Chapter Text
Fort Griffin in Shackelford County, Texas, was a boomtown, cowtown, and a military post. The cowmen drove their herds there to feed the military, and their wallets grew fat on the government contracts. Fort Griffin was, therefore, a great sucking leech that sopped up all that juicy government money from the cowmen’s wallets before putting it right back into the local economy, an olla podriada of simmering uncouthness filled with whores, whiskey, and gambling halls.
This was how Wyatt Earp came to visit the town. Wyatt needed a job. Bat Masterson, newly elected sheriff of Ford County, decided his friend Wyatt could use some help and gave him a tip.
‘The Santa Fe Railroad wants someone to round up Dave Rudabaugh,’ Bat told Wyatt. ‘He’s running a gang robbing construction camps and pay trains, and no one knows where he is. Rumor is he’s located himself and his gang around Fort Griffin in Texas. Be careful, though, the man’s a killer.’
A day later, Wyatt found himself officially hired by the Santa Fe as a bounty hunter for ten dollars a day plus expenses, and not long after that he was in Fort Griffin. Iniquity seemed to be the best lead for a man’s nose, so he headed for a gambling hall and saloon belonging to John Shanssey. Wyatt had met him several years ago and felt Shanssey would be his best chance for a lead. Wyatt found Shanssey sitting in his office behind a barred window. There was a slot just below the bars for sliding money and chips through, and it was currently occupied by a shotgun pointed right at the gaming tables with Shanssey’s hand resting on the trigger guard.
Wyatt reflected that even Dodge wasn’t that bad. Since when did a man need to keep a shotgun pointed at his customers all the time?
The main room was almost empty, it being too early in the afternoon for the gamblers to be here. They usually showed up when their hangovers had cured. The only other man in the place besides Shanssey was setting up a faro table.
Shanssey looked around the room carefully at the name ‘Rudabaugh.’ “Come into my office. You need to talk to one of my employees. “Doc?” Shanssey called across the room.
The man setting up the cards paused.
“Come inside,” Shanssey said. “Doc owes me favors,” he added to Wyatt, “and I call them in as needed. He was broke when he arrived in town. I lent him money and gave him a job, so he’ll help you.”
Warily, the man called Doc approached as Wyatt lounged against one of the walls in the small office.
“This is my faro dealer. He may be able to tell you something about Rudabaugh.”
This Doc looked like he had stepped right out of an adventure novel. Wyatt was fascinated by his appearance, and he had to stop himself from staring too hard. The newcomer seemed much too young for an elderly sobriquet like ‘Doc.’ He appeared to be in his twenties or so, thin and tall, though not quite so tall as Wyatt’s six feet. His lean chest was covered in a pearl gray silk shirt under a quilted black satin waistcoat patterned with copper and gold vines. He wore black velvet trousers with highly polished black boots, and a ribbon tie with a gold stickpin. His thick hair was ash blond, worn somewhat long, and his deep-set blue eyes were as cautious and wary as his stance. He rested on the balls of his feet as if he might need to make a quick maneuver. He had a slender nose and expressive lips. His face was intelligent, and there was an air of refinement and good breeding about him. He was rather handsome, although almost too thin for it.
Doc was looking back and forth between the two men.
“This here’s a bounty hunter, name of Wyatt Earp,” said Shanssey. “He’s also been a policeman and a deputy in Wichita.”
A muscle in Doc’s cheek jumped, and his arms developed a barely detectable tremor.
“He’s working for the Santa Fe and wants to know where a man named Dave Rudabaugh is.”
Doc glanced once at Shanssey as if trying to read his mind, and then suddenly doubled over, coughing hard into a handkerchief.
That cough was not healthy to Wyatt’s ears. Doc’s thinness and ghostly pallor told him the rest. This man had consumption.
Doc straightened, putting his handkerchief away in his pocket. He took Wyatt’s outstretched hand and locked on with a grip of iron, as if to say, I may look frail, but my hand sure isn’t, so beware.
Wyatt shook the hand anyway and was a little glad when Doc let go.
“I don’t know anything about Rudabaugh.”
“Doc,” chided Shanssey. “I know you’ve played poker with him.”
“I don’t remember anything about him.” Doc’s eyes flicked to Wyatt briefly, then moved away.
“Let’s talk this over a bit,” said Wyatt. “You might recall something after you give it some thought. Let’s have a seat.”
With reluctance, Doc picked up a coat and drew it on over his shoulders, then sat on a bench behind his faro table. Wyatt could sense Doc’s silent nervousness increasing. Doc began to shuffle cards with a deft hand and didn’t look at his visitor. Wyatt drew up a chair. He had interrogated many a criminal in his day, and he knew the best technique was to shut up, listen, and speak only to grease the wheels. He was curious about Doc. Gambling was a rough and sometimes violent business. Doc looked too refined to be a professional gambler. Nor did he seem pleased to be talking to a bounty hunter. Then Wyatt remembered hearing lawman gossip about a man by the name of Doc, who was a faro dealer. A little trickle of warning ran through Wyatt’s head. This ‘Doc’ had consumption. He was also a known killer.
“Holliday?”
Doc’s eyes became like ice, staring flatly into his own. “Holliday is correct,” he replied. He spoke in a slow, stately Southern drawl, as if he had all the time in the world.
Doc dropped his cards. His hands sank into the pockets of his coat and stayed there.
