by Matt Braun
Despite the tone of his letter, he had no great belief that it would change her mind. Nor was he yet able to sever the bond between them, brutally inform her that his death was certain, if not imminent. She was his only link with the past, a time when dreams still had a future, and he was unable to permanently cut the cord. However much he wished it otherwise, she was ever in his thoughts, and not a day passed that he didn’t miss her. But late at night, when she was most in his thoughts, he nonetheless loathed himself for not being stronger. He lacked the moral courage to end it himself. He waited for her to do it.
Lola Montana’s performance was flawless. Her voice was at once sultry and virginal, and she held the crowd captivated to the last note. A moment slipped past, then the theater vibrated to thunderous applause and wild cheers. She took a bow, then another and another, and still the house rocked with ovation. At last, throwing kisses to the audience, she signaled the maestro.
The orchestra segued into a rousing dance number. A line of chorus girls exploded out of the wings and went high-stepping across the stage. Lola raised her skirts, revealing a shapely leg, and joined them in a prancing cakewalk. The girls squealed and Lola flashed her underdrawers and the tempo of the music quickened. The audience went mad.
Holliday found his toe tapping in time to the music. There was a wanton exuberance to the routine, with Lola and the girls cavorting around the stage. Then the orchestra thumped into the finale with a blare of trumpets and a clash of cymbals. The chorus line, in a swirl of upraised skirts and jiggling breasts, went romping into the wings. Lola waved and blew a last kiss as she strutted offstage. The crowd roared with delight.
When the curtain rang down, the applause dropped off to a hubbub of animated laughter. Holliday poured a glass of bourbon, his mood vitalized by the spirited dance number. He wondered that he took such pleasure in a tawdry display of short skirts and high-kicking legs. In another lifetime, a respected member of Atlanta’s gentry, he would have been scandalized to patronize a bawdy variety house. But time and circumstance altered a man’s outlook.
There were only memories of that past life. The future was here and now, and perhaps tomorrow. A thing to be lived to the fullest. One day at a time.
The Progressive Club was almost empty. The hour was late, and toward the rear of the room, one poker table was still in play. Holliday was the big winner for the night.
There were only three other men left in the game. One was a local businessman, and another was a land broker for the railroad. The third was Budd Ryan, owner of a parlor house on the Row. He was down by nearly a thousand dollars, and a sore loser. His manner became more offensive as the night wore on.
Ed Chase watched from the end of the bar. He was anxious for the game to end, and hopeful it would end without trouble. Ryan was a stout man, with mean eyes and a nasty disposition, and fancied himself a rough customer. When he lost another hand, cursing roundly, Chase swapped a quick glance with Holliday. He shook his head with concern. Holliday merely shrugged.
The deal passed to Ryan. He called five-card draw, shuffling with smooth dexterity, and allowed the land broker to cut. His nose suddenly wrinkled, and he reared back in his chair, his eyes pinched tight. The deck of cards still in hand, he hunched forward, blasting a loud sneeze as he pulled a handkerchief from his inside coat pocket. Then, placing the deck on the table, he wiped his nose and stuffed the handkerchief inside his coat. He prepared to deal.
Holliday was not fooled. The sleight-of-hand involved switching a deck of cards wrapped in the handkerchief for the original deck. The substituted deck, commonly called a “cold deck,” was already stacked, with a winning hand arranged for the dealer. Ryan clearly meant to recoup his losses for the night by dealing good cards to everyone, and better cards to himself. Which left Holliday in a quandary, for exposure would provoke a fight, and he wanted to avoid killing Ryan. He had no wish to be posted out of Denver.
“Hold on,” he said, before Ryan could deal. “Either you’ve switched a cold deck into the game, or I’m a liar. Which is it?”
“You’re a lying son of a bitch,” Ryan said in a cold voice. “I don’t deal crooked cards.”
“Prove it.” Holliday stood, leaning across the table, supporting himself on his left hand. “Sit very still while I take that handkerchief out of your pocket. I’m betting we’ll find a deck in there.”
