Denver Draw (10 page)

“You’re obviously lookin’ for a fight, friend,” Doc Holliday said. “I just lost a lot of money, so lucky for you I’m in the mood for a fight.”

Suddenly, the bar became the place not to be. As had happened in the Bucket of Blood some nights ago, men began to find someplace else in the room to be—or they left the saloon altogether. For the most part, however, they wanted to see this showdown, so tables were upturned and used for cover, or men just hit the floor but kept their heads up so they could see what was happening.

Bat didn’t move, except to give Doc some space. Butler was behind Doc’s right shoulder, at the end of the bar. He could see Doc’s face in profile, and he could see his neck. He wondered if Bat was seeing what he was. There was a coughing fit in Doc that was trying to get out, but Doc was trying to hold it in until after he dealt with Pennington and his men.

“Come on, lunger,” Pennington sneered, “I ain’t afraid of you, neither are my boys.”

“Four against one,” Doc said. “That sound like good odds to you, Bat?”

“I can’t let this happen, Pennington,” Bat stated, but again it was Doc who called him off.

“Don’t worry, Marshal,” Holliday said, “they won’t draw unless I turn my back.”

Stung, Pennington brought his hand back, as if he was ready to draw, but it looked like more of a pose than anything else. Butler thought that Doc was going to be able to talk these boys out of drawing on him—but then it happened. The cough Doc had been trying to suppress came up, and there was nothing he could do about it. Before he knew it he was in its grip, racked by spasms of choking that seemed to disconnect his arms and legs. He staggered, caught himself on the bar. and hung there, halfway between standing and falling.

Frank Pennington saw his chance. His eyes widened, he couldn’t believe his luck, and he yelled to his boys, “Take ’im now,” and they were ready, too. The sight of Doc hanging off the end of the bar emboldened them, and the four men went for their guns.

But Butler, who had been expecting the fit, was moving already. He pushed off from the bar with his left hand and drew his gun with his right. His concentration was so focused on the four men, who in turn were intent on killing Doc Holliday, that none of them saw Bat Masterson also draw his weapon.

Butler and Bat both knew that Doc was a sitting duck, and they had to move both swiftly and with deadly accuracy.

Butler shot Pennington first, taking him square in the chest, and then moved his gun a fraction to fire at one of the other men.

Bat fired twice in succession, and two men gasped and staggered back. They righted themselves briefly, but then Butler’s lead hit them and put them down.

The fourth man was stunned by what was happening and was riddled by lead from both Bat’s gun and Butler’s.

As the four men hit the floor Butler quickly stepped in front of Doc, in case one of them was able to fire a shot from there. Bat, meanwhile, moved in on them, gun ready. If any of them was still alive they would not be for long. If Bat hated anything it was a bushwacker, and shooting Doc while he was in the throes of a coughing fit amounted to the same thing.

“Doc,” Butler said, reaching back with one hand to steady the man. “You okay?”

“I’m not hit if that’s what you mean,” Doc said in a raspy tone. “Damn.” He looked at the bartender. “Whiskey!”

“Comin’ up, Doc,” Roscoe said, and got a shot glass of rotgut in front of him fast.

Doc grabbed it, downed it, and released the edge of the bar. He staggered, but remained standing.

Bat came over and said, “They’re all dead.”

“I’m obliged to the both of you,” Doc said. “I would have handled them if not for…this.” He patted his chest.

“We know that, Doc,” Butler said. He and Bat replaced the spent shells in their guns and holstered them.

“Roscoe,” Bat said. “Grab some men and get these bodies out of here.”

“The undertaker?” Roscoe asked.

“Yeah,” Bat said. “There’s only four of ’em. He should have room.”

“He might be asleep.”

“Wake him up, then.”

“Yes, sir.”

Bat turned to Doc.

“You’re not hit?”

“Not hit,” Doc said. “Just a little…chagrined, I guess you’d say. Not used to havin’ somebody else fight my battles for me. You two acted pretty damn quick.”

“It’s my job,” Bat said.

“I saw you were having trouble breathing,” Butler said, “knew that a cough was coming.”

“You’re very observant,” Doc said. “I thank you both again. I think I better go back to my hotel now.”

“Sure, Doc,” Butler said. “Want me to—”

“I think I can manage on my own, tonight.”

Butler nodded and stepped back.

Doc looked at Bat.

“Any word on that warrant?”

“I’m gonna pick it up in the mornin’,” Bat said. “I can bring it to your hotel.”