Instinct told Wyatt that those hands were resting on guns, and that he was damned close to being shot.
Holliday stared at him coldly, waiting.
“Let me buy you a drink,” said Wyatt.
Holliday regarded him a long moment, then said, “All right.”
The barman was not in yet, so Holliday went over to the bar and poured himself a full tumbler of whiskey. “That’s three dollars,” said Doc to Wyatt.
Grimly, Wyatt opened his wallet and paid the godawful price. That was an insane amount for a tumbler of whiskey.
“You get a cut of that sale?” Wyatt knew bar girls did if they sold drinks, but he wasn’t sure if faro dealers were given the same privilege.
“Yes.” Doc’s smile was mischievous. “I’d like to thank you for your contribution, Mr. Earp.”
Doc put the money in the till, raised his tumbler in salute to Wyatt, and knocked back the entire tumbler in one swig, to Wyatt’s amazement. The lawman was taken aback. He needed that information about Rudabaugh before Holliday keeled over.
“You’re awfully patient,” continued Doc. “I’ve said that phrase to poker players after pulling down a big pot and nearly gotten myself filled with lead.”
To Wyatt’s horror, Doc poured himself a second tumbler. Holliday caught Wyatt’s eye with amusement. “This one I’m paying for,” said the gambler.
To Wyatt’s relief, Doc didn’t touch it, and merely set the tumbler down by his elbow when he returned to the faro table. He shrugged off his coat and lay it on the bench beside him before he sat down. He must have decided Wyatt was not going to arrest him.
“You’re not happy to see a lawman?” Wyatt asked.
Doc straightened with patrician arrogance, not looking at Wyatt. “Lawmen are never there when you need them and always there when you don’t want them,” he replied in a soft voice.
“When did you need a lawman?”
“I took a stagecoach once. Removed the bullets from my gun. Didn’t want an accidental discharge when the stage bounced on that rough road. We were robbed by three men. Me with two terrified ladies and an empty gun. I was never so mad at myself in my entire life. Lost my watch and three hundred dollars.”
“What happened then?”
“I ended up here in Fort Griffin. Needed to earn some money and offered my services to Mr. Shanssey.”
“Weren’t you once a dentist?”
“I was. Had to quit. I have consumption and couldn’t keep coughing in my patients’ faces. Had to enter another line of work if I wanted to eat.”
“What do you remember about Rudabaugh?”
“Almost nothing. I must have played cards with at least a thousand men by now. That doesn’t mean I know their business. However, I know someone who should know Rudabaugh’s whereabouts. Unfortunately, this fellow just went to Dallas and won’t be back for five days.”
Resigned, Wyatt asked, “Do you know anyone who’d put me up for the night?”
“Why don’t you go to a hotel?”
“Well, I just spent the money I was going to use for a room on your whiskey. I’m kind of broke until I can cash a draft at a bank tomorrow.”
Doc gave a dark little chuckle. “Ask me again at the end of the night. Right now a gambler’s coming in.”
The gambler was a portly older man, gray-bearded and wearing a good suit. Shanssey called Doc over to his window for a low conference, some of which Wyatt overheard.
“Fellow’s a wealthy cattle dealer. Name of Mr. Joseph Turner. Treat him well,” said Shanssey.
“Send a bar girl over to sit in his lap.”
“He won’t have that. Treat him well. I don’t want anything happening to him until he’s broke.”
“Can I get a drink in here?” Turner called.
Doc went behind the bar, taking his whiskey tumbler with him.
“You’re him?” said Turner.
“Our bartender is out. I’m the faro dealer.”
“Oh, so you’re Doc Holliday. I heard you came to town and decided to have a look at you. They say you’re quite a sight. They’re correct about that. Damn, I wish I was your tailor, because I’d be the richest man in town, instead of—well, I guess I’m already the richest man in town. Faro dealer, eh? Well, faro’s my game.”
Turner picked up Doc’s tumbler and sniffed the contents. “Oh Lord, this is rotgut. I want champagne. Give me the best bottle you have.”
Doc pulled one off the wall. “This is a twenty-dollar bottle.”
“That’s fine. Pour it into two glasses.” He put a twenty on the bar.
Doc placed it in the till and slowly eased the cork out with his strong hands, ignoring the corkscrew. When it popped, he poured two glasses.
“Have one,” said Turner.
“It’s your wine. You paid for it,” replied Doc.
“No. I want you to have a decent drink. It’s much better than that rotgut whiskey.”
Doc did not make a move. He looked uncomfortable.
“Go ahead,” Shanssey called from behind his cage. “Don’t turn down hospitality.”
Doc took the glass and drank it down quickly.
Wyatt was dismayed. Doc hadn’t shown any sign of being drunk yet, but all that alcohol should be hitting soon.
Turner shook his head. “You drink like a whiskey man. Watch me.” He demonstrated with his glass. “Slowly, now. Savor it. Enjoy the feel of it on your tongue. Pour yourself another glass.”
As instructed, Doc did so.
“You enjoy killing?” Turner asked abruptly.
“I prefer that men stay alive so I can win their money.”
“But you enjoy killing? Putting a bullet into them, seeing that blood and guts spray?”
Wyatt eavesdropped hard, interested too.
“No,” replied Doc sharply.
“Oh, so you’re all compassionate, then. Well, hunting’s about my favorite thing to do in life. I’m a dead shot, and I always bag my game.”