“You touch me and I’ll stop your goddamn clock!”
“I seriously doubt it, Budd. Let’s have that handkerchief.”
Ryan dug at a bulldog pistol in his waistband. Holliday, his left hand anchored to the table, pulled the sheath knife from his breast pocket with his right hand. He lashed out as the barrel of Ryan’s pistol cleared the edge of the table. The blade struck Ryan on the cheekbone and carved a gaping slash to his jawline, exposing teeth. Ryan screamed, dropping the gun, clutching at his face. A gout of blood spurted through his hands.
The other players scattered. Ed Chase hurried forward with a bar towel, clamping it over the wound. Holliday ignored Ryan’s mewling cries, whipping aside the front of his coat. Cards fluttered across the floor when he jerked the handkerchief from the inside pocket. He tossed the handkerchief onto the table, nodding to the other players, satisfied that he’d proved his point. All neatly done and Ryan still alive, if somewhat worse for wear. The letter of the law had been obeyed, with no one killed. He told himself he was in the clear.
City Marshal Claude White disagreed. He granted the fact that Budd Ryan had been caught cheating at cards. He even accepted the word of Chase and other witnesses that Ryan had pulled a gun. But he was adamant that the incident could have been settled without resorting to violence. He blamed Holliday for provoking the fight.
Holliday argued forcefully, claiming the right to defend himself. All of it was to no avail, for Marshal White wore the badge, and there was no appeal to his ruling. Even Chase, despite his political connections, was unable to dissuade the lawman, who stubbornly refused to reverse himself.
Holliday was posted from Denver that night.
CHAPTER 18
The Clear Fork of the Brazos was bounded by rolling prairies and wooded hills. Holliday forded the river in late September, dressed for the trail and leading a packhorse. He rode into the town called the Flat.
Fort Griffin stood on a hill directly above the townsite. Established in 1867, the military outpost was almost a hundred fifty miles due west of Dallas. Some three hundred soldiers, cavalry as well as infantry, were quartered at the garrison. The windswept town sprawled around the base of Government Hill.
Holliday’s odyssey had consumed the better part of a month. After departing Denver, he had entrained for Pueblo, where he was met by the town marshal. He was no longer welcome in Colorado’s major cities, and he had tired of life in the mining camps. From fellow gamblers, he heard talk of a new and highly prized stop on the gambling circuit. The town was known simply as the Flat, an outgrowth of Fort Griffin.
In Pueblo, Holliday had bought horses and outfitted himself for the trail. He then drifted southward, through Raton Pass and into New Mexico, along the Pecos Valley. He eventually turned eastward across the plains, angling toward the Clear Fork of the Brazos. A year had passed since he’d killed the soldier at Fort Richardson, and fled Texas. Gamblers recently returned from the Flat at Fort Griffin informed him that the killing was old news, and the army had lost interest. He was no longer being sought by the law.
The Flat was simply that, a stretch of flat prairie below Government Hill. Griffin Avenue, the main street, was lined with stores and saloons, several dance halls, and a single newspaper, The Frontier Echo. The town itself was an anthill of commerce, headquarters for a legion of buffalo hunters and the supply point for ranches scattered throughout west Texas. In season, trail herds bound for the Western Trail and Dodge City watered along the river. Outside town ricks of buffalo hides awaited transport to the distant railheads.
Closer to the river, where a grove of pecan trees towered o
verhead, there was a row of bawdy houses that rivaled anything yet seen on the Western plains. Among the townspeople it was known as Naucheville, a local metaphor for the world’s oldest profession. Those operating the brothels were true advocates of the free enterprise system, offering whites and blacks, Indian breeds, and one pink-eyed albino dubbed White Lightning. Something to suit the demands of any man, whatever his tastes.
Hitch racks along the main street were jammed with saddle horses. From the saloons and dance halls came the strident chords of rinky-dink pianos mixed with the sprightly wail of fiddles and an occasional banjo twanging in the background. Knots of men crowded every corner—hide hunters and mule-skinners, cowhands and soldiers—and along the boardwalks a rowdy throng made its way from one dive to the next. The Flat was a wilderness oasis for men whose appetites ran to fast women and popskull whiskey.