“Any objection to me leavin’ tomorrow, then?” Doc asked.

“None.”

Doc smiled without humor.

“Probably glad to see the back of me.”

“As a lawman,” Bat said, “I’d have to agree with that.”

“I understand. Good night to both of you. See you tomorrow before I head out.”

“’Night, Doc,” Butler said.

Doc Holliday went out the door, following the men who were carrying the bodies.

“You really saw that he was gonna cough?” Bat asked.

“Yeah,” Butler said. “You didn’t?”

“I couldn’t see his face,” Bat said. “I just knew when he started to cough those jackals would try to take advantage. You move pretty fast for a gambler.”

“You move as fast as your rep says you do,” Butler said.

Bat looked around the room. Men were righting tables, setting up chairs, calling for drinks from the girls, whose eyes were still wide from what had happened.

Roscoe, having arranged to have the bodies removed, stepped back behind the bar and began taking orders.

“Looks like things are getting back to normal,” Bat said.

“I think I’ve had enough for one night,” Butler said. “I’m gonna go to my room.”

“Don’t blame you,” Bat said. “I’m gonna stick around for a while. You gonna see Holliday off in the morning?”

“I think so,” Butler said. “I kinda feel like we became friends, you know?”

“Sure, I know,” Bat said. “I don’t feel the same way, but I understand why you do. Good night, Butler.”

“’Night, Bat.”

“Thanks for back up…again.”

Butler grinned and said, “Any time.”

One Month Later,
Denver

When Butler hit Denver he heaved a sigh. He didn’t know if it was of relief exactly, but it was nice to be in a city for a change after all the mining camps and towns.

He’d stayed in Trinidad longer than he’d expected, but now it was time to stay in Denver for a while. His luck was still running good, and there was the possibility of getting into some big games here.

As he checked into the Denver House Hotel he knew that the Earps had moved on to Gunnison, Colorado. Wyatt had sent Bat a telegram to that effect after Bat notified him that the Doc Holliday favor had been done.

As for Doc Holliday they had not heard from him since he’d left Trinidad, ostensibly for Denver. Who knew what stops he might have made along the way?

Butler had personal knowledge of all the stops that could have been made, but he made none of them. He was that intent on making it to Denver.

Now he took his key and made his way to his second-floor room. He paused halfway up the steps to turn and
look down at the wide expanse of lobby below him. This was certainly not Trinidad—or Leadville.

He was very happy with his room. It was large, well furnished, and the mattress was plush and comfortable. He walked to the window and looked out at the busy street below him. He hadn’t been any place this populated since Chicago, and that was a while ago.

He decided to have a long bath, put on some new clothes, and go out to greet the city—or let it greet him.

Perry Mallon stopped just inside the door of the saloon and scanned the room quickly. He found what he was looking for without a problem. A member of the Denver Police Department, Mallon was in uniform, wearing a gun, and carrying a billy club. He turned, looked outside, and jerked his head at the others to follow him in. In seconds he was one of four policemen standing inside the door. The place was fairly quiet, just a murmur of voices and the sound of poker chips. Slowly, the four policemen attracted the attention of some of the patrons—most of them curious, some of them nervous. What had brought four lawmen into the Gambler’s Club?

Len Wooden, the owner, approached the four uniformed men and said, “What can I do for you officers?”

Mallon put the head of his club against Wooden’s chest.

“Just stay out of the way, friend,” he said. “We’re here to see one of your patrons.”

Wooden frowned. He longed for the days of a sheriff and a deputy. These bully boys in uniforms didn’t take long to develop an attitude. This one looked new, and he had it already.

Wooden looked around the room, and his eyes fell on one man. Suddenly, he understood. “Can we do this without fuss?” he asked the policeman.

“Just go and get behind your bar,” Mallon said. “We’ll take care of it any way we have to.”

“Jesus,” Wooden said, and withdrew. He could have warned some of his better customers, but instead headed straight for the safety of the bar. At the first sign of trouble he could simply drop out of sight, out of harm’s way.

Mallon waved his three colleagues to follow him and headed for the table across the room. The man he was interested in was sitting with his back to the wall, and for all intents and purposes had not seen the four policemen. But as soon as they reached the table, he looked up and locked eyes with Perry Mallon.

“Up,” Mallon said.

“Excuse me?”

“You heard me,” Mallon said. “Stand up.” He was bouncing the billy club off the palm of his hand.

