on a roan gelding.
“Well, Doc, we’re off,” he said. “Have to tell you, I’m anxious to get the wheels in motion.”
“I won’t be far behind. A week, probably no longer. The cards will tell the tale.”
“Not wishing you bad luck, but I hope the worm turns. I’d like you there sooner than later.”
“I will see you in Tombstone, Wyatt. You may depend on it.”
They shook hands and Wyatt stepped into the saddle. The others waved, then reined their horses four abreast as Wyatt led the way south out of town. Holliday stood watching until they were some distance down the street. He thought Tombstone was in for a surprise. Sooner rather than later.
Uptown, Holliday moved along the boardwalk toward the hotel. He checked his watch and noted that it was almost twelve o’clock, time for breakfast. As he approached the hotel entrance, the noon stage rolled to a halt at the Wells Fargo station across the street
. He stopped in his tracks, momentarily stunned, as Kate waved to him from the coach window. She called out in a laughing voice.
“Hi, there, Doc! Look who’s come home!”
Holliday stared at her, unable to respond. For the first time in his life, he was struck speechless. A mute rooted in shock.
He wondered how the deuce she’d found him.
CHAPTER 36
Holliday snapped awake, his lungs on fire. He sat bolt upright, wracked by a harsh fit of coughing. The spasms shook his frame, and he turned, seated on the edge of the bed, his head between his knees. From the bedstand, he grabbed a handkerchief as the seizure tore at his innards. He spat a glob of bloody matter into the handkerchief.
Kate scrambled from beneath the covers, scooting across the bed. She uncorked the bourbon bottle on the nightstand and brought it to his mouth. He took a long, gulping swallow, then another, and pushed the bottle aside. The fiery liquid quelled his cough, but left his throat raw and scratchy. He gasped for air, a rattling sound deep in his chest.
Tenderly, as though ministering to a sick child, Kate cradled him in her arms. He slumped back against her, so wasted he felt almost weightless in her embrace. She rocked him back and forth, his labored breathing the only sound in the room. His color slowly returned, and he reached for the bottle, took another long pull of bourbon. He shrugged out of her arms, bracing himself with his hands on the edge of the bed. The sensation that he was suffocating gradually eased off.
“God, sugar,” she said, gently rubbing his back. “You’re worse than I’ve ever seen you. Haven’t you been taking care of yourself?”
“I adhere to a regimen of whiskey and cards. Longevity is not my strong suit.”
“You ought to try getting more rest, honeybunch. Those all-night card games will be the ruin of you.”
“‘Doomsday is near,’” Holliday said in a hoarse voice. “‘Die all, die merrily.’”