Holliday reined to a halt before the livery stable. As he stepped out of the saddle, the boom of a large-bore rifle reverberated through the town. Farther down Griffin Avenue, he saw a man seated in the middle of the street with a Sharps .50 and a cartridge belt. He loaded the buffalo gun, sighting on a building near the end of the thoroughfare, and blew out a window. A man appeared in the window with a Winchester and let off three rounds, kicking up spurts of dust around the one seated in the street. Unperturbed, he in turn put another shot through the window.
“Them boys are a caution.”
Holliday turned toward the livery. A sallow-faced man stood in the doorway, staring downstreet. He dolefully shook his head. “They’re gonna kill somebody yet.”
“What’s the problem?”
“A woman,” the liveryman said. “Hurricane Bill, the one in the street, he’s a buffalo man. Every time he goes off on a hunt, the one in the saloon—barkeep named Mike O‘Brien—steals his woman.” He paused, spat a stream of tobacco juice. “Shootin’ starts whenever Hurricane Bill gets back.”
“How long has this been going on?”
“I’d judge nearabout a year. Neither one can shoot worth a darn, or they’d both be worm meat. Beats me how Hurricane Bill ever kills a buffalo.”
“Where’s the law?” Holliday said as the Sharps boomed again. “Why doesn’t the town marshal stop it?”
“Got plumb fed up with ‘em,” the liveryman observed. “Figures one’s bound to get plugged sooner or later. Let ’em solve it their own selves.”
“Your marshal sounds like a practical man.”
“Yeah, ain’t no flies on Will Cruger. Not gonna get himself shot over a couple of hotheads and their tramp.”
Holliday nodded. “I’d like to stable my horses. I’ll pay by the week.”
“Dollar a day’s what I charge. How about your gear?”
“I’ll have someone collect it. What’s the best hotel in town?”
“The Bison House,” the liveryman said. “Just down the street, on the corner. Careful O’Brien don’t wing you with his popgun.”
“I’ll try to stay out of the line of fire.”
Holliday strolled off down the street. At the corner, he paused a moment, watching Hurricane Bill trade shots with the bartender, Mike O’Brien. Horses tied to hitch racks danced and snorted; but men crowding the boardwalks looked on with detached amusement. He thought nothing had changed in the wilds of Texas, and found himself pleased by the absence of lawmen. Anarchy was still the best of all worlds.
The Winchester cracked as he turned into the hotel. He doubted the accommodations would come close to those of the Brown Palace, in Denver. But he nonetheless had a good feeling about his return to Texas, a gambler’s hunch. He nodded to the desk clerk.
“I would like a room, preferably on the street side. The best in the house.”
“Yessir,” the clerk said, swinging the registration ledger around. “Got just what you want.”
Holliday signed his name. The clerk spun the ledger, scanning the signature. He looked up, his eyes round. “Dr. John J. Holliday. Any chance you’d be Doc Holliday?”
“I answer to the name. Have someone collect my gear at the livery stable. I’d like it right away.”
“Why, sure thing, Mr. Holliday. We’ll have it here pronto.”
“I’ll also need a bath. Would you arrange a tub and hot water brought to my room?”
“Yessir.” The clerk handed him a room key. “Get right on it.”
“You’re most kind,” Holliday said. “Which gaming establishment would you consider the best in town?”
“I’d have to say the Bee Hive. Owner’s name is John Shanssey. He runs square games.”
Holliday seriously doubted it. He started toward the staircase, then turned back as the Sharps .50 roared. “How long will the shooting contest continue?”
“Them goldurn fools,” the clerk said sheepishly. “Generally don’t stop till one or the other runs out of shells. Everybody in town wishes they was better shots.”
“I endorse the sentiment.”
Holliday mounted the stairs. His eardrums were ringing from gunfire, and he wondered if he would be allowed a bath in peace. Yet he suddenly chuckled, struck by a wayward thought.
