Denver Draw, page 3
“And we got breakfast,” Bat said, sitting back as Maggie laid down the large plates of steaming food. “Eat up.”
They caught up a bit more during breakfast, but in the back of his head Butler was wondering why Bat was being so friendly to him? True, he had saved Jim Masterson’s life, and he stood beside both Masterson brothers in a firefight, but he and Bat didn’t exchange two words afterward, and then everybody—Bat, Jim, Neal Brown, and Butler—got into the wind and were gone.
But Bat’s offer was too good to pass up.
And he was right about the breakfast. It had been real good. Both men finished about the same time and left the restaurant.
“There’s a livery right down the street,” Bat said. “After you get your horse taken care of, come back out to the main street and make a left. My place is two blocks down on the right.”
“What’s it called?”
“The Bonanza,” Bat said.
“You going to be there when I get there?” Butler asked.
“I’ve got to make some rounds, but I’ll end up there. Don’t worry, you’ll have a room waitin’. Got some pretty gals workin’ there, too. You can have your pick.”
“That come with the job?”
Bat laughed and said, “That’s gonna be up to them.”
CHAPTER 7
The Bonanza was impressive. It looked to be fashioned after saloons Butler had seen in places like Wichita, Ellsworth, and Dodge City. He stepped through the batwing doors, carrying his saddlebags and rifle, and stopped just inside. It was all glass and wood paneling, the bar—if not the longest in the west, very close—looked like cherrywood. The paintings on the wall were all of voluptuous women in the nude. Butler recognized the artist as Peter Paul Rubens and wondered if any of them were originals.
It was early and the place was empty, obviously not yet open for business. There were two bartenders preparing the bar for when they did open. All of the gaming tables were covered.
Standing at the bar was Bat Masterson, drinking a cup of coffee.
“Come on in, Butler,” Bat called. “Whataya think of the place?”
“It’s amazing,” Butler said, joining Bat at the bar.
“Drink? Coffee?”
“Coffee’d be good.” It was a drink Butler could never have enough of.
Bat waved at one of the bartenders who gave him a refill and Butler a fresh cup.
“This is Roscoe, our head bartender,” Bat said. “That’s Willy.”
Roscoe, a ruddy-faced man in his thirties, nodded. Willy, ten years younger and fresh-faced, waved.
“Willy’s in training,” Bat added.
“Where’s your table?” Butler asked.
“In the corner, back there.” Bat used his chin to point.
“When do you take the cover off.”
“I’ve got one deputy,” Bat said. “When he comes on duty I open the table up. With you here, though, I can open earlier and stay open later.”
“I’ve got to admit, it’s been a while since I dealt faro,” Butler said.
“You never forget,” Bat said, nodding. “The one thing Neal Brown told me about you in Dodge was that you were a good card player.”
“Poker player.”
Bat waved.
“Cards are cards,” Bat said. “I’m not worried. Nobody in this town plays that well.”
“Still…”
“You want me to brief you on the layout?”
“It couldn’t hurt.”
“Why don’t you put your gear in your room,” Bat said. “Up the stairs, second door. I’ll meet you at the table.”
Butler went up. There were only rooms on one side, with a railing overlooking the saloon on the other. On a busy night, if he was in his room trying to sleep, he was sure he’d be able to hear the racket. That wouldn’t keep him awake, though. On the contrary, the murmur of voices—or even shouts—and the clatter of chips would lull him to sleep.
The room was fine. Simple, clean, better than some, worse than others. He dropped his saddlebags on the bed, set his rifle down in a corner, and went back downstairs.
Bat had the cover off his faro table. The green felt had faded some, but the symbols were sharp. Bat only needed ten minutes to bring Butler up to date before covering the table again.
“You’ll be fine,” he said to Butler.
“Bat, how long have you been the law here?”
“About four months.”
“And how much longer do you see yourself wearing that badge?”
