High Rider

by Bill Gallaher

  “Oh, thank you, darlin’. Why, I might have sat here all evenin’ given the charmin’ amiability of the company.” He looked at the drunk when he spoke, his words icy with sarcasm, adding, “When the deck is finished, gentlemen, so am I.”

  John broke even on the last few rounds and the drunk lost. The game over, the dentist gathered the cards. “Thank you, gentlemen; it’s been a pleasure. A new dealer will join you shortly.”

  The drunk banged the table with his fist. “You goddamn lunger! Deal another round! You ain’t takin’ my money just so’s you can go runnin’ off with some fuckin’ whore!”

  The dentist smiled. His voice was soft, his eyes hard and cold. “Well, sir, you’re no daisy and evidently you would deny a workin’ man a much needed respite. Of course, it may be that a cretin like yourself would welcome a wholesale regression into slavery.”

  The drunk flipped open his unbuttoned waistcoat and reached for a knife concealed there. At the same instant that a derringer emerged in the dentist’s hand, John backhanded the drunk so hard it was as if a catapult had flung his chair over backwards. The knife clattered to the floor and John stood and kicked it aside.

  The saloon’s minder, a giant of a man, came hurrying over. “I’ll take care of this.” He retrieved the drunk’s weapon, hauled him to his feet, and pushed him off through the crowded tables and out the doors.

  The dentist arose and said to the two remaining players besides John, “I bid you good night gentlemen and thank you.” To John he said, “A night in the sheriff’s company ought to improve our friend’s sense of propriety. And he would be remiss if he didn’t seek you out, sir, and thank you for savin’ his life. A split second more and he would have had a bullet in his heart, which would have left me with no end of explainin’ to do. I am a friend of the marshal’s but I would disdain to use that friendship to my advantage. By the way, I believe that I have had the pleasure of your acquaintance before, but memory fails as to exactly where.”

  “Dallas. You took out an achesome tooth a few years back. It’s Doc Sinclair, ain’t it?”

  “Ah, my mind summons it now. The man who didn’t need an anaesthetic. Fortis an stultus.” He offered his hand. “I was merely Dr. Sinclair’s assistant. John Henry Holliday’s the name. Folks call me John Henry, or Doc.”

  Another one of those foreign phrases, but one John had heard before in Dallas. This time he asked what it meant.

  “A brave man or a fool.”

  John laughed and rubbed his jaw, remembering. “A fool, I think.” He took Holliday’s hand and was surprised at the strength of his grip, considering how frail the man looked. “John Ware.”

  Holliday turned to the woman. “Darlin’, please forgive my appalling manners. May I introduce John Ware, an exemplary card player with the fastest backhand on either side of the Mississippi? John, please meet Kate Harony, a confidant and companion.”

  John removed his hat. “How do you do, ma’am?”

  “Charmed, I’m sure,” she said, with the air of an aristocrat. But given her provocative attire, especially the revealing gown, and the fact that she hadn’t blanched at being called a whore, it was reasonable to assume that the drunk probably wasn’t far wrong about her occupation.

  “Well, sir,” Doc said, “I am in your debt, but I must beg your leave. I promised my sweet Hungarian princess here that we would attend Eddie Foy’s performance at the Comique, and a gentleman never reneges on a promise.”

  “That’s where I was thinkin’ of goin’,” John said. “If I’m not too late to get a seat.”

  “Then you must join us. As a personal acquaintance of Mr. Foy’s, I have no small influence at the theatre, and we would be honoured by your company.” He looked at Kate. “Wouldn’t we, darlin’.”

  It sounded to John more like a dare than a question.

  “Of course,” Kate said coolly, as if it were the only acceptable answer.

  John did not much care how Kate felt, but wasn’t certain whether he should be pleased with the invitation or not. On the one hand, he liked Holliday’s genteel manner, the way he spoke, and his ease with coloured people. His Southern, well-educated upbringing more than likely included a coloured nanny and much playtime with coloured boys. Yet there was another side to him that John found unsettling: he sensed an aura of danger about the man. Being near him was like riding down a bumpy road on a wagon filled with nitroglycerine. And the way his gun seemed to materialize out of nowhere, as if he drew it from the air itself! He would have had to practise a lot to be so good at that. John wavered for a moment, then thought, If nothing else, it could prove to be an interesting evening, something to tell the boys about. He accepted the invitation.

