by Matt Braun
“Gracious sakes,” she clucked. “You eat like a sparrow, Dr. Holliday. How are we gonna fatten you up?”
“An unlikely prospect, Bertha. Fine cigars and good whiskey stoke my engine.”
“One of these days you’ll just dry up and blow away.”
Holliday smiled. “I will endeavor to avoid high winds.”
“All your funnin’ doesn’t change things. A solid meal would do you a world of good.”
“Yes, I’m sure you’re right. Perhaps tomorrow.”
From the cafe, Holliday walked uptown to the sporting district. His evenings were devoted to poker, and the Acme Gaming Palace had become his usual haunt. Sometimes, when business was slow at the office, he even played during the day. His skill as a gambler had gradually improved, for he was analytical and quick to figure the percentages of good hands and bad. A month at the tables had proved to be an education.
One of the first lessons learned was that every game was assumed to be crooked. A boomtown served as a lure to cardsharps and grifters, ever on the lookout for an easy mark. Some worked ’alone, and others operated in league with one or more confederates. The game of choice was poker, and the wiles they employed were seemingly endless. Their craft, the ability to cheat, was more art than science.
A favorite dodge of tinhorns was to introduce marked cards into a game. The practice was so common that “readers,” cards with secret marks on the backs of a deck, were widely advertised by manufacturers. Another trick was faint punctures on the surfaces, indiscernible except to a skilled hand, which revealed the high cards. Shaved cards, trimmed along the sides, and cards with slightly rounded corners, were employed by those with the dexterity to stack a deck, or deal from the bottom. Mastery of the various tricks required a deft touch, and constant practice. A cardsharp, no less than a magician, relied on sleight-of-hand.
Holliday, who considered himself an honorable man, had no interest in resorting to underhanded methods. Yet he played to win, and he was imbued with a fierce will to emerge the victor in any contest. So he became an avid student of cardsharps, and the varied dodges they used to rig a game. He watched, alert to the unusual or unexplainable, anything that defied the mathematical odds. He slowly came to understand the tricksters, and their trickery.
The regulars at the Acme Gaming Palace accepted him at face value. He was a dentist, fairly adept at the game of poker, and a man who minded his own business. He was not considered one of the sporting crowd, but neither was he considered a greenhorn, a sucker. Some thought him aloof, too educated for their tastes, and others thought his wry wit made for excellent company. He was welcome at any table, and he seldom went away a loser. That alone earned their respect.
The game tonight was five-card draw. In some Eastern casinos the traditional rules of poker had been revised to include straights, flushes, and the most elusive of all combinations, the straight flush. The highest hand back East was now a royal flush, ten through ace in the same suit. By all reports, the revised rules lent the game an almost mystical element.
Poker in the West was still played by the original rules observed in earlier times on riverboats. There were no straights, no flushes, and no straight flushes, royal or otherwise. There were two unbeatable hands west of the Mississippi. The first was four aces, drawn by most players only once or twice in a lifetime.
The other cinch hand was four kings with an ace, which precluded anyone holding four aces. Seasoned players looked upon it as a minor miracle, or the work of a skilled cardsharp. Four kings, in combination with one of the aces, surmounted almost incalculable odds.
Shortly before midnight, at a nearby table, a tinhorn gambler dealt himself the miracle hand. A cattleman, who held four treys, loudly denounced the gambler as a card cheat. Apart from conceding the pot, and being run out of town, the tinhorn had only one option. He kicked his chair away, pulling a bulldog revolver from his waistband as he backed off from the table, and fired twice in the space of a heartbeat. One shot plowed into the table and the other went wide of the mark.
The cattleman, by now on his feet, drew a holstered Colt Peacemaker. He extended his arm, sighting as lead whizzed past his shoulder, and coolly fired a single shot. The slug struck the gambler squarely in the chest the instant he triggered a third shot into the far wall. He lurched backward, his eyes rolling up into his head, and toppled to the floor. The cattleman holstered his Colt, then calmly raked in the pot. No one offered any objection.
