“Yes, Holliday. It is.”
After lowering the paper, Doc asked, “And would it also be fair to assume your name is Boyer?”
The surprise on Boyer’s face registered as something slightly more than a twitch in the corner of one eye. He twitched again when he noticed the gun holstered beneath Doc’s arm.
“You’re not the only one who remembers a name or two,” Doc said. “Since you didn’t pay for that food, why don’t you step aside so that I may indulge myself?”
“Be my guest,” Boyer said as he clasped his hands like a preacher and stepped to one side. “I hope you don’t mind a little company while you eat.”
“A guest who doesn’t expect to be fed? What better situation is there?”
“A better situation for you would be to pay your dues like the rest of the gamblers in Fort Griffin before some bad luck befalls you.”
Doc crossed his room in less than two full steps and took the fork from the side of the plate. He cut off a hunk of tough buffalo meat, dipped it in some of the grits, and wolfed it down. “Bad luck? Oh, you mean like the luck that was dumped on the head of Lottie Deno’s unfortunate lookout?”
Without a flinch or even a spark of emotion, Boyer said, “You’re a smart man, Holliday. Is it true you used to be a dentist back in Dallas?”
“And other places. I’ve been looking around for a spot to hang my shingle here, but these cowboys don’t seem to be concerned with oral hygiene.”
Boyer couldn’t help but smirk at the thought of any one of the dirty cowpokes squirming in a dentist’s chair. “You’re not like the other men I talk to, Holliday. You seem to have a head on your shoulders that’s good for something other than counting cards.”
“Why, thank you.”
“Because you seem like a friendly sort, I’ll pay you the compliment of being honest with you. The people I represent take a piece from all the gambling operations in Fort Griffin as well as many other spots on the circuit. Some might say that we’re the reason there even is a circuit.”
“I’ve always wondered about that,” Doc said as he continued eating his breakfast. In between bites, he poured some of the contents of his own flask into the cup of coffee that had already been sitting at his bedside.
Boyer nodded, picking up on the smugness in Doc’s tone and not approving of it one bit. “By keeping on our good side, gamblers like yourself can set up shop in saloons, run things the way you see fit, and conduct your business with a minimal amount of trouble from the law.”
“How generous.”
“All we ask in return is a small percentage of your profits.”
“And when there are no profits?” Doc asked.
“A small fee, which many consider to be the simple price of thriving within your chosen profession. Other folks pay their taxes and such. There’s no reason why you should be any different.”
Doc’s eyes widened as he got to his feet and straightened up. “Oh! You’re a representative of the government? I did not realize, sir. I do try to keep up on paying taxes and the like. After all, it is what keeps this grand country of ours—”
“I’ve allowed you a certain amount of slack due to your condition,” Boyer interrupted. “But don’t think, for one moment, that I will extend you such a courtesy if you try my patience.”
Doc kept right on eating his breakfast and sipping his coffee.
“Do you want to make a name for yourself on the circuit?” Boyer asked.
“That’s the idea.”
“Then you’ll have to abide by the rules. You pay us five percent of your profits, which will be collected on a monthly basis.”
“And I just hand over the money to yourself or someone else who claims to be collecting a gambler’s tax?”
“You’ll know us because we’ll claim to represent the Tiger.”
“How colorful.”
Boyer nodded without a hint of humor. “When you hear that, you’ll pay what you owe or you won’t be allowed to run a game or play in one that’s anything more than gin rummy dealt in a sewing circle.”
By this time, Doc had continued eating while also managing to get himself situated so the table was between him and Boyer. Within the confines of that cramped room, it made him feel a whole lot better.
“I suppose everyone pays this outrageous fee?” Doc asked.
“In time, the tributes can be lowered. That is, if you prove to be worthy of such a consideration. If you have a particularly fruitful month, we’ll accept less than our percentage.”
“Just so long as you get more than normal on those months,” Doc pointed out.
“We’re not being unreasonable, Dr. Holliday. Merely requesting a fee for a valuable service. Within our good graces, you’ll find it a whole lot easier to get into games or even open your own in practically every saloon on the circuit.
“Fall out of our graces,” Boyer added, “and we’ll see to it that your name is uttered in the same breath as words such as amateur, untrustworthy, poor cheater, and high risk. Things like that won’t bode well for a sporting man’s career.”
“Ironic, but true.”
“So, do we have a deal?”
Doc sipped his coffee and let the whiskey-soaked brew roll around in his mouth as he furrowed his brow thoughtfully. After setting the cup down, he picked up his plate and moved some of the food around. He set that down as well, but not on the table.
“A man doesn’t get a good reputation by having vermin like yourself speaking on his behalf,” Doc said.
“And I suppose lying about your own exploits is any better?”
“At least I’m making my own way.”
“A very short way if you make the wrong decision right now.”
Nodding as a bit of fire glinted in his eyes, Doc said, “Let’s find out, shall we?”
With that, Doc bent at the knees and slapped his left hand against the bottom of the table. As the table upended and landed noisily on its side, he dropped down behind it while making a quick grab for the pistol holstered under his arm.