  While John collected his gun, Holliday cashed in his chips, gave the house its percentage, and retrieved his slouch hat and a cane that appeared to be more a fashion accessory than a necessity. Kate took Holliday’s arm and the trio left the Green Front together.

  The air had cooled but was still fairly warm, and the wind that often whipped up dust in Dodge’s streets had died in the evening’s clutches. The town had come alive now and sounded festive: tinkling pianos, whining fiddles, and raucous laughter emanated from the saloons on both sides of the street. Myriad boots echoed on the wooden boardwalks and a mule-drawn wagon rattled across the railway tracks in the direction of the bridge. Here and there, stoic, saddled horses tied to hitching posts awaited their riders. As they strolled along, Holliday smoked and coughed, and shared his observations of Dodge City.

  “Callin’ this a ‘city’ is, of course, an exaggeration of the first order. The word connotes civilization and Dodge is some distance from achieving that status. Perhaps a Babylon, though.” He chuckled. “Maybe even a carnival at times.”

  John thought Holliday seemed proud to be on display with his unusual companions, an apparent prostitute on one side and a towering, coloured drover on the other. Again, it seemed to John that he was daring someone to say something.

  Doc and Kate waved at two men across the street. Both wore black suits with white shirts and broad-brimmed black hats, and had similar inverted chevron moustaches. Each wore holstered pistols and carried a shotgun.

  “Wyatt and Morgan Earp,” said Doc. “On patrol, protecting Dodge’s good citizens from the wild and wicked ways of visiting cowherds. Wyatt’s cooled the town down some since he took on the job of assistant marshal. He can pistol-whip a villain faster than most men can draw a gun, though some might argue over who the real villain is. Yet even along with several other police officers patrolling the town at night, it isn’t uncommon to hear gunshots. These days, though, celebration more than deadly intent is usually their antecedent.”

  They turned the corner onto Bridge Street, where the Comique was located in a capacious, false-fronted building with large windows on either side of the main door. Holliday said something to the man at the entrance that John could not hear and they entered. Neither tickets nor money changed hands. The interior was hot and smoky and packed with about three hundred patrons, the majority men and several of them drunk. The bar over to one side was enjoying a lucrative pre-show business; Holliday joined the crowd and got drinks for himself and his companions. They took seats near the rear by the door, in moveable hardback chairs that could be pushed aside for dancing. Doc said he needed to be near an exit in case he had a serious coughing spell.

  A bevy of dancers opened the show and filled the theatre with a delirious energy. When they finished, the grinning, ginger-haired Eddie Foy came on. He sang, danced, juggled, and told animated risqué jokes that might have had their origin in a Kansas cornfield, yet his delivery was faultless and the crowd showed their approval with thunderous applause and good-natured catcalls. He was reciting a humorous poem about a place in Michigan called Kalamazoo when a thunderclap of bullets crashed through one of the theatre’s front windows, shattering it.

  Women screamed and froze, men gasped and swore, and most ducked behind their chairs. Foy threw himself flat fas
ter than he had during any of the pratfalls he had performed earlier. There was more gunfire, this time outside and farther away, and some members of the audience began rising to their feet. Many simply stood there, uncertain of what to do, while others began swarming toward the doors and through the gaping window. A few rushed to the stage where Foy was sitting up.

  Holliday, Kate, and John were among the first outside, where they heard even more firing, but this time well off in the distance. A ring of people had gathered several yards down the street, but John could not see what they were surrounding. A person hidden in the middle shouted, “Move back for God’s sake, and give the poor man air!”

  Trying to catch his breath, Holliday hurried over and forced his way toward the centre of the ring, people jostling each other aside to let him pass. Some recognized him for the dentist that he was, but he was at least a sort of doctor and would do until the real thing came along. John and Kate followed their companion but stayed on the boardwalk so that they would not get in the way. Four policemen wearing the same dark attire as the Earps appeared and began dispersing the large crowd, as an older, white-haired man carrying a black doctor’s bag arrived. Holliday spoke to him but John could not make out the words. He saw the doctor shake his head. Holliday turned and looked at John.

