Denver Draw, page 9
Even from outside.
Seth Cates was watching the game through the front window. He’d followed Doc around all day, when all the man seemed to want to do was walk. Finally, he’d gone back to his hotel where he had spent hours. Seth had waited across the street, desperate for Pennington and the others to join him. If Doc Holliday saw him he’d be a dead man.
Finally, Doc had come out of his hotel and walked over to the saloon. Now, as Seth peered in the window, it was dark, so at least he had that cover going for him.
But where the hell were the others?
Pennington was drinking in the Bucket of Blood with Deke and Waldo. He was on his third beer since it had gotten dark.
“Frank?” Deke said.
“Huh?”
“Shouldn’t we go and find Seth now?” he asked. “Find out where Holliday is?”
“Yeah,” Pennington said, “yeah, we should. But you know what?”
“What?”
“I been thinkin’.”
“About what?” Waldo asked.
“Maybe we shouldn’t bushwack Holliday.”
“We shouldn’t?” Waldo asked.
“No.”
“Why not?” Deke asked.
“Because we get ourselves a bigger and better rep by killin’ him face-to-face.”
“Face-to-face?” Deke asked.
“With Doc Holliday?” Waldo asked. “Are you crazy.”
“No,” Pennington said, “listen to me. He plays poker all night, and drinks while he does it. We get him when he’s drunk, when he’s about to leave the saloon.”
“Outside?” Waldo asked. “In the dark?”
“No,” Pennington said, “inside, so we can see.”
“What about Masterson?” Deke asked. “And the gambler?”
“It’ll be a fair fight,” Pennington said. “They’ll stay out of it.”
“Fair fight?” Deke asked. “Four against one?”
“See?” Pennington said, “There’s four of us, and we’re all pretty good with a gun, right?”
“Well…” Deke said.
“Four against one,” Pennington said. “We ain’t gonna get better odds than that.”
Deke and Waldo looked at each other, wondering if it was Pennington who was drunk.
“I’m serious,” Pennington said, “and I’m sober.” He pushed the remainder of his third beer away and held out his hand. “See? Steady as a rock.”
Pennington could see he was still going to have to convince the two of them, so he went to the bar and got them each a beer.
“Now listen,” he said, when they each had a beer in their hands…
One by one the other players fell by the wayside again, as they had the night before, leaving Butler and Doc the last two players in the game.
“Well,” Doc said, “head-to-head again.”
“Looks that way.”
“Want to go ahead and play this time?”
Men all around them leaned in to hear the answer. If these two were going to play head-to-head poker, it was going to be something to watch.
“Don’t know when we’ll get this chance again,” Doc said. “I may be leavin’ town tomorrow.”
“Headin’ for Denver?”
“Who knows,” Doc asked. “I may be headin’ for boot hill.”
“Well,” Butler said, “if that’s the case”—he paused to check his watch, then tucked it back into his vest—“it’s early yet. Let’s go head-to-head.”
CHAPTER 29
In time, as the hands went by, a circle formed around the table. Even Bat Masterson had to move in closer to watch what was going on.
Outside the saloon Seth Cates began to get concerned when he couldn’t see anything. He was trying to decide what to do—making decisions was not his strong suit—when Pennington and the others showed up.
“It’s about time,” he complained.
“Shut up,” Pennington said, looking in the window. “What’s goin’ on in there?”
“Doc Holliday and that gambler, Butler, are playin’ five-card stud head-to-head.”
“We can’t see nothin’ from out here,” Deke complained.
“That’s why we’re gonna go inside and join the party, Deke,” Pennington said, slapping him on the back.
“We’re goin’ in?” Seth asked, puzzled.
“Waldo,” Pennington said, “explain the plan to Seth, and then the two of you come in and join us.”
As Pennington went into the saloon with Deke close at his heels, Seth turned to Waldo and asked, “What plan?”
Butler looked down at his cards. His hole card was a king. One of his up cards was a king. Across from him Doc Holliday was showing two aces. If he had a third in the hole—or even another pair—Butler was dead.
But they each only had four cards. There was a fifth to come.
Doc had bet three hundred, and was waiting for Butler to call or fold. Or raise.
“Make it six hundred,” Butler said.
“You’re bettin’ like you already have a third king,” Doc said.
“Aren’t you betting like you already have a third ace?”
Doc was the dealer. He held the deck in his left hand, pushed his money out with his right.
“Call.”
He dealt them each their fifth card.
King for Butler.
Ace for Doc.
The crowd gasped. Bat Masterson shook his head.
“Looks like this is the make or break hand, Doc,” Butler said.
“Looks like it,” Doc said, setting the now useless deck down.
Bat did not imagine how either one of them could get away from this hand. You just couldn’t lay a hand like this down in five-card stud, and he didn’t even know what their hole cards were. At that moment, though, he most certainly would rather have been in Doc’s chair than in Butler’s.
Butler knew there was no getting away from this hand. There was also going to be no bluffing. This was just a matter of who had the best cards, with all the money going into the middle of the table because, at that moment, they were about even.
Doc also knew there was no folding now. This is the hand poker players wait for, only they both had it. The question was, who had the better dream hand?
Butler had three kings on the table with a deuce of spades keeping them company.
Doc had three aces on the table with a seven of clubs alongside them to tag along.
Everyone watching was leaning forward, waiting for the next play to be made.