“As long as my luck holds out on this table,” he said. “When the cards start to run bad, that’s when I’ll put out. Or whenever I get antsy.”
Butler understood that. He’d experienced that feeling himself many times.
They went back to the bar and got their coffees freshened, this time by Willy.
“Say,” Bat said then, “you wouldn’t be interested in wearin’ a badge, would you? I could always use another deputy.”
“I don’t think so.”
“You can obviously handle a gun. From what I heard happened in Leadville, and what I saw in Dodge, you’re better than most.”
“Not in your league.”
“Hell, as long as you can hit what you aim at—”
“I don’t think I’d be interested in being a faro dealer and a deputy, Bat. Too time-consuming. I’d never have time for poker.”
“Yeah, I can see that,” Bat said. “And I need you more as a dealer than a deputy.”
Butler was relieved. He didn’t want to insult Bat in any way. He still didn’t know the man very well, and wasn’t sure what kind of temper he had. He’d heard some stories, didn’t know if they were true, and didn’t want to test them out.
“We’re good, then,” he said.
“If you want to play poker tonight until about ten and then relieve me, that’s fine,” Bat said. “I make late rounds about then.”
“Ten it will be, then.”
Bat put his cup down.
“I’ll see you then.” He waved at both the bartenders and left. When he was gone Willy came over, cleaning a glass.
“You friends with Mr. Masterson?”
“More like acquaintances.”
“He don’t usually let nobody touch his layout,” the young bartender said. “He must think you’re friends.”
“Maybe so,” Butler said. “I’d be honored if he did.”
Willy was about to say more when Roscoe shouted for him.
“Gotta go,” he said.
Butler didn’t think of himself and Bat as friends—not yet, anyway—but what had happened in Dodge had apparently given him some respect in the eyes of Bat Masterson, and that pleased him.
CHAPTER 8
About a week’s ride out of Trinidad three riders were camped. Sharing coffee around the fire. They were on their way into town, but in no particular hurry.
“Feels odd,” Virgil said.
“What does?” Wyatt asked.
“The feeling that we’re not…huntin’ anybody.”
“Or bein’ hunted,” Doc said.
“That’s your thing, Doc,” Virgil said. “We never been hunted.”
“Sure you have,” Doc said. “Maybe you just didn’t notice it.”
Despite the fact that Doc Holliday had stood with the Earps against the Clantons and cowboys, Virgil still didn’t trust him, or even like him much. Doc was Wyatt’s friend. There was never any pretense about that. Doc had stood with Wyatt, not with the law, and not with the Earps.
“Morgan was sure bein’ hunted that night,” Doc added.
He was talking about the night in Tombstone that Morgan Earp had been shot and killed.
“Don’t talk about Morg, Doc,” Virgil warned the tubercular killer.
“Why not?” Doc asked, narrowing his eyes. “Are you warnin’ me off, Virgil?”
“Cut it out, the two of you,” Wyatt said. “You’re stir crazy and you’re drivin’ me crazy. We best get into Trinidad where we can be around other people, maybe get away from each other for a little while.”
“Suits me,” Virgil said, glaring at Doc.
“You sayin’ you wanna get away from me?” Doc demanded. “’cause that can be arranged.”
Wyatt gave up.
“I’m gonna saddle up my horse,” he said. “You two can fight over who breaks camp.”
He walked away from them and started to saddle his horse. They were the closest people to him in the world, but the two men were driving him crazy. They’d been riding together so long, just the three of them, that he really needed this stop off in Trinidad—if for no other reason than to see Bat Masterson. He had not seen his friend since he’d left Tombstone to go to Dodge City in response to an anonymous telegram. As it turned out Bat had actually arrived in time to back his brother Jim up in a fight. After that things had exploded in Tombstone, and Wyatt had been too busy to correspond with Bat. So this visit was overdue.