Doc gave Wyatt a glance, and Wyatt knew Doc was mentally rolling his eyes.
“I’ve got plenty of trophies mounted at my place,” continued Turner. “Come on over and I’ll show them to you. I’m kind of proud of my collection.”
“I tend to be pretty busy these days,” Doc replied. “I wouldn’t likely have the time, Mr. Turner.”
Turner gave an odd laugh. “I’ve heard these stories about you. They say you’ve got a temper, but no one’s seen you hurt anyone while you’ve been here. Could it be? I think it is. I think you’re a little too—delicate for that.”
At this, Doc actually laughed, though it dissolved into a ragged cough. He finished his drink quickly, poured some more of the bottle into Turner’s glass, and said, “Pardon me, I need to set up the faro game.”
Doc walked out from behind the bar while Turner said in a low voice, “Yes, I think you’re a little too soft and dainty.”
Doc’s face went beet red.
For most of that evening, Wyatt noticed that Turner studied Doc as much as the cards, though he thought Doc was too distracted working the bets, the cash, and listening to the other gamblers to see this.
Doc said almost nothing to Wyatt during that evening, and he looked very little in Wyatt’s direction. But if he were cool to Wyatt, he was absolutely glacial with the gamblers, though still polite. To Wyatt’s incredulity, at no point did Doc appear drunk, though he sipped occasionally from his tumbler. Nor did he seem to have any trouble keeping track of the play.
The faro game wound up near the end of a very long night, and the gamblers took their leave as Doc put away his cards. After the noisy room had almost emptied, Turner held out a ten-dollar bill.
“Game’s over,” Doc said to him.
“I’m placing a bet. I’ve been watching you sip on that thing. I’ll give you ten dollars if you down a full tumbler of that whiskey in one drink.”
Doc’s eyes lit up. “I accept. Pete?” he called to the bartender. “Fill me a fresh tumbler of whiskey.” The bartender came over with the glass and hovered, watching.
Doc politely raised the glass to Turner, then drained it completely.
“Well, I lost that one.” Turner handed over the ten dollars without complaint. Doc started to pay the bartender for the whiskey, but was interrupted by Turner. “I’m paying for it. I placed the bet,” the cattle dealer said. “You game for another? I’ve got a second ten here.”
Doc met Turner’s eye with a glint of challenge.
A warning went through Wyatt’s head, a warning he had learned in his years as a lawman to pay close attention to.
“Fill my tumbler up again,” said Doc to the bartender. A small smile was on his face. He promptly knocked back the contents with ease.
Holy Moses, thought Wyatt. How many shots was that?
Turner handed over his second ten without a word and paid the bartender.
“Nice betting with you, Mr. Turner,” said Doc. He gathered together the contents of his faro drawer and went into Shanssey’s office to settle up.
Wyatt studied Turner. The cattle-dealer stood and walked slowly over to Shanssey’s office door. The door was shut and locked. Turner lingered near it patiently, pulling his wallet out and counting money which he then rolled up in his hand.
Doc emerged some time later. Wyatt wasn’t sure, but it looked like Doc was finally beginning to be under the influence. Something about the way he walked seemed over-controlled. He swayed slightly. Wyatt moved closer to listen, trying to keep himself out of sight of both men.
“Wait. I have another proposition for you,” said Turner to Doc. “Word is you owe Shanssey some money. How’d you like to be able to pay off some of that debt?”
He fanned the cash in his hands, holding out five twenties.
“What do you mean?” said Doc.
Turner put his mouth close to Doc’s ear and said in a low voice. “That tailor who fitted you for those fancy velvet pants must have been ready to explode.”
Without further talk, Turner ran a thumb down the crotch of Doc’s pants.
Doc sprang backwards so fast he almost fell over.
“No, Mr. Turner, I’m not inclined that way!” Doc was still moving backwards, Turner following, shoving his shoulders up against Doc, pushing him into a corner. Turner dropped the twenties on the floor and grabbed Doc’s arms to hold him in place, then began grinding himself against Doc as if trying to shred him against the wall. Turner was breathing hard, his eyes glassy, his mouth falling open.
Doc was struggling to escape when one of the bar girls, a woman by the name of Clare, came over and picked up the bills, saying, “He’s offering you money.” She held the cash out in her fist. “A MAN is offering you money for your skinny hide. He’s offering you a HUNDRED DOLLARS! And you’re turning it down? Go ahead and take it, you fool. I could eat for a month on that!”
Doc managed to wrench himself away. “You’re welcome to make a sales pitch, darlin’!” Doc called back to Clare as he bolted.
Wyatt, who’d been hiding around a corner, stepped out. A flustered Doc noticed him and stopped abruptly as if remembering something. The faro dealer flicked the words “You coming?” at Wyatt and then breezed on past out the door.
Wyatt had totally forgotten the request he’d made to Doc earlier. He followed Holliday into the night, hurrying to catch up to the gambler. They walked quickly through the darkness.
“Wait a moment,” said Doc. He dropped to the ground and retched.
“You all right?” said Wyatt after a minute. As Doc started to rise, Wyatt took one of his arms to help him up.
Doc jerked his arm away and staggered over to a horse trough to wash his face. After drying himself with a handkerchief, he muttered, “Don’t know what’s wrong with me, my stomach rejecting perfectly good whiskey like that.”