“What’s this about?”

“I think you know.”

The seated man frowned.

“Do I know you?”

“Think about it.”

The gambler sat back, looked up at Mallon, and frowned.

“I don’t think I know you.”

“Well, you’ll have time to think about it in a cell,” Mallon said. “Come on. Let’s go.”

“What’s the charge?”

“We’ll let you know.”

The gambler looked down at his cards and chips.

“I’ll have to cash out.”

“Somebody will do that for you,” Mallon said.

The other three policemen were watching the byplay tensely. Mallon had told them he could handle it, and just wanted them there for backup. All three were hefting their clubs, and hoping they wouldn’t have to use their guns.

“Don’t make this hard,” Mallon said. “It won’t go your way.”

“Oh,” the black-clad gambler said, “it might.”

One of the other men leaned forward and said, “I’ll cash in your chips and hold the money for ya, Doc.”

Doc Holliday looked at the man. His name was Benny Keats, and Doc was only in the game because of him. Could he trust him with his money? He probably could, since the little man was afraid of him.

“Okay, Benny,” Doc said. “You do that. And remember, I know exactly how much I have.”

“S-sure.”

“That’s enough talk, Doc,” Police Officer Perry Mallon said. “Get up. You’re under arrest.”

Butler dressed for dinner, something else he hadn’t done since Chicago. He asked the desk clerk to recommend a place for a good steak and the man sent him three blocks away to a place called Seldon’s Steak House. It was very crowded, but since he was dining alone he was able to be seated almost immediately. Around him were mostly tables of two, three, and four. A lot of them were families, some of them couples. Other tables were obviously friends out for dinner together.

Butler ordered a steak with the works, and while he was waiting for it he saw a woman enter. She spoke briefly to the host, who was shaking his head. Butler assumed that he was turning the woman away, and she looked dismayed. Beautiful, and dismayed. He decided to be chivalrous tonight.

He stood up and walked across the room. As he got closer the woman got even lovelier. Also, older. At first he thought she was in her late twenties, but now it appeared she was in her thirties.

“…sorry, Madam,” the host was saying, “but I simply cannot seat a woman alone.”

“But that’s archaic,” she insisted. “My money is as good as anyone else’s, and I’m hungry.”

She had obviously also dressed for dinner. She wore a green wrap over a dress of the same color, which set off her red hair and pale skin. Her eyes were green, and they were flashing.

“I sent a bellboy over this afternoon to make a reservation,” she said. “J. Conway.”

“Yes,” the man said, “we have a reservation for a J. Conway, but we did not know it was a woman.”

“Jennifer Conway,” she said. “What’s the damn difference?” She almost stamped her foot.

“Madam,” he said, “if you’re going to use profanity I’m going to have to ask you to—”

“Jennifer, there you are,” Butler said.

Both she and the host looked at him with frowns. He came up next to her, touched her arm, and pecked her cheek.

“I told you that you wouldn’t be able to get in on your own,” he said. “Now come and sit with me like we planned.”

“I—but—but—” she said.

He leaned in and said, “You can stand up for yourself and starve or sit with me and eat.”

“Darling,” she said, “you were right, after all. There are some aspects of Denver that are still backwater.”

Butler laughed to himself. She had to get a parting shot in.

“If you don’t mind,” he said to the host, “I’ll take Miss Conway to my table now.”

“Of course, sir,” the host said stiffly.

Butler kept a hold of the woman’s arm as they walked across the floor.

“Did you come here for a steak?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said, “the desk clerk at my hotel told me they serve the best steaks in town.”

Butler caught his waiter even before they reached their table and said, “Bring two steak dinners, please.”

“Yes, sir.”

When they reached the table Butler held her chair for her, inhaling the scent of her perfume at the same time.

“Since we seem to be a couple,” she said, “and you somehow know my name—”

“I overheard you tell the host.”

“—I suppose you ought to tell me your name.”

“I’m sorry,” he said. “Bad manners. I’m Tyrone Butler.”

“I’m going to assume, Mr. Butler, since you are dining alone that you’re not from Denver?”

“That’s correct,” he said, “and please don’t call me Mister. Either Ty or just Butler will do.”

“Well then, for the sake of appearances, you might as well call me Jennifer.”

“So, Jennifer,” he said, “two strangers dining together. What shall we talk about?”

“Well, Ty,” she replied, “as you say we’re strangers, so I suppose we should talk about…everything.”