Doc Holliday

by Matt Braun

  “Pack your things and get out of the room. I want you gone within the hour.”

  “You cheap bastard! What’d you ever buy me that’s worth carting along? I’ll be out in ten minutes.”

  She sniffed, her eyes filled with mockery, and flounced off toward the lobby. Holliday dropped back into his chair, pulling the flask from his pocket. He took a long slug, then another, suddenly chilled and needing warmth. He felt cold to the marrow.

  Shortly before dusk, Holliday escorted Mattie to the train station. She had decided that there was no reason to stay, and ample reason to leave. The evening eastbound would take her to Kansas City, and from there, she would travel on to Atlanta. She offered no protest when Holliday insisted on buying her ticket.

  The train was on time. Holliday arranged for a porter to take her bags onto the lead passenger coach. He struggled for something to say as they crossed the depot platform in a cone of silence. Finally, on the verge of boarding, she turned back and lightly placed a hand on his arm. Her eyes searched his face.

  “You do love me, don’t you, John?”

  Holliday swallowed. “I will love you on the day I die.”

  “Yes, I know it now.” She touched his cheek, kissed him on the mouth. “God keep you safe from harm, my dearest.”

  The conductor assisted her onboard. Holliday walked along the platform, observing through the window as she took a seat in the coach. She stared out the opposite window, sitting perfectly straight, as the engine chuffed smoke and the train got under way. He watched until the lamps on the rear coach faded into the night.

  Uptown, he met Earp crossing the plaza. The lawman gave him a strange look. “Get your friend off all right, Doc?”

  “Yes, safely away,” Holliday said dully. “Her stay was shorter than anticipated.”

  “Maybe she can stay longer next time.”

  “In another life, perhaps. Who knows?”

  “Word’s around you split with Kate.”

  “Wisdom prevails,” Holliday said, forcing a smile. “In fact, I’m leaving in the morning myself. I think I’ll try the mining camps.”

  “Sorry to hear it, Doc.” Earp was silent a moment. “Any idea where you’ll go?”

  “Colorado,” Holliday said with a dry chuckle. “I’ve heard Leadville is booming these days.”

  “One camp’s pretty much like another. Why Leadville?”

  “I thrive on anarchy, Wyatt. I thought you knew.”

  CHAPTER 28

  Leadville was located some seventy-five miles southwest of Denver. Deep in the Colorado Rockies, near the headwaters of the Arkansas River, the town meandered through a gulch at an elevation topping ten thousand feet. There, scarcely a year ago, placer miners had discovered the richest silver strike in the history of the world.

  Early on an August evening, Holliday stepped out of the St. Anne’s Hotel. He paused, lighting a cigarillo, and then turned north along Harrison Avenue. Streetlamps flickered in the dusky light, and the boardwalks were crowded with miners, teamsters, and businessmen attired in fashionable suits. Heavy ore wagons, drawn by mules, lumbered toward the smeltering plants south of town.

  Leadville operated day and night. Harrison Avenue was the economic center of the mining camp, and ranged along the three-block stretch were stores and restaurants, hotels and saloons, and several elegantly furnished gaming parlors. East and west of the main thoroughfare, wedged into narrow sidestreets, were the seedier lodging houses, clapboard dance halls, and the red-light district. On the northern edge of town was the Denver & Rio Grande railroad depot.

  Holliday strolled along the avenue with a sense of anticipation for the night ahead. The high altitude sometimes played havoc with his lungs, but he was otherwise pleased with his stay in the mining camp. A month ago, after a harrowing train ride through rocky gorges and along steep mountainsides, he had engaged a comfortable suite at the St. Anne’s. In the time since, he had become a regular in the town’s wide selection of plush gambling establishments. He was averaging better than a thousand dollars a week in winnings.

  Unlike Deadwood and other mining camps, Holliday found that anarchy no longer reigned in Leadville. The magnitude of the silver strike had instead transformed the town into a wilderness mecca of prosperity and trade. The monthly payroll from the mines exceeded eight hundred thousand dollars and the population was at twenty thousand people and growing. There were five banks, three newspapers, over two hundred saloons and gaming dives, and close to fifty whorehouses. Three of the larger mines, capitalized at more than forty million dollars, were listed on the New York Stock Exchange.