“Well, that was one ugly run-in you had.”
“You saw that? Hell.”
“Why did you accept his whiskey bet?”
“I needed the money, and whiskey’s always welcome.”
“Pardon me, Mr. Holliday, but it was a dangerous thing to do if the man was trying to shanghai you.”
“Pardon, me, Mr. Earp, but I didn’t realize the man was about to do something horrible until he was actually doing something horrible. I thought he was just throwing his money around and showing off. Come along. I don’t want that fool following me. My boarding house is close by.”
“I don’t have the money to pay for a room,” Wyatt reminded him.
“You won’t need to.”
Holliday led him into the foyer of a building and picked up a lit oil lamp from the counter. This late, even the clerk had gone to bed. Holding the lamp, Doc led Wyatt up a flight of stairs. At the top of the landing, Doc took out a key and let himself in the room.
Holliday motioned towards a dimly lit bed and set the lamp down on a table beside it.
Wyatt looked around the room.
“What--?”
The place looked like a whore’s boudoir. Nice carpet on the floor, big mirror, a lady’s silver gilt toilet set, crystal bottles of perfume. The curtains were velvet, and the canopied bed had curtains, too. Lacy curtains, in fact.
“Is this a brothel?”
“No, my former girlfriend decorated it. I kicked her out two weeks ago. I’d have to meet her again to give her the furnishings, and I’d rather not take the risk. She has a temper.”
“Why did you kick her out?”
“She was a lady of the evening.”
“You took up with a prostitute?”
“She was—just about the only one who would bother to keep company with me, I guess,” replied Doc. “Consumptives can’t be choosy.”
“I hope your health isn’t impaired by anything else besides the consumption.”
“Preachy, preachy, Mr. Bounty Hunter. No. You could say I was overly impressed with her the first time. She told me a sad story about how she was forced to whore or starve, and I thought I’d rescue her. Said I’d marry her if she stayed faithful to me. Gave her money to live on. But she wanted that extra cash from whoring, so I refused to marry her. Said I’d be a friend, though. We stayed with each other for convenience, I admit. But two weeks ago, I found out she was intent on graduating from whore to madam, and she was going around luring young girls into the trade, and I realized that I’d been a fool and kicked her out. You can have half the bed. It’s big enough for two. I cough a bit, but it’s a place to sleep.”
Wyatt was surprised and grateful. “I wouldn’t have thought you’d invite a stranger here right after your—misadventure.”
“You’re armed, right? You can shoot that jackass for me if he shows up.” Doc was removing his clothes as fast as he could in a half-clumsy way, flinging them around the room. “Because I am about to pass out.”
Wyatt hurried around to the other side of the bed and grabbed Doc’s shoulders to steady him. Doc eyed him drunkenly, and there was something in his roving gaze that made Wyatt uneasy.
“Shanssey vouched for you,” Doc mumbled. “If I can’t trust you, you’re at least better-looking than that fool.”
“What do you mean?” said Wyatt in surprise.
“I am too drunk to know my own intentions.”
“Here, get into bed.” Wyatt helped him lie down and headed for his own side, stopping to take his shirt and trousers off. He climbed into the bed and wiggled over.
“You’re hogging the bed, Earp,” Doc drawled.
“I’m cold and need something to warm me up. You’ll do. You comfortable? I’m going to turn out the lamp.”
Wyatt waited, but Doc had already lost consciousness.
It was very late when Wyatt and Doc went to bed, so they both slept late, Doc because of custom, and Wyatt because he needed sleep after a long day of travel.
Bright gold sunlight came in the windows, which were open to the early autumn air. A wind ran through the room and rattled a few papers. Doc was on his side, his cheek nestled peacefully into a pillow, and Wyatt was pressed against him, dozing.
An ungodly scream went off inside the room so loudly that Wyatt nearly levitated off the bed.
A fast look around reminded Wyatt where he was. Namely in bed with Doc Holliday, who was sitting up with the pale face and tiny motions of a man with a terrible hangover.
A third person was in the room. A woman stood there in furs and velvet, and she certainly didn’t seem to be the chambermaid. She was swaying, her hair loose, and in her hand she held a gun.
“Oh, God. Stop yelling, Kate,” said Doc. “My head can’t take it.”
“You’re in bed with a MAN!” the woman called Kate screeched in indignation. “How can you do this to me? Who the hell are you?” she bellowed at Wyatt.
She was drunk, extremely mad, and Wyatt kept his eye on that gun in her hand.
With a pained expression, Doc said, “It’s not what you think, Kate. This here is a guest. Mr. Earp, this is Kate, my former girlfriend. Kate, this is Mr. Wyatt Earp.”
“You fucked a man!” Kate screamed.
“I did not!” Doc replied with heat, “and would you not yell that all over the whole damned town?”
“I’m just traveling through Fort Griffin, Miss Kate,” said Wyatt in a hurry. “Doc offered to put me up for the night. You can put that thing down, Ma’am.”
“The name is Mrs. Holliday. You fucked my man!” She lurched a little, her cheeks florid with drink.
“We did nothing, and you were never married to me,” Doc ground out in annoyance. “For God’s sake, Kate. You just had a tumble with a customer. You have no right to complain about who I’ve gone to bed with. Go outside.”
She ignored Holliday. “You will never have him again,” she snarled at Wyatt. With a crazed look, she raised her gun, and this time Wyatt actually did levitate off the bed.
