Doctor and the Kid, The (A Weird West Tale) (Weird West Tales) (3 page)

“Care to join us?” said Holliday.

The man sat down at the table. “My name's Wilson,” he said. “Henry Wilson. Selling ladies' dresses, corsets, and shoes town-to-town.”

“John Henry Holliday,” said Holliday, “and this is Jack Vermillion.”

“I've heard of you both,” said Wilson. He smiled at Wilde. “And I was at your lecture last night. You're a fine speaker, sir.”

“Thank you,” said Wilde. “I'm even a better writer. I hope you'll consider buying my book before you leave town.”

“Why not?” said Wilson. “It gets mighty lonely riding the stage from town to town, especially since Mr. Buntline created that damned horseless coach.”

“Why would that make you lonelier?” asked Wilde. “You get to where you're going faster.”

“Ah, but you don't stop to rest and water the horses a few times a day, so you don't get to visit along the way.”

“Man's got a point,” agreed Vermillion.

“Well, gentlemen, I feel lucky tonight,” announced Wilson.

“What's the game?”

“Been playing draw for the past hour,” replied Vermillion.

“That suits me fine,” said Wilson. “And how much to play?”

“As long as you're having a good night,” said Holliday, “let's make it a hundred.”

“That's a lot of corsets and unmentionables,” said Wilson thoughtfully. Then he shrugged. “What the hell. I'm playing with other people's money anyway. When it's gone, I'll take mine back to the hotel with me and dream about how I might have beaten the famous Doc Holliday.”

“I like your attitude, sir,” said Holliday. He noticed that his bottle was empty and called for another.

“You ought to take it a little easy, Doc,” said Vermillion. “That's your third bottle tonight.”

Holliday shrugged. “I'm thirsty.”

“But—”

“Enough,” said Holliday in a tone of voice that convinced Vermillion to drop the subject.

They played four hands. Wilson won two, Vermillion won the other two.

“Let's up the ante to two hundred,” said Holliday. “I've got to start winning some of my money back.”

“No objection,” said Wilson.

“Me neither,” added Vermillion.

Wilde studied Holliday closely. The man was starting to smell like a distillery, he had a little trouble picking up and fanning his cards, and whenever he looked at his cards he blinked his eyes several times as if trying to focus them. Vermillion opened with one hundred dollars, Holliday raised him with a pair of eights, Wilson dropped out, and Holliday drew a third eight to win the hand.

It was Holliday's turn to deal. He shuffled the cards awkwardly, poured yet another drink to steady his hands, shoved his ante into the middle of the table, and dealt. Wilde looked over his shoulder as he picked up his cards and slowly fanned his hand. He had two kings, a jack, a three, and a deuce.

Wilson shoved a thousand dollars into the center of the table. Vermillion took one look at his hand and folded. Holliday pulled out his bankroll and peeled off a thousand.

“How many cards, sir?” he asked Wilson.

“None.”

“Dealer takes two,” said Holliday, discarding his deuce and three, and dealing himself two more cards. He picked them up and slowly fanned his hand to reveal a third king and a six.

Wilson counted the pile of money in front of him and pushed it all into the center of the table. “Sixty-three hundred dollars,” he announced.

Wilde was sure Holliday would fold, but the gambler pulled out his bankroll and put it down next to Wilson's bet. “See you and raise you.”

“How much?” asked Wilson.

Holliday shrugged. “Whatever's in the pile,” he slurred.

Vermillion counted it and turned to Wilson. “It'll cost you eleven thousand one hundred and fifty to see him.”

“I haven't got it.”

“I will not accept the marker of a corset salesman,” said Holliday.

“We'll get it,” said Vermillion. He signaled seven or eight of the patrons over. “Look at his hand, gents. Who wants to buy in?”

It took ten minutes, but finally they'd collected enough to match Holliday's bet, and Wilson laid down his hand, face up. It contained four queens and an ace.

“Nice try,” said Holliday, laying out his own. “Four kings.”

“What are you talking about?” demanded Wilson. “That's three kings and a jack.”

“What are
you
talking about?” Holliday shot back angrily. He got unsteadily to his feet, placed his hands on either side of his cards, and lowered his head until it was mere inches above the table. He stared at the cards, blinked furiously, then stared again. “Well, I'll be damned!” he muttered, and collapsed.

T

He got to his feet, steadied himself for a moment, and then staggered out into the night. Harrison Street was empty except for a single coyote that stared at him, unafraid.

Holliday pulled out his gun and aimed it at the animal.

“It will have no effect,” said the coyote.

Holliday tried to focus his eyes as it grew into an Apache warrior, the same one he had seen earlier.

“Goyathlay knew this night would come,” said the warrior.

