"Don't look like much of a town," Virgil grumbled,
squinting at the townsfolk who had come out to watch us ride, dripping
wet, down the middle of their muddy main street.
"This is the place," Wyatt confirmed, apparently oblivious
to the urgent whispers and pointing fingers.
I suppose it wasn't every day that men like the Earp brothers rode
into town. Even in soaking wet mackinaws, they were a striking trio: all
broad shouldered and over six-foot tall with dark honey-blond hair and
leonine moustaches. Even Morgan, the youngest of the three present, rode
tall in the saddle while nursing a heavily bleeding cut above his left
eye.
"I'll just be glad to get this cut sewn up," Morg said,
briefly withdrawing the bloodstained handkerchief from his head before
growling a sigh. "It's getting on my last nerve."
Wyatt frowned at the comment, but it was the fifth member of our
group who spoke next. "I just want to get off this damn horse and
get a doctor to me." Bull Saunders, Virgil's Deputy Marshal,
winced, shuffled in his saddle then scowled down the line of Earps at
me.
"Now, Bull," I addressed the short, squat, boil on the rear
of humanity who had been my chief source of irritation and entertainment
the past few days. "If you continue to look at me in such a hostile
manner, I'll have no choice but to conclude that you didn't accept my
apology after all." While Bull considered his response, I idly
wondered which of us looked more out of place at the Earps' side.
Although I was about as tall as the Earps, my hair and moustache were a
paler blond and I had never possessed a physique that could be described
as broad -- even before my consumption struck. Bull may have looked as
strong as the mule with which he shared his intelligence but at least I
was acquainted with a reputable tailor.
"You shot me deliberately, Holliday!" Bull claimed for the
hundredth or so time that afternoon. "You saw it, Morg. He was
drunk and he did it deliberately," Bull went on while Morg just
rolled his good eye at me.
"I object to that." I paused to take a swig from my whiskey
flask. "I was no more drunk than usual and I would shoot you just
as fast if I was stone-cold sober."
"Quit riding him, Doc," Wyatt said low as we approached the
town's jail. "The man's been shot in the ass. Leave it be."
"It was only a graze," Morg added.
I remained non-committal while Bull voiced his doubts over whether
there was ever a snake in that bush with him to begin with. He only fell
silent as we halted before the jail's porch, upon which two men were
talking quietly.
"'Afternoon," the one in the buckskins with the wavy,
shoulder length hair addressed us. "Anything we can help you
gentlemen with?"
"We got a couple of wounded men here," Wyatt answered.
"We heard you had a doctor in this town."
The buckskinned one's lanky, dark-haired friend nodded. "There's
someone who treats bullet wounds, sets bones and such."
"He'll do." Virgil nodded back. "Where is he?"
"Down the street. A block or so on the left." The
buckskinned one nodded in the right direction. "There's a
sign."
"Finally!" Bull turned his mount and rode off down the
street.
"Guess I'll see you boys in the saloon with two good eyes."
Morg grinned at us before riding after Bull.
"Marshal around?" Virgil asked and the lanky one shook his
head.
"No marshal. We're the law here if you have a problem."
Virgil frowned then glanced at Wyatt before replying, "No
problem. Much obliged for your help." He tipped his hat and we rode
on down the street to stable our horses at the livery before finding a
likely looking saloon.
As we walked into the relative darkness of the smoky saloon to wait
for Morg and Bull, I started the coughing fit that had been threatening
since the rains the night before. Luckily, it wasn't a particularly bad
spell by my standards. I kept up behind Virgil and Wyatt as we walked
across the room and Wyatt only gave me the most cursory of looks as we
leaned against the bar. The barman, however, looked at me as if he
thought I was about to expire on his not-so-clean floor.
"Have no fear, sir." I gave him a sunny grin as he gingerly
placed Wyatt's and Virgil's beers on the bar. "Pride forestalls me
from putting you to any such inconvenience. A bottle and a glass are all
I require." Still coughing a little, I thanked the nervous barman
for the cheap bottle of whiskey he set before me and immediately set to
work on it while watching the two men from the jail enter the saloon
door. After briefly looking around the room and nodding to a brightly
dressed cardsharp plying his trade at the slightly raised poker table
area, they crossed to join the table of a blond gunfighter dressed in
black.
