Dance with the Devil

by Victoria Wilcox

  Mike Gordon came back later, as promised, but in worse spirits than when he’d left. His evening with the whores at Close and Patterson’s had evidently not gone well, and he was determined to have Flor make up for his disappointments. And this time, he came armed with a shotgun and ready to take her by force.

  “Flor!” he yelled, as he pushed his way into the tent saloon, setting the hanging oil lamp swaying over the gaming tables. “Your soldier’s come back for you, and I mean to have you this time around!”

  Flor looked up from the back of the room, dark eyes darting between Mike Gordon and John Henry.

  “I am still working, Miguel,” she called. “Besides, you’re drunk. I don’t want to go with you when you’re bad drunk.”

  “I am drunk,” he agreed, though he seemed more sober than he’d been before. But that was just the way the whiskey hit some men, making them jolly at first and steely later—and Mike Gordon looked to be getting steely in his resolve. “I am drunk,” he repeated, “and you are coming with me.”

  But he was too occupied with Flor to notice John Henry off to the side of the saloon, pulling his own pistol and taking aim.

  “Drop the shotgun, Gordon,” John Henry said, “or take a bullet in the brain. You choose.”

  Mike wavered a moment, then let go of the gun, the whiskey making him bold, but not quite suicidal.

  “That’s an interesting way of impressin’ a lady,” John Henry commented, “but I don’t think Flor’s all that impressed. Now leave the shotgun here and get yourself out of my place. You can pick up your firearm tomorrow when you’re not so drunk.”

  Mike turned slowly toward him, eyes fixed on John Henry’s finger hovering over the trigger of his pistol. Then, bold but not stupid, he backed out of the saloon without saying another word.

  “Well, I reckon that’s enough excitement for one evenin’,” John Henry said as he pocketed the pistol. “Flor, bring me two fingers of that Jack Daniels behind the counter. All this fuss is givin’ me a thirst.”

  The little Mexican girl nodded and hurried to the bar. But as she bent down to find the bottle that John Henry kept special for himself, shots rang out in the street and a bullet came whistling in through the canvas wall of the tent saloon, lodging in the wood of the bar.

  Flor screamed as she and the customers dropped to the floor. Only John Henry stayed standing, still waiting for his drink. He didn’t have to ask to know that it was Mike Gordon doing the shooting, no doubt having grabbed another gun somewhere and turned it on the saloon. Then another shot sailed into the place, catching a customer in the leg as he cowered on the floor, and John Henry sprang into action.

  He dove for Mike’s abandoned shotgun and came up cocking it with one hand while he pulled his own pistol with the other. Then, both hands full of lead, he sprang to the canvas door of the saloon. With one quick glance, he saw Mike Gordon standing alone in the moonlit street reloading a six-shooter for another volley at the saloon, and he pulled up the pistol and drew a bead, firing off three shots before Mike could get his own pistol into play.

  It was a bad setup for a shooting match, with the canvas tent door hanging in his way and one hand still holding the shotgun, but one of the three shots found its mark, and Mike spun around and grabbed at his shooting arm.

  “I’m hit!” he screamed, dropping his six-shooter and looking with surprise toward the door of the tent. “I’m hit!” he said again, the reality of blood and broken bone somehow making its way through the fog of liquor. “Dammit, Flor, he shot me!”

  “And I’ll shoot you again if you don’t go off and leave us in peace,” John Henry said from behind the canvas, keeping his pistol aimed at the wounded man. “I have four shots left in my pistol and two charges left in this shotgun, and I’ll gladly give you all of ‘em if you dare fire another shot into my place.”

  But Mike Gordon wasn’t listening to him, cradling his bloodied shooting arm and starting to cry.

  “Flor!” he moaned, “I’m bleeding out here. Won’t you come out with me now? I only wanted to take you dancing, and now I’m shot to pieces!”

  “You’re not shot to pieces, yet,” John Henry replied, finding himself unable to feel any sympathy for a drunk with a deadly weapon. Behind him, the customer Gordon had hit was moaning as well, and Flor was kneeling over him with her apron stanching the bleeding.