The shot exploded, and the bullet flew into the mattress right where Wyatt had been a second earlier.
Wyatt grabbed a chair and was about to swing it when Doc, who had faster reflexes than Wyatt would have thought, delivered a sharp blow to Kate’s head with the barrel of a gun. She went down, and Wyatt grabbed the weapon from her.
“Charming lady,” said Wyatt, pondering the heap of furs.
“She wasn’t supposed to come back. Oh, God. I’m sorry you had to see this.”
Both men threw on some clothes, and between them, they hauled Kate downstairs and out into the street.
The sound of the gunshot had already drawn a crowd, including the Fort Griffin marshal. “What happened?” the marshal asked.
“This drunk and disorderly woman fired a gun at me,” said Wyatt.
“You pressing charges?”
Wyatt glanced at Doc, who looked away, shame-faced.
“No,” Wyatt replied, “but jail her long enough to sober her up.”
After the marshal hauled Kate off, Wyatt said in a low tone to Doc. “Would you kindly have the lock on your door changed? I’m heading for the bank and getting my own room for tonight. Thanks for the bed.”
“You’re welcome.” Doc still looked mortally embarrassed.
“I’ll see you later today,” Wyatt assured him.
Thus Wyatt found himself at loose ends in Shanssey’s place for the next few days. He was bored and impatient, but he had no choice except to wait until Doc’s contact showed up. He wanted to be off the moment he had word about Rudabaugh, and since Doc wasn’t certain whether his contact might not appear early, Wyatt was stuck hanging around the saloon.
He soon learned the routine. Doc would appear after supper and set up his faro table for customers. Then he would drink a tumbler of whiskey. Not a shot glass, but a tumbler, and never show the least sign of being drunk. But before he did so, he seemed shaky and irritable, a fine thread of nervousness running through his veins, which gradually calmed under the whiskey.
Gamblers and saloon girls would eventually arrive, the latter teasing Doc, while Doc invited the men to have a game of faro. The gambling would go on at several tables until past midnight, when Shanssey finally called a halt, and Doc would clear out his faro drawer, pay Shanssey the take, and be paid his daily wage in turn inside Shanssey’s office. Doc would drink another tumbler of whiskey before going to bed at his boarding house, and throughout the evening he would watch the faro play with an eagle’s eye while nursing another tumbler of whiskey. He seemed to like gambling, and he had a good eye for a man trying to cheat.
But slowly, Wyatt became aware of the jitters in Doc. They were there when Doc first entered the saloon, and Wyatt guessed that Doc wasn’t drinking only to soothe the pain in his lungs or drinking because he liked to drink, he was drinking to make himself brave enough to face a table full of mean, drunk, trigger-happy gamblers.
On the second day, he asked Doc when the latter was wrapped around his tumbler, “Nervous?”
“Always.”
Surprised by the admission, Wyatt stayed silent, waiting.
“Except when I’m fixing teeth or fighting, or playing a game.”
Wyatt didn’t know what to say to that.
Doc didn’t have a customer at that time, and he began to do silent card tricks to entertain his visitor, his dexterity amazing Wyatt. Wyatt was good at card handling, but Doc was a wizard. Without looking at them, Doc could manipulate the cards so fast they were a blur.
When the gamblers came in, Wyatt studied Doc closely. Some of the gamblers were experienced at the craft, and they stayed sober and cool-headed. Doc was always polite to these men. But some of the gamblers were drunk and obnoxious, especially when they started losing. Doc grew hot when he faced one of these men, and he matched them glare for glare, his voice curt. His words became sharp, and his hand slapped down hard and fast on any nonsense.
It was like watching a lion tamer working his lions.
But when the saloon closed, Doc retreated to his whiskey, and Wyatt guessed that the faro dealer found his chosen profession a strain on his nerves. Even though Doc didn’t say it, Wyatt sensed that Doc loathed the obnoxious gamblers. He hated their lowness and their meanness. Those gamblers seemed to hate Doc in turn, and they kept trying to provoke him and seemed almost twitchy to hurt him, this frail little prettyboy aristocrat so out of place.
Slowly, too, Wyatt began to learn more about Doc from the man’s own mouth. Doc’s father had been a soldier in the Confederate Army. His mother had died of consumption many years ago, and his father had remarried soon after to a young lady not much older than Doc himself. Then his father began to work for the Freedman’s Bureau after the war.
“We caught it from both sides,” said Doc. “First the carpetbaggers and then our own people. I left home to stay with my uncle. He was a doctor, and I used to entertain myself by reading his medical textbooks. He suggested dentistry for my profession. Went to school in Philadelphia. Soon after I graduated, they told me I had consumption and maybe three years, and I went west for my health. Haven’t died yet, though, and it’s been longer than three years.”
As the days progressed, Doc’s behavior towards Wyatt started to change. Doc’s eyes went to Wyatt immediately when the lawman entered the saloon, the gaze following Wyatt around. Doc started looking him in the eye now when talking, not sidelong. His voice became softer and more pleasant, his manners more plush, as if he were talking to someone in his father’s parlor, not a lawman in a saloon. All traces of hard Western armor gradually fell away, and he began to behave like a Southern gentleman talking to one of his own kind and station.
