Doc Holliday

by Matt Braun

  “No luck to it, Ben. Poker, as we all know, is a science.”

  “Yeah, sure thing,” Thompson mumbled. “Wish to hell trailing season was here. Them cowboys never learned the science.”

  “Won’t be long,” Loving said. “Another couple of weeks, three at the most. I can already smell the cowshit.”

  “Who cares?” Mather chimed in. “Their money don’t stink, no sir. Sweet as lilacs.”

  Thompson chuffed. “Just thinkin’ about it makes my mouth water.”

  Holliday glanced around as the door opened. He saw Joe Bascom, the desk clerk from the hotel, pause at the front of the bar. Bascom nodded to him, motioning with his head, a strange look on his face. Holliday pushed back his chair.

  “Deal me out the next hand. I won’t be long.”

  Bascom appeared jittery as Holliday walked along the bar. He bobbed his head with a weak smile. “Sorry to bust up your game, Mr. Holliday. Figured I ought to come find you.”

  “Something wrong, Joe?”

  “Understand, it’s not my fault, Mr. Holliday. Miss Kate showed up—”

  “Kate Elder?”

  “Yessir,” Bascom said nervously. “She waltzed in and demanded a key to your room. Wouldn’t take no for an answer.”

  Holliday frowned. “And you gave it to her?”

  “Had to, Mr. Holliday. She was making a fuss they must’ve heard on the street. I was in a bind.”

  “She’s in the room now?”

  “Yessir, I’m afraid so. Sorry as the dickens about this.”

  “I’ll attend to it, Joe. Don’t concern yourself.”

  Holliday made his excuses to the players at the table. After pocketing his bankroll, he led Bascom on a quick walk to the hotel. Upstairs, as he approached his room, he heard the sound of a woman humming a dance hall tune. He stepped through the door.

  Kate turned from unpacking her valise. “Hello there, lover,” she said, batting her eyelashes. “Look who’s come home.”

  Holliday closed the door. “I take it you tired of Cheyenne.”

  “Honest to God’s truth, sugar? I got to missing you. So, here I am.”

  “You’ve been gone almost ten months. Why the sudden flowering of passion?”

  She laughed a low, throaty laugh. “You’re the only man for me, Doc. You always were.”

  “You are a poor liar, Kate.” Holliday’s eyes narrowed. “What happened, did the law run you out of Cheyenne? Or perhaps you tired of working for a living.”

  “C’mon now, sweetie. Don’t be a sourpuss. Aren’t you glad to see me?”

  “Spare me the theatrics. What do you want?”

  “Just you.” She put her arms around his neck, her voice husky. “Don’t you want me, like it was before? I’ll treat you good.”

  Holliday disengaged himself. “Let’s understand one another,” he said, moving away from her. “If you come back, there are conditions. Rules.”

  “Why sure, sugar. What sort of rules?”

  “No drinking. No whoring. No scenes. You will comport yourself as a lady.”

  She vamped him with a look. “Nobody ever accused me of being a lady. You always liked me best when I was wicked.”

  “Times change,” Holliday said impassively. “The foremost rule has to do with the South Side. You will not set foot across the tracks. Understood?”

  “You don’t mean that.” Her smile slipped away. “Not even a dance now and then? A night out?”

  “Those are the terms. The only terms.”

  “You’d expect me to stay cooped up in this hotel? Never visit the girls, or have a little fun?”

  “I expect you to behave as a respectable woman.”

  Her temper flared. “I’m not your Georgia peach, Doc. I’m who I am.”

  “That is your misfortune,” Holliday said coldly. “Either it’s my way or no way at all.”

  “You watch out or I’ll go back on the line! I’ll fuck every Texan that comes up the trail. How’d you like that?”

  “You give the word ‘vulgar’ new meaning, Kate.”

  Holliday closed her valise, cinched the straps. He carried it across the room and opened the door. “No need for a fond adieu. Good luck on the South Side.”

  “Goddamn you!” She grabbed the valise as she went past. “You’re the lowest son of a bitch I ever ran across.”

  “Yes, I am one of a kind.”

  Holliday gently closed the door. He listened as she stomped along the hallway and down the stairs. A sense of relief, perhaps deliverance, suddenly came over him.

