Denver Draw (5 page)

Bat was hung over. He had killed a bottle of whiskey that had been half full, and then tumbled into bed. When he woke his head was pounding. It had been a week and he still felt bad about Dean Collier getting killed. He was standing at the bar drinking strong black coffee when Butler came down from his room.

”’morning, Bat.”

Bat grunted. Butler signaled to Roscoe, pointing to the cup in Bat’s hand and then to himself. He was still communicating well with bartenders, because moments later he had a cup of coffee in his hand, too.

“Bad night?” he asked Bat.

“Worse mornin’,” Bat grumbled.

“Bat, you can’t still blame yourself—”

Bat raised his hand and said, “One problem at a time. First I’ve got to get rid of this headache.”

Butler could sympathize. He’d woken up plenty of mornings feeling just like that.

“I’m going to go and get some breakfast,” Butler said.

“You go,” Bat said, waving. “I can’t even think about food right now.”

“I’ll see you later.”

“I won’t need you for that table till later tonight,” Bat said as he went out the door.

Butler waved that he had heard and kept going.

Butler had been taking afternoon walks around Trinidad the past few days, finally trying to get to know the town. He had been surprised to find out it had a population of almost two thousand. Today he peered in the shops, walked through some of the residential sections, checked on his horse, bought some new shirts, and had his boots shined. He sampled a different restaurant for lunch and found it also to his liking. It looked as if eating well was not going to be a problem.

He had a bath, got dressed, put on one of his new shirts, and went downstairs to play some poker. By this time it was almost four, and the saloon was coming to life.

Leaning against a post in front of his office Bat’s head was still pounding, but it was starting to fade. He was just thinking he might be ready to get something to eat when he saw three riders coming down Main Street, all dressed in dust-covered black coats, trousers, and hats. Their horse’s heads hung low and when he recognized the taller of the three, he thought he was hallucinating. He also took a moment to think that the last two times someone new had ridden into town—Butler last week, and now today—he happened to be on the street to spot them.

The taller rider saw him about the same time and directed his horse that way. The other two followed.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” Bat said.

“Hello, Bat,” Wyatt Earp said.

“Wyatt,” Bat said. Then, “Virg, Doc.”

Both of the other men simply nodded their heads and touched the brim of their hats.

“Heard you were marshaling up here,” Wyatt said. “Thought it might be a place for us to…rest a while.”

“Plenty of room,” Bat said. He stepped down, approached Wyatt, and stuck his hand out. “Good to see you, Wyatt.”

“You, too, Bat.” The two men shook hands.

“Livery right down the street. Hotel, too. Get yourself settled and come back over here. We’ll go and have somethin’ to eat, catch up.”

“We’ll do it, Bat,” Wyatt said. “See you in a spell.”

Bat watched them ride off toward the livery, wondered what kind of trouble—if any—was following the Earps and Doc Holliday. He was glad to see his friend Wyatt, but couldn’t help wondering if their arrival was signaling a change in the wind.

Wyatt and Virgil decided they’d go to their rooms after checking in to the Fairgate Hotel, the closest to the livery, but Doc Holliday had an urge to play some poker. They discussed it in the lobby first.

“After all that ridin’?” Virgil asked.

“Hey,” Doc said, “you relax your way and I’ll relax mine.”

“Go ahead, Doc,” Wyatt said. “I’m gonna get cleaned up and check in with Bat. Virg?”

“I’m gonna lie down,” Virgil said. “My arm’s killin’ me.”

“Maybe we should find a doctor in town,” Wyatt suggested.

“I’m fine,” Virgil said. “It hurts when I get tired. You go see Bat, and Doc you go and play cards. I’ll be fine.”

Doc, who wasn’t as worried about Virgil’s well-being as Wyatt was, said, “Fine by me. I could use a whiskey, too. Mind my saddlebags?”

“Sure,” Wyatt said, taking them from his friend.

Wyatt and Virgil watched as Doc Holliday walked out the front door of the hotel.

“Don’t he ever get tired?” Virgil asked. “I seen him sittin’ up at night on the trail.”

“Doc figures if he lays down he may never get up,” Wyatt said. “He’s gotta be exhausted to fall asleep, so he tries to exhaust himself.”

