by Matt Braun
The dealer looked apprehensive. “Grifters on the warpath. One gang spoiled a swindle of the other one.” He nervously licked his lips. “Gonna be hell to pay.”
The man with the cane advanced closer to the bar. He twisted the head of his cane and withdrew a wicked-looking sword. “Warned you, Jordan,” he said, glaring at one of the men at the bar. “You should’ve got out of town.”
“Don’t mess with me, Cady. I’ll kill you.”
“Not tonight!”
Cady lunged with the sword. The blade struck Jordan in the left shoulder as he tried to dodge aside. He lurched backward, wrenching the blade free, and pulled a gun. Before he could fire, one of Cady’s men raised a pistol and shot him in the chest. He went down as though poleaxed.
The men on both sides had by then drawn their guns. The distance separating them was less than five feet, and they opened fire in a withering volley. One man spun away with a wound in the side, another crumpled with a slug in his leg, and a third dropped dead, shot through the heart. Farther down the bar, the crowd scattered, running for cover. Two of them dropped in mid-stride, brought down by wayward slugs.
The gunfire became general, the front end of the room wreathed in smoke. On either side another man fell, and Cady was the only one left standing. Having dropped the sword cane, he extended a pistol, and shot a man struggling to rise from the floor. The bartender whipped a sawed-off shotgun from beneath the counter, triggering both barrels in a blinding roar of light. Jolted by a double load of buckshot, Cady hurtled backward into the wall. He slid to the floor in a bloody heap.
Holliday crawled from beneath the faro table. The room looked like a charnel house, with nine men down, four of them dead. The wounded lay splattered with blood, moaning piteously, their eyes wide with shock. All but deafened by the gunfire, Holliday stared at the carnage with a bemused expression. The faro dealer peeked out from behind the table.
“Holy God,” he said in a shaky voice. “Would you look at that!”
An hour or so later, the dead and wounded had been carted away. Marshal Claude White stood talking with the bartender, and a deputy was posted at the door. Outside, a crowd was gathered before the plate-glass window, gawking in numbed silence. A swamper slowly mopped blood from the floor.
Holliday sat alone at the faro table, sipping bourbon. Along with the other witnesses, he had been ordered to wait until the lawmen completed their investigation. He lit a cigarillo, watching as White turned away from the bartender and crossed the room. The lawman halted in front of him.
“Dangerous town,” he said, exhaling smoke. “You should have warned me, Marshal.”
White arched one eyebrow. “Trouble seems to dog your heels, Holliday.”
“I was an innocent bystander. A spectator of sorts.”
“So the barkeep tells me. Otherwise you’d be headed for jail.”
“You are a hard man,” Holliday said with mock solemnity. “I take it I’m free to go.”
“Watch yourself, Holliday. I’ll have my eye on you.”
“Good night, Marshal.”
Holliday walked toward the hotel. He was unconcerned with the hectoring manner of Marshal Claude White. Yet he was intrigued by the bloodbath he’d just witnessed. A cosmopolitan city, he told himself, was not necessarily a civilized place. Tonight proved the point.
Denver was no less dangerous than the wilds of Texas.
CHAPTER 14
Springtime was the best of times in the Rockies. By late April most of the snow was melted and green-leafed aspens fluttered on gentle breezes. The mountains surrounding the mining camp were ablaze with the riotous color of wild flowers.
Georgetown was located some forty miles west of Denver. The camp was the offspring of one of the richest silver strikes ever made in Colorado. At an elevation of eight thousand feet, the town itself was situated in a broad gorge shadowed by mountains. On the main street shops and stores were wedged together with saloons, gaming dives and dance halls. A rough form of free enterprise reigned in any mining camp.
Holliday stood at the window of his hotel room. He gazed out at the town, lost in a moment of contemplation. In late January, when he’d turned twenty-five, he had wondered if he would live to see spring. But today, thirteen months after he had departed Atlanta, his mood was surprisingly optimistic. The mountain air agreed with his lungs, and though his cough was ever constant, he was otherwise in good health. He had lived longer than anyone expected, himself included. He felt ahead of the game.
