Denver Draw (15 page)

Butler went back down the hall to Oliver James’s office, entered without knocking. Still no girl in the outer office. He walked right into James’s office.

“Good morning, Butler,” James said from behind his desk. Butler noticed that the surface was gleaming. Could a secretary be far behind?

“I’m reminding myself that you haven’t been paid a dime yet,” Butler said. “How much would you like now?”

“Will you be footing the bill for Mr. Holliday?”

“Doc pays his own way,” Butler said. “He’ll pay me back when he gets out.”

“Well, then he can pay me when he gets out,” James said. “No point in me taking your money.”

And as quickly as that Oliver James changed Butler’s opinion of him again. Why would the man be requiring no money? What did he care who it came from?

But he still had to keep in mind the warning from Healy, a man who knew Oliver James better than he did.

“That’s decent of you, Oliver,” Butler said.

“Think nothing of it, my boy,” James said. “Now, I
have a few ideas how to keep Doc safe in Colorado even if Bat Masterson doesn’t make it here in time.”

“Oh, he’ll make it,” Butler assured the lawyer. “If Bat Masterson says he’ll be here, he’ll be here.”

“Yes, but will he be in time?” James asked. “Will he beat the Arizona lawmen here? That we don’t know, and so we have to prepare for it. I am not disparaging the name of Masterson. I just like to be prepared.”

“I see,” Butler said. “Okay, then, you talk and I’ll listen…”

A few of Oliver James’s contingency plans had merit. Some were far-fetched. A couple were illegal.

“Wait,” Butler said. “Weren’t you the one kept asking me if we’re going to break him out?”

“I’m just talking here, Butler,” James said. “We’re just tossing ideas back and forth, right?”

No, Butler thought, you’re throwing ideas at me. My idea is that Bat Masterson gets here in time with his Colorado warrant.

“I’m going down to the jail this morning to make sure Holliday has some fresh clothes. Do you know what he likes to wear?”

“Black suits, white shirts, not much else,” Butler said. “Same as me, really.”

“Splendid,” James said, “we’ll do some shopping for him before we go and see him. I have a tailor who is actually in this building.” He was already going out the door when he asked, “You wouldn’t happen to know his size, would you?”

Oliver James held the new jacket while Doc Holliday slipped into it.

“We didn’t know your size, but we had some help,” he said.

“Help?” Doc asked turning. “From who?”

“It’s not important.”

Doc looked at Butler.

“Too much meat on your bones, old son,” he said. “Who’s he talkin’ about?”

“Um…”

“Come on, spit it out.”

“We needed someone who was as…let’s say, as thin as you, so we, uh…” James ran out of steam and looked at Butler.

“We bought a homeless man a meal if he would stand for the tailor to fit him,” Butler said.

“Homeless man?”

“Homeless, and emaciated,” James said, then stepped back, as if he thought Doc would hit him.

“Was he a drunk?” Doc asked Butler.

“No, Doc,” Butler said, “just hungry. We bought him a meal.”

Doc adjusted the jacket by shrugging his shoulders and said, “Well, okay, then.”

James looked relieved.

Doc had now donned the shirt, trousers, and jacket and pronounced them all as “Fittin’ well enough.”

“Couldn’t do anything about the boots,” Oliver James said.

“My boots are fine,” Doc said. “I’m obliged for the clean clothes.”

“Oh, and these.” James produced several new, clean white handkerchiefs.

Doc accepted them and, Butler thought, seemed genuinely touched by the gesture.

“Thank you, both,” he said.

“Time to go,” the lawman outside the cell said. “You were only supposed to have five minutes.”

“Just five more minutes, Eliot,” Doc said to the young policeman.

“Sure, Doc,” the man said.

“Eliot’s okay,” Doc said. “He talks with me at night.”

“He seems impressed by you,” Butler said.

“He’s just a good kid,” Doc insisted. “Any word from Bat?”

“He’s on his way.”

“And Wyatt?”

“No word,” Butler said. “Might not be any telegraph lines up near Gunnison.”

“I wouldn’t know,” Doc said.

“I’ve got some motions I’m going to make to a judge to try and delay your extradition.”

“You think that will work?”

“I hope so,” James said. “I’d hate to be doing all this work for nothing. I’m going to go and see the judge now. Butler?”

“I’d like to talk to Butler for a minute,” Doc said, then added, “alone.”

“Sure,” James said. He looked at Butler. “I’ll be at the front door.”