“Well, he exhausts me,” Virgil said. “Want me to put your saddlebags in your room, along with Doc’s?”

“No, I want to wash up before I go see Bat.”

“I just need to lie down for about an hour,” Virgil said. “You go ahead and eat something’ if you want.”

“You sure you don’t want to see a sawbones?”

“I’m fine, Wyatt,” Virgil said. “Don’t play mother hen, okay?”

“Fine, Virg,” Wyatt said. “Have it your way.”

They went up to their respective rooms and Wyatt, after having washed his face and hands, came out and pressed his ear to his brother’s door. He couldn’t hear anything, so he went down the stairs and headed for Bat’s office.

Doc Holliday entered the Bonanza saloon, looked around and spotted the poker game that was in progress. At the moment it was the only game in the room. He walked to the bar and ordered a shot of whiskey.

“That a private game or can anyone buy in?” he asked when the barman brought his drink.

“Open to anyone’s the way I understand it,” the bartender said.

Doc tossed the drink back and said, “Give me another one. I’ll take it with me.”

The bartender poured and Doc picked up the glass and walked over to the poker table.

“Mind if I sit in?” he asked.

One man looked up and said, “It’s Butler’s game. You’re gonna hafta ask him.”

“Okay,” Doc said, “which one’s Butler?”

“I am,” Butler said, “but it’s not my game. Anybody can sit in. Pull up a chair.”

“Thanks.”

Doc sat down, put his drink down at his elbow, and took out his money. There was already money on the table along with the chips so he assumed that his money would play.

“What’s the game?” he asked.

“Dealer’s choice,” Butler said.

“Suits me, I guess.”

“What is usually your game, sir?” Butler asked.

“Five-card stud is a preference,” Doc said, “but I’ll play anything. Butler your only name?”

“Tyrone’s my first name,” Butler said, “but I usually answer to Butler. And yours?”

“Holliday,” he said, “John Holliday.”

“Holliday?” This came from Andy Jason, the first man who had spoken. “Like in…Doc Holliday?”

“That’s what some folks call me,” Doc said.

“Go on,” a young man standing within earshot said. “You ain’t.”

Doc turned his head to look at the boy, who had large jug-handle ears and was holding a mug of beer.

“I’m afraid I am, boy.”

“Well. I’ll be damned,” the boy said.

“’Fraid, so will I be, boy,” Doc added. “So who’s dealin’?”

Butler tried not to look too impressed with Doc Holliday. After all, he already knew Bat Masterson and he had played poker with the likes of Ben Thompson, but Holliday…well, he had a reputation as just about as cold a killer as you could get.

He was a slight man, though, slender and not tall, with small hands and blond hair falling from beneath his hat. Not at all what you would have expected of Doc Holliday.

After he misread a couple of hands because he was watching Doc, Butler decided to get his head back into the game. He took the next two hands in a row and got himself back on track.

“Where’s Virgil?” Bat asked as Wyatt entered the marshal’s office.

“He’s restin’,” Wyatt said. “Ridin’ the trail takes a lot out of him since he got shot.”

“I heard about that,” Bat said, “and I’m sorry about Morg. I wish I’d been there to help.”

“Sounds like you had your hands full in Dodge,” Wyatt said. “At least you managed to keep your brother from getting shot.”

“You ain’t sayin’ that Morg and Virg getting shot was your fault, are you?” Bat asked.

“Relocatin’ to Tombstone was my idea.”

“They coulda said no.”

“I s’pose. You got anyplace around here to get a good steak?” Wyatt Earp was obviously uncomfortable talking about his family matters. Bat decided he had to respect that.

“Yeah, we can get you a good steak,” Bat said. “Come on, we got a lot of catchin’ up to do.”

As they stepped outside Bat asked. “Where’s Doc?”

“He went to play poker.”

“Where?”

“I don’t know,” Wyatt said. “You got saloons, don’t ya? With poker games in ’em? He probably found one of those.”

Bat couldn’t help wondering if Doc Holliday had found his way to the Bonanza, and Butler’s poker game?

“Is there a problem?” Wyatt asked.

