by Matt Braun
“What’d you have?” he demanded. “Three of a kind or two pair?”
“Why, Clell, you didn’t call,” Holliday said amiably. “Of course, as one sporting man to another, I’ve no objection.” He turned his hole card, a queen. “It appears I have a pair—both deuces.”
“You raised into my jacks with that! Who the hell you think you’re kiddin’, Holliday? There’s something fishy here.”
“Yes, I do believe you should have called. I plead guilty to a crass and unseemly bluff.”
“Bluff, my ass!” Austin bristled. “Nobody raises with deuces. You rigged the game somehow!”
“Oh, Clell,” Holliday said with a sardonic half-smile. “Are you accusing me of cheating?”
“You’re goddamn right I am! You think I’m afraid of you?”
“‘A living dog is better than a dead lion.’ Ecclesiastes, chapter nine, verse four. It’s good advice, Clell.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Apologize”—Holliday’s smile darkened—“or defend yourself.”
Austin glowered at him with a furious expression. Then, like a jack-in-the-box, he sprang from his chair, clawing at a pistol holstered on his hip. Holliday remained seated, leaning back slightly as he popped the Colt Lightning from his shoulder holster. His arm extended across the table a beat before Austin’s gun cleared leather. He pulled the trigger twice, one shot blending with the other.
Dark splotches appeared on Austin’s shirtfront. The slugs were an inch apart, centered on his sternum. He stiffened, his gun pointed at the floor, a look of stark surprise on his face. His knees buckled and he collapsed, crashing backward over his chair. His right bootheel drummed a quick tattoo of death.
Holliday stood, bolstering the Colt in a single motion. A dense silence hung over the room as he circled the table, halting beside the body. He stared down a moment, then looked toward the bar, nodding to George Palmer. His voice was steady, curiously restrained.
“George, be so good as to send someone for the marshal. You might fetch the undertaker as well.”
CHAPTER 5
Dallas sweltered under the brutal heat of August. Few men ventured into the sporting district until sundown, with the cool evening breezes. Vice suffered beneath the blaze of deep summer.
Holliday thrived on the heat. His general condition improved, though his cough remained constant, and he had energy to spare. With the poker tables slow during the afternoons, his attention turned to faro. He felt it important, as a professional, that he be versed in the frontier’s most popular game. His education was trial by fire, for he was playing against the house. The game required quick insight into percentages, and a certain finesse.
Today, seated at one of the faro layouts, Holliday studied an abacuslike device, known as the casekeeper. Positioned to one side of the table, the casekeeper indicated the cards already dealt and allowed a player to figure percentages on cards remaining in the deck. Queens were still unplayed, and he decided to wager on the lady. He placed a five-dollar chip above the queen on the layout.
The dealer slipped two cards from a wooden box. The first was a queen and the second a four. “Four’s a winner,” he said smoothly, collecting the chip. “Tough luck, Doc.”
“No apologies needed,” Holliday said with a slow smile. “I like the game for its very perversity. Not all that different from life, wouldn’t you agree?”
“Doc, that’s too deep for me. I just deal ’em.”
“Well, then, deal me a winner. I’m overdue.”
Faro, even more than poker, was governed by the luck of the draw. An old and highly structured game, it had originated a century before in France. The name was derived from the king of hearts, which bore the image of an Egyptian pharaoh on the back of the card. All betting was against the house, known in Western parlance as “bucking the tiger.”
A cloth layout on the table depicted every card from deuce through ace. After being shuffled, the cards were placed in the dealing box, and then drawn in pairs, displayed faceup. Before the turn of each pair, players placed bets on one or more cards of their choice. The first card out of the box was a losing bet, and the second was a winner. All bets were canceled if there were no wagers on either card.
By watching the casekeeper, players could bet win or lose on the layout. To wager on a losing card, they “coppered” their bet by placing a copper token on their chips. A daring player, or a confident high roller, would often bet win and lose on the same turn.