And, of course, there was the fact that there were some warrants out for the Earps and Doc, and maybe Bat—seeing as he was wearing a star—might be able to help.
Virgil and Doc watched Wyatt walk over to where they had picketed the horses.
“He needs some rest,” Virgil said.
“I know.”
“And we’re drivin’ him crazy.”
Virgil looked at Doc.
“Yeah, I know,” he said, “and each other.”
“We need to be around some other people, I guess,” Doc said. “People who aren’t tryin’ to kill us.”
“Right.”
“I’ll get the fire,” Doc said.
“I’ll saddle your horse and mine,” Virgil said.
“Thanks.”
“Sure.”
Virgil walked over to where Wyatt was saddling his own horse.
Doc poured the remnants of the coffeepot onto the fire and then stamped it out. He felt a cough coming on, but was able to quell it for the moment. He was running out of kerchiefs that didn’t have blood on them.
He looked over at the Earp brothers. He knew the two of them were hurtin’ over the death of their brother, Morgan, and Virgil had one arm that wasn’t much good to him. He wondered what the brothers were going to decide to do after Trinidad. They hadn’t talked about the future much. They’d managed to track down as many of the cowboys as they could and had left them for dead. He didn’t know what else was on the Earp agenda, but he had a life of his own to lead.
What was left of it.
“Hey, Wyatt,” Virgil said. “Doc and I are sorry.”
“Yeah,” Wyatt said, leaning on his horse, “I’m sorry, too. I guess we’re all just tired.”
“Tired of each other.”
“Yeah.”
They both turned and looked at Doc.
“I’m kinda worried about Doc, though,” Wyatt said.
“I know,” Virgil said, “that cough of his is gettin’ worse. I seen him spittin’ up blood a couple of times.”
Wyatt said, “Not only that. The warrants against us won’t stand up. We were wearin’ badges. But if they get Doc back into Arizona and make the charges stick, they might hang ’im.”
“Well then,” Virgil said, “we better make sure he don’t ever go back to Arizona.”
“Bat might be able to help,” Wyatt said. “He’s the marshal in Trinidad. He’s gotta have some connections.”
Bat Masterson was someone else who was Wyatt’s friend, not Virgil’s. In fact, Virgil didn’t have many friends other than his brothers, Wyatt and Morgan—and now there was only Wyatt.
“Bat and Doc don’t get along,” Virgil pointed out.
“I don’t know too many people who get along with Doc,” Wyatt said. “But Bat will help. He won’t see Doc railroaded, no matter how he feels about him. I know him that well.”
“I hope you’re right,” Virgil said, “for your sake—”
“You got them horses saddled yet?” Doc called out. “I swear, Virg, you’re slowin’ down in your old age.”
“—And Doc’s,” Virgil said to Wyatt.
“I’ll get your horse,” Wyatt said, “you get Doc’s.”
They walked the horses over to where Doc was waiting and Virgil handed the gunman the reins.
“Thanks. Think your buddy Masterson is gonna be glad to see us?” Doc asked.
“I don’t know,” Wyatt said. “I guess we better just ride on in and find out, huh?”
CHAPTER 9
Butler played some poker that evening, won a little bit of money while he was trying to gauge the caliber of the other players. He also paid some attention to Bat Masterson’s table. Bat did a good business, and from what Butler could tell, took money from all comers.
Earlier in the day Butler had met Bat’s deputy, a young man named Dean Collier. He was in his mid-twenties, and seemed to be in total awe of his boss. While Bat was manning his faro table Deputy Collier would come in and out, apparently with questions for his boss. At times Bat would roll his eyes, answer the young man, and send him on his way.
It was almost time for Butler to relieve Bat at his table when Collier came in again. He walked to Bat’s table, whispered something that caused Bat to wave his hands and abruptly close his table. He and Collier started for the door, then stopped short. Bat said something to his deputy, then turned and walked to the poker table where Butler was sitting.
“Want me to take your table?” Butler asked, looking up at him.
