by Mike Resnick
“He didn't pull the trigger,” said Vermillion. “Can't compare to people getting their heads blowed off in all your Limey wars.”
“Mr. Wilde is a writer, not a soldier,” remarked Holliday. “I would guess that he's never seen a man killed.”
“But I've written about them,” replied Wilde with a smile.
“Probably reads better than the real thing,” offered Vermillion.
“Neater, anyway,” said Holliday.
“Do you mind if I ask you some questions?” said Wilde, as Holliday pushed fifty dollars to the center of the table.
“Go ahead.”
“What was Clay Allison like?”
“Never met the gentleman,” answered Holliday.
“And Ben Thomson?”
“Same answer.”
Wilde frowned. “I'd have thought—”
“The West is a mighty big place, Mr. Wilde,” said Holliday. “And contrary to the dime novels, it's populated by more than gunslingers, a term we don't use much.”
“What do you use?”
“Shootists.”
“How many cards, Doc?”
“Two, please,” answered Holliday, sliding two cards, face down, across the table to Vermillion.
“I know you knew the Earps,” continued Wilde. “What were they like?”
“Morgan was a sweet man with a wonderful sense of humor. If I'd had a brother, I'd have wanted him to be like Morgan Earp.”
“And Virgil?”
“He and Wyatt were cut from the same cloth,” answered Holliday. “Humorless men, hard men. Their word was their bond, and there was nothing they were afraid of.”
“They didn't have to be afraid of anything with you there,” said Vermillion. He turned to Wilde. “Doc was their enforcer, just like Ringo was for the Clantons.”
“Tell me about it,” said Wilde eagerly.
“Up to you, Doc,” said one of the players.
“How much?”
“Two hundred to stay in.”
Holliday pulled out the wad of money he'd taken from Kate's safe, peeled a pair of hundred-dollar bills off the top, and shoved them into the pot in the middle of the table.
“Two hundred dollars!” said Wilde, clearly impressed. “Translate that into pounds and it's more than my advance for The Nihilists.”
“That's one of the advantages of being a successful gambler,” replied Holliday. “Do you know how many teeth I'd have to pull for two hundred dollars?”
“Another fifty to stay in, Doc,” announced Vermillion.
Holliday pulled a fifty out of the wad.
“Don't you want to look at the two cards you drew first?” asked Wilde.
“If there's another raise, I may very well do that,” said Holliday. He looked at the empty bottle in front of him, frowned, and snapped his fingers to get the robot bartender's attention. “Another bottle over here,” he ordered.
“Since you are the proprietor there will be no charge,” announced the robot, walking out from behind the bar and carrying the bottle over to the table.
“Damned generous of you,” said Holliday sardonically.
“Thank you, sir,” said the robot.
“Call me Doc.”
“Thank you, sir Doc.”
“I've got to talk to Tom about you,” said Holliday. He gestured to the bar. “Go back to making money.”
“I do not make money, sir Doc,” replied the robot. “I serve drinks.”
“I stand corrected.”
“You sit corrected.”
“Whatever.”
“Call,” said one of the players.
“Three ladies,” announced Vermillion.
“Shit,” muttered the man who had called. “Beats two pairs.”
Vermillion turned to Holliday. “What have you got, Doc?”
“Let's see,” said Holliday, laying down two aces and a jack. He turned up the two cards he'd drawn, an eight and a six.
“Maybe I should have looked first,” he said, pouring another drink.
The game continued until midnight, at which time the other two players had left, and Holliday and Vermillion were waiting for someone to join them. Suddenly there was a loud “Yahoo!” from the far side of the room, and a well-dressed man stood up from a table. He surveyed the room, saw that the crowd had thinned down to perhaps twenty men, and announced that he was buying drinks for the house.
“Here it comes,” said a grinning Vermillion to Wilde.
“The house cannot drink, sir,” said the bartender. “Only humans can.”
Wilde chuckled in amusement.