Boyer was caught off his guard by the sudden move, but was quick to react in response to it. While dropping to one knee, Boyer drew his own pistol and fired a quick shot at Doc. The gunfire exploded within the little room and punched a hole through the table directly in front of him.
Doc could feel the lead whip past his knee after it had cut through the table like warm butter. He’d cleared leather by now and fired a shot of his own, which chipped off a healthy chunk of wood as it tore through the edge of the tabletop. Rather than pick his next shot with the same patience Boyer was displaying, Doc focused his gaze on his target and pointed his gun as if he were pointing his own finger.
Three more shots blasted through the room.
One of them came from Boyer as he straightened up to shoot over the table.
The next two came from Doc, both of which drew blood.
For a moment, Boyer stood his ground and blinked a few times in quick succession. He kept hold of his gun, but wasn’t quite able to raise his arm enough to point it at the slender man who now walked calmly around the table.
As the burnt black powder drifted into his nose, Doc felt it irritate the tender strip at the back of his throat. When he started coughing, it seemed as if he wouldn’t be able to stop until the taste of blood welled up on the back of his tongue.
“This is precisely the sort of thing…my physician warned against,” Doc said in between vicious coughs.
As Boyer dropped to his knees, he reached with his free hand to his own bloody torso. There was a blackened spot on his side, but it was the dark pool of blood soaking into his gut that concerned him even more. When he took his next breath, it was accompanied by a powerful, jabbing pain.
While keeping his gun trained on Boyer, Doc reached out with his free hand to take hold of the coffee that he’d saved by placing it on the edge of his bed. He sipped it and let out a relieved breath as the warm, liquor-laced brew went down his throat. “I’m a gre
at admirer of irony. Considering the facts, I’d say it’s ironic that you’re on the floor coughing while I’m still on my feet.”
Boyer tried to get up, but the effort of doing so brought another agonizing stab into his gut. When he dropped down, he landed with his hand pressing down on top of his gun just to keep from falling over.
“And considering what I’ve heard about what you did to Miss Deno’s lookout,” Doc continued, “this becomes ironic on another level.”
“Shut…up,” Boyer snarled through gritted teeth.
Doc holstered his gun and squatted so he could get down to Boyer’s level. “Tell me more about this Tiger,” he said while calmly taking Boyer’s gun out from under his trembling hand.
“You’re a…dead…man.”
“I knew that already. Tell me something else.”
“You won’t…get away…with this.”
As Boyer said that, Doc heard footsteps and excited voices outside his room. He stepped over the fallen man and glanced out into the hall. After stepping out for a minute or so, Doc returned and grabbed hold of Boyer under both arms.
“You’re going across the hall,” Doc said as he dragged the man out the door. Fortunately for him, his words and actions were enough to get Boyer kicking and struggling again. That kicking made it a little easier for Doc to move the man the short distance from one room to the other. Even though Boyer was fairly slight of build, the effort of dragging him brought a layer of sweat to Doc’s brow.
“Tell me whatever you need to tell me,” Doc said. “In my professional opinion, you haven’t much time left.”
Boyer was glancing around in disbelief. Judging by the look in his eyes, he was having just as much trouble accepting that he’d been shot as he was in believing who’d shot him. “There are…others…”
“How many others?” Doc asked.
The footsteps outside were getting closer as the folks inside the boardinghouse were gathering enough courage to approach the spot where they’d heard the shots.
Doc stepped across the room to the window and pushed it open. It wasn’t until then that he spotted the saddlebags propped in one corner and the dirty shirt crumpled near the bed.
“Who’s your connection with the law?” Doc asked. “Who’s the crooked one wearing the badge?”
Boyer shifted and looked at Doc with confusion as more and more of the color drained from his face.
Once it was obvious that no more shots were forthcoming, the owner of the boardinghouse made her way up the stairs and down the narrow hall. She was a lady in her early sixties and had eyes that rarely missed a thing. She didn’t make ends meet, however, by pointing those sharp eyes too long in the direction of the people who were put up in her rooms by the saloon owners. Of course, she wasn’t about to be a party to murder, either.
“Hello?” she called down the hall. “Were those gunshots?”
She knocked on one door and then another while working her way down the hall. Most of her boarders had fled, but she knew it would take an act of God to get the blond consumptive out of his room before noon. Before she could knock on his door, she saw it come open and Doc stick his head out.
He wore a baffled expression as he asked, “Who’s renting that room?”
“Some young man in on a cattle drive,” she replied.
“I don’t know what he’s up to, but those noises came from in there. Stand aside, ma’am,” Doc said as he stepped into the hall and placed his hand on his holstered Colt. “Better let me see to this.”
Boyer was nothing but a husk, and Doc did a fairly good job of acting surprised at having found him.
10
Doc was paler than normal as he walked into the Beehive later that afternoon. The summer was quickly approaching, turning the air into a thick, warm stew. It was a hard day for most folks to bear, but Doc took the change of seasons a little harder than most. He was wheezing and hacking into his handkerchief so much that he could hardly take a breath.
“Jesus, Doc,” Caleb said as Doc made his way to their usual table. “You look like hell.”
“And yet, I still manage to outperform you at making the rounds.” As he said that, Doc reached into his pocket and removed a bundle of cash that was nearly the size of his fist.
