“And what will you do for traveling money?” Dr. Judd asked, as if reading his thoughts.
“I don’t know,” John Henry replied honestly. “I spent my last Double Eagle on the train fare here.”
“I thought as much,” Dr. Judd said, though there was thankfully no sound of criticism to it. In fact, he seemed to have something like a look of sympathy in his placid gray eyes. “I have been on your road myself, as I may have mentioned at our first meeting. I told you of my experience in the California gold fields?”
“I remember somethin’ of it, Sir, but I don’t see as how my situation compares to yours. I didn’t shoot anyone.” Of course that was a lie, but he couldn’t let Dr. Judd think he had a killer sitting in his office and decide to call the authorities. Besides, he hadn’t meant to kill that Buffalo Soldier. It had just happened, that was all.
“I didn’t say that you did. I only meant that I have been running from difficult circumstances myself, and see something of that in your own face. As a physician, I have spent a great deal of time observing my patients in an effort to answer their needs. And it shows, the look of a desperate man. You have that look, under all your admirable restraint. But I am not one to judge a man, having been worthy of judging myself. I only hope to teach and warn, and caution against the sort of reckless behavior to which I succumbed.”
“I accept the caution, Sir,” John Henry said evenly, though his heart was racing. If Dr. Judd could see through him so easily, would others do the same?
“Then I hope you will also accept my making you an offer of financial assistance, in lieu of what your friend Dr. Fuches would no doubt offer. Shall we say $200?” he asked, and pulled open the center drawer of his sturdy mahogany desk. “I’ll write you a draft against my bank here in St. Louis, to cash at your convenience. We’ll consider it a loan, payable on demand.”
“And when might that be?” John Henry said uneasily. Though he did indeed need the money, he’d had no plan of asking for Dr. Judd’s help.
“Whenever you’ve settled yourself again. For like your friend Auguste, I have a great deal of faith in human nature and the ability of the individual to overcome these tribulations.” Then he dipped his pen in a crystal inkwell and signed his name with a flourish on the promised bank draft, dusting it with sand and blowing it dry.
John Henry took the paper note and stared at it, feeling something between regret and relief. Taking the money was a humiliation, of course, as it meant that Dr. Judd was right about him, in spite of his denials. He was a man on the run who needed a handout and a safe getaway from his reckless deeds. But having the bank draft in his hand made him feel halfway to safety, at least.
“And where will you go now?” Dr. Judd asked, when John Henry had expressed his embarrassed gratitude.
“I don’t know, Sir.”
“Back to Georgia, perhaps?”
“No, not Georgia,” was all he could bring himself to say. There was no thought of going home now, not with a second killing on his conscience. For if Dr. Judd, who knew him only by acquaintance, could see what trouble he’d brought on himself, surely Mattie would see right through him as well.
But as quickly as the thought of Mattie came to him, another one came following after it, pushing it out of his mind: Kate Fisher. Of course he knew where he was going next; he’d known it ever since he’d decided to take the train to St. Louis. He was going to see Kate Fisher and find out if the feelings she had engendered in him were still as powerful as they had once been. And if they were. . .
He’d been an innocent when they’d first met, and wary of her passions. But he was well past innocence now.
“I do appreciate your generosity, Dr. Judd,” he said, pulling his thoughts away from Kate and back to the business at hand. “And I assure you that I will return the loan as soon as possible. And Dr. Judd, Sir?”
“Yes?”
“Don’t mention this to Jameson, if you don’t mind. I’d rather him not be concerned about me, what with his new practice and a new bride and all. In fact, you don’t even need to tell him that I came through town.”
“To tell you the truth, I hadn’t planned on telling him anything of it. And I commend you for wanting to shield your friend from your own troubles. Auguste thought very highly of you. I’d hate to ruin that memory for him.”
