by Matt Braun
Holliday was a tall, emaciated man, with ash-blond hair and a drooping mustache. Somewhere in his thirties, his visage was that of an undertaker; sober but not really sad. He wore a swallowtail coat and a black cravat, with a gold watch chain looped across his vest. His attitude toward the other players was an inimical union of gruff sufferance and thinly disguised contempt. Speculation had it that he had killed twenty-six men, and his manner left no question that he was equal to the task. He impressed Starbuck as someone who could walk into an empty room and start a fight.
The game was dealer’s choice, restricted to stud poker and five card draw. Ante was twenty dollars, with a fifty dollar limit and three raises. Check and raise was permitted, which meant it was a cutthroat game, attracting players who took their poker seriously. The rules seemed tailor-made to Starbuck’s scheme. All he had to do, he told himself, was somehow manage to beat Holliday.
That promised to be an uphill challenge. The former dentist was a skilled gambler. He won on what appeared to be weak hands, and evidenced an uncanny knack for reading the other players. There was no pattern to his betting and raising; his erratic play made him unpredictable, and somewhat intimidating. He would bluff on a bad hand as often as he folded, and more often than not his bluff went undetected. On good hands, he would sometimes raise forcefully, allowing the money to speak for itself. At other times, when he held good cards, he would lay back and sucker his opponents into heedless raises. He was by far the best player at the table, and he won steadily.
Perhaps a half hour went past before one of the players quit the game. Starbuck jockeyed himself into position even as the man rose from his chair. Nodding around the table, he seated himself and smiled broadly. He pulled a thick wad of greenbacks from his pocket and made a show of stacking them neatly before him. Then he settled back in his chair and gave the other players a look of amiable bravado.
“Jack Johnson, at your service, gents.”
Every eye at the table was on him, but no one spoke. Across from him, Holliday gathered the cards, riffled them expertly, and began dealing stud. Starbuck caught aces back to back on the first two cards, and checked. Then, on the third card, he began betting. Three players tried to draw out on him, but the aces held. He won an easy five hundred on the first hand.
Over the years, Starbuck had become something of an actor. His undercover work, by necessity, dictated that he assume various roles and disguises. Tonight, he was acting the part of a convivial smoothtalker. He was gregarious, outwardly charming, and presented himself as an affable jokester. He pulled it off with a certain panache, and he was utterly convincing. He was also lucky.
For the next few hours, the cards fell his way with consistent regularity. He won on small pairs, weak straights, and an occasional flush. More than his own luck, it seemed that fortune had deserted the other players. He was winning with hands that normally would have taken second place, and no pots. Yet, for all his luck, he was careful to establish a pattern. When he bluffed, he made a point of backing his play with unusually large bets. He used the ploy infrequently, but with jocular skill. Several times he was aware that Holliday was covertly studying him. With the trap baited, he awaited the right moment.
His chance came in the third hour of play. He opened a hand of five card draw with a fifty dollar bet. Everyone dropped out except Holliday, and he raised. Starbuck bumped it the limit and Holliday took the third raise. On the draw, Holliday took three cards and Starbuck stood pat. After another round of betting and raising, Holliday laid down two pair. Starbuck chuckled, spreading out three of a kind, and raked in the pot. He caught a tiny glint of surprise in Holliday’s eyes.
A few hands later he again seized opportunity. The game was stud poker. With three cards dealt, he had a pair of tens showing, and bet fifty dollars. Holliday obviously couldn’t believe he would try the same gambit twice running, and tested with a raise. Starbuck merely called, and checked the bet on the fourth card. But on the fifth card he again bet the limit. Holliday raised, certain now he was bluffing. He bumped it fifty and waited, puffing on his cheroot. Holliday watched him narrowly a moment, then called. He flipped his hole card, revealing a third ten.
“Three tens wins! Better luck next time, mister.”
Holiday grunted coarsely. “I got to admire your style, Johnson. That’s twice you sandbagged me.”
“Well, sir, I’d say twice is plenty for one night. I thank you kindly.”