Sometimes he wondered if things might have been different with Mattie. Her attitude was still one of unshakable determination, and her letters dwelled on their future together. She wanted to come west and join him, all the more so since his condition had not worsened to any marked degree. He was often tempted, particularly during his stay in Denver, for she would have enjoyed the relatively sophisticated atmosphere. But he continued to dissuade her whenever he wrote, never losing sight of the hard reality, an immutable truth. He was living on borrowed time.
There were other reasons as well. After three months in Denver, he had found himself growing restless. He had made friends there, and whether a matter of good fortune or his reputation, he hadn’t been forced to kill anyone. But he slowly wearied of the town, and an urge to move on, to see more of the Gamblers’ Circuit, gradually came over him. A month ago, having heard good things of Georgetown, he had boarded a westbound stage. A mining camp lacked the amenities of Denver, but the play was loose and fast, and he liked the wild, no-holds-barred manner of a boomtown. He decided to stay a while.
The sun was high when Holliday turned from the window. He left his room, moving through the hallway, and went downstairs for his regular noontime breakfast. One of the more pleasant surprises about Georgetown had been the Hotel de Paris. The owner, Louis Dupuy, was French by birth and an adventurer by choice, seeking fortune in the mining camps. The hotel had been built shortly after the silver strike, and Dupuy had created what seemed a holdover from some opulent era of the past. His hostelry was now considered a landmark in the remote mountain town.
Entering the dining room, Holliday was struck again by the grace of the establishment. The ceiling was an inlaid mosaic, offset by a floor of perfectly matched panels in dark mahogany and light oak. Carved figurines encircled the room at ceiling height, and a crystal chandelier swung in delicate suspension. Old World etchings and fine engravings decorated the walls, and spotted around the room were ornate, carved credenzas. The tables were covered with immaculate linen.
“Bon jour.” Dupuy rushed forward to greet Holliday. He was short and stout, with a waxed mustache and bright, eager eyes. “How are we today, monsieur?”
“I’ve felt worse, Louis.”
The room was crowded with noonday diners. Dupuy led him to a corner table and bowed him to a chair. Some people thought the little Frenchman’s accent, and his cultivated airs, were a showy masquerade for the patrons. Holliday considered it part of his charm.
“Now, let me see!” Dupuy briskly rubbed his hands together. “What may I offer you today, monsieur? Something substantial, eh?”
“The usual will be fine, Louis.”
“Bon Dieu!”
Dupuy often accused him of eating like a sparrow. His breakfast, by now a standby, was eggs, toast, and coffee. He might have nothing during the day, and seldom more than a light supper when he finished for the night. Yet his weight held steady, though he was painfully thin, and he never lacked for stamina. Whiskey was his source of vigor.
After breakfast, Holliday strolled along the main street. Georgetown, like most mining camps, was open night and day. The miners were a hardy lot, with no thought for tomorrow, and spent their leisure time indulging in some form of vice. Halfway down the block, shouts and laughter spilled from the door of a hurdy-gurdy dance hall. Holliday paused a moment to watch.
The term “hurdy-gurdy” derived from a hand organ on which street musicians cranked out a tune. In Western mining camps, the name had
been adapted to mean a dance hall. A battered upright piano, accompanied by a fiddler and a banjo player, provided the music. The girls, who worked for the house, were for hire at a dollar a dance. Few of them were pretty, but they were generally buxom and enthusiastic, willing partners. The booted miners, clumsy as draft horses, shoved them around the dance floor.
Whether it was the springtime weather, or the girls in their short skirts, Holliday realized he was feeling frisky. Since Jacksboro, and Lottie Deno, he had not formed a liaison with any of the women he’d met. On those occasions when he felt particularly randy, he sought out a parlor house. Still, he was selective where women were concerned, and the girl had to be personable as well as attractive. A quick encounter, merely to satisfy his rutting instincts, hardly seemed worth the effort. He required more of a woman.
Farther down the street, he stepped into the bordello operated by Belle London. His first week in town he had inspected Georgetown’s three parlor houses and selected hers over the others. She maintained a clean house, with five handpicked girls who were all lookers. One in particular had caught his eye.