Dr. Judd’s words stung at his heart, but he deserved to hear them. And it wasn’t really a judgment against him that Dr. Judd was offering, just the truth: his actions had consequences, and others might also suffer for what he had done. But he wasn’t in a mood for truth or lectures, just a quick way to forget the humiliation of taking money from a man he’d once admired. Charity was all well and good when one was on the giving end. Getting it was another experience altogether.
The fastest way to forgetfulness in St. Louis was a walk down to the saloons along the levee, but he didn’t dare take himself there. If the gambler named Hyram Neil still held court in the Alligator Saloon—and still remembered the poker debt that had never been repaid—he’d no doubt be happy to have John Henry back for a reckoning. So he stayed clear of the levee and headed for the shabby elegance of the Comique Theater, instead, where there was sure to be a varieties show playing and the mindless entertainment of comedians and minstrel singers and dancing girls in scanty costumes.
But there was no Kate Fisher to be seen, not even her name on the board that listed the theater company players. And according to the stage manager, she’d been gone from the Comique for some time.
“Left after Mazeppa closed, as best I can recall.”
“She went to New York then?” John Henry asked, remembering her dream to become an actress on the legitimate stage.
“Not that I’ve heard,” the manager replied, “unless he had business that away.”
“He?”
“Her husband. She got married right in the middle of the run, hurried like. Met a salesman from out of town who come to see the show and fell for him right off, I guess. Must have been love at first sight, ‘cause she was single one minute and off and married the next. Last I heard, they was headed to Kansas. But maybe it was New York. You got some special interest in asking?”
John Henry shrugged. “Nothin’ much. Miss Fisher and I knew each other some awhile back. I just thought I’d look her up and say hello.”
And though he turned away with nothing more than a nod, he had a peculiar sensation of having lost something. Not that he’d ever really had Kate, of course. Their affair had been far more restraint than passion. But the memory of what it could have been, if he hadn’t bridled himself around her, still haunted his dreams. Kate’s willingness had promised him that he might have all the passion he wanted, if he ever returned. Now he was back and she was gone, and worse than that, she was married as well, and his frustrated dreams of her would have to remain just that. Well, his loss would be some other girl’s luck that night, now that he’d cashed Dr. Judd’s bank note and was carrying enough money to buy himself whatever he wanted. But what he wanted was Kate, at least for that one night, and she was gone.
He left St. Louis and headed west with little thought of where he would go, other than away from Texas and the reach of the Army there. But once he was aboard the Missouri & Pacific Railroad and headed out across the Great Plains, the beauty of the prairie land turned his escape into something more like a pleasure trip. It was the widest green he had ever seen—endless miles of grass that moved like waves in the breezes of late spring. If it hadn’t been for the savage Sioux waylaying stages and scalping travelers, the plains might have seemed like paradise.
It was the gold rush in the Black Hills of the Dakotas that had put the Indians in a fighting mood. The Black Hills were part of the Indians’ Holy Wilderness, a sacred hunting ground given to the Sioux people by the Great Spirit himself. And for awhile, the United States Government had protected the Indians’ right to their land, making a treaty that promised to keep the white men out. But then a scattering of prospectors
, trespassing on the treaty land, discovered gold in the Black Hills. The United States was still recovering from the Panic of 1873, and that Black Hills gold would be a welcome help to the American economy. So the government changed its policy toward the Holy Wilderness of the Sioux. The Indians would have to share the Black Hills or be killed if they resisted. To the Sioux, it was a holy war, to the Americans, it was a defense of civilization, and both sides were willing to fight to the death.
Fighting meant soldiers, and Cheyenne was full of them, and the sight of all those blue-coats reminded John Henry that this was no pleasure trip, after all. He was still running from the Army and wary of staying too close around, so he left the Union Pacific at Cheyenne and took the first train south headed into the Colorado Territory.
But it wasn’t Dr. John Henry Holliday who arrived in Denver City that warm afternoon in June, only someone who looked like him: a fair-haired, blue-eyed gambler named Tom McKey who didn’t have the United States Army following after him. He hoped his uncle wouldn’t mind him borrowing the name.