“All right,” said the man. “Drinks for all the humans.” He walked over to the bar and slapped a bill down on it. Then his gaze fell on Holliday, and he walked over. “You gents still playing?”
“Care to join us?” said Holliday.
The man sat down at the table. “My name's Wilson,” he said. “Henry Wilson. Selling ladies' dresses, corsets, and shoes town-to-town.”
“John Henry Holliday,” said Holliday, “and this is Jack Vermillion.”
“I've heard of you both,” said Wilson. He smiled at Wilde. “And I was at your lecture last night. You're a fine speaker, sir.”
“Thank you,” said Wilde. “I'm even a better writer. I hope you'll consider buying my book before you leave town.”
“Why not?” said Wilson. “It gets mighty lonely riding the stage from town to town, especially since Mr. Buntline created that damned horseless coach.”
“Why would that make you lonelier?” asked Wilde. “You get to where you're going faster.”
“Ah, but you don't stop to rest and water the horses a few times a day, so you don't get to visit along the way.”
“Man's got a point,” agreed Vermillion.
“Well, gentlemen, I feel lucky tonight,” announced Wilson.
“What's the game?”
“Been playing draw for the past hour,” replied Vermillion.
“That suits me fine,” said Wilson. “And how much to play?”
“As long as you're having a good night,” said Holliday, “let's make it a hundred.”
“That's a lot of corsets and unmentionables,” said Wilson thoughtfully. Then he shrugged. “What the hell. I'm playing with other people's money anyway. When it's gone, I'll take mine back to the hotel with me and dream about how I might have beaten the famous Doc Holliday.”
“I like your attitude, sir,” said Holliday. He noticed that his bottle was empty and called for another.
“You ought to take it a little easy, Doc,” said Vermillion. “That's your third bottle tonight.”
Holliday shrugged. “I'm thirsty.”
“But—”
“Enough,” said Holliday in a tone of voice that convinced Vermillion to drop the subject.
They played four hands. Wilson won two, Vermillion won the other two.
“Let's up the ante to two hundred,” said Holliday. “I've got to start winning some of my money back.”
“No objection,” said Wilson.
“Me neither,” added Vermillion.
Wilde studied Holliday closely. The man was starting to smell like a distillery, he had a little trouble picking up and fanning his cards, and whenever he looked at his cards he blinked his eyes several times as if trying to focus them. Vermillion opened with one hundred dollars, Holliday raised him with a pair of eights, Wilson dropped out, and Holliday drew a third eight to win the hand.
It was Holliday's turn to deal. He shuffled the cards awkwardly, poured yet another drink to steady his hands, shoved his ante into the middle of the table, and dealt. Wilde looked over his shoulder as he picked up his cards and slowly fanned his hand. He had two kings, a jack, a three, and a deuce.
Wilson shoved a thousand dollars into the center of the table. Vermillion took one look at his hand and folded. Holliday pulled out his bankroll and peeled off a thousand.
“How many cards, sir?” he asked Wilson.
“None.”
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“Dealer takes two,” said Holliday, discarding his deuce and three, and dealing himself two more cards. He picked them up and slowly fanned his hand to reveal a third king and a six.
Wilson counted the pile of money in front of him and pushed it all into the center of the table. “Sixty-three hundred dollars,” he announced.
Wilde was sure Holliday would fold, but the gambler pulled out his bankroll and put it down next to Wilson's bet. “See you and raise you.”
“How much?” asked Wilson.
Holliday shrugged. “Whatever's in the pile,” he slurred.
Vermillion counted it and turned to Wilson. “It'll cost you eleven thousand one hundred and fifty to see him.”
“I haven't got it.”
“I will not accept the marker of a corset salesman,” said Holliday.
“We'll get it,” said Vermillion. He signaled seven or eight of the patrons over. “Look at his hand, gents. Who wants to buy in?”
It took ten minutes, but finally they'd collected enough to match Holliday's bet, and Wilson laid down his hand, face up. It contained four queens and an ace.