Wyatt appreciated the change. He met all too few real gentlemen out here, and most of the men he had dealings with—namely the criminals--treated him like dirt. As for the men of the respectable classes, they mostly treated Wyatt like a servant, despite the fact that many of them had an origin no better or worse than his own; but they were men on the make, and they were determined not to socialize with anyone they sensed was left behind on a lower social rung.
Wyatt gradually became aware that Doc was a very lonely man, a very sad man, and a very sick one. His drinking, gambling, and consumption would have made him a pariah among decent company. That handkerchief was always at hand for his coughs. He seemed quite gentle when he wasn’t facing gamblers, and his appearance and behavior did not fit his bloodthirsty reputation at all. Wyatt suspected Doc was glad to have someone to listen and be friendly to him, and that this was rare.
“Is it possible,” Wyatt asked Doc one day, “that a certain fellow I know has exaggerated his own fearsomeness, told all these bad stories about himself, just to scare other men into leaving him alone?”
“Possible,” Doc replied, “but it’s not me. When some swaggering fool is in the mood to pick a fight, it’s just a rule that he chooses someone who doesn’t look tough. In a gambling hall, I’m the one they usually target, sad to say. The difference is, once my temper is roused, it carries me and everything before it like a flaming river of lava. I get so mad I always fight back.
“But when you start gaining the tiniest bit of a reputation, everyone in your vicinity will start blowing it up like a balloon. People make up stories about me because they want someone to blame for everything from the cow’s milk drying up to crop failure.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” said Wyatt sincerely.
“Don’t feel sorry for me. I chose this life. I know the risks and I’ve accepted them.”
Doc had previously asked Wyatt a few questions about himself, but Wyatt fended these off. He was on the trail of a murderer and a thief, and he wanted as little gossip about himself going around Fort Griffin as possible. Besides, he had never been much for talking.
After a few days of witnessing all the changes in Doc, Wyatt knew that Doc considered him to be a friend. Wyatt’s days of quiet listening and acceptance had worked the miracle. Most of the people in Fort Griffin seemed to avoid Doc entirely, which was not a surprise considering how cold and sharp-edged he could be.
However, the feeling of friendship was not reciprocated by Wyatt. It was as if a pane of glass separated them. He could see and hear Doc’s feelings through the glass, but he could not return them. He found Doc intriguing to watch, and interesting to listen to, but he did not consider Doc to be a friend. Wyatt would be leaving soon, and thus Doc was fated to be nothing more than an acquaintance, albeit one of the more unusual acquaintances in Wyatt’s life.
But Wyatt soon became aware that Turner was becoming a big problem for Doc.
On the second day, Turner came in again to play Doc’s faro game. The cattle dealer took a chair right next to Doc. At one point during the game, Turner pulled out five hundred dollars from a roll, counting aloud so that he had the attention of everyone at the table. But he only placed a small bet. However, he still held the five hundred in his hand. As the game went on, he moved his hand under the table and placed the five hundred right in Doc’s lap, and then rested his hand on top of the cash. His fingers moved in a caress.
Doc’s eyes widened. “Hands on the table!” he barked, a gambler’s warning to stop cheating, which fortunately worked to help Doc in his current plight.
“You dropped this,” Holliday added, snatching up the stack of bills and holding them out to Turner. Turner made no move to take the money, and Doc slapped the cash down in front of the man.
Wyatt suddenly appeared by the faro table. He shoved his way in, dragging a chair with him, and he sat between Doc and Turner. Wyatt kept his eyes fixed on the game, pretending not to have noticed the embarrassment on Doc’s face.
Turner glanced at Wyatt. Casually, Wyatt crossed his legs, and swung one of them back and forth so that his spur jammed backwards into Turner’s shin--repeatedly.
Turner’s eyes narrowed. “Your spur is striking my leg,” he said to Wyatt.
“Oh. Is that so?” Wyatt uncrossed his legs. “Sorry.”
The corners of Doc’s mouth turned up slightly.
For a while, Turner studied Wyatt as if he didn’t care for what he saw, then he spent the rest of the evening staring at Doc again.
Wyatt lingered after the game broke up that night. So did Turner, smoking a cigar.
Doc glanced at both men, then went inside Shanssey’s cage to count up the take. When he emerged and walked out of the saloon, Wyatt waited several steps so that Doc could get ahead. He wanted to see what Turner would do.
Doc was wary. He strode quickly, and Turner moved right after him. Wyatt followed as noiselessly as possible.
The night air was cool, the town fairly quiet at this hour of the night.
A low voice said, “What if I tell the marshal that you cheated me?”
“What?” said Doc indignantly.
“What if I report you to the marshal? How much is it worth it to you to stay out of trouble? I bet a lot. You had your chance at five hundred. Now you’re going to give me what I want for free.”
Wyatt quickened his pace and bumped into Turner, knocking him aside as he shoved between the two men. “I heard that. Blackmail’s illegal, Turner. You disappear before I report you to the marshal.”
Turner halted. Wyatt could sense his glare.
“You’ll do it for free, Holliday,” Turner repeated.
Several paces on, Wyatt asked, “Why didn’t you shoot that fellow?
“Shanssey told me not to get into a fight with him. But I swear, if he tries this one more time, I will kill him, and I will laugh over his corpse when he’s dead.”
“Why don’t you leave town?”