Chapter Six
DENVER CITY, 1876
THE FIRST ORDER OF BUSINESS WAS FINDING HIMSELF A JOB THAT DIDN’T demand credentials or references, but would pay enough for room and board and other living expenses. When he’d been in similar circumstances in Galveston, he’d taken a job pulling teeth in the back room of a barber shop. But there were more pleasant ways to make a dollar in a busy city like Denver, especially for a man who was clever with cards. And Tom McKey, Faro dealer, was born.
He took a position dealing in the gambling hall of Charlie Foster, located above Babb’s Variety House on Blake Street, then found a room to rent above Long John’s Saloon just down the road. Babb’s was one of Denver’s finer sporting establishments, competing for customers with Big Ed Chase’s famous Palace Theater, and both places boasted stage performances and dance halls along with fine dining restaurants. But mostly they were casinos, built for the entertainment of the Denver gambling community.
As the last stop on the trail to the Rocky Mountains, Denver had become a wealthy town even before the gold and silver rush began. Pioneers crossing the Great Plains stopped there to buy supplies and catch a breath before heading into the thin air of the mountains, traveling on toward their distant promised lands. But some weary travelers decided that the supply town at the confluence of Cherry Creek and the Platte River was promised land enough, and stayed to turn Denver into the Queen City of the Plains.
Tom McKey wasn’t sure it deserved such an accolade. Compared to Atlanta or St. Louis, Denver looked pretty rough around the edges still. Its two-storied brick buildings faced board sidewalks and dirt streets, and Cherry Creek regularly flooded over with snowmelt from the mountains, washing out the footbridges and sweeping sewage into town. Along the banks of the creek, where Larimer Street crossed the temperamental waters, a hanging tree still dangled a rope noose, ready to be used again. But while Denver wasn’t quite as polished as it pretended to be, it did have its charms—the chiefest being the busiest gambling district west of Texas where a man who needed to lay low could lose himself amongst all the other sports. Like Tom McKey, who made his $10 a day dealing cards at Babb’s Variety House and did his best to stay out of trouble—and for the most part, he did.
He wrote to Mattie from his room above Long John’s Saloon, sitting at the lop-legged desk and doing his best to put into words the confusion of the past year while leaving out whatever he thought would offend her. For how could he put into words all that had happened in his life? So finally, he settled on telling her the best parts of the truth: that he’d been diagnosed with consumption, but was feeling so much better that he was sure the doctor had been wrong; that he’d been traveling in the west looking for a better climate than Texas offered; that he was living in Denver for the foreseeable future and enjoying the mountain scenery; that he was using his uncle’s name for privacy sake and that she should write to him in care of Tom McKey; that he loved her and always would and hungered for the chance to see her again. And with any luck, he’d never have to tell her the rest.
That was the Centennial Summer when the whole country commemorated the one-hundredth birthday of the American nation. In Philadelphia, there was a grand exhibition in Fairmount Park and a reopening of the renovated Independence Hall. In Washington, New York City, and San Francisco, there were parades and fireworks. Even the former Rebel states observed that historic July 4th, in their own fashion, by hoisting the Stars and Stripes alongside the Confederate battle flag.
Denver had double reason for celebration as the Colorado Territory had just voted to ratify a new constitution making it the 38th American state. But although President Ulysses S. Grant had yet to approve the document, with Colorado’s Republican leanings and Grant’s need for Republican votes in the upcoming Presidential election, there was little doubt that he would welcome the new state into the Union. So Denver celebrated both the Centennial Fourth of July and Colorado’s impending statehood with the biggest parade the territory had ever seen.
Tom McKey wasn’t one to miss such a revel, and he joined in the crush of the cheering crowd as the parade made its noisy way along the wide dirt streets of Denver. The parade featured the usual assortment of marching bands, flag-waving politicians, bunting-covered carriages, and volunteer fire companies showing off their shiny pumper cars, with the highlight being the horse-drawn “Centennial State” float, a haphazardly connected train of wagons carrying thirty-eight ladies dressed in costumes representing the thirty-eight states of the Union. The float seemed as unstable as the Union itself had been just before the War, ready to pull apart at any moment and send ladies and horses careening across 16th Street—though the danger only made the crowd press closer for a better look.
