Denver Draw (11 page)

They did talk about everything—and found out just how much they had in common. Both had come from the East—she more recently than he. They had each lost contact with all family members, although neither said how or why. They both wanted to see as much of the West as they possibly could. Both had just arrived that day, and both were staying at the Denver House.

He also discovered that she was a very progressive woman. She thought women should have all the same rights as men—from eating alone in restaurants to voting.

Butler didn’t see why a woman shouldn’t eat alone in a restaurant if she wanted to, but voting was another matter and he didn’t comment on that.

They agreed that the steaks were among the finest they’d ever had. He said he’d had a better one in Chicago, and she said she’d had one in Boston that was more succulent.

After dinner they each ordered coffee and dessert, cherry pie for him and apple for her.

“So tell me, Ty,” she said, “how long do you intend to stay in Denver?”

“I don’t know,” he said. “I don’t usually plan that far in advance. I guess I’ll stay until I’ve seen what I can see and am ready to move on.”

“Hmm, I’m afraid my plans are a little more rigid than that. I have three days here and then I move on to Salt Lake City.”

“Do you have friends there?”

“No,” she said, “and no family. I don’t know a soul there. I just want to see it.”

“And eat alone.”

“Yes.” She smiled. “I have had trouble with that everywhere I’ve gone, but I have to thank you again for getting me in here. I may not have eaten alone, but I’ve enjoyed the meal and the company.”

“Same here.”

When they were finished with the entire dinner, Butler insisted on paying. She argued until he reminded her that they had to keep up appearances.

Since they were staying in the same hotel, it was only natural to walk back together.

“You haven’t told me what you do for a living,” she said.

“I don’t think you asked until now,” he said. “I play poker.”

“You gamble for a living?”

“I play poker for a living,” he said. “I’m very good at it, so I don’t really consider it gambling.”

“Really? You win all the time?”

“I don’t win all the time,” he said. “Nobody does. But I win more than I lose, and I manage to make a living.”

“That’s fascinating.”

“Now you haven’t told me what you do.”

“I’m a writer.”

“Really? What do you write?”

“Articles, mostly,” she said. “I send them to magazines and newspapers.”

“And you make a living that way?” he asked. “Now, I find that pretty fascinating.”

“Well, I have to admit,” she said, “I have only had a few pieces published. I’m actually traveling on money that I’ve saved over the years. I’m not a young girl, and I have worked many jobs over the years to save money. And…” She hesitated, then let it out. “I have a small inheritance.”

“Well,” he said, “that’s always helpful.”

“I hesitated to say that,” she said. “I’m not rich by any means, but I am able to travel as I want.”

“I think that’s fine.”

“I just didn’t want you to think I was this rich, pampered woman,” she explained. “I really do want to write for a living, but I can’t get many publications to print my articles.”

“Because of your progressive views?”

“Exactly.”

“Have you thought of writing other things?”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know…travelogues describing places you’ve been, things you’ve done?”

“I suppose I could do that,” she said, “and still get my views across. I have to be true to my beliefs, you know.”

“Of course,” he said. “We all have to do that.”

It was dark, but the streets of Denver were well lit by street lamps. She peered at him anxiously.

“You’re not making fun of me, are you?”

“I wouldn’t do that,” he said. “I have no reason to do that. I think everything you’ve said is admirable.”

“Then you’re a special man,” she said. “Most men I’ve
spoken to think I’m crazy, or stupid. They think I should be married and in some man’s kitchen—or bed.”

Her face grew red when she said that, and she put her hand over her mouth.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “That just popped out.”

“It’s okay,” he told her. “I don’t shock easily.”

When they reached the hotel and entered the bright lobby, he asked her, “Would you like a nightcap in the bar?”

“I don’t think so,” she said. “I’ve taken up enough of your time, and I don’t want to scandalize whoever may be in there. Besides, I’d like to do some writing tonight before I go to sleep. Again, thank you so much for a lovely evening.”

“The pleasure was all mine.” He took her hand and kissed it.

“You’re very gallant,” she said. “I hope we’ll see each other again.”

“I was actually planning on it,” he told her.

