by Matt Braun
Outside the store, he walked upstreet a short distance. He halted in front of a mercantile, playing for time, and made a production of lighting a cheroot. Here, he told himself, was a made-to-order opportunity. If he could get close to the girl, that might very well open the door to the Earp household. Which wouldn’t exactly make him one of the family, but it would be a large step in the right direction. On top of that, he’d been known to charm a few girls out of their undies and leave them begging for more. With a little romance and sweet-talk, he might easily con her into spilling all the family secrets. Certainly, he had nothing to lose by trying. The only stickler was how to approach it. He couldn’t let on that he knew her name, yet he had to manage it in some offhand manner. And quickly!
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her leave the emporium and turn in his direction. She was carrying several bundles, wrapped in brown paper, and the distance was closing rapidly. With no time to plan it out, he simply reverted to the old standby.
Puffing on his cigar, he gave every appearance of being engrossed with the mercantile’s window display. As she approached, he suddenly turned and bulled directly into her path. The collision rocked her back on her heels and sent her packages flying. She gave a little yelp of fright, clutching at her bonnet.
“Pardon me, ma’am!” Starbuck grabbed her arm, supporting her. “Are you all right?”
Alice Blaylock nodded, trying to collect herself. “Yes, I think so. At least nothing seems broken.”
“I’m sure sorry!” Starbuck hurried on. “No excuse for it! You’re so dainty and all, I might’ve hurt you bad.”
“No, really,” Alice assured him. “I’m perfectly fine.”
“Well, it was awful clumsy of me all the same. You just catch your breath and let me tend to those bundles.”
Starbuck quickly gathered her packages off the boardwalk, and stuck them under one arm. Almost as an afterthought, he took the cheroot from his mouth and tossed it into the street. Then he gave her a lopsided grin, and tipped his hat.
“Jack Johnson, ma’am. And purely mortified to make your acquaintance like a runaway steam engine.”
“No need to apologize, Mr. Johnson.”
“Well now, that’s mighty kind of you, Miss—?”
“Blaylock. Alice Blaylock.”
“Miss Blaylock,” Starbuck murmured pleasantly. “Here, let me carry these bundles for you aways. That’s the least I can do, after nearly bowling you over.”
Alice looked startled, on the verge of objecting. Then she seemed to change her mind. She smiled, turning uptown, and he fell in beside her.
“Are you new to Tombstone, Mr. Johnson?”
“I am, for a fact,” Starbuck said genially. “How’d you guess?”
It was no guess. Every member of the Earp family was known on sight to the townspeople. Only a stranger would have failed to recognize her, and on sudden impulse, Alice found herself quite taken with him. He was courteous, with a certain rough charm, and rather good looking. Far and away the nicest thing that had happened to her since coming to Tombstone. She silently thanked her stars that he was indeed a stranger.
“I’ve lived here a while,” she said casually. “I suppose you might say I’m one of Tombstone’s old timers.”
“Say now!” Starbuck’s face split in a grin. “I reckon that makes it my lucky day.”
“Oh, how so?”
“Because,” Starbuck suggested, “you being familiar with the town, you might take pity on a stranger.”
Alice blinked with surprise. “Excuse me?”
“I know it’s bold as brass, but I was hoping you’d have dinner with me. I’d sure count it an honor, Miss Blaylock.”
“Dinner?” Alice repeated the word as if she couldn’t have heard correctly. “You’re asking me out?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Starbuck said smoothly. “I might never get another chance, and I wouldn’t want to risk that.”
“I—” Alice sounded uncertain. “I don’t know.”
“I’m a gentleman.” Starbuck’s square face was very earnest. “I don’t take liberties with ladies, and you wouldn’t have to worry a minute. You’ve got my word on it, and anybody will tell you—Jack Johnson’s word is good as gold!”
Starbuck buttered her up all the way to the corner. By then, her head was spinning and she found herself completely captivated by his jocular manner. When they parted, he had directions to her house and an engagement for dinner. He tipped his hat, grinning, and strolled away. She felt slightly giddy, and dared not pinch herself.