“I’m in debt to Shanssey. I don’t have the money to pay for travel. What’s more, Shanssey did me a favor in hiring me at all. I’m a good gambler and can support myself that way at times, but there are gamblers out there as good as me, and I need a daily job like dealing faro as a fallback. I’m stuck for the moment.”
The next day, Turner came in again to play faro, to Wyatt’s disgust and amazement, and Wyatt sat right next to Doc to shield him.
What the hell was wrong with Turner? Was he insane? Why wouldn’t he leave Doc alone, when Doc showed such obvious distaste for him?
As Turner stared at Doc, Wyatt found himself being studied by one of the other gamblers who’d been at the faro table earlier in the week. The man seemed perturbed by Wyatt’s presence.
“You here to play?” the man asked him. “You ain’t playing.” He was rather drunk.
“Nope,” Wyatt replied.
“You an enforcer?”
“Nope.”
“So why are you here?”
Wyatt didn’t reply.
“I can barely see the cards,” said the gambler. To Doc he added, “Could you tell your boyfriend to move away from the lamp? He’s blocking my light.”
Wyatt went still. Most folk in Fort Griffin were innocent in a few ways, and the remark went right over the heads of most of those at the table, but Doc’s nostrils flared. Doc turned a brief, nervous glance at Wyatt, who merely raised a droll eyebrow. Doc looked away fast. Wyatt had to suppress a laugh because Doc looked so rattled.
Turner’s eyes suddenly became fixed on Wyatt, noticing this interplay. Those eyes widened in realization, and then Wyatt was looking into a stare of utter hatred.
No one moved, and the game went on.
“I said,” repeated the gambler, “could you tell your lover man to get out of the light.”
In the merest flicker of motion, Doc had a gun out and was grinding it hard against the gambler’s nostrils.
“Take that back and apologize.” Doc’s face was livid, his eyes like fire, and by now, he must have been completely frazzled by the relentless assaults on his masculinity by Turner.
The gambler swallowed hard and apologized.
Turner was staring at Wyatt unblinking, and Wyatt had never seen a look so jealous in his entire life.
How had he gotten himself into this situation?
Doc drank more than usual after the game that night. Wyatt intended to walk Doc home, but to his surprise, Turner left earlier in the evening without bothering Doc again.
When Wyatt arrived at the gambling hall the next day, Doc asked him cautiously, “You weren't upset yesterday by that fool’s remarks?”
“The criminals I’ve arrested have called me every name in existence,” replied Wyatt. “I just let the words roll off me. There’s nothing that makes me happier than slamming a jail door shut on their mouthy faces and listening to them start whining and sniveling.”
Doc seemed to relax a little.
On the forth day, Wyatt was accompanying Doc out the saloon door on the way to a lunchroom, when a stagecoach came by and ran over a darting cat. It made a bloody, squished mess of the cat, leaving it with its insides spilled out.
Doc flinched. “Oh no,” he said with a shudder. “Some poor child just lost a pet.”
As for Wyatt, he was instantly glad he wasn’t a deputy in Fort Griffin, because deputies got stuck with the job of clearing away any dead animals found in the street.
“Fifty cents if you get that up,” said a voice.
“Deal, Mister,” came a boy’s reply.
Wyatt looked around. There was that blasted Turner. Where the hell had he come from?
Turner was watching Doc’s dismayed face, eating up Doc’s appalled expression with a broad smile.
Wyatt felt a chill flow through him. What in God’s name was wrong with the man?
In that moment, Wyatt’s instincts told him that Turner was a monster, and that something terrible was about to happen, something to do with Doc, and he needed to stick to Doc like glue.
Turner disappeared. So, to Wyatt’s surprise, had the dead cat.
That night after the saloon closed, Wyatt silently shadowed Doc as the latter left.
When Doc reached his boarding house, he opened the screen door and stepped inside, and Wyatt watched his boots going up the carpeted stairs.
The night was warm and all the windows of the place were open, and the regular door had been left open too. Only the screen door had been left shut, and Wyatt saw no one in the darkened foyer. The clerk had gone to bed. A single oil lamp partially lit the stairs, and there was a dimly lit landing at the top of the flight. The hallway at the top led to a back staircase that went down to the street below.
Doc began to reach for his door handle just as Wyatt started to turn away.
“What the hell—”
Doc sounded stunned.
Wyatt whipped the screen door open and closed it silently behind himself. He took two long steps upwards as softly as he could on the stairs, going up just high enough for his eyes to be level with the floor of the landing.
Doc was staring at his door handle. In the faint glow of the lamp that lit the landing, Wyatt could see a dead cat, the same as the one killed earlier that day, dangling from the door handle of Doc’s room by its tail.
Doc grimaced and shut his eyes. As if this were too much ghastliness for him to handle right then, he turned away.
Click.
Wyatt heard the noise.
So did Doc, who slowly opened his eyes. Another man appeared on the landing, stepping into Wyatt’s line of view.
It was Turner.
He was holding a gun pointed directly at Doc’s chest. The click had been the hammer being pulled back.
Doc stared downwards at the gun, and he exhaled slowly.
“Look lower,” said Turner in the quietest voice imaginable.
Doc looked further down, confused, and then his eyes froze.
Turner’s front trouser buttons were open, and a man’s erection was sticking out. Turner’s left hand was down on his erection, stropping along its length and playing with it.
“Get down on your knees. Put your mouth on me and finish me off.”
Doc’s eyes widened. He didn’t move.