“Nice try,” said Holliday, laying out his own. “Four kings.”
“What are you talking about?” demanded Wilson. “That's three kings and a jack.”
“What are you talking about?” Holliday shot back angrily. He got unsteadily to his feet, placed his hands on either side of his cards, and lowered his head until it was mere inches above the table. He stared at the cards, blinked furiously, then stared again. “Well, I'll be damned!” he muttered, and collapsed.
T
HE MONARCH WAS EMPTY, except for the bartender, when Holliday awoke. It took him a few minutes to remember what had happened, and another to realize that he was now all but penniless, every dollar he had saved for the sanitarium gone because he'd been too drunk to tell a jack from a king. He got to his feet, steadied himself for a moment, and then staggered out into the night. Harrison Street was empty except for a single coyote that stared at him, unafraid.
Holliday pulled out his gun and aimed it at the animal.
“It will have no effect,” said the coyote.
Holliday tried to focus his eyes as it grew into an Apache warrior, the same one he had seen earlier.
“Goyathlay knew this night would come,” said the warrior.
“Bully for him,” muttered Holliday. “Did he send you here to gloat?”
The warrior shook his head. “To remind you that you have worked together once before.”
“You reminded me already. What kind of deal does he have in mind?”
“Soon you will know.”
“Damn it!” growled Holliday. “I'm in no mood for guessing games. I just lost every penny I have. Now tell me what he wants, or leave me the hell alone.”
“He wants you to do precisely what you must do,” answered the warrior. “But you cannot do it alone.”
“And what is that?” demanded Holliday.
“You will know when the time comes.”
“And when will that be?”
Suddenly he was facing a coyote again.
“Soon,” promised the animal, and ran off into the night.
“Y
OU LOST IT ALL?” demanded Kate Elder. “Every last cent of it,” said Holliday. “I have about two hundred dollars left in the world.”
He was standing before her desk in her office, trying not to sway as he stood there facing her.
“This isn't another of your damnfool jokes?”
He was about to shake his head, decided that would precipitate a headache, and settled for saying, “No.”
“What now?”
An almost-amused smile cross his face. “Now I find a new place to die.”
“I could shoot you right now,” said Kate.
“If anyone else said that, I'd think they were kidding,” replied Holliday. A pause. “I've got to sit down, Kate.” He walked over to a chair and half-sat, half-sprawled in it.
“Well, you can't gamble if all your money's gone, and you haven't been able to work as a dentist for months,” she said. “Have you figured out what you're going to do to raise some money? You can live here, of course, but if you want a newspaper or a drink, how do you plan to pay for it?”
“I'll have to go out and earn it.”
“I just explained: you can't gamble without money, and you can't be a dentist if you keep coughing blood on your clients.”
“There's a third way,” said Holliday.
“There'd damned well better be.” She stared at him, and finally her expression softened. “Come on to the kitchen and I'll cook you up some eggs.”
“You haven't cooked in all the time we've been in Colorado,” noted Holliday. “Am I that much a figure of pathos?”
“I plan to have Annabelle do the cooking.”
He frowned. “Do I know her?”
“You'd damned well better not. She's one of your friend's robots.” She walked to the door and turned to him. “Well?”
“Give me just a minute for the world to stop spinning,” said Holliday. “I'll be along.”
“Damned well better be,” Kate muttered and walked down the hall to the kitchen.
Holliday sat perfectly still for a long minute, then got to his feet and went to the kitchen. The world seemed a little steadier, and he was pretty sure he wasn't going to vomit.
Annabelle—super-hardened brass, huge-breasted, tiny-waisted, and expressionless—was scrambling some eggs as he took a seat at the table.
“Thank you,” said Holliday as she slid the eggs onto a plate and handed it to him.
“Oh, baby, you're the best,” said Annabelle. “Want to do it again?”
“It would have been nice,” said Kate caustically, “if your friends had given her more than three sentences or one topic of conversation.”