  He felt as though an anvil had been lifted from his shoulders.

  Holliday left the hotel shortly before dusk. He was scheduled to meet the other gamblers at the Lady Gay, for their nightly poker session. The fact that Kate was working the South Side seemed to him a minor annoyance. He would not alter his routine to avoid her.

  The South Side was fairly quiet. There was some local trade, but the sporting crowd, in the main, awaited the arrival of the first trail herds. As Holliday crossed the railroad tracks, he saw Earp and Bat Masterson walking over from the jailhouse. He waited for them at the corner of Second Avenue.

  “’Evening, Doc,” Earp greeted him. “You’re regular as clockwork.”

  “Wyatt. Bat.” Holliday nodded to them. “Why not join our game? Fresh blood is always welcome.”

  “Not for me,” Masterson said agreeably. “But we’ll walk along with you. I’ve got an offer for you and your friends.”

  “What sort of offer?”

  “The Santa Fe commissioned me to organize a militia. Good pay for anyone handy with a gun.”

  “Why would the Santa Fe need a militia?”

  “Trouble with the Denver and Rio Grande, over in Colorado. I’ll explain when we get everybody together.”

  Holliday glanced around. “Are you involved in this, Wyatt?”

  “No such luck,” Earp replied. “Some damnfool Texan might bring in an early herd. The town council wouldn’t give me time off.”

  Holliday thought it was business as usual. The Santa Fe was a power in county politics, and Masterson danced to the railroad’s tune. Where Santa Fe interests were concerned, he would forgo his duties as sheriff, and follow orders. Even if it meant leaving county law enforcement to his deputies.

  “By the way, Doc,” Earp said with a quizzical look. “I hear Kate’s back in town. Are congratulations in order?”

  “Far from it,” Holliday told him. “Kate and I have gone our separate ways. Permanently, I might add.”

  “Count your blessings,” Earp commented. “She’s always reminded me of a cat in heat. You don’t need the grief.”

  “Wyatt, I couldn’t agree more.”

  Downstreet, they turned into the Lady Gay. Holliday’s poker cronies were already seated around a table at the rear of the room. Masterson took a chair, flanked by Earp and Holliday, and convened an impromptu meeting. He went straight to the point.

  “The Santa Fe needs twenty fighting men. I’m authorized to offer you gents five thousand apiece. That’s double what the others will get.”

  Thompson furrowed his brow. “What makes us so special?”

  “I won’t kid you, Ben. All of you boys have a reputation with a gun. If you sign on, the others will jump at the chance. It’s just that simple.”

  “Hired guns,” Webb remarked. “That’s what it boils down to.”

  “For what?” Thompson demanded. “Who are we supposed to kill?”

  Masterson launched into a quick explanation. The Santa Fe and the Denver & Rio Grande both claimed right of way through the Royal Gorge, a mountain canyon leading to several Colorado mining camps. The Denver & Rio Grande had taken the first trick by laying track and building station houses along the Arkansas River, which flowed through the gorge. But in a stunning reversal, the Santa Fe brought legal action and was awarded sole right of way by the Supreme Court. The court decision also awarded the Santa Fe all railroad construction previously built by the Denver &
Rio Grande.

  Defying the law, the Denver & Rio Grande retaliated with force. Gangs of armed men stormed the line of station houses, and put the Santa Fe workers to rout. Though illegal, might makes right, and the Royal Gorge was now in the hands of the Denver & Rio Grande. Under the circumstances, the Santa Fe had no choice but to respond in kind, and fight force with force. The Dodge City militia was being organized to invade Royal Gorge and recapture the station houses. A special train would depart for Colorado tomorrow afternoon, with Masterson in command.

  “That’s it,” Masterson concluded. “A couple of weeks at the most, and you’re back in Dodge. We’ll just overrun the bastards.”

  “Sounds good to me,” Thompson said. “Easy money, and we’ll be back in time for trailing season. What d’ you think, Doc?”

  Holliday was thinking of Kate Elder. She was a spiteful woman, and probably already devising ways to make his life miserable. Anything that put distance between them seemed to him a reasonable alternative. Then, too, summertime in the Rockies had a certain allure. The mining camps were El Dorado for a gambler.