“Okay.”

Oliver James withdrew and the policeman, Eliot, backed away from the cell to give the two men some privacy. They had taken Butler’s gun upstairs, before allowing him to come down to the cell block.

“What’s on your mind, Doc?”

Doc turned his back for a minute, seemed to be fiddling with his new clothes again, then turned around and looked at Butler.

“I don’t want to die in prison, Butler,” he said. “I want to do it outside, preferably with a gun in my hand.”

“I don’t blame you, Doc, but—”

“Or even inside with a gun in my hand,” Doc said, lowering his voice. “You see what I mean?”

“I think I do, Doc,” Butler said. The man wanted him to sneak a gun in to him. “I’ll see what I can do.”

“You’re a good friend, Butler,” Doc said. “I won’t forget.”

“Who’s this judge you’re going to see?” Butler asked when he met Oliver James at the front door of the building.

“His name’s Sandburg,” James said. “He carries a lot of weight in Denver. If I can get him on our side we just might succeed in our efforts.”

“What are the chances of that?”

“Honestly? With Doc Holliday’s reputation?”

“Why’s that?” Butler said. “I would’ve thought Doc’s rep would work against us.”

Sandburg loves everything about the Wild West,” James said. “He’s afraid to leave his office to experience it for himself, but he’ll be tickled to rule on somebody like Doc. And if I bring Bat Masterson into the mix? Who knows? Too bad you don’t have a rep for yourself.”

“Sorry,” Butler said. “I’m just a gambler.”

“With friends like Holliday, Masterson, and Earp I’m sure that’s not true, but what is true is that you’re just not that well known.”

“I can’t argue with that,” Butler said, “and truth be
told, I don’t mind it so much. I came West to play poker, not to cultivate a reputation with a gun.”

“Well,” James said, “the other side of that coin is, with friends like Masterson, Earp, and Holliday, you probably won’t stay unknown for very long.”

Butler had that same thought himself a time or two.

They decided that it would be better if James saw the judge by himself, so Butler headed back to his hotel. His thoughts drifted to Jennifer Conway and the night they had spent together. It had not been very proper of them to spend the night together, but then who was to say what was proper when two adults agreed on what they wanted to do? When he arrived at the hotel, there was a telegram waiting for him at the front desk. It was from Bat. He had quit the train in favor of a straighter route on horseback, and thought that would get him to Denver late tomorrow.

“Good news, sir?” the desk clerk asked.

“Great news,” Butler said.

So good, in fact, that he decided to celebrate with a drink, but not in the hotel bar. Too many businessmen in there for his taste. He left the hotel and headed down the street to find a comfortable saloon.

The shooter watched as Butler entered the hotel, then again as the gambler left. Butler walked north at a slow pace. There was still plenty of daylight so there was no need to rush the shot. There were people on the street, and the conditions were not yet perfect.

He cradled his rifle in his arms.

He could afford to wait.

Butler found a small saloon just off the street, down a
cobblestone alley. The name above the door was Morrison’s. The front door was half stained glass but, no matter how Butler looked at it, he couldn’t make out what it was supposed to be. To him it was just a bunch of purple, yellow, and red glass. As soon as he entered, though, he knew he had chosen the right place, even though the patrons—all obviously regulars—watched him carefully as he approached the bar.

“You in the right place?” the bartender asked. He was a bulky man with black hair parted down the middle, a broad mustache, and a startlingly clean towel tossed over his shoulder.

“I hope so,” Butler said. “I’m looking for a cold beer, a quiet place to sit, and no trouble.”

The man eyed him cautiously, then smiled and said, “Yeah, you got the right place.”

The bartender—who, Butler learned by listening, was the owner, Tommy Morrison—had been right. He gave Butler a cold beer. He then took it to a back table, where no one bothered him or, after the first ten minutes, even looked at him, which suited him fine. Ever since Leadville, on through Trinidad, and now here, he hadn’t gotten much time to be alone. This beer was turning out to be one of the best he’d had in some time.

He looked around at the regulars, studying them. There was no gambling going on, just drinking, conversation, and a lot of laughter. All of these men seemed to be very happy with their lot in life. Butler might have been happy with his as well, what with traveling across the West, making his living playing poker, if it wasn’t for that one dark cloud hanging over his head. He couldn’t imagine how outlaws did it, living with a price on their heads all the time—but at least they knew who had placed the price on their head. It was a mystery to Butler—a mystery he would go back East and solve some day, but it wasn’t time to do that yet.