  “He needs a doctor, Señor. We must send someone right away.”

  “I reckon your boyfriend’s gonna be needin’ a doctor as well,” he commented, but when he looked back toward the street, there was only moonlight and no Mike Gordon to be seen.

  “Let him find a doctor for himself,” Flor said bitterly. “I am glad to be rid of him. And grateful to you, Señor, for keeping him away from me tonight. I will light a candle for you tomorrow at Nuestra Señora de Dolores. But for him, I hope he dies.”

  While Flor lit her candle, John Henry had more practical matters to attend to. The gunfight with Mike Gordon had shown him how flimsy a structure a tent saloon could be and that it was time he invested in something more substantial. Wind and rain coming in around the edges of the tent walls were merely uncomfortable; gunshots tearing through the canvas and into the customers were downright dangerous. So he signed a contract with a local carpenter to build a real board and batten structure to take the place of his shot-through saloon, and paid out $45 in cash to get the job started.

  The tent saloon came down on a Monday morning at about the same time that George Close found a body in the drainage ditch behind his Railroad Street dance hall. It was Mike Gordon, Flor’s lover, dead of a gunshot wound to the arm. He’d bled to death seemingly, though a doctor could have saved him with no trouble at all. Now, his unnecessary death would be trouble for John Henry, for everyone knew that Mike Gordon had been shooting up the town in front of Doc Holliday’s Saloon that Saturday night, and someone’s well-aimed answering shot had stopped the noise. So it wasn’t surprising when the owner of the saloon was subpoenaed as a witness in the Coroner’s hearing into the untimely death of poor genial old Mike Gordon. What was surprising was how a town’s perceptions of a man could change just because he was dead.

  The Coroner’s hearing was held in the dining room of the Exchange Hotel on the Plaza in Old Town Las Vegas, a place John Henry knew well, having paid good money to live in luxury there after his miraculous recovery at the Hot Springs. But he hadn’t lived there alone, and as he stepped into the chandeliered lobby where the afternoon light filtered through fancy lace curtains, he couldn’t help but think of Kate. She had loved the Exchange, with its shiny brass beds and deep feather mattresses, it’s printed artwork adorning papered walls, its long windows looking out over the Plaza where the hanging gallows stood encircled by a white picket fence. The Exchange, he realized, was much like Kate in some ways: elegance in the midst of trail dust and wagon trains, ease and comfort in the face of affliction.

  He had never thought of Kate and comfort in the same breath before, except when she was nursing him back to health. But she had been comfortable, in her way, standing by him when other women would have been long gone. It was her companionship, mostly, that he was missing, he decided, and the comfort of having another human being near. It was a comfort that would be welcome this afternoon, as he walked into the dining room of the hotel and faced a crowd of spectators—hearings on suspicious deaths being close to hangings as entertainment in Las Vegas.

  He found a seat on a curved-back dining room chair and looked around the room, noting the number of sporting men in the audience. He was in good company, at least, if anything untoward came of the hearing. Still, he couldn’t help but wish he’d brought along someone for moral support. His thoughts were interrupted by the arrival of a red-haired, red-faced stranger.

  “You must be Doc Holliday,” the man said, not bothering to offer his hand in a proper introduction. His hands, in fact, were already occupied with a pencil and sheaf of paper on which he scribbled as he spoke.

  “I a
m,” John Henry said. “And who do I have the pleasure of addressin’?”

  “Kistler,” the man replied brusquely, “Russell Kistler, Editor of the Otero Optic and soon to be Editor of the Las Vegas Optic as well. Currently working as a court reporter covering murder cases in San Miguel County.”

  “Then you’re in the wrong courtroom, Mr. Kistler. This isn’t a murder case.”

  “Oh?” the newspaper reporter said, voice and pencil poised in midair. “And why do you say that?”

  “Because Mike Gordon wasn’t worth murderin’. Ask any of his limited number of friends.”

  “I have,” the reporter replied, “and they all think you killed him, shooting out the door of your saloon.”