“Bully for him,” muttered Holliday. “Did he send you here to gloat?”

The warrior shook his head. “To remind you that you have worked together once before.”

“You reminded me already. What kind of deal does he have in mind?”

“Soon you will know.”

“Damn it!” growled Holliday. “I'm in no mood for guessing games. I just lost every penny I have. Now tell me what he wants, or leave me the hell alone.”

“He wants you to do precisely what you must do,” answered the warrior. “But you cannot do it alone.”

“And what is that?” demanded Holliday.

“You will know when the time comes.”

“And when will that be?”

Suddenly he was facing a coyote again.

“Soon,” promised the animal, and ran off into the night.

“Y

“Every last cent of it,” said Holliday. “I have about two hundred dollars left in the world.”

He was standing before her desk in her office, trying not to sway as he stood there facing her.

“This isn't another of your damnfool jokes?”

He was about to shake his head, decided that would precipitate a headache, and settled for saying, “No.”

“What now?”

An almost-amused smile cross his face. “Now I find a new place to die.”

“I could shoot you right now,” said Kate.

“If anyone else said that, I'd think they were kidding,” replied Holliday. A pause. “I've got to sit down, Kate.” He walked over to a chair and half-sat, half-sprawled in it.

“Well, you can't gamble if all your money's gone, and you haven't been able to work as a dentist for months,” she said. “Have you figured out what you're going to do to raise some money? You can live here, of course, but if you want a newspaper or a drink, how do you plan to pay for it?”

“I'll have to go out and earn it.”

“I just explained: you can't gamble without money, and you can't be a dentist if you keep coughing blood on your clients.”

“There's a third way,” said Holliday.

“There'd damned well better be.” She stared at him, and finally her expression softened. “Come on to the kitchen and I'll cook you up some eggs.”

“You haven't cooked in all the time we've been in Colorado,” noted Holliday. “Am I
that
much a figure of pathos?”

“I plan to have Annabelle do the cooking.”

He frowned. “Do I know her?”

“You'd damned well better not. She's one of your friend's robots.” She walked to the door and turned to him. “Well?”

“Give me just a minute for the world to stop spinning,” said Holliday. “I'll be along.”

“Damned well better be,” Kate muttered and walked down the hall to the kitchen.

Holliday sat perfectly still for a long minute, then got to his feet and went to the kitchen. The world seemed a little steadier, and he was pretty sure he wasn't going to vomit.

Annabelle—super-hardened brass, huge-breasted, tiny-waisted, and expressionless—was scrambling some eggs as he took a seat at the table.

“Thank you,” said Holliday as she slid the eggs onto a plate and handed it to him.

“Oh, baby, you're the best,” said Annabelle. “Want to do it again?”

“It would have been nice,” said Kate caustically, “if your friends had given her more than three sentences or one topic of conversation.”

“I'm sure if you order a cook instead of a whore, they will,” said Holliday.

“Those look pretty good,” said Kate, indicating the eggs. She turned to Annabelle. “I'll have some too.”

She seated herself opposite Holliday. “So how
are
you going to get your money back?”

“I do have another talent,” he said.

She studied his face for a moment. “You're going to be a gun for hire?”

He shook his head. “I've never worked for anyone in my life. I don't intend to start now, so close to its end.”

“Then what?” she asked, puzzled.

“I hear Wyatt's in Denver. I'll take the Bunt Line over there tomorrow morning, and—”

“Morning?” she interrupted him with a disbelieving look.

“When I get up,” he amended. “Wyatt's still a lawman, last I heard. He'll know who has the biggest prices on their heads. If he can find a gang where they
all
have prices, maybe we'll go after them together and split the reward.”

“It's always Wyatt,” she said contemptuously. “Wichita, Dodge, Tombstone, now here. What's his hold over you?”

“He's my friend,” said Holliday.

“Big deal.”

“A man like me hasn't got many friends, so I cherish the ones I have.”

“Have you ever noticed that you're always helping him, that it's never the other way around?”

“That's enough, Kate,” he said, and something in his tone convinced her to stop talking and concentrate on eating her eggs.

They ate in silence, they walked to Kate's bedroom in silence, and Holliday collapsed on the bed and spent the next eleven hours sleeping in silence.

H

The one thing he knew was that the brass coach was safe from attack. He'd been attacked twice by Apaches, and their bullets and arrows simply bounced off the exterior of the coach. In the old days, which, he reflected wryly, meant two years ago, attacking Indians would simply kill the horses that were pulling the stagecoach and that would be that. But the Bunt Line was powered by an electrical engine and battery that Edison had designed and Buntline had built, and while he expected to break an axle—and his neck—on the hazardous road, he knew he was safe from attack.