"They have rooms upstairs," Wyatt said quietly. When I
didn't make any response to this observation, he went on. "You're
soaked through. Why don't you finish that bottle in bed?"
"What? And miss all the fun?" I replied with a smile,
watching the gunfighter stand up from his table and come towards us
followed by the two from the jail.
"You're the law from Tombstone," the gunman addressed us
bluntly. "You're a long way from Cochise."
"I'm Virgil Earp and this is my brother Wyatt. We'll only be in
town for the night," Virgil finished, bristling.
The gunman nodded. "Chris Larabee. I'm the law around
here."
"While the sheriff is indisposed I suppose?" I asked
lightly and he looked at me properly for the first time. He had good
teeth. I drank down another glassful and he turned his attention back to
Virgil and Wyatt.
"We heard you were out after some rustlers. Didn't know you
crossed the line."
"Sheriff did," Virgil grumped back. "We followed. We
got our men."
"Good to hear that," Larabee said and I had downed another
glass of whiskey in the following silence before he offered to buy us a
drink.
Declining Larabee's offer, I ignored Wyatt's frown and picked up my
half-empty bottle and glass to make my way over to the poker table
inhabited by the cardsharp and a couple of cowhands.
"Gentleman." I nodded politely as they finished their hand
with the cardsharp raking in the pot. "Room for one more?"
"Yeah, why not," the burliest of the cowhands grumbled
while the other nodded and the gentleman dressed in the violet jacket
and ruffled shirt indicated the seat to his right.
"Be my guest, sir," he said in a perturbed Southern drawl.
"We always have room for one more."
"Thank you, sir," I replied, thickening up my own Georgian
accent as I sat.
"The name of this game is poker, gentleman." The cardsharp
turned his attention back to the table and began to deal.
The game went a few hands without much to comment upon until the
smaller cowhand folded and quit the table to stand behind his big
friend. Two hands later, the big cowhand was close to betting his last
cent and was messing with the deadwood. After we had each told the idiot
to play poker, he fiddled with the discarded cards for the third time.
With only a glance at each other, the well-dressed gentleman and I split
the pot between us.
"Hey! What you doin'?" the cowhand stared at us in
disbelief. "We ain't done yet."
"I beg to differ, my friend." The gentleman gambler at my
side began gathering up the cards. "Perhaps you should try learning
the rules of a game before you sit down to play it." He flashed a
gold-toothed grin at the cowhand.
"You're cheating me!" The big man held his cards firm, not
letting us see them. "You and your fancy-assed, lunger friend are
in it together."
"You know--" I drew my guns to cover the big cowhand with
my .32 and his friend with my .38. "I really don't like that word.
Almost as much as I don't like cheaters. And that means you." I
cocked the .32. "Now I suggest that you apologise to Mr..." I
waited for my fellow aggrieved player to wrest the cards from the
cowhand and supply his name.
"Standish."
"Mr Standish and leave before things turn ugly. Well,
uglier," I finished.
"You lunger son--" The cowhand started to take the bait,
started to rise from his chair, when he was suddenly knocked to the
floor by the falling body of his half-stunned friend who had just been
buffaloed by a newly sewn up Morgan Earp.
"Damn!" Morg watched the two struggling men kick around on
the floor before examining the butt of his gun. "How do Wyatt and
Virge knock them cold every time?"
"Practice, I suppose." I holstered my guns a bit
reluctantly as the two cowhands staggered off. "Looking better,
Morg." I smiled at him, taking in the angry, fresh but very neat
stitching above his eye.
"Feelin' better." He smiled back, glancing over at the bar
and the stony expressions of his brothers and Larabee before joining me
at the table. "Bull ain't happy, though." Morg chuckled as he
sat. "When I left Jackson's place, he was bent over a table,
screaming and apologising a blue streak for calling the man a 'big, buck
nigger'."
"Ah, the wonders of modern science." I looked over at Mr
Standish, who was busily tidying away his winnings and packing up the
cards. "Could I entice you to another game?" I asked him.
