Doc Holliday

by Matt Braun

  Over time Holliday learned that she was originally from St. Louis. A spirited girl, orphaned at sixteen, she had become the mistress of a riverboat captain. From there, the details were sketchy; but she had somehow made her way west. With no trade, living by her wits, she had drifted into the one profession always open to women. Before Fort Griffin and the Flat, she had worked saloons at other military garrisons across Texas. She was a dance hall girl whose charms were for sale. She whored on the side.

  Holliday moved to the washstand. The water in the pitcher was warm, and he gave himself a birdbath. Then, his hand steadied by bourbon, he shaved and trimmed his mustache. In the mirror, he caught Kate’s reflection as she selected a dress from the armoire. In the sunlight, her buxom figure was apparent beneath her gauzy nightgown, her shapely rump clearly defined. He smiled, watching her, thinking perhaps they might have a quick romp before breakfast. She was an eager lover, with no inhibitions whatever, and abandoned in her desires. But then, one thought intruding on another, his features darkened.

  “Have fun last night?” he said caustically. “I saw you sneak off with that hide hunter.”

  “I didn’t sneak,” she said with cheerful insouciance. “He wanted a little and I didn’t have the heart to say no. Besides, he gave me ten dollars.”

  “You have a convenient lapse of memory. How many times have I offered to match what you earn—if you’ll quit?”

  “How many times have I told you I don’t want to quit? I like to spread happiness.”

  “You like to spread your legs,” Holliday said gruffly. “I think you do it to annoy me.”

  “Nasty, nasty,” she said with a mischievous grin. “You’re a gambler and I’m a whore, and we’ve beat that horse to death. Why cover old ground?”

  The argument was one of long standing. She was stubborn, with an independent streak, and refused to mend her ways. There were rooms upstairs at the Bee Hive, where the girls took customers and split the fee with John Shanssey. Her nocturnal jaunts upstairs were a constant source of aggravation to Holliday. All the more so since she’d moved into his room at the Bison House. But she blithely ignored his wishes in the matter.

  Holliday rinsed his razor in the basin. “There’s a bit of the alley cat in you, Kate. I think you enjoy your work.”

  “Don’t be jealous,” she scolded. “I mean, it’s not like I’m bedding everybody who asks. I only turned one trick last night.”

  “Your logic escapes me. One or a dozen, what’s the difference?”

  “Well, I just won’t be dependent on you. I told you that from the very beginning. A girl has to look out for herself.”

  There were times when Holliday seriously considered ending their liaison. But he always relented, for she was vivacious, loyal to him in her own way, and undeniably attractive. Of no small significance, she filled a void in his life, and if it wasn’t love, it was an acceptable substitute. She took his mind off Mattie, whose letters continued to riddle him with guilt, and that in itself was a godsend. He thought it better to sleep with a whore than to sleep alone. Somehow, with her beside him, he dreamt less of Atlanta and days past. What might have been.

  After they were dressed, they went out for breakfast. In a cafe down the street, Holliday seated her beside the front window. She was a voracious eater, ordering ham and eggs, with fried potatoes, biscuits, and a bowl of gravy. He picked at his eggs and toast, topping off a mug of coffee with a slug from his flask. As she smothered a third biscuit with gravy, he pushed his plate away. He lit a cigarillo.

  “Tell me something.” He exhaled a thin stream of smoke. “You said a girl has to look out for herself. Were you talking about money?”

  “Money makes the world go ’round,” she replied, spearing a chunk of ham with her fork. “I always sock some away for a rainy day. Better safe than sorry.”

  “Well then, suppose I gave you an allowance? Let’s say a hundred dollars a week.”

  “Why would you do that?”

  “So you could save for a rainy day. You wouldn’t have to … entertain … anymore.”

  “No, thank you,” she said quickly, her tone offended. “I won’t be a kept woman.”

  Holliday looked dumbfounded. “You sell yourself anyway. I fail to see the difference.”

  “A girl on the line is her own boss. She can stay or move on as she pleases. She’s not beholden.”