“No,” Bat said, “there’s no problem.”

“Good,” Wyatt said, “because I’m just about hungry enough to chew off your leg.”

After just a few hands Butler was impressed with Doc Holliday’s play. He appeared unflappable at the table but he would later find out that this was simply Doc’s total disregard for everything. The man didn’t care whether he won or lost, he was just marking time. He kept a kerchief handy and coughed into it every so often, coughs that became fits and made other players and people around him uncomfortable. He would come out of one with his face pale and his eyes watery and he’d say, “Excuse me,” and people would look away. He would then continue on and play steady, almost deadly poker.

Most people had things eating at them from the inside, but with Doc it was literally eating him away.

On Doc’s part, he found Butler to be almost unreadable. He liked that, because he prided himself on being able to read other players. They cared more than he did and it usually showed in their faces and demeanor. It was almost as if Butler had some of the same qualities that he did. There may not have been a disease ravaging his insides, causing him to spit up blood and little bits of his lungs, but there was something going on inside
the man.

Tyrone Butler was interesting to Doc. The only other man he’d ever found remotely interesting was his only friend, Wyatt Earp.

Bat and Wyatt sat with huge platters of steak and potatoes in front of them. It was still a little early in the day for Bat to have a meal that big, but Wyatt had been on the trail eating beans and drinking trail coffee for so long he wanted to treat him to something special. They were in a restaurant called D’Amico’s, run by an Italian immigrant who had somehow found his way to Trinidad.

Wyatt didn’t want to talk about what had happened in Tombstone after Bat left. He also didn’t want to talk about the aftermath, the hunting down of as many of the cowboys as he and Doc could find. The death of Johnny Ringo, found lying against the base of a tree, was still a mystery to most. Bat had read about it in the newspapers. It was unknown if Ringo had been gunned by Wyatt, Doc, or perhaps someone else he had fallen out with.

He did want to talk about Doc Holliday, though.

“Doc is gonna be in trouble if they manage to extradite him back to Arizona,” Wyatt said. “And all because he sided with me.”

“So keep him out of Arizona.”

“That’ll be hard if they come after him with warrants,” Wyatt said.

“What about you and Virgil?” Bat asked. “Any warrants out for you?”

“There might be, but I ain’t worried about that. We were wearin’ badges when everything happened. Doc was not even a deputy, he just stood with us. He’s got enough problems of his own without taking on mine,
but he did it.”

“Sounds like a good friend,” Bat said. Personally, he saw nothing loyal or good about Doc Holliday, but he didn’t have to. He was friends with Wyatt, and if Wyatt saw it, it must have been there…somewhere.

“What are you gonna do?” he asked.

“Well…I was hopin’ there was somethin’ you could do,” Wyatt said, shifting uncomfortably in his seat.

“Like what?”

“Well, I don’t like to ask…”

“Wyatt, we’re friends. Go ahead and ask.”

“Well, you’re the one wearin’ the badge now,” Wyatt said. “If you swore out a warrant on Doc, a Colorado warrant, it would—what’s the word?—
supersede
an Arizona warrant, wouldn’t it?”

“I suppose so, since Doc is here in Colorado.”

“And then, if you simply never executed that warrant…”

“I see what you’re sayin’,” Bat replied.

“You’d need to get a judge to swear out the warrant, a judge who didn’t much care whether you executed it or not.”

“I’m sure I could come up with somebody like that,” Bat said, rubbing his jaw.

“Then you’d do it?”

“Not only would I do it,” Bat said, “but I will. Just let me give it some thought, figure out how to go about it. You and Doc and Virg can stay here a while.”

“Doc’s been talkin’ about goin’ to Denver.”

“That probably wouldn’t be a problem, since he’d still be in Colorado.”

“Bat, I know you and Doc don’t see eye to eye,” Wyatt said. “This is really decent of you—”

“I’m doin’ it for you, Wyatt, not Doc,” Bat said. “That
shouldn’t matter to you, though, as long as it gets done.”

“No, you’re right,” Wyatt said. “Still, I’m grateful.”

“Now that we got that cleared up, maybe we can give all of our attention to these steaks?”