Starbuck stood, pocketing a considerably larger roll of greenbacks. He scooped up a handful of gold coins and nodded cheerily to the other players. Then he turned to leave.
Holliday fixed him with a querulous squint. “Some folks think it’s not polite to win and run.”
Starbuck mugged, hands outstretched. “No offense intended, but there’s the other side of the coin. Some folks never learn to quit when they’re ahead.”
Holliday coughed, wheezing hoarsely, and pulled a handkerchief from inside his coat pocket. He covered his mouth, waiting until the wheezing subsided, then raked Starbuck with a cold glare. “A sporting man would give the losers a chance to recoup a bit before he ducks out.”
“Glad to oblige!” Starbuck gave him a nutcracker grin, and clamped the cheroot between his teeth. “Another day, another time—but not tonight!”
Bowing, he flipped Holliday an offhand salute and walked away. Behind him there was a pall of silence, and he noticed some of the onlookers watching him with odd looks of disbelief. Clearly, no one had ever gaffed Holiday and lived to tell the tale. He thought he’d pulled it off rather neatly.
Drifting back to the bar, he took up a position directly in front of the mirror. He felt reasonably confident Holliday wouldn’t push the matter further. Still, there were no guarantees, and he’d learned never to take undue chances with known gunmen. After ordering a drink, he leaned into the bar, casually dropping his right hand below counter level. He was now carrying the Colt in a crossdraw holster, and the butt was within an inch of his fingertips. The wide backbar mirror gave him a view of the entire room. With one eye on Holliday, he was also able to observe Wyatt Earp at work.
Faro was one of the more popular games in western cowtowns and mining camps. Its name derived from the image of an Egyptian pharaoh on the back of the cards, and the game had originated a century earlier in France.
Cards were dealt from a specially adapted box, and the player bet against the house. Every card from ace to king was painted on the cloth layout that covered the table. A player placed his money on the card of his choice, and two cards were then drawn face up from the box. The first card drawn lost and the second card won. The player could “copper” his play by betting a card to lose instead of win. There were twenty-five turns, since the first and last cards in the deck paid nothing. When the box was empty, the dealer shuffled and the game began anew.
Normally, the house hired an experienced gambler to operate the game. The dealer worked for a salary, plus a small share of the winnings. Sometimes, when a gambler had developed a reputation and a following, the house leased him the concession. Through Harry Woods, Starbuck had learned that this was the arrangement between Earp and the Alhambra. The game was Earp’s and he backed the faro bank with his own money. The house received a weekly payment for the concession, plus a percentage of the winnings. With luck, and a knowledge of human nature, a faro operator could earn a handsome living. Which was one of the things that bothered Starbuck.
A handsome living hardly seemed sufficient for a man of Earp’s demonstrated ambition. His activities in Tombstone left no doubt that he had raised his sights to a larger game, and much higher stakes. So far he had failed, but he was obviously undeterred. Otherwise he would have cut his losses and gone off in search of riper opportunity. The faro game, then, was merely a front. Wyatt Earp stayed on in Tombstone for reasons as yet unrevealed. Once uncovered, those reasons might very well provide the key to robbery and murder. And put a rope around Earp’s neck.
Some while later, Starbu
ck noted a lull at the faro layout. The last player, clearly a loser, walked away and left Earp alone at the table. It was the opening Starbuck had waited for, and time to put the second stage of his plan into operation. He steeled himself to play it fast and loose—and act the part.
With a sauntering step, he moved across the room. The expression on his face was peacock proud, the look of a gambler who had found his mark for the night and scored well. He halted before the table, smiling pleasantly.
“How’s tricks?”
“Tolerable.” Earp’s eyes were impersonal. “Care to try your luck?”
“Yessir, I do!” Starbuck said carelessly. “Got a sudden urge to buck the tiger.”
“Get a hunch, bet a bunch.”
Earp deftly shuffled the cards and allowed Starbuck to cut. Then he placed the deck in the dealing box and burned the top card, commonly referred to as the “soda” card. Glancing up, he nodded, indicating the game was open to play. Starbuck dug out his handful of gold coins, placing one above the ace, another between the five-six, and still another between the jack-queen. By playing several cards at once, he immediately marked himself as a professional. The system was known as “coppering the heel,” and increased the chances of winning. Earp pulled two cards from the box, a king and a four.