“Three aces are high on the table,” Doc said. “It’s my bet.”
“Yeah, it is,” Butler said, sitting back in his chair. Despite some distractions in the room, he’d been able to concentrate for the most part. He hoped the same was true of Doc.
Everyone waited for the bet.
Pennington was waiting also. Despite himself he had managed to get caught up in the game. Deke was standing next to him, also watching the two men intently.
Behind them, outside the circle of onlookers, Waldo was still trying to convince Seth that the plan was sound—this despite the fact that he still was not convinced himself.
Still, it was his responsibility to make sure Seth knew his part.
“That’s a pretty good-looking hand you got there, Doc,” Butler said.
“Yours ain’t bad, either, old son.”
“No, it ain’t,” Butler agreed. “I’d go to the mat every time with a hand like this.”
“Exactly how I feel about mine.”
“So what do we do?” Butler asked.
Finally, Doc Holliday pushed all his money into the center of the table and said, “I guess we go for it all.”
CHAPTER 30
Jesus, Bat thought, is Butler gonna do it—go for it all against three aces on the table? Sure, he had three kings, but that was second best against Doc’s aces.
Unless Butler had another one in the hole—or a deuce.
Bat had been involved in hands like this himself, but he’d found those less nerve-wracking than this one.
If either man lost, would it break them? Financially and in spirit?
Would Doc Holliday go over the edge?
How would Butler react?
His feeling was that the hand was worse for everyone watching than for the two men involved. To them this was just one more hand, no more or less important than any that had come before, or would come later.
Anyway, that’s how Bat would have approached. Many was the time he’d been beaten in a hand like this and left for broke. He always managed to come back. He always managed to find himself in a hand like this again, and come out on top next time.
Until the next time…
Butler looked at all the money in the middle of the table. Losing this hand would not break him, but he wondered if it would break Doc? It didn’t really matter. He was going to play the hand to win, no matter what. He was just wondering…
“Jesus Christ!” Bat Masterson yelled. “What’s it gonna be?”
Other men began yelling, and they didn’t stop until Butler put his hands in his chips.
Then it got dead quiet.
Doc Holliday watched without emotion. He believed that he had spit up all the emotion he had left inside of him. There was nothing left really. Now his life was just like this poker game, just waiting to see what the next move was going to be.
“Okay,” Butler said, shoving the remainder of his chips into the center of the table with Doc’s, “I call.”
Now the onlookers leaned in to see the hole cards of the two players.
“What do you have, Doc?” Butler asked.
“You’re lookin’ at them,” Doc Holliday said. “Three aces. If you got a fourth king in the hole, you got me.”
“No king,” Butler said, turning over his hole card, “but would another deuce do?”
“Full house!” somebody exclaimed in a hushed tone.
Doc Holliday stared across the table at Butler and said, “Nice hand, old son. How about a drink?”
“Okay, game’s over,” Bat shouted. “Give the gents some room.”
Men started to move away, back to their own tables, or to the bar, or even out the front doors. Butler raked his money in and two girls came over to take the chips away and cash them in.
“Let’s have that drink at the bar,” Doc suggested. “Bat, would you care to join us?”
“Sure,” Bat said.
The three men went to the bar. Bat and Butler ordered beer, while Doc stuck with whiskey.
“To the victor,” he said, raising his shot glass.
“That was some hand,” Bat said.
“Yes, it was,” Doc said. “I’ve seen our friend bluff before, but he wasn’t bluffing this time.”
“No, he wasn’t,” Bat said.
Butler didn’t comment. To him there was no way to bluff that hand. Most of what they had was on the table.
Doc finished his drink and signaled the bartender for another. Bat and Butler nursed their beers.
“Whew,” someone said from down the bar, “that Doc Holliday sure got skunked in that game!”
Butler cringed, Bat craned his neck to see who was speaking. Doc ignored the comment.
“I mean, it was pretty clear who had the winning hand that time,” the voice said. “Didn’t take a blind man to see that.”
Doc accepted his fresh drink from the bartender. Butler watched him as he downed it with a steady hand.
“Doc Holliday sure must be losin’ it,” the man’s voice said. “But then what do you expect from a lunger. He probably coughed up most of the brains he ever had.”
“Okay, that’s enough,” Bat shouted. He turned to face that end of the bar. “Who’s got the big mouth?”
The men between him and the speaker backed away from the bar. Frank Pennington stood at the end with his three partners right behind him.
“I’m just havin’ my opinion, Marshal,” Pennington said.
“Christ, Pennington, is that you? Man, you ain’t got the brains God gave a donkey.”
Pennington stiffened, and his face reddened.
“I ain’t havin’ words with you, Marshal,” he said. “I was talkin’ about Holliday.”
“I know,” Bat said. “That’s why I know you ain’t got no brains. Why would you wanna go and poke at a man who just lost a bunch of money on a tough hand—”
Bat stopped short when he felt a hand on his arm.
“It’s okay, Masterson,” Holliday said. “I can handle this.”
“Doc, I’m the law—”
“Don’t worry,” Doc said, “I’m not gonna press charges. I’m just gonna have a talk with these waddies.”
“I ain’t no waddie!” Pennington snapped, straightening up, his hand hanging down by his gun. The three men behind him all straightened and spread their legs, but Bat, Butler, and Doc could see the fear on their faces. The question was, who did they fear more, Pennington or Doc Holliday?
CHAPTER 31
“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.