Night was coming on as Starbuck approached the Earp house. To the west, under a darkening sky, low clouds scudded across the horizon. Out of habit, he tested the wind, then quickly set the thought aside. Tonight, he had only one concern, and it wasn’t the weather.
Nor was it the girl. If anything, she had proved more gullible than he’d expected. She had fallen for his glib line and he felt she could be coaxed along very nicely. His major concern was Wyatt Earp. However innocent it appeared, he knew his chance meeting with the girl would draw suspicion. All afternoon he had schooled himself to give a sterling performance. Earp would be waiting when he entered the house, and at that instant, there would be no margin for error. He had to appear genuinely dumbfounded—flabbergasted!
Freshly shaved, and reeking of bayberry lotion, he mounted the porch stairs. Halting, he removed his hat and took a tight grip on his nerves. Then he knocked.
A few seconds later the door opened. Wyatt Earp, expressionless, stood framed in a glow of lamplight.
“Mr. Earp!” Starbuck gave him a walleyed look of amazement. “What are you doing here?”
“I live here.”
“You—” Starbuck shook his head. “I thought this was the Blaylock house.”
“C’mon in.” Earp moved aside. “I’m married to Alice’s sister.”
“Well, I’ll be damned!” Starbuck said with a dopey grin. “Don’t that take the cake? You’re kin!”
“After a fashion.” Earp closed the door, turning to a man standing nearby. “Like you to meet one of my brothers. Virge, this here’s Jack Johnson.”
Virgil Earp was a lean man, with hard eyes and a slow smile. The family resemblance was immediately apparent, and like his brother, his upper lip was covered with a brushy mustache. He offered his hand to Starbuck and they shook once, a hard up-and-down pump.
“Pleased to meet you, Mr. Johnson.”
“Jack,” Starbuck said affably. “Folks call my pa Mr. Johnson.”
“Wyatt tells me you’re a gambler.”
“That’s my trade.”
“Appears we’ve got lots in common, don’t it?”
Starbuck played dumb. “We do?”
“Alice,” Virge remarked. “First time she says boo to a stranger, and you turn out to be a gamblin’ man.”
“Well—” Starbuck darted a sheepish glance at Earp. “Look here, I hope there’s no hard feelings about me asking her out. If I’d known she was related, I would’ve worked out a proper introduction. No two ways about it!”
“She’s full grown,” Earp informed him. “Treat her right, and you won’t hear no complaints out of me.”
“I appreciate it, Mr. Earp. That’s mighty white of you.”
“Why don’t you forget that Mr. Earp stuff. The name’s Wyatt.”
Before Starbuck could reply, Alice entered from a hallway door. Her dress was navy serge, clearly the remnants of better days, and the same woolen shawl was thrown over her shoulders. But her hair was curled in elaborate finger-puffs and her eyes positively shone. She. moved across the parlor with willowy grace.
“Good evening, Mr. Johnson.”
“Ma’am.” Starbuck faked a bemused smile. “I was just telling Mr. Earp—Wyatt—that I sure didn’t mean any disrespect. I never had a glimmer you two was related.”
“Fiddlesticks!” Alice flashed her brother-in-law a look. “He knows that very well.”
Earp nodded solemnly. “I already
told him he’s welcome, Allie. Don’t get yourself worked up.”
Starbuck sensed an underlying tension, and suppressed a smile. Earp and the girl were clearly at odds, which fitted perfectly with his plan. He made a stab at polite conversation, but it went along in fits and starts, then petered out altogether. Finally, with Alice edging toward the door, he bid the Earp brothers good-night. A wide grin plastered across his face, he waved and followed her into the night.
When the door closed, Virge muttered a low oath. “I don’t like it.”
“Your crystal ball workin’ overtime, is it?”
“You asked me over here to size him up, and I’m tellin’ you—he smells like trouble!”
“Maybe, maybe not,” Earp allowed. “You didn’t see his face when I opened the door. He goddamn near swallowed his tongue.”
“C’mon, Wyatt,” Virge scoffed. “You’ve conned too many people in your time to be taken in by that.”