  “I didn’t have a door on my saloon last Saturday night,” John Henry said coolly. “It was nothin’ but a tent until two days ago, so I’m afraid Mike’s friends must have it wrong.”

  “And who do you think shot him?” the reporter asked.

  “I think that’s a question for the Coroner,” John Henry answered, noting with irritation that the reporter scribbled down those words, too.

  “And what do you think of our acting Mayor and Coroner?” Kistler questioned, ready to write down another reply.

  “I haven’t had the pleasure of meetin’ him yet,” John Henry replied carefully, “though I hear he has the best interests of New Town at heart. And you may quote me on that.”

  “Oh, I already have,” the reporter said with a smile.

  It was a smile John Henry didn’t find comforting, and he was almost relieved to hear the Constable’s cry of attention.

  “All arise for the honorable Hoodoo Brown!”

  John Henry’s irritation at the annoying reporter turned into amusement at the ridiculous ceremony being afforded the Coroner. He was, after all, just another sporting man with an outlandish nickname and little qualification for a legal career. But the laughter left him as the Coroner swept into the room, bedecked in judge’s robes and jeweled finger rings that sparkled as he took up the gavel.

  “That Hoodoo Brown’s quite a dandy, ain’t he?” a man beside him whispered. “Where do you suppose they dug up such a daisy?”

  John Henry stared at the Coroner, his reply coming out in a hoarse whisper. “St. Louis,” he said, hardly believing the words himself, “on the Levee in St. Louis . . .”

  If the man looked at him quizzically, he didn’t notice. His mind was racing back to a night when he’d played poker with the cunning owner of a saloon on the cobblestoned levee in St. Louis. He could still see the signboard hanging over the saloon door: a man fighting an alligator and losing. He could still hear the echo of riverboats sliding past and the warning of a river man whose words echoed in his memory: Hoodoo be black magic, and that man in there, he be hoodoo, too, he be bad luck. . .”

  Hoodoo, the Jamaican had called him. Hoodoo Brown folks called him now, but it still meant the same thing: bad luck. For the Coroner of New Town Las Vegas, the man who had come to make a charge of murder in the death of Mike Gordon, was the man John Henry had played poker against at the Alligator Saloon back in St. Louis, the gambler named Hyram Neil.

  It had been seven years since John Henry had wagered his inheritance and lost, leaving St. Louis without making good on the debt. And for most of those seven years, he hadn’t given Hyram Neil a second thought. But now it came back to him all at once: the youthful arrogance that had made him think he could beat a sophisticated sporting man; the horror of realizing he hadn’t beaten him after all and had lost his family’s property; the fear that Hyram Neil would come to collect on the debt and deal him worse than a creditor. And now, he was face to face with Neil again and the gambler had the power to make him pay at last, or punish him, at least, for not paying up.

  The Coroner’s dark eyes took in the room and John Henry felt himself flinch under their appraising gaze. Surely the man would recognize him and remember the debt he’d never paid. But Neil’s glance only flickered past him, showing no more interest in him than in any of the other men the room. And even when the name of Doc Holliday was called as a witness in the hearing, the Coroner’s face seemed as undisturbed as the slow-moving waters of the muddy Mississippi River. But like the Mississippi, where treacherous shoals and twisting currents lay hidden beneath the surface of the water, a poker player’s face hid his real thoughts—Hyram Neil was, above all things, a poker player.

  John Henry put on his own poker face to answer the Coroner’s questions, hoping to look as unruffled as Hoodoo did.

  “Yessir, Your Honor, I own a saloon on Centre Street. Next door to Heran’s Saloon, except for an alley in between.”

  “And how long have you owned this saloon?”

  “Just a month, more or less. I bought the lot and had a tent put on it, like they do down in New Town. Though the tent is gone now since I’m havin’ a board saloon built in its place.”

  “You must be prospering, Dr. Holliday,” the coroner said, and John Henry answered warily.

  “I’m doin’ all right. Prosperity bein’ a matter of interpretation, I reckon.”

  “And were you in your saloon on Saturday evening last?”

  “Yessir, I was.”

  “Describe the evening, if you would. Was it a clear night?”