“Close,” he said in the slick cadence of a pitchman. “Give ’er another go.”
“Keep dealing!” Starbuck laughed, scattering coins across the layout. “I’m on a streak tonight.”
Earp was adroit and quick. His hands flashed between the box and the layout with practiced expertise. Cards popped out of the box in speedy pairs, and just as rapidly he paid the winners and collected the losers. Starbuck continued to “copper the heel,” but for every bet he won, he lost double and sometimes more. He blithely tossed coins about the layout, alternately chuckling and cursing with the gusto of a man who was enjoying himself immensely. Halfway through the deck, the last of his gold coins disappeared. By the time the “hoc” card, the last card in the deck, was turned, he was deep into his wad of greenbacks. Within a matter of minutes, Earp had trimmed him for something more than a thousand dollars.
“Seems like the worm’s turned.”
“Damned if it don’t!”
“Maybe it’s just as well,” Earp remarked. “Doc don’t tolerate people that quit winners. He’ll likely simmer down now.”
“Doc?”
“Doc Holliday.” Earp nodded toward the poker tables. “The fellow you snookered a while ago.”
“No kiddin’!” Starbuck’s eyes widened in feigned astonishment. “The Doc Holliday?”
“The one and only.”
“Well I’ll be double-dipped! I sure hope there’s no hard feelings. You reckon he’s still sore?”
“Don’t wory about it,” Earp advised wryly. “Doc wouldn’t monkey with a customer of mine.”
“How’s that?”
“You might say we’re on a first name basis.”
“Wait a minute—” Words appeared to fail Starbuck. “Your name wouldn’t be … are you Wyatt Earp?”
“Yeah, I generally answer to it.”
“Judas Priest!” Starbuck grinned foolishly, and began pumping his arm. “I read all about you in the newspapers! That shootout you had with those desperadoes. It’s an honor to meet you, Mr. Earp. Yessir, a puredee honor!”
Earp regarded him with impassive curiosity. “You new to Tombstone?”
“Pulled in last night,” Starbuck said eagerly. “Name’s Jack Johnson—my friends call me Jack.”
“I take it you’re a gamblin’ man?”
“Poker’s my game.” Starbuck flicked an ash off his cheroot, and chuckled softly. “Course, I got a fatal weakness for faro. Keeps me busted most of the time.”
“Johnson?” Earp eyed him thoughtfully. “Turkey Creek Jack Johnson?”
Starbuck had lifted the alias from a dead man. The risk was slight, with virtually no chance of exposure. But now, pretending wariness, he gave Earp a guarded look.
“What makes you ask?”
“Heard of you,” Earp commented. “Deadwood, wasn’t it?”
“You name it. Leadwood, Cripple Creek, Deadwood. I’ve worked all the camps.”
“I was in Deadwood once’t.”
“Oh, when was that?”
“Back in ’76.”
“Before or after Hicock was killed?”
“Few months before.”
Starbuck wagged his head. “You should’ve been there. I wasn’t standing ten feet away when Jack McCall drilled him through the head.”
“You saw him get it?”
“Doggone right!” Starbuck puffed importantly on his cheroot. “Saw it with my very own eyes!”
“I heard tell,” Earp said in a voice without tone, “he was holdin’ aces and nines when he got it. Any truth to that?”
Starbuck sensed he was being tested. The reason was unclear, but he played along with a straightface. “You must’ve heard wrong. It was aces and eights. Goddamn cards had to be pried out of his hand.”
“Likely you’re right,” Earp agreed idly. “What brings you to Tombstone?”
“Well—” Starbuck hesitated, then smiled cryptically. “You might say I came south for my health.”
“Lots of folks do.” Earp appeared to lose interest, indicating the layout. “Care to give it another try?”
“Not tonight!” Starbuck laughed. “I’ll have to find me a poker game just to break even.”
“Do yourself a favor and gaff somebody besides Doc. I’d like to keep you as a regular customer.”