“Yeah, and I know the difference, too. I’ve got a hunch he’s on the square.”
“What happened to coincidence?” Virge reminded him. “Last night he sits down at your table out of the clear blue. Today he just accidently happens to bump into Allie on the street. You was the one that said it went against the odds.”
“I’ve been wrong before,” Earp said stubbornly. “I just don’t think he could’ve fooled me. Nobody’s that good an actor.”
Virge’s look was colored by skepticism. “Still seems awful damn peculiar he showed up so soon after Marsh Williams … disappeared.”
“Soon?” Earp demanded. “Hell’s fire, close to a month’s passed. I don’t call that soon.”
“Confound it, Wyatt!” Virge said hotly. “What if he’s a Wells, Fargo agent? You’re stakin’ a helluva lot on the fact that he didn’t pee down his leg when you opened the door.”
“Well, one thing’s for certain,” Earp said sardonically. “Whatever he is or isn’t, he’s got Allie in a halfway decent humor. I take my hat off to him for that.”
“You’re beggin’ for trouble, Wyatt. And if you’re not careful, you’re liable to get it.”
Earp frowned. “All right, if it’ll ease your mind, sound him out the first chance you get. Turkey Creek Jack Johnson ought to know all there is to know about them northern mining camps.”
“By God, don’t worry! I’ll do that very thing!”
Earp slumped down in a chair and crossed his legs. He smiled to himself, remembering the look on his sister-in-law’s face. With time, and encouragement, Johnson might just take the little bitch off his hands. For good and forever.
On the walk downtown, Starbuck kept the conversation light and inconsequential. True to his word, he intended to treat her like a lady. And not a lady of negotiable virtue, like the other Earp women. Such a novelty would impress her, and bring her all the more quickly to his bed. Then the real work could commence.
With her hand tucked inside his arm, he continued to play the raffish charmer. “Did Wyatt tell you how I clipped Doc Holliday?”
“No,” she said with a firmness that surprised him. “He didn’t.”
“Uh-oh!” Starbuck chuckled. “I hope you haven’t got anything against gamblers. Wyatt must’ve told you that’s how I make my living.”
“Not gamblers,” she confided, a spark of deviltry in her eyes. “Just Doc Holliday.”
“Can you keep a secret?”
“Try me and see.”
“I don’t like him either,” Starbuck said jokingly. “Never could stand a sore loser.”
She cocked her head in a funny little smile. “Do you ever lose?”
“Now you’re asking trade secrets.”
“Tell me,” she said brightly. “Do you?”
“Promise it won’t go any further?”
“Cross my heart and hope to die.”
“Well …” Starbuck lowered his voice. “I lose, but only when I want to. See what I mean?”
“You’re not a cardsharp, are you?”
“No, ma’am!” Starbuck appeared wounded. “But when I set my mind to it, there’s no man alive who’s my equal at a poker table.”
She suddenly looked quite enchanting. “Then I hope you beat them all! The sore losers most especially!”
“You know,” Starbuck gently squeezed her hand. “I think I’m going to like this town.”
She laughed softly. “I think you will, too.”
Something in her voice startled him. Though he couldn’t quite define it, he knew it wasn’t to be discounted. There was more to Alice Blaylock than met the eye, something worth exploring. But for now, he played it for laughs.
“You’re not making any promises, are you?”
“No.” She gave him a mysterious smile. “Not yet.”
CHAPTER 6
A haze of smoke hung suspended in the lamplight. The men seated around the poker table were a democratic admixture of the mining camp. There were three miners, a couple of teamsters, and a whiskey drummer. And Jack Johnson.
The hour was late and the game was slowly winding down. Starbuck, seated where he could watch the room, was the heavy winner. He lost often enough to keep the other players gaffed, but it was clearly his night. His mood was jovial, almost ingenuous, and he was at some pains to humor the losers. He was also cheating.