  “It was.”

  “And was there a moon overhead?”

  The question was ridiculous, since everyone in the courtroom surely knew the weather and the phase of the moon that night.

  “Yessir, there was. A three-quarter moon, as I recall.”

  “And what was the mood of the customers in your saloon?” “Cheerful. Whiskey has a way of makin’ men cheerful.”

  There was a ruffle of laughter in the room, but the Coroner ignored it and went on. “And your employees, were they cheerful as well?”

  “They were cheerful, too, for the most part.”

  “And by that, do you mean to say that some of your employees were not in a cheerful state?”

  “I only have two employees, and one of them was less than cheerful.” “And which employee would that be?”

  “My waitress, Flor Hernandez.”

  “And what was the cause of her unhappiness?”

  “Some trouble with her lover, as I suppose. One never knows for sure with women.”

  Again there was laughter from the crowd, ignored by the coroner.

  “And the lover you mention was the late Mike Gordon?”

  “Yessir.”

  The Coroner paused to write something on the papers in front of him, and John Henry noticed newspaper reporter Kistler doing the same. Then the Coroner looked up again, his dark eyes glinting.

  “As I hear it around town, Dr. Holliday, you were Flor’s lover and Mike Gordon was your rival for her affections. Cause enough for you to kill him.”

  The laughter in the courtroom turned to a sudden silence.

  “I believe I would like to speak with a lawyer,” John Henry said carefully. “I would like to be represented by counsel.”

  It was a reasonable enough request in any other court of law. But in New Town Las Vegas, the Coroner was the law and he set his own rules. And surprisingly, Hyram Neil laughed.

  “Come now, Dr. Holliday, that won’t be necessary! This isn’t a trial and you haven’t been charged with anything. This is only a hearing to find whether there is cause to make a charge. Now, why don’t you tell me your version of the story and let me decide your fate?”

  It was as unattractive an offer as he had ever received, yet he had no choice but to accept it and say everything he knew about the shooting, from Mike Gordon’s first appearance in the street that Saturday night to his last words to Flor. But, true as John Henry’s story was, it was only his word against Hyram Neil’s and no guarantee of justice. And as he waited for the court to consider the story and render judgment, he remembered the words his uncle Will McKey had spoken long ago: What a man could prove and what he got accused of were two different things—and sometimes all it took w
as an accusation to ruin a man’s good name. Or his life, John Henry thought as the moments dragged on and the Coroner still considered.

  The silence in the courtroom was broken only by the pencil-scratching of Russell Kistler who was, no doubt, relishing the drama and readying it for the front page of his Otero Optic. And still the Coroner held his silence, considering.

  John Henry had heard that kind of silence before, in the tense moments of a high-stakes poker game. And suddenly, he understood: Hyram Neil was playing poker and about to raise the stakes.

  “Ladies and Gentlemen of the Court,” he said at last, “this is a difficult matter to decide. As our witness tells it, the death of Mike Gordon is a simple case of excusable homicide, as the shooting was done by way of a police act to protect the customers in an established place of business. But as certain other sources tell it, the shooting was more than a police action. It was, in fact, a premeditated and efficiently accomplished act of revenge. It was, in fact, murder in the first degree.”

  John Henry glanced out the long windows of the dining room toward the Plaza and the gallows waiting there, and shivered in spite of the summer heat. Hyram Neil had raised the stakes, all right, and he had nothing left to play.

  “However,” the Coroner went on in measured tones, “since this is such a difficult matter, I feel it my duty to give careful consideration to the situation. Court is hereby adjourned until ten o’clock tomorrow morning.” The slam of his gavel on the makeshift judge’s bench rattled the water glasses and the windows in their casements, making the gallows outside seem to come alive.

  Hyram Neil was hanging him already, just by leaving him hanging.

  In his dreams that night he was back in St. Louis, playing cards down on the levee. He knew the place was the Alligator Saloon because there was an alligator sitting across the table from him, making wagers in the wavering light of a hanging oil lamp. But try as he might to find a winning play, he kept losing to the grinning monster before him.