  The term “on the line” was a frontier euphemism for “prostitution.” Holliday considered it quaint but meaningless. “Kate, a rose by any other name smells the same. You are what you are.”

  “Of course I am.” She munched gravy-sopped biscuit with relish. “But I’d rather be a whore than a kept woman. After all, Doc, I’ve got some pride.”

  Holliday conceded defeat. Her rationale was her own, and clearly immune to reason or logic. Perhaps, he thought, her time with the riverboat captain had soured her on the life of a mistress. Perhaps she was just a free spirit marching to the beat of her own drummer. Whatever she was, she wasn’t about to change.

  She was a whore and she thought like a whore. But the life he led hardly gave him a mandate to cast the first stone. They were, in many ways, a mismatched pair. Yet at the same time birds of a feather.

  He told himself that nothing was perfect. Half a measure would have to do.

  Late that afternoon they walked down to the Bee Hive. The evening rush was still an hour away and Kate went upstairs to change into her peek-a-boo gown. Holliday ordered a bottle brought to one of the poker tables. He dealt himself a hand of solitaire.

  Shanssey and Lottie Deno came down from their living quarters upstairs. Lottie paused at the poker table, chatting with Holliday for a few minutes. Then she moved on to her faro layout, and began arranging trays of chips for the night. At the bar, Shanssey stopped to check the inventory with the head bartender.

  Shortly afterward, a man dressed in trail clothes came through the door. Holliday noticed that his eyes quickly scanned the room as he proceeded to the bar. Shanssey turned from the backbar, his features registering a mix of shock and surprise. Then he laughed, grinning broadly, and shook the man’s hand with a firm grip. They talked for several moments, and Shanssey’s expression slowly dissolved into a solemn frown. He walked the man to his cubbyhole office behind the bar.

  A short while later Shanssey and the stranger emerged from the office. Shanssey left the man at the end of the bar and moved across the room. His features were uncharacteristically somber as he stopped beside the poker table, nodding to Holliday. He took a chair.

  “Doc, I’ve got a favor to ask. See the fellow at the end of the bar?”

  Holliday looked toward the bar. “What about him?”

  “His name’s Wyatt Earp,” Shanssey said. “He’s a lawman from Kansas. Deputy marshal of Dodge City.”

  Holliday knew the name. Texas cattlemen, who trailed their herds to railhead in Kansas, spoke of Earp in harsh terms. He reportedly ruled Dodge City with an iron fist and a quick gun. “You appear to be friends,” Holliday said. “How do you know Earp?”

  “We go way back. When I was a pug, he refereed a couple of my fights up in Kansas. Damn good man.”

  “What brings him to Texas?”

  “Train robbers,” Shanssey said quietly. “Dave Rudabaugh and his gang hit a payroll train outside of Dodge. The Santa Fe hired Earp to track him down.”

  Holliday was familiar with the gang. Outlaws frequently drifted through the Flat, which was on the fringe of the settlements, and seldom visited by peace officers. A week ago Dave Rudabaugh had played in his game.

  “You mentioned a favor,” he said. “I assume it has to do with Rudabaugh.”

  “Earp tracked him here,” Shanssey acknowledged. “The trail’s gone cold, and I thought you might lend a hand. You hear things, Doc.”

  Holliday smiled. “Some of my best friends are horse thieves and train robbers. Why would I help the law?”

  “I’d count it a personal favor. For what it’s worth, you’d ha
ve my marker. I’ll owe you one, Doc.”

  “You feel that strongly about it?”

  “Like I said, Earp and me go back a long way. Otherwise I wouldn’t ask.”

  A moment of weighing and deliberation slipped past. Holliday felt no great compunction to get involved, for the law had branded him a killer and posted him out of several towns. On the other hand, John Shanssey was a friend, and his personal marker might one day prove valuable. A gambler sometimes had need of an ace in the hole.

  “All right,” he said at length. “Send Mr. Earp over. We’ll talk.”

  “Thanks, Doc. You won’t regret it.”