With a barely noticeable look to where Larabee and Wyatt were talking
intently, Standish shook his head with a rueful smile. "I'm afraid
the excitement has given me a thirst that is best sated elsewhere."
He offered me his hand. "Thank you for the entertainment, Mr..."
"Holliday," I supplied, taking his hand in a firm grip.
After we shook hands, he nodded to Morg before heading down to the
bar to join Larabee.
"Doc," Morg addressed me, leaning in close as I put away my
winnings. "You know I wouldn't tell you what to do but that Larabee
looks like he's itching for an excuse to put you in jail for the
night."
"Can't stand to look in the mirror, I guess," I said before
swallowing down my last glassful.
Ignoring my comment as drunken ramblings, Morg continued, "Why
don't you head on over to the rooms Virge booked for us. I'll bring up a
bottle and..."
Morg went on but I had tuned out his voice as soon as Wyatt looked
across the room at me. For a split moment that lasted for an eternity,
nothing existed except Wyatt. I was blind and deaf to all else. I
couldn't even hear my own heartbeat. Then Wyatt shook his head and
turned away and my heartbeat was all I could hear. I tried to listen to
what Wyatt was saying to Virgil. I think I heard him. But then he was
shaking his head again, the spell was broken and Morgan was speaking
close by my ear.
"Do you hear me?"
"Excuse me, Morg, I need some air." I immediately got to my
feet and walked quickly out of the saloon. Night was falling, bringing
an unwelcome nip to the air, but the street fires hadn't been lit yet as
I strode along the empty street to the corner of a vacant lot. There I
sat on the edge of the boardwalk to hack a few racking coughs into a
limp handkerchief that looked as worn out as I felt.
"Mr Holliday?" I heard that jumbled Southern accent and I
looked up into the concerned green gaze of Mr Standish. "Forgive me
for intruding but don't you find the evening air a mite chilly?"
When I didn't reply, his smile faltered a little. "I intend going
back to my room for a glass of fine bourbon. May I be so bold as to
invite you to join me?"
"Thanks for the offer, but just ask what you want to ask
now," I answered, letting my gaze drift across the street with a
crushed piece of newspaper. "You want to know what your 'tell' is,
don't you?"
"I'll be willing to compensate you handsomely for your
time," he answered quickly, sitting down beside me. After a few
moments, I looked back at his intense expression. "I know that
there is something giving away my intent and that only a few skilled
gentleman, such as yourself, could have detected it." He shuffled
closer, half raising his hand as if to cover his mouth then thinking
better of it. "I would be greatly indebted to you, Mr
Holliday."
I watched him trying to read me for a few seconds before turning my
attention back to the piece of paper. "You like money too
much," I began low. "The mighty dollar should be a tool in
your profession, not a goal."
"That's not an answer. Every man has goals."
"No." I looked him in the eye again. "To gamble
successfully, to be as unreadable as the men who win those big games,
you can't care about money. It can't mean anything to you. You can't
have goals or expectations. You can't want anything, not even to
win."
He shook his head. "You're not answering my question."
"Yes I am." I stood up and he got to his feet beside me.
"If you don't have any expectations you don't need anyone to share
them with."
"What," he began then paused to blink rapidly in studied
confusion. "What are you talking about?"
"Your eyes, Mr Standish, are your give away. Big and pretty as
they are." I smiled and he frowned back at me.
"I don't understand." He rubbed his right eyebrow. "I
don't twitch or blink or do anything obvious."
"No, your pupils dilate." I grinned at him. "Whenever
you get a hand that can get you that big pot, something you really want,
your eyes go as black as the ace of spades. You need to fix up the
lighting in the room so it's less noticeable. Or," I paused for a
wicked smirk. "Keep that Larabee within sight."
His thoughtful expression quickly replaced by a stone façade,
Standish stepped away from me, his body going rigid. "What do you
mean by that?" he asked, flat and cold.
"Exactly what I said," I answered, letting my face lose all
expression and shifting my body as if preparing to draw.
Frowning, he took another step back before turning on his heel and
striding back up the street to the saloon.
There was no need to tell him that I had exactly the same problem
whenever I looked at Wyatt.