Soon it was completely dark, and he lit the little battery-powered lamp next to his seat and continued reading the dime novel he'd picked up on his way to meet the coach. It was a rootin' tootin' shoot-‘em-up about, of all people, himself. In this ridiculous story he faced a gang of twenty-two and killed them all, which was a pretty good trick with a pair of six-guns. Then he saw the illustration, and realized he was firing Buntline's Gatling pistols that carried about two dozen bullets apiece. He'd actually tried one out back in Tombstone, and realized that in his condition he was too weak to hold the weapon up and aim it. Evidently no one had told the illustrator, who'd put an extra fifty pounds of muscle on him and had him looking like a normal human being.

There was a
Where Is He Now?
feature on John Wesley Hardin. Easy answer: He was in jail, studying for a law degree. But the magazine had him hiding out in Mexico, killing any stranger who approached his
hacienda.

Next there was a
Great Jail Breaks
section. This issue featured the daring escape from the Lincoln County Jail by Henry McCarty, who was fast becoming known as Billy the Kid. He'd killed two deputies and made his getaway in broad daylight. Holliday wished they'd run a photo of him, rather than a drawing of him shooting the deputies by an artist who had clearly never been west of the Mississippi and had no idea of how people dressed or even what kind of gear the horses carried. The Kid was making quite a name for himself; he'd have liked to see what he really looked like.

Finally there was an annoying article on
The Fastest Guns
, as if that meant anything. The six fastest guns Holliday had ever seen all died young, beaten by
accurate
guns.

When he was done he put the publication on the seat beside him, lay a small suitcase on his lap, and started playing solitaire. Before long he was so engrossed in it that he barely noticed that the coach was slowing down.

“Denver in ten minutes!” announced the driver from his protected cab atop the coach.

“Thanks,” said Holliday, gathering up his cards and putting them in a pocket. “You'd think more people would want to come here from Leadville.”

“Miss Anthony and Mr. Wilde are both speaking today,” answered the driver. “They tell me we're full tomorrow.” He paused. “You got a place to stay, Doc?”

“Not yet.”

“Try the Nugget,” said the driver. “That's where I always stay. Clean and cheap.”

“Sounds good,” said Holliday.

“Stick around five minutes after we stop and I'll take you there myself. I just have to turn the rig over to the guy who's taking it back to Leadville.”

Holliday pulled out his watch, which was attached to his vest by a gold chain. “That'll be fine. The man I'm here to see won't be going to bed for another three or four hours.”

“A gambler like you?”

Holliday shook his head, though of course the driver couldn't see it. “Not a gambler, and not like me,” he replied.

The coach began slowing down as it reached the outskirts of town, and finally came to a stop at the small building serving as the Bunt Line station. Holliday emerged carrying his small suitcase, and waited a few minutes for the driver to climb down. Two women and a man boarded the coach, and after changing batteries the new driver turned it around and headed back toward Leadville.

Holliday checked in to the Nugget, left his bag in his room, and was soon walking toward the Greenback Saloon and Casino. It was far larger than his own establishment, and it took him a couple of minutes to spot the man he was looking for.

A trio of women were carrying drinks and cigars to the forty gaming tables, and Holliday stopped one as she walked by.

“I wonder if I might ask a favor of you,” he said.

She stared at him suspiciously.

“Do you see that tall man at the table in the corner, the one with the brocaded silver vest?”

“Yeah?”

He thrust a dollar bill into her hand. “Please tell him that his dentist is waiting for him at the bar.”

She looked at him like he was crazy, but she walked off and delivered the message, and a moment later the tall man walked over to the bar and approached Holliday.

“How the hell are you, Doc?” he said. “I got the impression you were in Leadville to stay.”

“Hello, Wyatt,” said Holliday. “I had planned to stay there, but conditions have changed.”

Wyatt Earp smiled. “Kate throw you out again?”

Holliday made a face. “No more than once a week. Then she remembers that the whorehouse is a pretty peaceful place when people know I'm living there.”

“So what brings you to Denver?”

“You.”

“Should I be flattered?” asked Earp. “Or should I be looking for the nearest exit.”

“I just need to pick your mind, Wyatt.”

“I don't know if I like the sound of that.”

“Buy us a drink and with a little luck we'll be done before I ask for a second one.”

Earp signaled to the bartender, held up two fingers to indicate the number of glasses he wanted. When the bartender delivered them, he turned to Holliday. “Okay,” he said. “What now?”

“Let's find a table where everyone can't overhear us,” said Holliday, heading toward an empty table by a window.

“This is terrible stuff,” said Earp, taking a sip and grimacing. “I've tasted better cow piss.”

“Not better,” said Holliday. “Just younger.”

Earp laughed. “Damn! I've missed you, Doc! Now seriously, what can I do for you?”