  If anything, Leadville resembled a small city, isolated in the fastness of the Rockies. Yet Holliday was willing to forgo anarchy, and tolerate the trappings of civilization, for the inexhaustible wealth exchanged nightly at the gaming tables. All in the brief span of a year, the town had become a lodestone for the sporting crowd, and a major stop on the Western gambling circuit. A legion of cardsharps, grifters, and con artists were drawn to the bonanza by the smell of easy money and gullible marks. The miners were routinely robbed of their wages, day and night.

  Upon his arrival, Holliday had received a personal call from the town marshal. Edgar Spangler was a tough, ham-fisted lawman, who delivered a blunt, albeit courteous, message. Throughout the Colorado mining camps, Holliday’s reputation was widely known, and peace officers considered him a lightning rod for trouble. He was told in a polite, businesslike manner that gamblers were welcome but gunmen were advised to behave themselves. The warning proved to be unnecessary, for everyone in Leadville was shortly aware that one of the foremost mankillers on the frontier was now in residence. No one had yet been tempted to provoke his anger.

  Tonight, under a sky flecked with stars, Holliday took vigor from the bracing mountain air. A month without Kate, and her constant temper tantrums, had done much to restore his sense of freedom. He found that her absence lent an added note of zest to life, and generally improved his mood. These days, his only bothersome moments were when he fell into a dark, brooding melancholy over Mattie. He knew he’d done the right thing, though he often loathed himself for breaking her heart. His one consolation was their final moment of parting at the railway station in Dodge. A moment when he spoke what they both knew to be the truth. She would go to his grave with him.

  Near the Denver & Rio Grande rail yards, Holliday entered a large warehouse. Bareknuckle fights were popular sporting events throughout the mining camps, and a local promoter had arranged a match for tonight. As he came through the door, Holliday noted rows of benches aligned around the center of the warehouse, forming a boxlike square. Lighted by overhead lamps, the ring looked to be about ten feet across, covered with a thick carpet of sawdust. The benches were packed with spectators, and a dense haze of cigar smoke hung in the air.

  Holliday found a seat in the section reserved for the town’s high rollers. A few seats over, he saw Pete Richter, who waved a lazy greeting. Richter was a professional gambler, and in the past month, Holliday had clipped him for something more than two thousand dollars. Holliday considered him a mediocre card player, hardly a match at the tables, and they were scheduled for a session later at the Board of Trade gaming parlor. Earlier in the day, over drinks, they had wagered a thousand dollars on tonight’s prizefight.

  The pugilistic exhibition was no run-of-the-mill fight. Tom McKey, the Leadville champion, was so lethal in the ring that challengers had become virtually nonexistent. On his last outing he had all but crippled his opponent, and the only way to arrange a match was to increase the odds. Tonight, instead of one opponent, he was pitted against two bullyboys from the mines, fighting both at the same time. Holliday was convinced the local champion would pull it off, and he’d offered Richter an equal money wager. Richter snapped it up, equally convinced that McKey was overmatched.

  A hush fell over the gallery. Tom McKey strode to the far side of the ring, a towering brute of a man dressed in fighting tights and a bright green sash
. His arms were corded with muscle, and under the flickering lights, his gnarled fists looked like rock-crushers. On the opposite side of the ring his opponents stood watching, stripped to the waist, their chests covered with a sheen of sweat. One of the thugs was flatnosed and heavily scarred, clearly the survivor of many rough-and-tumble brawls. The other bullyboy was stumpier, packed with muscle, not an ounce of suet on his burly frame. The crowd waited expectantly as McKey flexed his massive shoulders.

  The referee moved to center ring. “Your attention, pleeze!” he announced in a booming voice. “A night of scientific fisticuffs for your edification and entertainment. Joltin’ Tom McKey, the undefeated cham-peen”—he motioned extravagantly to the far side of the ring—“against two of Leadville’s finest scrappers! Give the boys a hand before the massacre starts.”