Belle was short, with curly blond hair, and a sassy manner. She greeted Holliday with a humorous smile. “Well, hello there, Doc. Got the urge today?”
“I thought I might pay a call on Lorraine.”
“I like your style, Doc. Always the gentleman caller.”
Belle London, like everyone else in town, was aware of Holliday’s reputation. Word had it that he’d killed ten men, though the count was thought to be inflated. Yet he was easygoing, witty in a sardonic way, and someone she now considered a friend. She welcomed his visits.
“Lorraine!” she called out. “Someone to see you.”
A young girl moved from a rear hallway into the parlor. She was voluptuous, wearing only a chemise, with dark hair and sultry eyes. “Hello, Doc,” she purred. “I’m so happy to see you.”
Holliday laughed. “The pleasure’s all mine.”
“Show him a good time,” Belle said with a broad wink. “Doc’s one of our special customers.”
Lorraine took his arm, squeezing it tightly into her breast. As they moved into the hallway, a door opened at the end of the corridor. Chalk Wheeler, a gambler who shared Belle London’s bed, walked toward them. He was handsome, with sleek black hair, and some people thought him less a gambler than a kept man. Holliday shared the opinion, for they had met over a poker table several times in the past month. Wheeler always went away broke.
“Well, Doc,” he said with an oily grin. “Here to get your pole greased?”
“You have an unfortunate way with words, Chalk.”
“Hey, no offense intended. How about I buy you a drink later? Maybe we can play some cards.”
“I have no objection to taking your money.”
Wheeler reddened. “Who says you’re gonna win?”
Holliday smiled confidently. “I believe the record speaks for itself.”
Lorraine tugged on his arm, leading him down the hallway and into her room. When the door closed, Wheeler turned on his heel and walked to the parlor. Belle looked up as he entered, but her smile quickly faded. His features were livid.
“What’s the matter, honeybun?”
“Nothing,” Wheeler snapped. “I need some money. A thousand ought to do it.”
The other girls were still in their rooms. He never asked for money in their presence, and he’d never asked for such a large sum. She kept her voice calm. “That’s a lot of green, sweetie. Why so much?”
“What the hell’s it matter?” Wheeler said crossly. “I need it, that’s all.”
“You don’t have to be so snippy.”
“Just get the goddamn money.”
Belle sighed heavily. She rose from her chair and walked to her room at the end of the hall. When she returned, she silently handed him a stack of bills. Wheeler stuffed the bills into his pocket, chucking her under the chin. On his way out the door he laughed.
“I’m liable to be late tonight. Look for me when you see me.”
Belle sank down into her chair, her expression morose. She asked herself why she kept him around. Then, sadly, she answered her own question.
A woman needed a man, even if he was worthless.
The lamp cast an amber glow over the table. Holliday was seated across from Wheeler, with four men occupying the other chairs. The game was into its third hour, and Wheeler looked like he’d swallowed the canary. His mound of greenbacks kept growing.
Holliday’s expression revealed nothing. Yet he was down almost seven hundred dollars and he thought it had nothing to do with luck. He was convinced that Wheeler was cheating. All the more so since Wheeler seemed to win whenever he dealt and there was a large pot. On small pots, he invariably dropped out.
For all that, Holliday was stumped. Throughout the evening, when he was dealing, he had checked the deck for shaved cards or pinpricks. So far, there was no indication that “readers” had been slipped into the game. Nor had he been able to detect that Wheeler was dealing seconds or dealing off the bottom. He was at a loss for an explanation.
Holliday nonetheless trusted his instincts. Wheeler was a sore loser, and he lacked the finesse needed to win at high-stakes poker. So it followed that he would hold a grudge, and try to recoup past losses by cheating. From previous games, simply observing Wheeler’s dexterity with cards, Holliday knew that he possessed the skill for dealing crooked. But suspicion alone was no reason to brace a man.