  Shanssey rejoined Earp at the bar. They spoke for a moment, then Earp nodded, walking toward the table. He was a solid six-footer, lithe and muscled, with light hair and a sweeping mustache. His eyes were the color of blue ice.

  “Mr. Holliday.” He extended his hand, surprised by the strength of Holliday’s grip. “John says you’re willing to help.”

  “Have a chair.” Holliday waited until he seated himself. “Anything I do will be done as a favor to John. For the most part, I find myself at odds with the law.”

  “So I’ve heard,” Earp said in a level tone. “Your reputation is well-known, even in Kansas. I understand you are easily offended.”

  “Texans say much the same of you, Mr. Earp. I hear you crack heads at the slightest provocation.”

  “We don’t brook troublemakers in Dodge City.”

  “Oddly enough, I play poker by the same rules.”

  “You got me there,” Earp said with a slight smile. “I like an outspoken man, Mr. Holliday. What say we call a truce and start over?”

  Holliday spread his hands. “You appeal to my better instincts, Mr. Earp. How may I help you?”

  “Well, as John told you, I’m after Dave Rudabaugh. Any idea where he’s headed?”

  “Last week he lost a considerable sum of money at this very table. Where he went from here is anyone’s guess.”

  “Are you personal friends with Rudabaugh?”

  “We are more on the order of nodding acquaintances.”

  Earp studied him a moment. “Maybe you could ask around. Somebody in town likely knows where he headed.”

  “Yes, possibly so.” Holliday was silent a moment. “I take it your own inquiries came to nothing.”

  “All I got was that he’d left town. Your marshal told me that.”

  “Will Cruger is a fount of information. You haven’t inquired further?”

  “Waste of time,” Earp admitted. “A place like the Flat, there’s not a helluva lot of respect for the law. Folks tend to get a sudden case of lockjaw.”

  “Whereas they might tell a man of my … credentials.”

  “The sporting crowd generally knows what’s what and who’s where. You’re one of them, and I’m not. Guess it’s just that simple.”

  Holliday’s expression revealed nothing. Yet a vivid image abruptly flashed through his mind. A week ago, after the poker game, he recalled Dave Rudabaugh taking one of the saloon girls upstairs. Some men weathered heavy losses at the tables by asserting their manhood in a whore’s bed. In a moment of passion, driven to brag, they often told a woman their innermost secrets. Whores were sympathetic listeners.

  “I’ll put out some feelers,” Holliday said now. “You understand, I’m making no promises. All I can do is try.”

  “I’m obliged,” Earp told him. “How long you think it might take?”

  “Let’s meet here tomorrow afternoon. I should know by then.”

  After they shook hands, Earp stopped at the bar for a word with John Shanssey. Then, as he started toward the door, Holliday saw Kate coming down the stairs. She was dressed for the evening, spangles and warpaint.

  He waved her over to the table.

  CHAPTER 21

  Holliday finished shaving. His eyes were bloodshot from a poker game that had lasted until five that morning. He studied himself in the mirror a moment, then rinsed and dried his razor. He turned from the washstand.

  Kate was preening in front of the armoire. She held a dress to her shoulders, inspecting herself with a critical eye in the full-length mirror. Holliday opened the other door on the armoire and selected a light gray suit from the clothes rack. He took a pale blue shirt from the bottom drawer.

  “Let’s not take all day,” he said, as she continued to pose for the mirror. “I’d like to have breakfast.”

  “I don’t know why.” She held the dress over her breasts with a coquettish air. “You hardly eat enough to keep a bird alive.”

  “You eat enough for the both of us.”

  “Oh, honestly, Doc! I’m not that bad.”

  Holliday stepped into his trousers. He moved to the bed, sat down, and began pulling on his boots. He abruptly stopped, struck by a wayward thought. Last night Kate had left the Bee Hive while his game was still in progress. She was asleep when he’d finally crawled into bed, and they hadn’t spoken since. He looked up at her.

  “Were you able to find out which girl entertained Rudabaugh?”

  “Oh, sure,” she said, slipping into her dress. “Sally showed him a good time. She remembered him right off.”

  Holliday stamped his foot into a boot. “Did she say where he was going from here?”