“How are you doin’?” Bat asked.
“I’m making money but I can get away.”
“I don’t need you to stand at my table, but I might have need of your gun, if you’re a mind to give it.”
“Got something you and your deputy can’t handle?”
“I might.”
Butler didn’t need to hear any more. He cashed out of the game and followed Bat to the door.
“Why do we need him?” Collier asked as they stepped outside.
“How many men have you shot at, Dean?”
“Well…none.”
“Then shut up.”
As they started down the street Bat explained to Butler, “We got a saloon at the far end of town—if we were in Dodge it would be in the red-light district. The bartender there sent a runner over to the office to say there was trouble brewin’. At that end of town that usually means shootin’. In the past I’ve been able to talk these fellas down, but the last time it almost came to gunplay. This time…”
“How many men we talkin’ about?”
“Probably half a dozen,” Bat said. “They’re young, and don’t think the law applies to them.”
“They’re not impressed with you?”
Bat gave him a look.
“Not everybody is impressed with me, Butler,” he said. “But even if they are, they been buildin’ up to tryin’ me on for size. I’m guessin’ tonight might be the night.”
This wasn’t what Butler had signed on for, but when Bat Masterson asks you for help you don’t refuse.
In the Bucket of Blood saloon, at the far western end of town, six men in their mid twenties, guns in their hands, were holding the entire place hostage.
“Come on, boys,” Tom Reed, the owner said. “This has gone far enough, hasn’t it?”
“Naw, I don’t think it has,” Fred Vance said. He was the leader of the other five. They worked only when they had to, took what they wanted when they were drunk enough. Not full-fledged outlaws, but certainly in training. Holding a saloon full of men under their guns seemed to excite all of them.
Reed tried one of the other men.
“Hastings, you got some sense. Talk to Fred—”
Before he could finish Vance stepped forward and backhanded him across the face. Reed, an older man in his late fifties, staggered and almost fell. He wiped his mouth with the back of his own hand and came away with blood.
“You’re goin’ too far, Reed,” he said.
“Ya think so?” Reed asked. “Then go for that gun I know ya got under yer arm, Tom. Go ahead, I dare ya.”
“You goddamned young pup,” Reed said. “If you didn’t have five guns backin’ you up—”
“I’ll tell them to holster their guns, Tom. That make you any braver?”
Before Reed could answer, Toby Allen called from the door, “Law comin’.”
“Masterson?” Reed asked.
Toby nodded. “He’s got somebody with him.
“One’s his deputy, Collier,” Vance said. “He won’t be much trouble.”
“You’ll get all the trouble you want from Bat Masterson, Vance,” Reed said.
“You think so?” Vance asked. “There’s six of us, Tom.”
“That don’t matter,” Reed said. “Bat’s faced better than you, more than you, many times before.”
“Yeah, well,” Vance said, “maybe this time he’s gonna bite off more than he can handle.” He turned his attention to the room in general. The tables were full of men who were drinking and playing cards, tables full of men who had no desire to go for their guns. “The first man who touches his gun is dead. Understand?”
“They understand, Vance,” Reed said. “We all understand. This is gonna be between you and Bat. That’s what you want, ain’t it? To prove what a big man you are?”
“You wait and see, Tom,” Vance said. “You just wait and see how big a man I am.”
“Your father’s turnin’ over in his grave, Fred.”
“My father was yeller to the bone, Tom!” Vance shouted, “That ain’t me. That ain’t never gonna be me. I ain’t gonna grow to a ripe old age with a yeller streak down my back.”
“Son,” Tom Reed said, wiping blood from his mouth again, “I don’t think you’re gonna grow to a ripe old age, period.
CHAPTER 10
Bat put his hand out to stop their progress.
“What’s the matter?” Collier asked.
“Listen.”
All three men strained and listened to the night.
“I don’t hear nothin’,” Collier said.