  “Well, why not?” he said with a waggish air. “Enroll me in your legion of mercenaries, Captain Masterson. Where do I sign?”

  “Your word’s good with me,” Masterson said. “How about you other gents? You game?”

  Holliday rose, followed by Earp, and walked to the end of the bar. The bartender brought him a bottle of bourbon, and a beer for Earp. He poured the shot glass to the rim, and downed it in a quick motion. His gaze went back to the table, where Masterson was conversing with the men. He shook his head.

  “A jolly little war and a born leader of men. Who could ask for more?”

  Earp sipped his beer. “What’s bothering you?”

  “Nothing at all, aside from boredom. That’s why I signed on.”

  “Don’t get bored when the shooting starts. Keep your head down.”

  “Why, Wyatt, you surprise me. Are you concerned for my safety?”

  “Free advice,” Earp said with a shrug. “You tend to be a daredevil.”

  “I wasn’t meant to be killed by a bullet.”

  “What makes you so sure?”

  Holliday laughed. “God has other plans.”

  Earp thought he had never known a better friend, or a lonelier man. He wondered if Holliday was bitter at God because of his disease, or because he’d lost the girl in Georgia. Or on second thought, maybe it was simply Kate Elder. A whore who could spoil any man’s day.

  All in all, he figured it was a toss-up.

  CHAPTER 31

  Trinidad lay in the shadow of Fishers Peak. A center of commerce for mining and cattle ranching, the town was situated along the banks of the Purgatoire River, in southern Colorado. Only a month past it had become the end-of-track depot for the Santa Fe.

  By July, as the terminus for the railroad, Trinidad had been transformed into a boomtown. The population doubled and doubled again, with buildings sprouting across the landscape and the main street paved with masonry brick. Overnight the town became a new stop on the gambling circuit, attracting trainloads of grifters, whores, and con artists. Anything was for sale in Trinidad.

  Holliday stepped out of the Baca House Hotel. He was freshly shaved, attired in a vested dove-gray suit, with a pale blue shirt and a royal-blue tie. An early afternoon sun slanted westward, toward the distant, snow-capped spires of the Sangre de Christo mountain range. He popped a match on his thumbnail and lit a cigarillo, strolling south along the main thoroughfare. The center of town was known locally as Corazon de Trinidad, the Heart of Trinidad, and a marble statue of Kit Carson commanded the central intersection. The sporting district was a few blocks farther south.

  At the intersection, a crowd was gathered on the northeast corner. Holliday paused to watch one of the town’s more artful grifters fleece the unwary with admirable sleight of hand. From observing masters in the gambling fraternity, he was able to spot the gaff being used today. Yet the gullible nature of those who were so easily conned was always a source of fascination, and sardonic amusement. The grifter was a wiry man with nimble hands, dressed in a checkered suit and a bowler hat. There was a touch of the revivalist preacher in his melodious voice.

  “Cleanliness is next to godliness! And I see men before me who are in need of both. Step right up, brothers!”

  The crowd was hooked by his rapid-fire delivery. Their numbers had grown, spilling off the boardwalk into the street. The grifter dramatically held two bars of ivory-tinted soap aloft for all to see. The tempo of his evangelistic cadence quickened.

  “Soap, brothers! Salvation for your skin and your soul alike. Concocted for miscreants and backsliders from an ancient formula evolved in the Holy Land. Who will be the first to step forward and give me twenty-five cents … a lowly two bits … for salvation—and a clean hide!”

  No one stepped forward. He looked at them with bafflement, then sudden dawning. “Oh, yes, I know what you’re thinking. Why would you pay two bits when you can buy common soap for a nickel at the mercantile? Well, here’s the reason!” A hundred-dollar bill appeared in his hand, and he waved it around the circle of faces. “Lord God Jehovah ordained me to get people to use soap. And I’m willing to pay you to do it. Step up, my friends! Watch closely.”

  The onlookers jostled for a better look at the hundred-dollar bill. Before the pitchman stood a sample case on a tripod loaded with bars of unwrapped soap. His dexterous fingers swiftly twisted the bill around an ivory cube, then wrapped it in a square of blue paper, tossing it carelessly into the tray. Faster than the eye could follow, his hands wrapped one bar after another, enclosing ten- and twenty-dollar bills in each package. A hush fell over the crowd as he stopped including money and began wrapping plain bars of soap. His spiel picked up speed.