Tom saw the accident coming before it happened: the lead horse frightened by a blast of water from a pumper car, the startled rider yanking the horse to a sudden halt, the second wagon following too close behind and turning into the crowd to avoid running over the horse, the screaming onlookers stumbling backward to keep from being crushed by the wagon wheels, and the golden-haired girl who slipped and fell and would have been trampled by the crowd if Tom hadn’t seen and reached a fast hand to pull her to safety. It was just a reflex, reaching out to grab ahold of her the way he did, the whole thing happening too fast to even allow him the pleasure of having performed a gentlemanly act of heroism. But she looked up at him like he was a hero anyway, her thanks coming in gasps as she tried to catch her breath.
“Oh Sir! You saved me!” But as he helped to steady her on her feet, she winced and gasped again.
“Are you injured?” he asked quickly, his voice rising to be heard above the crowd and his eyes glancing over her for any sign of violence. She was a pretty thing, with a tumble of golden curls and a frock entirely too fancy for daytime attire, though her costume seemed somehow appropriate for the Centennial parade.
“It’s my ankle,” she replied. “I think I’ve turned it.” And with immodesty surely born of pain, she lifted her ruffled petticoats to peer at the troublesome ankle laced into scuffed leather boots.
“We’ll have to take off the boot to see if it’s broken,” he said, and was surprised when she lifted her skirt even higher. He hadn’t really meant that he would be the one removing the boot, but as she seemed to expect it of him, he obliged.
“There’s no break in the bones,” he said, gingerly pressing his fingers against her stockinged ankle. “Likely just a strain. You’ll have to stay off it for a few days while it heals. Where’s your escort? Have you a ride home?”
“No,” she replied, looking puzzled, then quickly pulled her skirts back down again as though suddenly remembering her modesty. “I always walk.”
“Well, you won’t be walkin’ anywhere today, so I reckon I’ll have to get you there myself.”
“You’re going to take me home?” she asked in surprise.
“I couldn’t very well consider myself a gentleman if I l
eft a lady in her hour of need,” he said reasonably. And though he’d been thinking more of his own pride than of her trouble, he was touched by her response.
“Then you are a gentleman, truly,” she said in a voice barely audible above the din of the crowd, “and I thank you for calling me a lady.”
He had no time to wonder about her words as he led her limping through the press of the crowd. But after they’d gotten away from the cheering throng and he asked directions to her home, her words came back to haunt him.
“It’s not far,” she said, “just a few blocks from here, down Holladay Street.”
“Holladay Street?” he asked in surprise, though it wasn’t the familiar name that caught him. Denver did indeed have a street that shared his surname, though misspelled, in honor of old Ben Holladay, the founder of the overland mail. His surprise came from the nature of the Holladay Street neighborhood. It was just one street over from Blake Street where he lived and worked, and right in the middle of the saloon district.
“But that’s just gamblin’ halls and such,” he commented, “and no real houses. Perhaps you’ve gotten yourself all turned around, what with the fall and all.”
“Oh, I know where I am,” she replied, “but it’s all right if you don’t want to walk me there. I’ll understand.”
And all at once, a picture came together in his mind: the gaudy dressed girl, the ankle too easily shown, the surprise at being called a lady. . .
His face must have betrayed his thoughts, for before he could say what he was thinking, she said it for him.
“I’m just a working girl. I don’t expect a gentleman like yourself to bother about the likes of me.”
He shouldn’t have been surprised, but he was. For though Denver was full of fallen angels, as it was full of the sporting men who gave them employment, this girl was nothing like the prostitutes he’d known in Fort Griffin. In spite of her gaudy dress, there was something almost innocent about her, something that was somehow familiar and endearing.
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