Anarchy sometimes came at a steep price.
Early that evening Holliday emerged from the Bison House. He was shaved and bathed, and the spicy aroma of bay rum hung in his wake. His charcoal-gray suit was freshly pressed, and a gold watch chain stretched across his vest. He turned downstreet at a leisurely pace.
The boardwalks were crowded with men. His fashionable appearance was something new to the Flat, and drew attention. The men he passed stared at him as though a goldfish in a bowl had appeared in their midst. A drunken cowhand made a slurred wisecrack about his attire, but he ignored the remark. A block downstreet he pushed through the door of the Bee Hive.
The establishment was a combination saloon, dance hall, and gaming dive. Opposite a long mahogany bar were faro and roulette, and several poker tables. A dance floor at the end of the room was surrounded by small tables, with a piano player and fiddler providing the music. Saloon girls in full warpaint mingled with a crowd of cowhands, soldiers, and buffalo hunters. Men stood three deep at the bar.
Holliday paused in the doorway. All conversation ceased toward the front of the bar as a group of buffalo hunters gave his outfit a slow once-over. Then, through the crowd, he saw Lottie Deno seated behind the nearest faro layout. She glanced up, spotted him at the same time, and her features brightened with a dazzling smile. He moved forward with a wide grin.
“Doc!” She leaned across the table to kiss him on the cheek. “So wonderful to see you again. I heard you were in town.”
“News travels,” Holliday said. “That hotel clerk must be a talkative fellow.”
“Why should that surprise you? You’re quite the famous man these days.”
A lone cowhand, seated before the layout, gathered his chips and moved over to the next table. “No great loss,” Lottie said, laughing. “I was about to bust him, anyway.”
Holliday wagged his head. “Still dealing tricky cards, huh?”
“I should say so! A girl has to make a living.”
“I’ve often thought of you since Fort Richardson. What brought you out here?”
“What else?” Her eyes twinkled. “All the buffalo hunters moved west, and I tagged along. This town’s rolling in money.”
“Just like old times,” Holliday said with a roguish smile. “Perhaps we should celebrate with a late supper. A reunion of sorts.”
Her features clouded. “Doc, I’m not at liberty this time out. I have a gentleman friend, and pretty special, too.” She gestured around the room. “He owns the place.”
“His good fortune is my misfortune. How did you get together?”
“Doc, I think it was fate.”
Her expression was suddenly animated. She explained that John Shanssey was a former prize fighter. A contender for the Western heavyweight championship, he had lost the title fight not quite a year ago. Smarter than most pugilists, he had taken h
is purse winnings and set off in search of opportunity. Where buffalo hunters gathered, there was money to be made, and he’d opened the Bee Hive. They had met when she arrived in town some months past, looking for a faro concession. The attraction was mutual, and they’d been together since.
“I just know you’ll like him,” she went on. “He’s a little rough around the edges, but a sharp cookie. And he’s good to me.”
Holliday shrugged. “Any time that changes, let me know. I’m always at your service.”
“Uh-oh!” Her eyes went past him. “Here he comes now. Behave yourself, Doc.”
“I am the soul of discretion. Diplomacy itself.”
A large thick-shouldered man approached the table. He was tall, with brutish good looks, his nose slightly off center. There was scar tissue over his left eye, and he gave the appearance of a prize fighter not far removed from the ring. Lottie held out her hand.
“Hi there, honey,” she said gaily. “I want you to meet an old friend. John Shanssey. Doc Holliday.”
“No joke!” Shanssey clasped his hand in an ore-crusher grip. “By God, it’s an honor to have you in my place, Doc. Okay if I call you Doc?”
Holliday immediately warmed to the man. There was the congenial manner about him of a huge but amiable bear. “Any friend of Lottie’s is a friend of mine. A pleasure to meet you, John.”
“We heard you was in town. Hope you’ll make the Bee Hive your headquarters. I’d be proud to have you at my tables.”