  The two doctors were crouched beside the prostrate figure, hiding it from a clear view, but then they rose and John was able to see fully the man dying in the street behind them. It was Emmett Cole.

  SEVEN

  Rest your mind on that account.

  They buried Emmett in Boot Hill Cemetery on the north side of Dodge, beneath a blue sky bleached by a white-hot sun. There was not a breath of wind, and sweat beaded on everyone’s brow. Besides most of the trail crew, Doc and Kate and many townsfolk, including the Earps, had come to pay their respects. John scarcely heard the pastor’s words and stared dumbfounded at the gaping hole in the ground, the pine coffin containing Emmett’s remains sitting beside it, and the headboard with John’s words painted above Emmett’s date of birth and death: HERE LIES EMMETT COLE—A KIND MAN, A GENTLE SOUL. He had not intended it to rhyme, but it fell pleasantly on the ear and he liked that. The pastor spoke more of God and his mysterious ways than he did of Emmett, about whom his knowledge was understandably scant. John did not know how to tell him about the kind of man his friend had been—the kind man that he was. On that long road from Georgetown to Fort Worth, he had encountered a wide variety of people who disliked him because of the colour of his skin, so to find Emmett, not to mention Amos and Ellie, at the end of it was a stroke of the greatest good fortune.

  The town council had paid the funeral costs because Emmett died trying to stop a fleeing criminal. He had been walking along the boardwalk toward the Comique when the gunman rode by and fired shots through the theatre’s window. Emmett ran into the street as the man raced by and tried to pull him from his horse, which proved to be a fatal mistake. The shooter almost escaped but, in an exchange of bullets, Wyatt Earp shot him as he rode across the bridge leading out of town. Before he died, he confessed that his motive for shooting into the theatre was jealousy. He had had too much to drink and believed that his wife was involved in a tryst with Eddie Foy.

  Emmett’s dying request had taken Holliday by surprise. He told John, “In so many words, I was instructed to find you and tell you that you are now trail boss and to carry on to Ogallala.” Doc had been glad to be able to reply, “I’ve already found him, sir, so rest your mind on that account.” He thought Emmett had heard him but couldn’t be sure.

  Nathan and Pepper had returned to camp to tell the others the bad news and set up a skeleton crew to mind the herd so that those who wanted to could attend the funeral. The men were stunned. Emmett dead? Inconceivable! “Shit!” and “Dear God!” had been the only words most could get out. Duffy was heartbroken and angry over his friend’s death. “You survive a war only to die at the hands of a bloody drunk. Don’t make no goddamned sense at all!”

  Meanwhile, Emmett’s request had hurled John’s mind into turmoil. The easy way out would be to sell the herd in Dodge City, but he believed that Emmett had thrown down a challenge. He could not ignore his friend’s faith in him and still hold his head up. But would the men stick with him over the month that it would take to reach their destination? Most of them would, he thought, but he was not convinced about Homer and Rufus. Particularly Rufus. If they quit, he might be able to hire replacements because there were plenty of men around Dodge who would leap at the chance to earn good money. But would they hire on with a coloured trail boss? And if he hired black drovers, would that cause even more friction in camp? He considered passing on the job to Rufus, since all Emmett had asked of him was to get the herd to Ogallala—he did not say how. But what Rufus would do with Emmett gone was another matter.

  Then there was the issue of money. He could potentially get an extra four or five dollars a head in Ogallala, which represented extra cash for the Coles. And it occurred to him that he could use some of that money to buy the men’s loyalty by increasing their bonuses. That seemed a fair solution. While it was the Coles’ investment that brought the herd together, it was the outfit that would get it to Ogallala. The Coles took the monetary risk, but the men took physical risks and deserved to be paid well for it. John was certain Amos and Ellie would not object.

  He had wired the Coles with the devastating news and prayed it would not destroy them. The ranch would be a lonely place now that Emmett would never return. Maybe they had taken John’s replacement under their wings, which might help fill the second gaping hole torn in their lives. In an answering wire, the tears in Amos’s words were almost audible, even as the operator read it in a bland voice.

  His old friend stated that John was in charge of the herd, if John wanted the job, and that he had no doubts that it would get to Ogallala. It was an affirmation that cleared away much of the burden weighing on his shoulders. What’s more, as well as having Doc as a witness, he now had something in writing to show Homer and Rufus, in case they disputed Emmett’s dying words.