The gambler was left where he’d fallen. Someone went to fetch the city marshal, and play quickly resumed at the other tables. Holliday, with a ringside seat to the shooting, was impressed by the cool nerve of the cattleman. Whether the tinhorn had actually cheated seemed to him a moot point. Of the two antagonists, only one was still standing.
The gunfight was the first he’d witnessed since arriving in Dallas. For a man who frequented gaming dives, he thought it was highly instructive. Arguments over cards were not uncommon, and any gambler, professional or otherwise, might be called upon to defend his honor. The only acceptable response was the one he’d seen tonight.
A man who gambled must be willing to risk it all with a gun.
CHAPTER 4
Holliday awoke with bright sunlight streaming through the window. He sat up on the edge of the bed and took his pocket watch from the nightstand. After an all-night poker game he’d got to sleep around five in the morning, and it was now going on noon. He yawned, arms curled in a wide stretch.
A sudden spasm erupted deep in his lungs. He reached for a bottle on the nightstand, popped the cork, and took a long pull. The whiskey was raw, molten fire searing him from gullet to stomach. But on the way down it stopped the coughing fit, and he tossed off a second dose for good measure. He was ready to face the day.
The room was stuffy with the forenoon heat of early July. He moved to the washstand, sloshing water from a pitcher into a wide oval basin. The image he saw in the mirror was a ghost of his former self, his features gaunt and pallid. Still, for a man whose closest companion was death, he wryly thought there were mornings he’d looked worse. He began stropping his razor.
For the most part, musing on it as he shaved, he thought the sporting life agreed with him. Toward the middle of June, when the coughing fits finally robbed him of patients, he had closed his dental practice. By then, he was spending more time in the gaming dives than fixing teeth, and it seemed logical to transform a pastime into a new vocation. All the more so since he needed a steady source of income simply to cover routine living expenses. Virtually overnight, he became a professional gambler.
Oddly enough, he found that the regimen of a gambler agreed with him. Sometimes, as happened last night, he might play from late afternoon until the early morning. But these marathon sessions of ten or twelve hours rarely sapped his spirits. If anything, good cards mixed with liberal doses of whiskey seemed to restore his vigor. His lungs protested the strain, and some days he coughed with every other breath. Yet he not only survived, he thrived.
All in a short time he had earned a reputation among the sporting crowd. He won more often than he lost, particularly when the stakes were high, which was the mark of a professional. The larger contest was with rough, brawling men who thought his affliction made him an invalid, and therefore easily intimidated. He was quick to call their bluff, and let it be known that he subscribed to a deadlier credo. He operated on the premise that God made men, but Samuel Colt had made them equal. So far, no one had pushed it to the limit.
To underscore his point, Holliday went dressed for trouble. On his hip he now wore a Colt Peacemaker, chambered for .45 caliber, with a four-and-three-quarter-inch barrel. The finish was lustrous indigo-blue and the grips were custom-made of yellowed ivory. Beneath his suit jacket, in a spring-loaded shoulder holster, he carried a Colt Lightning, chambered for .41 caliber, with a three-and-a-half-inch barrel and a birdshead butt. The Lightning was officially scheduled for release by Colt in January, but his gunsmith had managed to obtain
an early production model. The pistol was double-action, which eliminated having to cock the hammer for the first shot. A simple squeeze of the trigger got the job done.
Apart from hardware, Holliday had ordered a new wardrobe as well. Gamblers customarily wore dark suits, with white shirts and dark ties, which gave them the look of prosperous undertakers. To celebrate his new profession, Holliday chose a more distinctive look, with tailored suits in a variety of colors. His wardrobe now included light gray, muted blue, and pale beige, and a selection of pastel shirts matched to complement the suits. The overall appearance was one of sartorial elegance, a spiffy dresser. He stood out from the rest of the sporting crowd.