“Damn good advice.” Starbuck bobbed his head, grinning. “See you next time I’m flush.”
“Anytime, Jack. You’re always welcome at my table.”
Walking away, Starbuck silently congratulated himself. The next step would be easier. And the one after that, easier still.
CHAPTER 5
Early the next afternoon, Starbuck went for a stroll. Other than the hotel and the Alhambra, he’d seen little of the town since arriving. Like a wolf prowling new territory, he always felt more comfortable once he had his bearings. He reminded himself to avoid the Wells, Fargo office and the Nugget. Those were places to be visited only after dark.
Upon leaving the hotel, he walked west on Allen Street. Tombstone was laid out in a grid pattern, with the business district centralized in the heart of town. The main thoroughfares were Allen Street and Fremont Street, both crossing the grid east to west. North and west of downtown were the better residential areas. To the south were warehouses and the less desirable residential quarter. Vice, in the form of cribs and parlor houses, was restricted to the eastern section of the community.
Allen Street boasted most of the saloons and gambling establishments, along with three additional hotels and the Birdcage Theatre. One block north, on Fremont Street, was the main commercial district. City Hall and a couple of banks were flanked by several blocks of cafes, shops, and general business concerns. At night, when Tombstone’s sporting element awakened, Allen Street came alive. But during the day, Fremont Street was the busiest part of town. Here the hustle and bustle of everyday affairs was conducted in a more sedate atmosphere.
Starbuck was in no hurry, and he criss-crossed the town at a leisurely pace. As he walked, he gained a better perspective into Wyatt Earp’s motives. Tombstone, by light of day, revealed itself as a veritable money tree. The outlying mines were processing millions of dollars of silver every year. Unlike most mining camps, the influx of people and a stable economy had created a sense of permanence. Whoever controlled the political apparatus of Cochise County would have access to a fortune in graft and taxes. Whoever wore the sheriff’s badge would play a key role in the distribution of that largesse. Moreover, the sheriff’s office would provide a legitimate front for other, less acceptable, forms of skullduggery. It was small wonder that Earp had twice sought the post of the county’s chief lawman.
Had Earp been elected, the tin star would ha
ve made him all but invulnerable. Starbuck saw that even more clearly now; there would have been no way to infiltrate the ranks of a crooked sheriff and his henchmen. Yet a common gambler—not to mention a social leper—was an altogether different matter. Starbuck had only to prove that he and Earp were birds of a feather. He could then progress to a chummier relationship, and invent some device to make himself valuable. From there, it would require only time and guile until he wormed his way into Earp’s confidence. A similar dodge had worked with all manner of horse thieves and cattle rustlers. And he had every confidence it would work with an overly ambitious faro dealer.
Around midafternoon Starbuck paused at the corner of Fifth and Fremont. His gaze fell on a general emporium, and he recalled he was almost out of cigars. He entered the store, and moved directly to the counter. A clerk hurried forward.
“Yessir, what can we do for you today?”
“Need a box of cheroots.”
“Any special brand?”
“You got Varga’s Deluxe?”
“Yes, indeedy.” The clerk turned toward the shelves, calling back over his shoulder. “Take your time, Miss Blaylock. I’ll only be a moment.”
The name struck a chord. Starbuck glanced around and saw a girl one aisle over, inspecting yardgoods. She was small and compactly built, with attractive oval features. A woolen shawl was draped across her shoulders, and curls the color of sable were visible beneath her bonnet. He thought to himself she was easy on the eyes. Not a beauty, but close enough to draw second looks.
Then the name clicked, and he instantly made the connection. Harry Woods had mentioned Earp’s sister-in-law. Alice Blaylock. And it hardly seemed possible there would be two Miss Blaylocks in a town the size of Tombstone. He felt reasonably certain this was the girl.
Before he could think it through, the clerk returned with his cigars. He paid, waiting for his change, all the while weighing the possibilities. Nothing workable occurred to him, but he resolved somehow to make her acquaintance. According to Woods, she was the only single woman in the entire Earp family. That, in itself, presented a grab bag full of options.