By late that afternoon Holliday had lost almost two hundred dollars. In his daily faro sessions, he’d learned a lot, but hardly enough to be a consistent winner. Though the education was costly, he looked upon it as an investment in the future. He thought a professional, as a practical matter, should be skilled at any game of chance. Then, too, the cost of his education was all relative. He financed it from his poker winnings.
The hour was early, and only one poker game was in progress. Cole Younger was seated at a table with three other men, one of them Amos Deckard, a railroad detective for the Texas & Pacific. Holliday was amused by the irony of a detective gambling with a notorious train robber, for the James Gang pillaged trains as well as banks. Still, that was one of the things he liked most about the gaming profession. At a card table, there were no class distinctions. There were only men with money.
Over the past month Holliday had grown friendly with Cole Younger. As a rule, he seldom gambled with friends, for cards and friendship were a poor mix. But he wanted to recoup his faro losses, and only one table was in play. He decided to lay off against Younger, and concentrate instead on the other men. When he approached the table, Deckard had just won a sizable pot. Holliday nodded pleasantly.
“Would you gentlemen like another player?”
“Grab a chair,” Younger said, motioning at the detective. “Never saw a lawdog so lucky at cards. Maybe you can bust his streak.”
“I’ll certainly try,” Holliday said, seating himself. “After all, losing is not my game.”
Deckard gave him a dour look. “That why you quit at faro?”
“I often enjoy a change of pace, Mr. Deckard. Do you object?”
“Happy to take your money, Holliday. I’m on a roll.”
Deckard’s bravado proved to be misplaced. He was a cut above Younger and the others at a poker table. But he was scarcely able to hold his own against Holliday. The game seesawed back and forth into the early evening hours. Though Deckard won an occasional hand, his streak was clearly ended. Holliday bluffed, often controlling the play with heavy raises, and his stack of greenbacks grew ever taller. Cole Younger compounded the situation by laughing uproariously whenever Holliday pulled down a pot. Deckard slowly turned churlish, his mouth set in a tight line.
Toward mid-evening, the deck rotated to Holliday as dealer. The ante was ten dollars, and he called five-card draw, allowing the man on his right to cut after he’d shuffled. He dealt around the table, pouring himself a drink before looking at his cards. He had three fives.
Younger, who was on his left, checked. Deckard, seated directly across the table, bet twenty. The next two players folded, and Holliday, puffing his cigarillo, airily raised twenty. Younger reluctantly folded, and Deckard bumped it another twenty. Holliday took the last raise.
On the draw, Deckard held four and drew one. Holliday kept the three fives and dealt himself two. When Deckard squeezed his cards apart, the corners of his mouth lifted in a fleeting, telltale smile. He checked.
Holliday caught the smile. He figured Deckard had filled on two pair and was trying to sandbag him. He fanned his cards, only to discover that he’d drawn the case five. He hesitated a moment, as though weighing his options, and bet twenty. Deckard grinned broadly.
“Your twenty,” he said with a smug look. “And twenty more.”
Holliday feigned surprise, then called, pausing a moment, and raised. Deckard raised again, waiting for Holliday to call, and barked a short laugh. He spread his cards.
>
“Read ’em and weep. Full house! Kings over tens.”
“How unfortunate,” Holliday deadpanned, turning his cards. “I filled as well, Mr. Deckard. Four fives.”
Deckard stared at the cards. “You dealt yourself the case five.”
“I’m sorely embarrassed by my own luck.”
“Luck don’t cut it! More to it than that.”
“Let’s pretend you overstated yourself, and let it drop.”
“Not by a damnsight!” Deckard roared. “I say you stacked that deck.”
Holliday smiled. “And I say you are a liar, Mr. Deckard.”
Deckard cursed, his features contorted with rage. He started to rise, his hand darting to a pistol in a crossdraw holster. The Colt Lightning appeared from beneath Holliday’s jacket, and he fired across the table. The slug caught Deckard half standing, drilling him through the heart, and his hand dropped away from the holstered pistol. He sat down heavily, his head crooked at an angle, arms dangling over the sides of the chair. His bowels voided in death.