“That’s the point,” Butler said. “How many saloons have you been in that are that quiet?”
They caught up a bit more during breakfast, but in the back of his head Butler was wondering why Bat was being so friendly to him? True, he had saved Jim Masterson’s life, and he stood beside both Masterson brothers in a firefight, but he and Bat didn’t exchange two words afterward, and then everybody—Bat, Jim, Neal Brown, and Butler—got into the wind and were gone.
But Bat’s offer was too good to pass up.
And he was right about the breakfast. It had been real good. Both men finished about the same time and left the restaurant.
“There’s a livery right down the street,” Bat said. “After you get your horse taken care of, come back out to the main street and make a left. My place is two blocks down on the right.”
“What’s it called?”
“The Bonanza,” Bat said.
“You going to be there when I get there?” Butler asked.
“I’ve got to make some rounds, but I’ll end up there. Don’t worry, you’ll have a room waitin’. Got some pretty gals workin’ there, too. You can have your pick.”
“That come with the job?”
Bat laughed and said, “That’s gonna be up to them.”
CHAPTER 7
The Bonanza was impressive. It looked to be fashioned after saloons Butler had seen in places like Wichita, Ellsworth, and Dodge City. He stepped through the batwing doors, carrying his saddlebags and rifle, and stopped just inside. It was all glass and wood paneling, the bar—if not the longest in the west, very close—looked like cherrywood. The paintings on the wall were all of voluptuous women in the nude. Butler recognized the artist as Peter Paul Rubens and wondered if any of them were originals.
It was early and the place was empty, obviously not yet open for business. There were two bartenders preparing the bar for when they did open. All of the gaming tables were covered.
Standing at the bar was Bat Masterson, drinking a cup of coffee.
“Come on in, Butler,” Bat called. “Whataya think of the place?”
“It’s amazing,” Butler said, joining Bat at the bar.
“Drink? Coffee?”
“Coffee’d be good.” It was a drink Butler could never have enough of.
Bat waved at one of the bartenders who gave him a refill and Butler a fresh cup.
“This is Roscoe, our head bartender,” Bat said. “That’s Willy.”
Roscoe, a ruddy-faced man in his thirties, nodded. Willy, ten years younger and fresh-faced, waved.
“Willy’s in training,” Bat added.
“Where’s your table?” Butler asked.
“In the corner, back there.” Bat used his chin to point.
“When do you take the cover off.”
“I’ve got one deputy,” Bat said. “When he comes on duty I open the table up. With you here, though, I can open earlier and stay open later.”
“I’ve got to admit, it’s been a while since I dealt faro,” Butler said.
“You never forget,” Bat said, nodding. “The one thing Neal Brown told me about you in Dodge was that you were a good card player.”
“Poker player.”
Bat waved.
“Cards are cards,” Bat said. “I’m not worried. Nobody in this town plays that well.”
“Still…”
“You want me to brief you on the layout?”
“It couldn’t hurt.”
“Why don’t you put your gear in your room,” Bat said. “Up the stairs, second door. I’ll meet you at the table.”
Butler went up. There were only rooms on one side, with a railing overlooking the saloon on the other. On a busy night, if he was in his room trying to sleep, he was sure he’d be able to hear the racket. That wouldn’t keep him awake, though. On the contrary, the murmur of voices—or even shouts—and the clatter of chips would lull him to sleep.
The room was fine. Simple, clean, better than some, worse than others. He dropped his saddlebags on the bed, set his rifle down in a corner, and went back downstairs.
Bat had the cover off his faro table. The green felt had faded some, but the symbols were sharp. Bat only needed ten minutes to bring Butler up to date before covering the table again.
“You’ll be fine,” he said to Butler.
“Bat, how long have you been the law here?”
“About four months.”
“And how much longer do you see yourself wearing that badge?”
“As long as my luck holds out on this table,” he said. “When the cards start to run bad, that’s when I’ll put out. Or whenever I get antsy.”