Today, when he came downstairs, he was attired in a vested suit of gray, with a dove-colored shirt and a royal-blue tie. His one concession to local custom was a wide-brimmed Western hat with a domed crown. In the lobby, the desk clerk greeted him with a letter from the morning post. He glanced at the envelope, recognizing the perfectly ovaled script, and stuffed it into his pocket. Outside, the blast of summer heat brought an instant film of perspiration to his face. He crossed the busy intersection to the Bon Ton Cafe.
Bertha brought his usual breakfast of soft-boiled eggs, dry toast, and coffee. He laced the coffee with a shot from his flask, then read the letter while he ate. His appetite, never strong in the best of circumstances, was further spoiled by what he read. Mattie continued to ignore, or even acknowledge, his many hints that she should make a life for herself in Atlanta. She seemed determined in her belief that God, in some magical way, would cure his consumption and they would once more be together. The last paragraph stopped him cold.
The Lord in his infinite mercy will guide us through our moment of travail. We have only to trust in Him, and never allow our faith to waver. I know, just as you do, John, that the Lord meant us to be joined as one. You are utmost in my prayers, and though we are apart for now, I am with you in spirit and soul. We will come through this interlude for the better, and forever. Our love, all that we share, will endure.
The words blurred. Holliday wanted to embrace her belief that all would come right in the end. He needed to hold her, to smell the fresh scent of her hair, never to leave her again. Yet he was too much a pragmatist to trust in the Lord’s mercy, or rely on the curative power of divine intervention. Her prayers would alter nothing, and one day, despite her faith, his lungs would kill him. Short of death, he wondered how she might be convinced to turn loose. To finally let go.
Still lost in thought, Holliday emerged from the cafe. Outside, waiting for him, was a young boy of thirteen, Joey Woodruff. A fortnight ago, upon casting his lot as a gambler, he’d hired the youngster to assist in a daily drill. Joey’s assignment was to collect empty whiskey bottles from saloons, load them in a gunnysack, and meet him at the cafe. His wages were fifty cents a day.
“Good morning, Joey,” Holliday said. “I see you’ve been busy.”
“Yessir,” the youngster said brightly, hefting his gunnysack. “I got a good load today.”
“Well, then, let’s be off.”
Holliday led the way through the downtown area. A short while later they halted along a deserted stretch of the Trinity River. Without being told, Joey positioned himself upstream, dumping bottles from the gunnysack onto the ground. The empty bottles were corked and airtight, guaranteed to float. The purpose of the drill was to further hone Holliday’s skill with a pistol. His new profession demanded that he be as proficient with firearms as he was with cards.
During his time in Dallas, Holliday had witnessed three gunfights. After some reflection, he had come to the conclusion that the victor was not necessarily the faster man. Speed was fine, but in his view, accuracy was final. The shot that killed an opponent, rather than the first shot, was what counted. More often than not, the man who hurried his opening shot was soon bound for the graveyard. So he practiced on a speedy draw, yet his focus was on placing every shot dead center. He was quick, but deliberate.
Joey tossed a bottle into the river. Then, one after another, he lobbed four more in rapid succession. The bottles bobbed to the surface, spaced several feet apart, and floated downstream. Holliday’s hand snaked beneath his jacket and came out with the Colt Peacemaker, the hammer cocked. His mind closed down, his nerves went dead, and he reverted to a state of reflex and instinct. Time fragmented into split seconds, an instant of icy deliberation suspended within each moment. There was an overwhelming sense of calm, and the gun. He simply saw and reacted.
His arm leveled and the Colt bucked in his hand. The first bottle erupted in a geyser of water and glass. He swung the Colt in an arc and locked onto the second bottle. His eyes sighted along the barrel—caught within an instant of deliberation—and he feathered the trigger. The second bottle in line exploded. Then the next and the next, and finally the last as the current swept it some yards below his position. Less than five seconds had elapsed from the moment he pulled the gun.
Timing himself, Holiday shucked the empty shells and reloaded. He inserted a round into the first chamber, leaving the next one empty, and loaded the last four chambers. On a measured count of ten, he snapped the loading gate closed and lowered the hammer on an empty chamber. After holstering the Peacemaker, he looked upstream and nodded. Joey began tossing bottles, until five more bobbed along the surface. Holliday snapped the Colt Lightning out of the shoulder holster and extended his arm. He fired double-action, the hammer rising and falling with each squeeze of the trigger. All five bottles exploded in shards of glass.