“Well, Doc,” Younger said, batting the air at the stench. “I think you killed the son of a bitch.”
Holliday holstered his pistol. “So it would appear.”
“You’re some sudden with a gun. Dumb bastard never cleared leather.”
The other two players pushed away from the table. “Keep your seats,” Holliday ordered. “You gentlemen are witness to the fact that Deckard.made the first move. The marshal will want to hear your story.”
Some while later City Marshal Owen Campbell and one of his deputies, Lon Donaldson, pushed through the crowd. They listened attentively, asking few questions, as Holliday related details of the shooting. Cole Younger and the other players corroborated his story, agreeing that Deckard had instigated the fight. At length, his expression puzzled, the marshal turned back to Holliday.
“Amos Deckard was no slouch with a gun. How’d you beat him to the draw?”
“All in the eyes,” Holiday said with mock seriousness.
“He blinked just before he made his play.”
Campbell looked unconvinced. “There’ll be a coroner’s inquiry tomorrow. Make sure you show up.”
“You may depend on it, Marshal.”
Campbell instructed his deputy to attend to the body. As he walked toward the door, Younger and Holliday moved away from the table. “Lemme buy you a drink,” Younger said. “You earned it tonight.”
“Why, thank you, Cole. I accept your kind offer.”
Several men at the bar, most of them gamblers, congratulated Holliday. But after a few drinks, he tired of their company, and talk of the shooting. The celebrity they accorded him, what smacked to him of notoriety, made him uncomfortable. He decided to call it a night, and begged off another round of drinks. Cole Younger finally let him go with a warm handshake.
He walked off toward the hotel.
Late that night Holliday stood at the window of his room. He had a drink in one hand and a cigarillo in the other, and his eyes were fixed on the starry sky. He was taking stock of himself.
In a matter of a month, he had killed two men. Honor permitted no other recourse, for in each instance he had been accused of cheating at cards. Yet he was struck by the fact that he felt no remorse, no sense of regret. All the more so since he’d never before killed a man.
The killing itself had been easy, perhaps too easy. There was no hesitation, no struggle with conscience, simply the act of drawing and pulling the trigger. The two men, Clell Austin and Amos Deckard, had forced the issue, pushing him to fight. Still, in retrospect, he thought he might have deflected the challenge with words, or humor, or simple indifference to their accusations. But then, taking it to the end conclusion, he saw that as impractical, fancy rather than solution. A gambler could not abide being branded a cheat.
All the same, with both killings, he was vaguely bothered by his lack of remorse. The truth, though the admission came hard, was that he felt nothing. The men had bought into trouble, and whatever they got was no more than they deserved. He wondered if his own shaky mortality, the consumption slowly devouring his lungs, might have affected the way he viewed life, and death. God had merrily robbed him of life, consigned him to a last boat ride over the river Styx and the land of the dead. Perhaps all that made it somehow acceptable, simpler.
A dying man might easily kill with godlike impunity.
The door rattled under a quick, insistent knock. His woolgathering abruptly ended, Holliday crossed the room. He opened the door to find Cole Younger in the hall.
“Well, Cole, what a surprise. I thought we’d said our good-nights.”
“Gotta talk to you.” Younger brushed past him. “Trouble’s headed this way.”
Younger was tall and sturdy, a man given to coarse language and rough behavior. He was an outlaw, no stranger to trouble, and his brusque warning was not to be taken lightly. Holliday closed the door.
“What’s the nature of the trouble, Cole?”
“The law,” Younger said gruffly. “You recollect that deputy at the Acme tonight? Donaldson?”
“Yes, of course. What about him?”
“After a fashion, Donaldson and me are friends. I make it worth his while to keep his ear to the ground. Tell me if the Texas Rangers or such are sniffin’ at my heels.”
Holliday nodded. “Are they after you?”
“Hell, Doc,” Younger said, clearly agitated. “I’m trying to tell you the law’s after you. You’re gonna be arrested for killin’ Deckard. Donaldson just slipped me the word.”
“I hardly think so, Cole. Everyone agreed it was self-defense.”