  “Brothers, you’re all sports! You wouldn’t buy my soap at twenty-five cents so I’ll offer you another shot at salvation. There’s over three hundred dollars tucked snugly here in my little pile. For the paltry sum of five bucks you get to select any bar in the tray. Cleanse your soul and win ten, or twenty, or a century note! Who’s first? A fiver for a hundred!”

  “Mister, you’re pretty quick.” A coatless man in a filthy shirt slapped five dollars into the grifter’s hand. “But by grannies, you didn’t catch me nappin’. Nosiree.”

  The man rummaged through the tray and selected a bar of soap. He eagerly unwrapped the package, and shouted, triumphantly, holding a crisp twenty-dollar bill. “I told you! You just wasn’t fast enough. By golly, I’m gonna trade this twenty for four more chances. I’ll get that hunnert yet!”

  “Don’t get greedy now.” The grifter warded him off. “Only one bar to a customer. Let somebody else have a chance at that century note. All it takes is a keen eye and faith in the Almighty. Who’s next? Take your pick!”

  The crowd swarmed over him, thrusting gold pieces and greenbacks into his hand. Holliday turned away, crossing the intersection, as they fought to snatch the bars of soap. When the gaff started, he’d seen the grifter palm the hundred; the man in the tattered shirt was a shill, an instant winner to spark greed in the others. He estimated there were at least twice as many bars as there were men, and the odds were with the grifter. Some would win, but most would turn the blue wrappers inside out and find only a nickel bar of soap. The grifter would clear a tidy sum.

  Holliday liked Trinidad. The anything-goes atmosphere acted as a stimulant, something he’d missed in Dodge City. He had arrived in town not quite a month ago, following the aborted railroad war. Led by Bat Masterson, the Dodge City militia had been outnumbered ten to one by Denver & Rio Grande workmen, and failed to take any of the station houses in the Royal Gorge. The Santa Fe had then sent them to Pueblo, again led by Masterson, to occupy a roundhouse that controlled the rail yards. There, besieged by a detachment from the U.S. Army, they were forced to withdraw in short order. The campaign, from beginning to end, had proved a fiasco.

  The one prize captured by the Santa
Fe was Raton Pass. Located on the southern border of Colorado, the pass was a natural gateway through the mountains to New Mexico Territory. Some eight years ago, a cagey entrepreneur named Dick Wootton had finagled a charter authorizing him to operate a toll road through Raton Pass. Santa Fe officials, offering a princely sum, had purchased right of way from Wootton, and thereby closed the southern gateway to the Denver & Rio Grande. The Santa Fe was now laying track through the pass, some twenty miles south of Trinidad, and would soon establish a railhead in New Mexico. Neither Masterson nor the Dodge City militia had contributed anything to the skirmishing between rival lines.

  Afterward, thoroughly disgusted by the whole affair, Holliday had decided to stay in Colorado. Through Masterson, he sent word to Wyatt Earp that he planned to follow the Santa Fe into New Mexico, moving along as new boomtowns were established. The hotel in Dodge City forwarded his belongings, shipped in a steamer trunk by railway, and with it a note from Earp. The lawman wished him good fortune, and expressed the cryptic thought that their paths might cross again before too long. Holliday had no idea where or when, but he felt he’d already played into good fortune. The Santa Fe had paid him five thousand, and in the bargain, he had escaped Kate. He was ahead of the game.

  A block from the main intersection, on the fringe of the sporting district, he entered a cafe. The waitress took his breakfast order, and he laced his coffee with a liberal dose of bourbon. Every morning, upon arising, he still coughed up a wad of bloody sputum. But the mountain air generally agreed with him, and he’d found no dearth of high rollers in Trinidad. He felt no worse than usual, if he wasn’t altogether the picture of health, and the cards were falling his way. All things considered, he thought the venture into Colorado had worked out for the best.

  Dub Watson, a deputy town marshal, came in as he was finishing his eggs and toast. Heavyset, with meaty features and a stolid manner, Watson halted beside the table. He nodded with an empty expression. “The marshal sent me to fetch you. He wants you over at his office.”

  “Does he?” Holliday said genially. “To what do I owe the honor?”