A short time later the deal passed to Wheeler. He called five-card stud, adroitly dealing one card down and one up to the players. Holliday stayed in, tossing money into the pot, watching closely as the game progressed. On the fourth card, he suddenly felt like a blind man whose sight had been restored. All evening Wheeler’s eyes had flicked down and up as he dealt the cards, almost a rapid blink. Holliday caught it on the last go-round, amazed by his own stupidity. The gaff was a shiner.
“Just noticed,” he said idly. “You have a new ring. Quite handsome.”
“Little present from Belle.” Wheeler kept his fingers curled, displaying a square silver ring with an onyx stone. “You’re high on the board, Doc. Care to bet?”
“Before I do, perhaps I might have a look at your ring. You wouldn’t mind—would you?”
The other players exchanged startled glances, suddenly alert. “What’s with the ring?” Wheeler said stiffly. “Nothing much to see.”
“Maybe not.” Holliday stared at him. “Unless you’re wearing a shiner.”
“You got a helluva nerve. I never dealt crooked cards in my life.”
“Prove it,” Holliday said. “Show us your ring.”
A shiner was a ring with a flat bottom which had been polished to a mirror surface. Any man with a quick eye and nimble hands could catch the reflection of the cards as he dealt. The trick was to hold back the card he needed, dealing seconds until it came his turn. A cardsharp with a shiner was an unbeatable combination.
“Go ahead,” Wheeler said in a flat, hostile voice. “See for yourself.”
Slipping the ring off, he tossed it across the table. On the instant, thinking Holliday distracted by the ring, he went for his gun. Holliday ignored the ring, but he was still a beat behind. He popped the pistol from his shoulder rig as Wheeler touched off a hurried shot. The slug singed the sleeve of Holliday’s coat.
Holliday fired so fast that three shots sounded like an unbroken roll of thunder. The lead slugs stitched a pattern of red dots straight up the front of Wheeler’s shirt. He jerked upright in his chair, knocked backward in a nerveless dance. His mouth opened, spraying a gout of blood across the table, and he toppled to the floor. Holliday stood, checking to make certain Wheeler was dead, then holstered his pistol. He picked up the ring, held it to the light.
The bottom shone like a mirror.
Some time later, after the town marshal ruled it justifiable homicide, Holliday pushed through the crowd at the door of the gaming dive. He made his way downstreet
and entered Belle London’s parlor house. He found her seated in a chair, a stunned, sick look etched on her features. Lorraine herded the other girls out of the room.
“Belle, I’m sorry,” Holliday said earnestly. “He tried to gaff me with a shiner.”
“I heard,” she answered in a monotone. “He liked to brag when he used it on miners. I never thought he’d dare try it on you.”
“Then you’ve heard that he pulled first. I had no choice.”
She hugged herself, rocking back and forth. “Chalk was a prideful man. He couldn’t bear it that you beat him so regular at cards.” Her voice sounded brittle. “What earthly difference did it make? I gave him all the money he wanted.”
Holliday shook his head. “Some men never know when to count their blessings. You were the best thing that ever happened to him.”
“Yes, I was, Doc. Oh, I know he was shiftless and no-account. But I loved him something awful. Why couldn’t he be satisfied?”
“I have no answer for that, Belle. Probably no one does.”
“No, probably not.” Her eyes were dulled with hurt. “I appreciate your coming here. God knows you didn’t owe me any explanation.”
“Let me know if I can do anything. All you have to do is ask.”
Holliday left her huddled alone in her chair. He was filled with remorse at having brought her sorrow. But as he walked toward the hotel, he realized that his regret extended only to her. He felt nothing at having killed Chalk Wheeler.
The dumb bastard should never have pulled a gun.
CHAPTER 15
Holliday arrived in Cheyenne on June 4. As he stepped off the train, jagged streaks of lightning split the sky far in the distance. From the platform, he watched a moment while the storm clouds rolled across the empty plains. He wondered if all of Wyoming was so desolate.
A porter collected his steamer trunk and arranged a cab. On the way uptown, he was pleased to see that Cheyenne had all the earmarks of a thriving city. After a month in Georgetown, he had spent several weeks in Denver, and he’d grown accustomed to the luxuries of city life. He already missed the comforts of the Brown Palace.