“Don’t make no nevermind. You killed a railroad stooge, and the Texas and Pacific runs this town. The big muck-a-mucks ordered the marshal to bring you in.”
“Even so,” Holliday said without concern, “the charge would be thrown out of court. I have witnesses, you among them.”
“Forget me,” Younger told him. “I show up in court, they’ll toss my ass in jail. Forget them other fellers, too. Don’t matter what they say.” He shook his head dolefully. “The skids are greased to put you on the gallows.”
“Donaldson said that?”
“Just as sure as God made little green apples. The railroad believes in an eye for an eye, and Deckard was their boy. They aim to stretch your neck.”
“But Deckard made the first move. Everyone saw it.”
“So you say,” Younger countered. “Think back, and you’ll recollect he never cleared leather. His gun was still in the holster. How you think that’d look to a jury?”
Holliday frowned. “Not too favorable, I’m afraid.”
“You gotta get out of town, Doc. I’m talkin’ about right now and damn quick. Otherwise you’re as good as hung.”
“Under the circumstances, I think a train would be a poor choice. Any suggestions?”
Younger chuckled. “I stole you a horse off the street. He’s tied out back of the hotel. Head for the Nations.”
“The Nations?”
“Indian Territory,” Younger explained. “Due north acrost the Red River. Find your way to Ardmore, in the Chickasaw Nation. Ask around for Ed Blanchard.”
“Who’s Ed Blanchard?”
“A friend of me and Jesse’s. Robs a train now and then himself. Just mention my name. He’ll treat you square.”
Holliday looked around the room. “I assume there’s no time to pack. Hate to leave all these fine clothes.”
“Stole a horse, not a wagon,” Younger said urgently.
“Forget your fancy duds and save your neck. Let’s get a move on.”
Downstairs, Holliday clasped Younger’s hand in a firm grip. “Thank you, Cole. You have my marker.”
“You’d do the same for me. Go on now, Doc. Get outta here.”
Holliday walked through the rear hallway and out the back door. Younger watched after him a moment, then turned to the desk clerk. He put a finger to his lips, warning silence, and the clerk quickly nodd
ed. As he approached the entrance, Marshal Campbell and Deputy Donaldson hurried into the lobby. Campbell gave him a suspicious look.
“Where’s Doc Holliday?”
“Whyn’t you try his room, Marshal? Second floor on the front.”
The marshal rushed to the stairs, and Younger glanced at the deputy with a sly wink. Then, cocking his hat, he went through the door.
He strolled off toward the sporting district.
CHAPTER 6
Holliday forded the Red River on August 15. The river lay some hundred miles north of Dallas, and his trip had taken the better part of five days. By traveling at night, and hiding out during the day, he had passed through the countryside without attracting attention. The eastern horizon paled as he gained the opposite shoreline.
On the north bank, Holliday paused and stared back at the river. From talk among the sporting crowd, he knew that the Red was a line of demarcation. Texas Rangers and county sheriffs, regardless of the crime involved, were forbidden to cross into Indian Territory. Their jurisdiction ended at the river.
To Holliday, all that seemed a mixed blessing. He had escaped certain prosecution and conviction, and the hangman’s rope. But he was now a wanted man, a fugitive from the charge of murder. The river represented a point of no return, a departure for a former dentist turned gambler. He was now an outlaw.
The greater irony was that he was riding a stolen horse. So far as the law was concerned, that made him a horse thief as well as a murderer. He felt cheated in that respect, for Cole Younger, in the rush of the moment, had stolen a poor mount. The horse was a dun gelding, long of tooth and short of wind, on its last legs as they forded the Red. He felt lucky to have escaped at all.
From the river, he followed a rutted trail northward. A mile or so farther along he came upon a log house, surrounded by cleared fields, owned by a Chickasaw farmer. A full-blood, with braided hair and dressed in white men’s clothes, he was the first Indian Holliday had met. His English was passable, and he informed Holliday that Ardmore lay some twenty miles to the north. For a dollar, his wife provided a breakfast of venison steak and boiled hominy.