  The referee hurriedly stepped outside the ring as the spectators applauded and cheered. From that point on, his only function would be to raise the hand of the winner, for the match was a fight to the finish, with no holds barred. As he reached the outer edge of the sawdust a tense murmur swept across the crowd, then stillness settled over the warehouse. Holliday leaned forward to watch the action.

  McKey advanced to the middle of the ring. He stopped, eyeing his opponents, arms loose at his sides. The bullyboys approached from either flank, ambling slowly forward, their fists cocked. Studying them, McKey concluded that the pug-nosed tough was the more dangerous of the two, and he purposely maintained eye contact. Suddenly, shifting lightly on his feet, he feinted a blow at the man, who was circling on his right. The thug nimbly skipped backward across the ring.

  The other man instantly attacked from the opposite side. McKey whirled, gauging the hooligan’s movements perfectly, and kicked him in the kneecap. The man’s leg buckled, and he retreated, hobbling toward the edge of the ring. McKey pivoted to the left, quickly closing the distance, and lashed out with a splintering left-right combination. The ruffian slumped at the waist, his legs collapsing beneath him, and McKey kicked him in the head as he went down. The first miner stepped in from the side, pummeling McKey with three rapid roundhouse punches. The champion’s eyebrow split, slinging blood across the sawdust.

  McKey spun around, swinging his elbow in a looping arc, and connected solidly with the miner’s jaw. Knocked back on his heels, the man swayed unsteadily, his eyes cocked askew. Crouching, McKey flicked a punishing jab, followed by a searing left hook. The thug retreated, wobbily stepping out of the sawdust arena, and the crowd bodily threw him back into the ring. Bobbing and weaving, McKey feinted a left, then drove a paralyzing blow flush between the man’s eyes. Spectators scattered as the miner smashed into the front row of benches and went down, out cold.

  McKey stood alone in the ring, blood dripping from the gash on his brow. The mixture of sweat and blood coating his chest glistened in the reflection of the overhead lamps, and for a moment he stared curiously at the battered forms of the miners. Then pandemonium broke loose, and he slowly became aware of the crowd’s roaring chant. The nearest spectators jumped into the ring, mobbing him, straining to get closer as they shouted themselves hoarse. Someone raised his arm in victory.

  Pete Richter watched with a grim expression. Finally, collecting himself, he moved through the cheering crowd, halting beside Holliday. He fished a roll of bills from his pocket and peeled off a thousand dollars. “You’ve got all the luck,” he said in a disgruntled voice. “Never saw anything like it.”

  Holliday folded the money into his own roll. “Don’t despair, Pete. You’ll have a chance to recoup tonight. Perhaps your luck will change.”

  “You know—” Richter hesitated, gave him an odd look. “I wouldn’t be surprised but what you’re right. I’m long overdue.”

  “Of course you are.” Holliday nodded toward the ring. “I want to have a word of congratulations with the champ. Suppose we meet at the club in an hour.”

  “Yeah, that sounds good, Doc. I’ll see you there.”

  Holliday pushed through the mob surrounding Tom McKey.

  The Board of Trade was considered the finest gaming establishment in Leadville. A large diamond-dust mirror was centered behind a mahogany bar that dominated the front of the club. Opposite the bar were dice and roulette tables, faro layouts, and other games of chance. The walls were adorned with paintings of nude women and prancing horses, and crystal chandeliers, blazing with light, were suspended overhead. A section at the rear was reserved for a grouping of six poker tables.

  Holliday was losing. The game was into its fourth hour, and he estimated he was down by at least two thousand dollars. Richter sat opposite him, and ranged around the table were three claims speculators and two mine owners. He noted that Richter, who was the heavy winner for the night, had an uncanny knack of dealing himself winning hands. His own cards were serious betting hands, but he invariably found himself holding second-best. Something about it smelled fishy, and his suspicion centered on the man directly opposite him. Richter won consistently whenever he dealt.

  After a while, the deal again passed to Richter, who called five-card draw. Holliday observed everyone closely, hardly surprised to find himself holding two pair, queens and fours. In the first round of betting he and Richter raised back and forth, driving everyone out but one of the mine owners. On the draw he took one card, the mine owner drew three, and Richter dealt himself one. Upon spreading his cards, Holliday discovered he’d filled a full house, queens over fours. He no longer had any doubt that the game was rigged.