On the third finger of his left hand Starbuck wore a simple ring. The stone was common onyx, set in a plain gold band. It was unnoteworthy, and to all appearances of no great value. On the underside of the band, however, it was somewhat more remarkable. A small, all but invisible, needle point protruded from the bottom of the band. Among professional gamblers it was known as a “nicker” or “needle ring.”
The ring provided Starbuck several advantages over the other players. While dealing, early on in the game, he had pricked the face of key cards in the deck. This prick raised an imperceptible bump on the top of the card. Useless a man’s fingertips were unusually sensitive, the bumps were virtually undetectable. Earlier, Starbuck had sandpapered the pads of his fingers, and as a result, it was somewhat like reading Braille. Simply by shuffling, he was able to identify almost half the cards in the deck.
Whenever he dealt, the coded bumps allowed him to locate key cards. Then, by dealing seconds, he was able to give himself the necessary cards for a winning hand. Since he also “read” the cards dealt to other players, he had several options. To avoid suspicion, he dealt himself a winner every fourth or fifth time around. The rest of the time, he dropped out and dealt a winning hand to a player whose luck had gone sour. With skill, and the law of averages, he also won his share of the hands dealt by others. No one suspected anything out of the ordinary, nor did they begrudge him what seemed a remarkable hot streak. It was a nifty dodge, and he worked it artfully.
Starbuck’s purpose was to effect the next step in his courtship of Wyatt Earp. By establishing himself as a cardsharp—utterly lacking in honesty—he hoped to win acceptance within Earp’s circle of cronies. He had selected tonight, only two days after his dinner with Alice, for the most expedient of reasons. Virgil Earp had wandered into the Alhambra shortly after the supper hour. Doc Holliday, whose own game broke up earlier than usual, had joined Virgil at the bar. As the night progressed, they had slowly, ever so gradually, worked their way to the end of the counter. From there, they had an unobstructed view of the poker table.
Starbuck scarcely glanced at them throughout the evening. Yet he was aware of their keen scrutiny whenever it came his turn to deal. Solely for their benefit, he staged a demonstration of dexterity and adroit card manipulation. Some years ago, as part of his undercover repertoire, he had taken lessons from a master cardsharp turned saloonkeeper. His performance, then, was not that of a tinhorn gambler. It was faultless, very professional, and thoroughly convincing.
Several times he saw them exchange glances with Earp. From the faro table, Earp nodded in return, and it seemed certain there was something more afoot than simple curiosity. He got the strong impression that Virgil
Earp and Doc Holliday were waiting for his game to end. He had no idea what they intended, but the signals being passed were somehow ominous. Wyatt Earp, quite clearly, had rigged a surprise of his own for tonight.
Around midnight the poker game ground to a halt. Starbuck was easily a thousand dollars ahead, but no one seemed to take it personally. He told a bawdy joke—while pocketing his winnings—and left them laughing. It was the final touch, one he knew wouldn’t be missed by the men at the bar. A true grifter always left his marks in a congenial frame of mind. Which made them all the easier to pluck next time around.
Walking to the bar, he was acutely aware that a new game was about to commence. He had no inkling as to its rules, nor did he know where it would lead. But he sensed it would be played in dead earnest.
“Evening, gents,” he said cheerily. “Buy you a drink?”
Holliday wore his perpetually constipated expression, sour and tight-lipped. Virge’s greeting was civil but cool. He nodded toward the poker table.
“How’d you come out?”
“Broke the game!” Starbuck crowed. “Damnedest run of luck you ever seen.”
Holliday loosed a harsh bark of laughter. Suddenly his face reddened and he was racked by a spasm of coughing. Only after he managed to knock back a whiskey did the coughing subside. He glanced around, wiping tears from his eyes with a handkerchief.
“Some folks get shot for that kind of luck.”
By now, Starbuck knew that Holliday was afflicted with consumption. Devoid of fear, since he was already on speaking terms with death, the cadaverous gambler had the edge in any fight. Whether he meant to provoke a showdown now was a moot question. Starbuck couldn’t believe they had learned his true identity; but neither could he risk dropping his masquerade. He chose his words carefully.
“Outhouse luck, Doc! Here today, gone tomorrow!”