“Goldurn!” Joey whistled shrilly. “You don’t never miss no more.”
Holliday began reloading. “I sincerely hope not, Joey. No cigar for second best in this game.”
The drill was repeated, alternating between the Peacemaker and the Lightning. Finally, after twenty bottles and no misses, Holliday was satisfied. The ravages of consumption had not slowed his hand, and his reflexes were still sharp. Later, at the hotel, he would clean and oil the guns, cleansing the parts of black-powder residue. Before he went to work, he would ensure that their action was butter-smooth. For that, too, was part of the daily drill.
The pistols were tools of his trade.
“’Evenin’, Doc.”
Holliday nodded to the bartender. “Good evening, Harry.”
“The usual?”
“Yes, I believe so.”
The barkeep filled a shot glass, and left the bottle. Holliday knocked back the drink, waiting for the warmth to spread through his insides. He refilled the glass, turning with one elbow on the counter, and studied the room. Toward the rear, there was action at three of the poker tables.
George Palmer, owner of the Acme Palace, was observing play at one of the faro layouts. He saw Holliday and moved to the bar. “Looking for a game, Doc?”
“No pay unless a man plays, George. Another day, another dollar.”
To those in the sporting district, he was no longer John Henry Holliday, the dentist. Once he adopted the mantle of a gambling man, someone had dubbed him “Doc,” a play on his former profession. The nickname was a badge of acceptance, his induction into the fraternal order of gamblers. He was now known simply as Doc Holliday.
“Watch yourself,” Palmer warned in a low voice. “Cole Younger’s playing at the second table. He’s a hothead when it comes to cards.”
Holliday sipped his whiskey. “Cole and I are on mutually good terms. Neither of us would offend the other.” His gaze drifted to a large man seated at the second table, and he chuckled. “All the world loves a rogue. Amusing, isn’t it?”
Cole Younger and his brothers, Bob and Jim, had ridden into Dallas a week ago. They were members of the James Gang, and according to rumor, Jesse had ordered the band to scatter following a bank holdup in Missouri. Local peace officers, while aware of their presence, felt no great obligation to Missouri bankers. The Youngers were allowed the run of the town.
After finishing his drink, Holliday walked to the rear of the room. He exchanged
greetings with Cole Younger, but took a seat at another table. A waiter brought him a fresh glass and a full bottle of bourbon. He lit a cigarillo, peeling a thousand dollars off his bankroll, and nodded pleasantly to the five men at the table. One of them, Clell Austin, had a reputation as a sore loser, and averted his eyes. He looked irked that Holliday had joined the game.
The rules were dealer’s choice, restricted to five-card stud and five-card draw. Ante was twenty dollars, with a fifty-dollar limit and three raises. Check and raise was permitted, which made it a game perfectly suited to Holliday’s style of play. He had developed his own technique for winning at cutthroat poker. The secret was to keep them guessing.
Over the next hour Holliday seemed unbeatable. He had an uncanny knack for reading the other players, and he won on what appeared to be weak hands. 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 he seldom folded. More often than not his bluff went undetected.
On good hands, he would sometimes raise the limit, 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. On occasion, merely calling all bets and raises, he let the other players build the pot only to turn up the winning hand. No one was ever sure of what he held.
Into the second hour, the deal passed to Wally Bevins, a local businessman. He dealt five-card stud, the first card down and four exposed one at a time. On the opening round, Austin was high with an ace showing, and bet twenty. Holliday, with a ten up, raised fifty and the other players folded. Austin scowled, hesitating a moment, then called the raise. As the hand played out, Austin caught a jack on the fifth card, pairing one already on the board. He bet fifty, and Holliday, who had a pair of deuces showing, raised the limit. Austin studied on it a while, then uttered a sour grunt. He folded his cards.