“You take more risks than I do,” Caleb pointed out. “You always do that when you’re feeling your worst.”
“Spare me the bargain diagnoses.”
Without needing so much as a wave from either of the men, a dark-haired serving girl brought over drinks for them. “Plenty of people asking about the game tonight,” she said while setting a beer down in front of Caleb and a bottle of whiskey in front of Doc. “We haven’t hardly heard about anything else.”
Keeping his eyes locked on Doc, Caleb said, “That’s good. Especially since there’s been plenty more going on.”
“Really?” she asked. “Like what?”
“I don’t know. Why don’t you ask Doc? He’s been around more action than I have.”
Nudging Caleb and winking, she said, “That’s not what I heard.”
Doc glanced up at Caleb and laughed under his breath. “Now, this is something I do want to hear.”
Caleb peeled off some of the money from the stack on the table and handed it to the girl. She took it and pranced away without so much as acknowledging the question that had yet to be answered.
“Like what?” Doc asked with a vague impression of the girl in his voice. “Tell me all about it.”
“After you tell me about the man you killed in your boardinghouse.”
As he took hold of the bottle, Doc reached into his pocket and removed a small, dented cup with a bent handle. “She always remembers the bottle, but never the glass.”
“Don’t change the subject, Doc. Who was it?”
“Some fellow by the name of Boyer.” When he saw the look of surprise that had sprung onto Caleb’s face, Doc said, “Oh, I see you’ve heard of him.”
“The same Boyer that killed Earl?”
“I didn’t get around to asking as much, but I’d say that’s fairly safe to assume.”
“How’d you find him?”
“I didn’t. He found me.”
Since it was easy enough to see that Caleb was bursting at the seams to hear the whole story, Doc didn’t wait any longer to tell it. He gave a short yet accurate account of the confrontation while counting up the money he’d stolen and splitting it up between them. When he was done, he’d already found a deck of cards and was practicing his fancy shuffles.
Caleb leaned back in his chair to digest what he’d heard. “The Tiger?” he asked. “Are you sure you heard that right?”
“Dramatic, to be certain, but that is what he said.”
“You think he was right about the gamblers being taxed?”
Doc nodded, split the deck in half, and practiced manipulating the cards in both his left and right hand simultaneously. “I asked around about that very subject as I visited the other saloons. I even went to a few places that we don’t usually pay much attention to. We should start going to that place by the opium den. It may be dirty, but the dealers do a piss-poor job of watching their—”
“The taxes,” Caleb said to get Doc back on track. “What did they say about the taxes?”
“They said just what Boyer claimed they would. Apparently, the professionals either kick some back to this Tiger person directly or they chip in to a pool that’s held by the saloon owner. Doing the latter makes it easier to fudge some of the numbers.” Shaking his head, Doc mused, “Isn’t it amazing how many ways there are to steal the same bit of money?”
Caleb leaned back and ran his fingers through his uneven hair. “And you’re sure he’s dead?”
“Oh, yes. I checked on it myself. My specialty may be dentistry, but I know a corpse when I see one. On that same note, he did have excellent teeth.”
“How long before the law shows up?”
“About Boyer? They already made their appearance.”
“What?” Caleb asked with a start. “When?”
“A deputy or two came by the boardinghouse and asked what sort of noises I heard and what I was doing. I gave as accurate an account as I could, since I was eating breakfast in my room after just waking up at the time.”
Caleb couldn’t help but admire the way Doc spoke those words without the first hint that he was lying. Then again, that same quality also worried him about the man. “And they bought that?” he asked.
“Oh yes,” Doc said with a nod. “To tell you the truth, they seemed rather relieved to have it wrapped up so neatly for them. Perhaps they didn’t take too kindly to being shoved around by that miserable asshole, any more than I did. Although, I couldn’t help but think about those others that Boyer was talking about.”
“You mean the Tiger?”
“Precisely. If what he’s saying is true, there must be plenty more where Boyer came from, and they still may pose a problem. Then again,” Doc added with a sideways glance in Caleb’s direction, “they might also prove to be our way directly inside the very circuit we’ve been trying to break into.”
“Gamblers will gamble with anyone, Doc,” Caleb said with a sigh. “And the circuit is just a bunch of saloons favored by the gamblers at the top of the heap. All we need to do is follow the track and we’re set.”
“That’s a saloon owner talking. That’s years of you trying to get your place favored by those gamblers.”
“Is it?”
“A man can follow the track and go to all the spots on the circuit, but that doesn’t mean he’ll be invited to all the biggest games or even be regarded as an equal by the others on that very same circuit. It takes experience and a certain word of mouth to gain that sort of respect.”
Caleb looked at Doc and then asked, “When did you figure all of this out? We’ve been making the same rounds and playing cards for a living for the same amount of time.”
“Apparently, I’ve been doing a better job of watching how the rest of the sporting men in this town operate. I also stay awake for the end of more of the longer poker games than you do, which you desperately need to work on, by the way. You’d be amazed at what bits of wisdom you get when someone’s too tired to keep from saying too much.”
Bucking the Tiger Page 7