Butler understood that. He’d experienced that feeling himself many times.
They went back to the bar and got their coffees freshened, this time by Willy.
“Say,” Bat said then, “you wouldn’t be interested in wearin’ a badge, would you? I could always use another deputy.”
“I don’t think so.”
“You can obviously handle a gun. From what I heard happened in Leadville, and what I saw in Dodge, you’re better than most.”
“Not in your league.”
“Hell, as long as you can hit what you aim at—”
“I don’t think I’d be interested in being a faro dealer and a deputy, Bat. Too time-consuming. I’d never have time for poker.”
“Yeah, I can see that,” Bat said. “And I need you more as a dealer than a deputy.”
Butler was relieved. He didn’t want to insult Bat in any way. He still didn’t know the man very well, and wasn’t sure what kind of temper he had. He’d heard some stories, didn’t know if they were true, and didn’t want to test them out.
“We’re good, then,” he said.
“If you want to play poker tonight until about ten and then relieve me, that’s fine,” Bat said. “I make late rounds about then.”
“Ten it will be, then.”
Bat put his cup down.
“I’ll see you then.” He waved at both the bartenders and left. When he was gone Willy came over, cleaning a glass.
“You friends with Mr. Masterson?”
“More like acquaintances.”
“He don’t usually let nobody touch his layout,” the young bartender said. “He must think you’re friends.”
“Maybe so,” Butler said. “I’d be honored if he did.”
Willy was about to say more when Roscoe shouted for him.
“Gotta go,” he said.
Butler didn’t think of himself and Bat as friends—not yet, anyway—but what had happened in Dodge had apparently given him some respect in the eyes of Bat Masterson, and that pleased him.
CHAPTER 8
About a week’s ride out of Trinidad three riders were camped. Sharing coffee around the fire. They were on their way into town, but in no particular hurry.
“Feels odd,” Virgil said.
“What does?” Wyatt asked.
“The feeling that we’re not…huntin’ anybody.”
“Or bein’ hunted,” Doc said.
“That’s your thing, Doc,” Virgil said. “We never been hunted.”
“Sure you have,” Doc said. “Maybe you just didn’t notice it.”
Despite the fact that Doc Holliday had stood with the Earps against the Clantons and cowboys, Virgil still didn’t trust him, or even like him much. Doc was Wyatt’s friend. There was never any pretense about that. Doc had stood with Wyatt, not with the law, and not with the Earps.
“Morgan was sure bein’ hunted that night,” Doc added.
He was talking about the night in Tombstone that Morgan Earp had been shot and killed.
“Don’t talk about Morg, Doc,” Virgil warned the tubercular killer.
“Why not?” Doc asked, narrowing his eyes. “Are you warnin’ me off, Virgil?”
“Cut it out, the two of you,” Wyatt said. “You’re stir crazy and you’re drivin’ me crazy. We best get into Trinidad where we can be around other people, maybe get away from each other for a little while.”
“Suits me,” Virgil said, glaring at Doc.
“You sayin’ you wanna get away from me?” Doc demanded. “’cause that can be arranged.”
Wyatt gave up.
“I’m gonna saddle up my horse,” he said. “You two can fight over who breaks camp.”
He walked away from them and started to saddle his horse. They were the closest people to him in the world, but the two men were driving him crazy. They’d been riding together so long, just the three of them, that he really needed this stop off in Trinidad—if for no other reason than to see Bat Masterson. He had not seen his friend since he’d left Tombstone to go to Dodge City in response to an anonymous telegram. As it turned out Bat had actually arrived in time to back his brother Jim up in a fight. After that things had exploded in Tombstone, and Wyatt had been too busy to correspond with Bat. So this visit was overdue.
And, of course, there was the fact that there were some warrants out for the Earps and Doc, and maybe Bat—seeing as he was wearing a star—might be able to help.