He watched as she walked up the steps to the second floor, then turned and went into the bar.

Butler entered the hotel bar and stopped a moment, to be impressed by the crystal, mahogany, and the green felt. He walked up to the bar, where a bartender wearing a vest and a bow tie greeted him.

“Welcome, sir. Guest in the hotel?”

“That’s right.”

“What’ll you have?”

“A beer.”

“Comin’ up.”

He turned while waiting to examine the clientele. From his vantage point he could not see a gun. His own was in a holster beneath his left arm. Most of them were wearing suits like his own, some brown, some blue, others black. They were speaking in low tones. There were no girls working the floor, and there was no music, and no gambling.

A quiet saloon, he thought. What a concept.

“Here you go, sir,” the bartender said.

Perfect color, perfect head, and ice cold. He had died and gone to heaven. If he needed any more proof of that, he needed only to look to his dinner companion, who he hoped to see more of in the next few days.

He sipped his beer and keyed in on a conversation that was taking place between two men at the table nearest to him.

“…walked right in, interrupted his poker game, and arrested him,” one man was saying.

“Are you sure it was him?” the other man asked.

“Hell, that’s what I heard.”

“How do we find out for sure?”

They both craned their necks and looked around.

“How about we ask the bartender,” the second man asked. “Those guys know everything.”

“Yeah, let’s do that.”

Both men stood up and approached the bar, which put them right next to Butler.

“Hey, barkeep,” the first man called.

Both men looked like businessmen with money, having a drink after work. Butler would have bet they were regulars here.

“What can I get for you gents?” the bartender asked.

“We got a question for you,” the man said. “We heard that Doc Holliday is in Denver, and that he was arrested earlier today.”

Butler’s ears perked up. He put his beer on the bar and forgot about it.

“That’s what I heard, gents.”

“We also heard they took him right out of a poker game.”

“Yup.”

“See?” the first man said to his companion. “I told you.”

They went back to their table, satisfied with the answer.

“Bartender?” Butler said.

“Sir?”

“Do you have any more information on Doc Holliday’s arrest?”

“Just what I heard, sir,” the bartender said. “He was playing poker, the police came in and arrested him. Took him right out of the game.”

“He went peacefully?”

“That’s what I heard,” the man said. “What’s your interest?”

“I know him.”

“Doc Holliday?” The bartender looked impressed. “You know Doc Holliday?”

“Shhh,” Butler said. “Keep your voice down. Yes, we’re…friends, sort of.”

“Jeez,” the young man said, “friends with Doc Holliday. Did you come here to meet him?”

“No,” Butler said. “The fact that we’re both in Denver is a coincidence.”

“Well…I’m sorry you had to hear about it like this.”

“Where would they have taken him?”

“Police headquarters, I guess, over on Cherokee Street—but you’ll never get in there at this time of night.”

“You’re probably right.”

“If you want to see him you’re better off waiting until tomorrow morning.” The man grabbed Butler’s beer. “I’ll get you a fresh one, nice and cold.”

“Thanks.”

Butler’s mind was still racing when the bartender came back and put the fresh beer in front of him.

“What’s your name, friend?” Butler asked.

“Jeremy.”

“Here’s to you, Jeremy,” Butler said, and took a healthy swallow.

“So where do you know Doc Holliday from?” Jeremy asked.

“Trinidad.”

“I know where that is. South, right?”

“Right.”

“Have you been to Tombstone?”

“No,” Butler said. “I wasn’t there.” And he didn’t add that he also knew the Mastersons and the Earps. Better to keep all that quiet.

“I just happened to be in Trinidad when Doc came to town, and we played some poker.” Butler looked into his beer, seemed to find another question there. “Say, you didn’t happen to hear what Doc was arrested for, did you?”

“Well…”

“Come on, Jeremy,” Butler said. “Don’t hold out on me now.”

“I heard it was murder,” Jeremy said. “Something about sending him back to Arizona.”

There it was. Now Butler knew there was one thing he was going to have to do even before he went to see Doc.

Send Bat Masterson a telegram.