“I lost my stake for the sanitarium in a poker game,” said Holliday. “I don't know how long I'll stay healthy enough to live on my own. I need a lot of money very fast, just to be on the safe side.”

“I don't think they're hiring any deputies in Denver this month,” said Earp.

“I said money, not chicken feed,” retorted Holliday. “You were still in the marshal business until a month or two ago. Who's got a nice price on his head?”

“You're going to turn bounty hunter?” said Earp, arching an eyebrow.

“What's so surprising?” said Holliday. “I am not entirely unacquainted with firearms.”

“Doc, they say a bounty hunter rides a hundred miles for every shot he takes,” replied Earp. “Are you sure you're up to it?”

“I can be uncomfortable now, or when I'm too weak to feed myself,” said Holliday. “It's an easy choice.”

“All right,” said Earp. “Last I heard there's seven hundred and fifty dollars for Bob Olinger, dead or alive.”

“Isn't he a deputy?”

“Yes.”

“Well, then?” asked Holliday.

“You never heard of a deputy murdering anyone?” replied Earp.

“Who else?”

“There's Black Jack Ketchum and El Tigre Sains at five hundred apiece.”

Holliday shook his head. “I could spend five hundred just tracking them down. Isn't there anyone with a
real
price on his head?”

“You already killed Johnny Ringo.”

“Once.”

“John Wesley Hardin's in jail.”

“What about this kid everyone's talking about?” asked Holliday. “Got a bunch of aliases.”

“You don't want any part of him, Doc,” said Earp seriously.

“What's he worth?” persisted Holliday.

“Forget it. He's you, a dozen years younger and in perfect health.”

“Damn it, Wyatt,” said Holliday irritably.

Earp took a deep breath and stared into his old friend's eyes. “Ten thousand.”

“Ten thousand,” repeated Holliday, impressed. “I guess most of those rumors weren't rumors after all.”

“He's killed between fifteen and twenty men,” said Earp. “And if he lived on the other side of the Mississippi he wouldn't be old enough to vote. Leave him be, Doc.”

“Well, he figures to be good for ten thousand dollars.”

“Doc, he just killed two really good men—good with guns, I mean—when he broke out of the jail down in Lincoln. I knew them. I don't think
you
could have taken them both at once.”

“If you're that worried, come with me and we'll split the money,” replied Holliday.

Earp shook his head. “Governor Lew Wallace posted that reward.”

“He could afford to.
Ben-Hur
is the best-selling novel in the country.”

“Ben
what
?”

Holliday sighed. “I forgot. Only one of us has an interest in literature.”

“Anyway,” continued Earp, “half the goddamned territory's out looking for the Kid. They haven't turned him up yet.

“That money will pay for two years in the sanitarium.”

“I thought you were planning on four years.”

“I figure I'll take two years off my health just hunting him down,” answered Holliday. “Come along. Don't tell me you can't use five thousand dollars—and we can treat ourselves to Olinger and the others along the way.”

“I'm not a lawman any more, Doc,” said Earp.

“I never was,” said Holliday. “So what?”

“Yes you were,” said Earp. “Virgil deputized you on the way to the O.K. Corral.”

“I never thought it was legal,” replied Holliday. “Did you?”

“It was legal enough.”

“We're getting off the subject. Come down to New Mexico with me.”

“Doc, I'm a married man.”

“So what?”

“Josie doesn't want me looking for trouble,” said Earp uncomfortably. “We're planning on going up to Alaska and looking for gold instead.

“You can make more in ten seconds facing the Kid with me than you can make in two years of busting your back in a mine,” said Holliday. “Josie is your third wife, Wyatt. You never listened to the first two. Why change now?”

“This one's different.”

“This one's Jewish,” said Holliday. “Comes from a long line of killers, dating all the way back to what her people did to Jesus. She should approve of killing the Kid.”

“Tread easy there, Doc,” said Earp.

“You think they're not killers?” said Holliday. “Go read the goddamned Bible sometime.”

“I'm warning you, Doc.”

“You can stand up to a sick consumptive man, but you won't stand up to a damned Jewess,” complained Holliday.

“That's it,” said Earp, getting to his feet. “From this minute on we're no longer friends.”

He walked out of the building, leaving Holliday sitting alone at the table.

“Now why did I say that?” muttered Holliday. “Hell, Josie is the only Jew I've ever met, and I
like
her.” He held up his glass and stared at it. “Someday I really have to give you up. I wish to hell you weren't the only thing that makes life bearable.”

He downed the drink, left the Greenback, stopped at the Bunt Line station, bought a ticket to New Mexico for the next morning, and went back to the Nugget after picking up the latest dime novel, which featured a cover story about the invincible Billy the Kid.