Virgil and Doc watched Wyatt walk over to where they had picketed the horses.
“He needs some rest,” Virgil said.
“I know.”
“And we’re drivin’ him crazy.”
Virgil looked at Doc.
“Yeah, I know,” he said, “and each other.”
“We need to be around some other people, I guess,” Doc said. “People who aren’t tryin’ to kill us.”
“Right.”
“I’ll get the fire,” Doc said.
“I’ll saddle your horse and mine,” Virgil said.
“Thanks.”
“Sure.”
Virgil walked over to where Wyatt was saddling his own horse.
Doc poured the remnants of the coffeepot onto the fire and then stamped it out. He felt a cough coming on, but was able to quell it for the moment. He was running out of kerchiefs that didn’t have blood on them.
He looked over at the Earp brothers. He knew the two of them were hurtin’ over the death of their brother, Morgan, and Virgil had one arm that wasn’t much good to him. He wondered what the brothers were going to decide to do after Trinidad. They hadn’t talked about the future much. They’d managed to track down as many of the cowboys as they could and had left them for dead. He didn’t know what else was on the Earp agenda, but he had a life of his own to lead.
What was left of it.
“Hey, Wyatt,” Virgil said. “Doc and I are sorry.”
“Yeah,” Wyatt said, leaning on his horse, “I’m sorry, too. I guess we’re all just tired.”
“Tired of each other.”
“Yeah.”
They both turned and looked at Doc.
“I’m kinda worried about Doc, though,” Wyatt said.
“I know,” Virgil said, “that cough of his is gettin’ worse. I seen him spittin’ up blood a couple of times.”
Wyatt said, “Not only that. The warrants against us won’t stand up. We were wearin’ badges. But if they get Doc back into Arizona and make the charges stick, they might hang ’im.”
“Well then,” Virgil said, “we better make sure he don’t ever go back to Arizona.”
“Bat might be able to help,” Wyatt said. “He’s the marshal in Trinidad. He’s gotta have some connections.”
Bat Masterson was someone else who was Wyatt’s friend, not Virgil’s. In fact, Virgil didn’t have many friends other than his brothers, Wyatt and Morgan—and now there was only Wyatt.
“Bat and Doc don’t get along,” Virgil pointed out.
“I don’t know too many people who get along with Doc,” Wyatt said. “But Bat will help. He won’t see Doc railroaded, no matter how he feels about him. I know him that well.”
“I hope you’re right,” Virgil said, “for your sake—”
“You got them horses saddled yet?” Doc called out. “I swear, Virg, you’re slowin’ down in your old age.”
“—And Doc’s,” Virgil said to Wyatt.
“I’ll get your horse,” Wyatt said, “you get Doc’s.”
They walked the horses over to where Doc was waiting and Virgil handed the gunman the reins.
“Thanks. Think your buddy Masterson is gonna be glad to see us?” Doc asked.
“I don’t know,” Wyatt said. “I guess we better just ride on in and find out, huh?”
CHAPTER 9
Butler played some poker that evening, won a little bit of money while he was trying to gauge the caliber of the other players. He also paid some attention to Bat Masterson’s table. Bat did a good business, and from what Butler could tell, took money from all comers.
Earlier in the day Butler had met Bat’s deputy, a young man named Dean Collier. He was in his mid-twenties, and seemed to be in total awe of his boss. While Bat was manning his faro table Deputy Collier would come in and out, apparently with questions for his boss. At times Bat would roll his eyes, answer the young man, and send him on his way.
It was almost time for Butler to relieve Bat at his table when Collier came in again. He walked to Bat’s table, whispered something that caused Bat to wave his hands and abruptly close his table. He and Collier started for the door, then stopped short. Bat said something to his deputy, then turned and walked to the poker table where Butler was sitting.
“Want me to take your table?” Butler asked, looking up at him.
“How are you doin’?” Bat asked.