“What’s the matter? Don’t you like the bouquet of dead cat I left on your door handle? Don’t you like my present? Move, I tell you, or I’ll shoot you.”
Turner let go of himself and seized Doc’s wrist, and he yanked Doc’s hand to the erection, nudging its damp tip against Doc’s frozen fingers. Then he raised the gun and ran the muzzle slowly along Doc’s lips.
“Do me with that pretty mouth,” Turner whispered.
Doc only stared at him, and Wyatt knew that Doc was trying to decide if he could get a gun out before Turner shot him.
Then Doc shut his eyes as if summoning up all his determination, and his jaw tightened.
In one instant, Wyatt knew that Doc was telling himself it was time to die, because he couldn’t draw on a man who already had the drop on him, and he would rather die than endure this humiliation.
Doc’s blue eyes flew open again, and there was the fury of death in them.
In one more second there would be mayhem in that stairwell.
Wyatt yanked his hat down over his eyes so neither man would recognize him, and he hit the side of the stairwell with a loud bang as he made his way upstairs, speaking in a slurred mumble. He kept on mumbling like a drunk, head down, as the two men broke apart.
Turner’s gun disappeared into his jacket, slick as grease.
The erection was a harder problem to disguise, and Wyatt hoped it was damned painful for Turner as the man tried to stuff it back into his pants at high speed. The cattleman turned his back to Wyatt as he hunched over.
Wyatt was at the top of the stairs now, and with both hands he shoved Doc aside, accidental-like. One more step and his left hand grabbed the dead cat’s tail and jerked it hard enough to snap the string that held it there. Holding the tail in his left hand, he seized the back of Turner’s collar in his right fist.
Then, with an almighty shove, he sent Turner, cat, and himself, hurtling down the hallway towards the back stairs. The window at the end of the hallway was open to the outside, and Wyatt flung the cat through it. He wanted to throw Turner down the stairs, but that would make too much noise. For now, he just ran down, shoving Turner before him with the strength of a berserker.
At the bottom, Turner tried to tear himself out of Wyatt’s hand and run away, but he got nowhere. Wyatt yanked his gun out and brought the butt down as hard as he could onto Turner’s thick skull, again and again. He wasn’t trying to knock the man out.
He was trying to kill.
In the midst of his rage, he noticed that the back stairs, unlike the front, were not carpeted.
Good.
After the beatdown, he left the bleeding heap lying, hoping the coroner would assume Turner had fallen down the stairs and hit his head.
Wyatt flew out the back door into the night as silently as he could, knowing he had to get any blood spatter off his clothes and gun as quickly as possible.
Wyatt cleaned himself up and slept soundly, or as soundly as he could after attempting to murder a man. The next morning, he cautiously went for breakfast at an eating house and listened to the gossip with both ears.
“His skull is broke and he don’t remember,” a voice said.
Wyatt listened long enough to be disappointed that Turner was still alive, but apparently concussed with broken head bones. It was damned hard to kill a demon with anything other than a burning stake, he reflected.
Finishing breakfast, he went to find Doc. It was too early for Doc to be at the saloon, but he doubted that Doc had slept much either.
Doc was hanging around the front of Shanssey’s saloon, talking to someone. At the sight of Wyatt, he stepped aside and said to his companion, “I’ll talk to you later. I have to take care of business.”
Doc began to walk down the street, and Wyatt followed, taking care to be several paces behind. Then he began to be disturbed at what he saw. People were startling backwards and stepping aside—from Doc.
Oh no, Wyatt realized. When Turner was found at the bottom steps of Doc’s boarding house, some people must have thought, if it hadn’t been an accident, that Doc, a rumored killer, must be responsible.
Doc ducked into a feed store and headed for the back, and Wyatt followed.
“That was my contact. Rudabaugh and three of his gang are at Fort Davis.” Doc spoke so softly that Wyatt almost missed the news. “Wyatt. Was that you last night?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Doc might be too proud to suffer the shame of another’s knowledge.
They regarded each other a moment, Doc’s stern blue eyes searching his face.
“I have to leave immediately,” said Wyatt. He held out a hand to shake goodbye.
Instead, Doc clasped the hand between both of his. “Thank you and good luck,” he said earnestly. “Go catch your robber, but look after yourself.” Doc let go of his hand. “Is Dodge a nice place? Good gambling?”
“Yes, though it’s slow right now.”
“I may see you there some time.”
“Just a moment. How much do you owe Shanssey?”
“About two hundred dollars.”
Wyatt pulled out his wallet and began counting bills.
“No, you’re not,” said Doc. “Keep that for yourself.”
“Here’s two hundred plus fifty for travel.”
“I refuse to take it.” Doc started walking away.
Wyatt followed behind. “I’m paying you for providing information. The Santa Fe gave me extra money for that.”
Doc waved the cash aside.
“You’d better.” Wyatt grabbed Doc’s arm and jerked him to a halt, speaking into the other man’s ear. “From what I’ve seen, you may have to leave town mighty fast for something you didn’t do. Take it. You don’t deserve to have more trouble.”
Doc hesitated, not moving, and Wyatt stuffed the money into Holliday’s coat pocket.
“Good luck to you, too,” Wyatt replied, and left.
He felt an odd reluctance to leave, though he still didn’t consider Doc a friend, just an interesting acquaintance.
Continued in Chapter 2