“I'm sure if you order a cook instead of a whore, they will,” said Holliday.
“Those look pretty good,” said Kate, indicating the eggs. She turned to Annabelle. “I'll have some too.”
She seated herself opposite Holliday. “So how are you going to get your money back?”
“I do have another talent,” he said.
She studied his face for a moment. “You're going to be a gun for hire?”
He shook his head. “I've never worked for anyone in my life. I don't intend to start now, so close to its end.”
“Then what?” she asked, puzzled.
“I hear Wyatt's in Denver. I'll take the Bunt Line over there tomorrow morning, and—”
“Morning?” she interrupted him with a disbelieving look.
“When I get up,” he amended. “Wyatt's still a lawman, last I heard. He'll know who has the biggest prices on their heads. If he can find a gang where they all have prices, maybe we'll go after them together and split the reward.”
“It's always Wyatt,” she said contemptuously. “Wichita, Dodge, Tombstone, now here. What's his hold over you?”
“He's my friend,” said Holliday.
“Big deal.”
“A man like me hasn't got many friends, so I cherish the ones I have.”
“Have you ever noticed that you're always helping him, that it's never the other way around?”
“That's enough, Kate,” he said, and something in his tone convinced her to stop talking and concentrate on eating her eggs.
They ate in silence, they walked to Kate's bedroom in silence, and Holliday collapsed on the bed and spent the next eleven hours sleeping in silence.
H
OLLIDAY HATED TRAVELING on the horseless Bunt Line at night. He knew that Edison had installed what he called spotlights on the front of the coach, but seeing a hole or perhaps a buffalo corpse in the trail didn't mean avoiding it. Horses would find a way, but with no horses the coach's safety depended on the driver, and Holliday had very little confidence in his fellow man. The one thing he knew was that the brass coach was safe from attack. He'd been attacked twice by Apache
s, and their bullets and arrows simply bounced off the exterior of the coach. In the old days, which, he reflected wryly, meant two years ago, attacking Indians would simply kill the horses that were pulling the stagecoach and that would be that. But the Bunt Line was powered by an electrical engine and battery that Edison had designed and Buntline had built, and while he expected to break an axle—and his neck—on the hazardous road, he knew he was safe from attack.
Soon it was completely dark, and he lit the little battery-powered lamp next to his seat and continued reading the dime novel he'd picked up on his way to meet the coach. It was a rootin' tootin' shoot-‘em-up about, of all people, himself. In this ridiculous story he faced a gang of twenty-two and killed them all, which was a pretty good trick with a pair of six-guns. Then he saw the illustration, and realized he was firing Buntline's Gatling pistols that carried about two dozen bullets apiece. He'd actually tried one out back in Tombstone, and realized that in his condition he was too weak to hold the weapon up and aim it. Evidently no one had told the illustrator, who'd put an extra fifty pounds of muscle on him and had him looking like a normal human being.
There was a Where Is He Now? feature on John Wesley Hardin. Easy answer: He was in jail, studying for a law degree. But the magazine had him hiding out in Mexico, killing any stranger who approached his hacienda.
Next there was a Great Jail Breaks section. This issue featured the daring escape from the Lincoln County Jail by Henry McCarty, who was fast becoming known as Billy the Kid. He'd killed two deputies and made his getaway in broad daylight. Holliday wished they'd run a photo of him, rather than a drawing of him shooting the deputies by an artist who had clearly never been west of the Mississippi and had no idea of how people dressed or even what kind of gear the horses carried. The Kid was making quite a name for himself; he'd have liked to see what he really looked like.
Finally there was an annoying article on The Fastest Guns, as if that meant anything. The six fastest guns Holliday had ever seen all died young, beaten by accurate guns.
When he was done he put the publication on the seat beside him, lay a small suitcase on his lap, and started playing solitaire. Before long he was so engrossed in it that he barely noticed that the coach was slowing down.