  Both men were in town for the funeral, so John took them aside one at a time, told them of Emmett’s appeal, and showed them the telegram. Homer was quick to respond. “Well, I might not of said this a couple a months ago, John, but you proved to me you got gravel. I’ll ride with you.”

  It was not until Homer accepted that John mentioned there would be a five hundred dollar bonus for each man who continued with the drive. That was five times what Emmett had offered, and Homer Morgan departed a happy man, promising not to say a word until John had told all of the men, notably Rufus.

  John took the same tack with the point man and did not mention the bonus first. Rufus was as good as they came and John hoped he would stay on, but after reading the telegram, he was silent. He pulled a pouch of tobacco with papers from his shirt pocket and began rolling a cigarette. John sensed his quandary: the man could continue with a “nigger boy” as trail boss and collect the bonus that Emmett had offered, or he could walk away from it. John guessed that both options grated.

  John broke the silence. “You don’t have to ride for me, Rufus. You can ride for the brand. It’s Emmett’s, not mine. If you can’t do that, I’ll pay you out right now. You only got to say the word. But what I won’t abide is your attitude toward me. The only way we’ll get those beeves to Ogallala is if we work together. You’ll still be point man, but now you got to take orders from me. Maybe that don’t set well with you but that’s the way it is. And I can tell you this: I ain’t hirin’ nobody else just because Emmett’s gone. We got that herd bent to our will, so I reckon that the eleven of us can get the job done. That’ll mean even more money for everyone at the end of the trail.”

  John saw the point man’s dark eyes flicker with the mention of more money. He took a deep drag on his cigarette and let out the smoke toward John. “I’m in. Emmett was a good man.”

  John nodded. “Glad to hear it.” He held out his hand, which hun
g in the air as Rufus hesitated. “The black don’t rub off, Rufus, so you don’t need to worry none about gettin’ any on you. And by the way, there’s a five hundred dollar bonus if you stay on.”

  Rufus shook John’s hand but there was little in the gesture to say what was really on the man’s mind. Nor was there a dramatic rise in his spirit over the increased bonus. “That seems fair to me,” he said and left.

  John still didn’t know where he stood with Rufus, just that if he was to enjoy the point rider’s expertise, he was also going to have to deal with the man’s dislike of blacks. It would be interesting to see how it all played out. He believed—he hoped—that if worse spiralled down to worst, the rest of the outfit would side with him.

  After the funeral, Homer and Rufus returned to camp while John and some of the crew joined Doc, Kate, and the Earp brothers at the Long Branch Saloon for drinks. Having fallen heir to Emmett’s money belt, John paid for the round. Toasts went to Emmett, and to Wyatt for catching his killer. Another round followed and the more John drank, the more he wanted to get away from the whisky, the Long Branch, Dodge, and, most of all, the present company. The aura of danger encircling Doc also surrounded Wyatt, and the animosity between Kate and the assistant marshal was palpable.

  Doc wanted them to stay longer, maybe play some cards and forget their troubles. John reckoned that the offer more or less summed up John Henry Holliday and Dodge City: no day was so sorrowful that you could not take time to dip into a man’s pocket. He left the dregs of his drink. “Thanks for the invite, Doc, but it’s time to go. Pepper’ll be waitin’ supper for us, and it’s back on the trail first thing tomorrow.”

  To a man, the crew stood and joined him, and they walked out together. They rode back to camp at a gallop, racing like lunatics to forget for a while what Dodge City had done for their friend.

  •

  The weather remained hot, with late-afternoon thunderclouds building on one horizon or the other that never approached them. The spirits of the men were low but they improved daily. John rode ahead ten to fifteen miles each day to find good bed-ground for the cattle. On the fourth day out, Glenford Pounds, who was bringing up the rear with the remuda, said to John, “I don’t know if the heat’s making me crazy, but I have the sneaking suspicion we’re being followed. Every once in a while, I get a glimpse of someone or something over those low ridges to the southwest. Usually it’s a dust cloud that comes and goes but it’s always in the same direction, so it’s not likely elk or anything like that. Maybe Indians.”