  “I didn’t ask.”

  “Why not?”

  “I changed my mind.” She moved to the washstand mirror and began brushing her hair. “I just didn’t feel right about it.”

  Holliday stopped, the other boot in his hand. “Right about what?”

  “About helping a lawman. I’d much rather help Dave Rudabaugh. He’s more our kind.”

  “I’m not interested in your philosophical beliefs. All I want is the information.”

  “Well, I won’t do it,” she said petulantly. “Who’s this Wyatt Earp, anyway? What do we owe him?”

  “We’re not talking about Earp,” Holliday informed her. “We’re talking about how I decide a matter will be handled. Is that clear?”

  “For God’s sake, sweetie! What’s the law ever done for you? Why get yourself crosswise of your own kind?”

  “Yours is not to reason why. You’ll follow my wishes in this matter.”

  She gave him a pouty look. “And if I don’t?”

  “Listen to me, Kate.” Holliday’s eyes went cold. “I’m not asking your opinion or your preference. I’m telling you what I want done. Do you understand?”

  “Do what I’m told and don’t bitch about it. Isn’t that it?”

  “In a word—yes.”

  She avoided his gaze. “You can be a real bastard sometimes. Do you know that?”

  “So I’ve been told.” Holliday stood, tucking his shirt into his pants. “Have the information for me this afternoon.”

  “What if she doesn’t know where Rudabaugh went?”

  “Sally strikes me as a girl who is versed in pillow talk. She’ll know.”

  A knock sounded at the door. Kate crossed the room, opening it, and found the desk clerk in the hall. He held out an envelope.

  “A letter for Mr. Holliday. Postmaster gave it to me when I went to pick up the mail.”

  “Thanks a bunch.”

  She closed the door, scanning the envelope. Her green eyes fired with jealousy and she flung it across the room. “There you go,” she said tartly. “A love note from your Georgia peach.”

  “No need for spite.” Holliday retrieved the envelope from the floor. “I explained to you the way things are.”

  “I’ll bet you never gave your darling Mattie any orders?”

  “Keep your voice down.”

  “Go ahead and read your damn letter. I’ll see you when I see you.”

  “Just make sure you get the information on Rudabaugh. No more excuses.”

  “Yessir, Mr. Holliday!”

  She flounced out of the room. When the door slammed shut, Holliday crossed to the nightstand. He uncorked a quart of bourbon and took a long pull. Then, seating himself on the
bed, he tore open the envelope. The delicate script was all too familiar.

  My Dearest John,

  How I treasure your letters. Every day, when the post arrives, I run to the box with hope in my heart. Your latest arrived only this morning, and I read it over and over again. You cannot imagine the joy I find in your words, the simplest endearment. I am, truly, a different woman.

  As always, I look for some sign of improvement in your health. You offer none, I know, but I have faith that your welfare is ever under the watchful eye of our Savior. Your quote from Shakespeare—“If I must die, I will encounter darkness as a bride, and hug it in mine arms”—sounds so unlike you, John. If you must embrace anything, or anyone, then tell me only that we are to be reunited. I will rush to your side, and stay there forevermore …

  Holliday folded the letter over. There were two more pages, but he knew the words as if by rote. Her unyielding optimism, and her faith in God, were as immutable as a rock. Even quoting Shakespeare on the finality of death had failed to shake her sanguine belief in their future. She would not let him go.

  He wondered if death itself would alter her steadfast resolve.

  After breakfast, Holliday returned to the hotel. Kate was nowhere to be found, and he thought it best considering her temper tantrum over the letter. He gathered two boxes of cartridges from the room and turned back into the hall. It seemed a good day to blast something to kingdom come.

  In the lobby, he met Earp coming through the door. Their hours were different, and he discovered now that the lawman was also staying at the hotel. He briefly explained that there was no news as yet, but he hoped to have word later in the day. On the verge of leaving, Earp noticed the cartridge boxes in his hand. He caught the look.

  “Pistol practice,” he said by way of explanation. “In my profession, a man doesn’t want to lose the touch.”