Doc Holliday looked up at Perry Mallon, who was standing over him with his billy club. It was early and Doc had been in jail all night. His suit was rumpled, his face covered by stubble, and his breathing was ragged. He’d had several coughing fits during the night that had left him weak and, if it hadn’t been for a concerned guard who had brought him water a time or two, he might have choked to death. But now he simply sat in his seat and stared at Mallon with bloodshot eyes, his hands handcuffed in front of him.

“Keep lookin’ at me like that, Holliday,” Mallon said. “See how much good it does you?”

“What’ve you got against me, Mallon?” Holliday asked. “Is it because we’ve met but I don’t remember you? I meet a lot of people, you know. I can’t remember every one I meet, or every cockroach I step on.”

Mallon pulled the billy club back, preparing to use it on Doc, when the metal door to the room opened and an older man stepped in. Mallon quickly dropped the club.

“Mallon,” the man said, “this is the man?”

“Yes, sir.”

The older man stared at Doc.

“The famous killer, Doc Holliday?”

Doc didn’t answer, so Mallon said, “It’s him, sir. I know him.”

The man looked at Mallon.

“That’s right,” he said. “You were there, right?”

“Yes, sir, I was there.”

“In Tombstone.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Who are you?” Doc asked.

The older man looked at him.

“Are you talking to me?”

“Yes, I am,” Doc Holliday said. “I want to know who you are.”

“I am the chief of this police department,” the man said, “and I don’t relish having killers in my city.”

“This man is a liar,” Doc Holliday said.

“Is that a fact?”

“He never was in Tombstone.”

“But you were,” the chief said. “You are Doc Holliday, right?”

“That’s right, I am.”

“Then you’re a killer,” the chief said, “and you’re going to go back and pay for your crime.”

“On this man’s say-so?”

“This man is one of my policemen, and he has identified you as a wanted criminal. I will contact the authorities in Arizona and you will be shipped back to stand trial.”

Doc Holliday looked at the man, then looked at Perry Mallon. He knew there was no point in arguing with either one of them.

“Take him back to his cell,” the chief said, “and make sure nothing happens to this man. Do you understand?”

“I understand,” Mallon said.

“He’s going back to Arizona in one piece.”

“Yes, sir.”

The man turned and left the room.

“Guess he ruined all your fun, huh, Mallon?”

“Shut up, Doc,” Mallon said. “You can still accidentally fall down a flight of stairs, you know.”

“Might be better than goin’ back to Tombstone to hang,” Doc said.

“Don’t worry, Holliday,” Mallon said, pulling Doc to his feet and shoving him toward the door, “you’re goin’ back.”

Butler left the hotel and, following the directions of the desk clerk, made his way to the nearest telegraph office. He wrote out a short note to Bat Masterson, and then had the key operator send it to Trinidad.

“Will you wait for an answer, sir?” the man asked.

“I’m at the Denver House Hotel,” Butler said. “Send the reply there. If I’m not around they’ll hold it for me.”

“Yes, sir.”

Butler left the telegraph office, waved down a passing cab, and gave the driver his destination.

Police Headquarters.

He walked in and announced to the policeman at the front desk that he wanted to see Doc Holliday.

“Are you related, sir?” the man asked.

“No.”

“Are you his lawyer?”

“No.”

“Are you a law officer?”

“No, I’m…a friend of his.”

“Let me check. Please have a seat.”

Butler sat on a bench in the lobby…and sat…and sat…and finally a man came out to see him. Portly, white-haired, and obviously important.

“My name is Arthur Coolidge. I’m the chief of police here. I understand you want to see Doc Holliday?”

“That’s right,” Butler said. “My name is—”

“I don’t care what your name is,” Coolidge said. “You’re obviously of the same ilk as Holliday, so I want you and your friends to know something. I’m sending him back to Arizona to answer for his crimes. Anyone who tries to stop this will also end up in my jail. Have you got that?”

“Yes, but—”

“That’s all I have to say to you, sir,” Coolidge said. “Good day—and get out of my police station.”

It was obvious that Butler was not going to be able to see Doc Holliday, or help him, so he was going to have to try and find that help somewhere else.

He turned and left.