“I’m making money but I can get away.”
“I don’t need you to stand at my table, but I might have need of your gun, if you’re a mind to give it.”
“Got something you and your deputy can’t handle?”
“I might.”
Butler didn’t need to hear any more. He cashed out of the game and followed Bat to the door.
“Why do we need him?” Collier asked as they stepped outside.
“How many men have you shot at, Dean?”
“Well…none.”
“Then shut up.”
As they started down the street Bat explained to Butler, “We got a saloon at the far end of town—if we were in Dodge it would be in the red-light district. The bartender there sent a runner over to the office to say there was trouble brewin’. At that end of town that usually means shootin’. In the past I’ve been able to talk these fellas down, but the last time it almost came to gunplay. This time…”
“How many men we talkin’ about?”
“Probably half a dozen,” Bat said. “They’re young, and don’t think the law applies to them.”
“They’re not impressed with you?”
Bat gave him a look.
“Not everybody is impressed with me, Butler,” he said. “But even if they are, they been buildin’ up to tryin’ me on for size. I’m guessin’ tonight might be the night.”
This wasn’t what Butler had signed on for, but when Bat Masterson asks you for help you don’t refuse.
In the Bucket of Blood saloon, at the far western end of town, six men in their mid twenties, guns in their hands, were holding the entire place hostage.
“Come on, boys,” Tom Reed, the owner said. “This has gone far enough, hasn’t it?”
“Naw, I don’t think it has,” Fred Vance said. He was the leader of the other five. They worked only when they had to, took what they wanted when they were drunk enough. Not full-fledged outlaws, but certainly in training. Holding a saloon full of men under their guns seemed to excite all of them.
Reed tried one of the other men.
“Hastings, you got some sense. Talk to Fred—”
Before he could finish Vance stepped forward and backhanded him across the face. Reed, an older man in his late fifties, staggered and almost fell. He wiped his mouth with the back of his own hand and came away with blood.
“You’re goin’ too far, Reed,” he said.
“Ya think so?” Reed asked. “Then go for that gun I know ya got under yer arm, Tom. Go ahead, I dare ya.”
“You goddamned young pup,” Reed said. “If you didn’t have five guns backin’ you up—”
“I’ll tell them to holster their guns, Tom. That make you any braver?”
Before Reed could answer, Toby Allen called from the door, “Law comin’.”
“Masterson?” Reed asked.
Toby nodded. “He’s got somebody with him.
“One’s his deputy, Collier,” Vance said. “He won’t be much trouble.”
“You’ll get all the trouble you want from Bat Masterson, Vance,” Reed said.
“You think so?” Vance asked. “There’s six of us, Tom.”
“That don’t matter,” Reed said. “Bat’s faced better than you, more than you, many times before.”
“Yeah, well,” Vance said, “maybe this time he’s gonna bite off more than he can handle.” He turned his attention to the room in general. The tables were full of men who were drinking and playing cards, tables full of men who had no desire to go for their guns. “The first man who touches his gun is dead. Understand?”
“They understand, Vance,” Reed said. “We all understand. This is gonna be between you and Bat. That’s what you want, ain’t it? To prove what a big man you are?”
“You wait and see, Tom,” Vance said. “You just wait and see how big a man I am.”
“Your father’s turnin’ over in his grave, Fred.”
“My father was yeller to the bone, Tom!” Vance shouted, “That ain’t me. That ain’t never gonna be me. I ain’t gonna grow to a ripe old age with a yeller streak down my back.”
“Son,” Tom Reed said, wiping blood from his mouth again, “I don’t think you’re gonna grow to a ripe old age, period.
CHAPTER 10
Bat put his hand out to stop their progress.
“What’s the matter?” Collier asked.
“Listen.”
All three men strained and listened to the night.
“I don’t hear nothin’,” Collier said.
“That’s the point,” Butler said. “How many saloons have you been in that are that quiet?”