Wyatt smiled and said, “Exactly what I was thinkin’.”

“I’m out,” the third player at the table said. He got up and trudged out of the Bonanza saloon. That left only Butler and Doc Holliday at the table. Between them they had most of the money taken from the other players who had come in and out of the game.

“Head-to-head?” Doc asked.

“No point, really,” Butler said. “Seems we’re evenly matched, and that kind of game could go on for days.”

“Drink at the bar, then?”

“That sounds good.”

The two men collected their winnings in paper money and chips. Before moving to the bar they cashed in the chips and stowed their money away in their pockets.

Word had gotten around the saloon that Doc Holliday was there. Butler noticed that he and Doc were given a wide berth as they moved to the bar. Doc did not seem to notice, or simply didn’t care.

At the bar Butler got a beer and Doc Holliday a whiskey.

“First round’s on me,” Doc said. “You get the second.”

“You’re on.”

“Where you from? I haven’t heard of you before.”

“Back east.”

Doc grinned.

“That all you wanna say?”

“That’s all that matters,” Butler replied.

“As you wish,” Doc said, and drained his glass. Butler wasn’t finished with his beer yet, but signaled Roscoe to refill Doc’s drink.

“How long have you been in Trinidad?”

“A week,” Butler said.

“Then you can tell me if it’s worth a gambler’s time,” Doc said. “I was thinkin’ of movin’ on pretty soon to Denver.”

“Can’t compare with Denver, I’m sure,” Butler said. “If faro’s your game—”

“It has been.”

“—Bat Masterson’s got a table in here.”

“Masterson,” Doc said. “You met him yet?”

“I have,” Butler said. “I knew his brother Jim in Dodge.”

“Were you part of that?”

“I was.”

“Heard it was some dust-up.”

“Probably couldn’t compare with what happened in Tombstone, but lead was flying pretty good.”

Doc finished his drink, waved at the bartender for a third, and regarded Butler with interest.

“So you’re a little more than a gambler.”

“I could say the same for you.”

Doc lifted his glass.

“Let‘s drink to variety.”

Butler raised his glass.

As they finished their meal Bat talked about Dodge City and what had occurred there. Wyatt had never asked Bat what had transpired between him and his brother Jim to drive a wedge between them, but he admired his friend for going to his brother’s aid anyway.

Bat told Wyatt that he, too, needed someplace to hole up for a while, do some thinking, explained how he had ended up in Trinidad just when the marshal’s job was open.

“A man’s gotta work,” he said, and added that he had the faro layout in the Bonanza.

Then he told Wyatt about the new man who had arrived in town only last week. He also explained the situation where he had pressed Butler’s gun into service, and how his deputy had been killed.

“Can’t blame yourself for that, Bat,” Wyatt said.

“That’s what folks have been tellin’ me,” he said.

“What else do you know about this fella Butler?”

“I know he stood with me, Jim, and Neal Brown in Dodge. Also he was there before I was, already takin’ a hand in Jim’s troubles. And now he’s stepped into mine without so much as a question.”

“Sounds a lot like Doc.”

“Well, he’s a gambler, poker mostly, but I got him relieving me at my faro table in the evenings so I can do my rounds.”

“And he’s only been here a week?”

“Yeah,” Bat said. “Seems he ain’t shy about helpin’ out.”

“Well,” Wyatt said, raising his beer glass, “let’s drink to friends, then—both old and new.”

“That’s somethin’ I can drink to.”

Virgil Earp woke over an hour later, feeling refreshed despite some dull pain in his arm. But it was the growling in his belly that was the most insistent. He washed his face, strapped on his gun—awkwardly, since he essentially had one good arm—and went downstairs to see if he could find Wyatt. Failing that, he’d just go in search of a decent steak.

The neatest saloon to the hotel was the Bonanza, so he walked over and peered in over the batwing doors. He saw Doc Holliday talking to a man dressed in gambler’s black. Seemed the man had already made himself a new friend.

That suited Virgil just fine. He’d never been in favor of his brother’s friendship with Doc, even though the man had been invaluable to them during the trouble in Tombstone. Standing with a man in a fight was one thing, but having him for a friend was another.

Virgil moved on.