  As the opener, Holliday had the first bet. Slowly, as though pondering on it, he riffled the five cards in his hand. He suddenly felt like a dunce, for in their many poker sessions, he had not pegged Richter as a cardsharp. With the tip of his finger, he detected that they were playing with a “stripper” deck, one in which the cards of high denomination had been trimmed a thirty-secondth of an inch on the edges. He had no idea how the deck had been introduced into the game, but it hardly mattered. Richter was dealing crooked cards.

  Holliday smiled amiably. “You’ll have to pay to play, gentlemen. Opener bets a hundred.”

  The mine owner folded. Richter feigned uncertainty, then laughingly shrugged. “What the hell,” he said. “Get a hunch, bet a bunch. Raise you a hundred.”

  “And a hundred more on a sure winner.”

  “Got no choice but to bump you again.”

  “I call,” Holliday said. “Full house, queens over fours.”

  “By golly, Doc.” Richter chortled, wagged his head. “Guess it’s my lucky night, after all. Filled mine, too. Aces over sevens.”

  “Hold it,” Holliday said, as he reached for the pot. “Pass me your cards.”

  “What do you want my cards for?”

  “Let’s call it a moment of enlightenment.”

  Holliday gathered the deadwood. He adroitly shuffled, cut the deck, and then proceeded to deal seconds. His fingers were nimble and quick, and he dealt two sets of cards, facedown, three cards to a set. Then he placed the remainder of the deck on the table.

  “Gentlemen, your attention,” he said, looking around at the other players. “Here we have six cards, three aces and three queens. You may ask how I know.”

  Holliday turned the cards, one at a time. “I know because Mr. Richter is a card cheat. He has been dealing strippers.”

  The men stared at the cards, three aces and three queens. Richter’s features went beet-red. “You’re a goddamn liar, Holliday!” He slammed the table with the flat of his hand. “You pulled some kind of trick here.”

  “You, sir, are the trickster.” Holliday fixed him with a level gaze. “The penalty is your bankroll, every red cent. Leave it on the table and walk away.”

  “Who you think you’re trying to bullyrag? Nobody takes my bankroll!”

  “That leaves but one alternative. Would you care to draw on me?”

  Richter seemed to debate it a moment. Then, with his hands spread palms outward, he rose from his chair and walked toward the front of
the club. As he neared the roulette table, he whirled around in mid-stride, drawing a gun from his waistband. His expression turned to stark amazement as he saw Holliday standing beside the poker table, a Colt Peacemaker extended at shoulder level. Holliday fired twice, the reports scarcely an instant apart.

  Staggered by the impact of the slugs, Richter lurched backward and fell dead at the foot of the roulette table. A buzz of conversation swept through the club as Holliday calmly holstered his pistol. The men at the poker table watched openmouthed with astonishment as he resumed his seat. “Gentlemen,” he said with unnerving detachment. “I estimate Mr. Richter clipped me for two thousand. You may divide the rest of his bankroll however you see fit.”

  Within minutes, Marshal Edgar Spangler hurried into the club. He paused briefly to inspect the body, then walked back to the table. “Nice shootin’,” he said, glaring down at Holliday. “But I warned you I wouldn’t tolerate gunplay.”

  Holliday looked at him with a droll smile. “Are you posting me out of town, Marshal?”

  There was a prolonged moment of consideration. “A man’s got a right to defend himself,” Spangler allowed. “We’ll let it pass this time.”

  “In that event, I will relieve you of any future concern. Count on me to be gone within the week.”

  Holliday called for a new deck of cards. He shuffled expertly and permitted the speculator on his right to cut. Then, glancing around the table, he began dealing.

  “Ante twenty dollars, gentlemen. The game is stud poker.”

  CHAPTER 29

  Holliday came downstairs shortly after the noon hour. The lobby of the Dodge House was filled with cattlemen, and they fell silent, watching him with sidewise glances. He studiously ignored them.

  “’Afternoon, Mr. Holliday,” the desk clerk said with unctuous pleasantry. “A letter came for you in the morning post.”

  “Thank you.” Holliday accepted the envelope, looking at the oval script. “I see we have fair weather.”