“You ready for another one?”

Butler looked up, saw Morrison staring down at him.

“I, uh, noticed you was down some,” the bar owner said.

Butler looked at his beer mug. He hadn’t noticed, but there was only about an inch left there.

“Oh, yeah,” he said, “thanks. I’ll take another.”

“Comin’ up.”

Morrison went to the bar, returned with a cold mug, removed the inch of lukewarm beer that was left, and went back to the bar without further comment. True to his word, leaving Butler to drink his beer in peace and quiet.

Outside, in the alley, the shooter was waiting. He’d peered in the window to make sure Butler was still there, saw him sitting at a back table, and then withdrew. It would be dark by the time Butler came out. He probably should have taken the shot when he had the chance, but there was no point lamenting that now. He’d just settle back and wait. This was one of his virtues, his patience. It was why he had never missed a target once he set his sites on it.

Once again he cradled his rifle, and waited.

Butler had rarely been in a saloon for an hour without seeing at least one argument, or full-blown fight. And, in some cases, a gunfight. He’d been in this one almost an hour, and nothing.

He was about halfway done with his second beer when he couldn’t stand it anymore. He just had to ask.

“Another one?” Morrison asked. He still had that clean white towel over his shoulder. Did he ever wipe anything with it?

“No, I’m still working on this one,” Butler said. “I, uh, have to ask a question.”

“What’s that?”

“It’s very calm in here,” Butler said, waving his arm. “I’m used to seeing more action.”

“You mean like fights?”

“Well…yeah.”

Morrison shook his head, touched the towel on his shoulder.

“I don’t allow no fightin’,” he said. “You see this towel?”

“Yes.”

“See how white it is?”

“Yes, I was noticing.”

“I used to own a place where this towel always had red on it,” Morrison said.

“Blood?”

“Yup. I gave that place up, moved over here and opened this place. I don’t allow any blood spilt in my place now.”

“Uh, how do you enforce that?”

“With this.” He reached beneath the bar and took out a club. “Know what this is?”

“A club?”

“It’s a shillelagh.”

“This is a club from Ireland,” Morrison said, proudly. “It’s blackthorn wood, the hardest wood you can get.”

Butler thought that was oak, but kept quiet.

“It’s named after a village in Ireland and, in the hands of someone who knows how to use it, it’s deadly.”

“And you know how to use it?”

Morrison smiled and it was an evil smile—gleefully evil.

“I’m an expert.”

“Well, I’ll keep that in mind,” Butler said. He tilted up
his mug, finished off his beer, and set the empty on the bar. “Thanks, I really like this place.”

“Come on back,” Morrison said, “as long as you ain’t fixin’ to cause trouble.”

“I never cause trouble, Mr. Morrison,” Butler said, and then to himself added, but it does seem to keep following me around.

He headed for the door, opened it, and was about to step out when he thought of something else he wanted to ask. In fact, he did step half out, just enough to offer the shooter a target, but as the man raised his rifle and fired, Butler took one step back, causing the bullet to miss and lodge in the doorjamb near his head.

Butler threw himself back into the room as the second shot shattered the stained glass on the door. Other patrons in the place looked up at the sound of the shot and broken glass. They all looked at Morrison, and then began to hit the floor. Morrison, on the other hand, picked up his shillelagh and came storming around the bar.

“What the hell—” he roared.

Butler saw that the man was heading out the front door, and tackled him around the legs. Morrison was a thickset man, though, and it was like trying to bring down a couple of tree trunks. He did manage to stop the man’s progress, though.

“I know you’re good with that thing,” Butler said, “but there’s a man with a rifle out there.”

“Is he after you?”

“It looks like it.”

Morrison pointed at Butler with the tip of the Irish club.

“You keep him busy, you hear?”

“I hear.”

Morrison broke Butler’s hold on him and then headed for the back door.

The shooter didn’t know why Butler had abruptly stepped back into the saloon, but the man had made him miss his shot. He was so angry he took a second, hasty shot, which made him even madder. He had never messed up like this before.

He was now doubly determined to put this gambler in the ground!

Butler drew his gun and moved to the door, crouching low. He crunched the broken stained glass beneath his boots as he reached the door, which was still open. The glass was completely gone, so that there was basically just half a door left. He wanted to use the lower half for cover, but he didn’t know if it was thick enough to shield him from a bullet. Finally, he decided he just had to step out, because he was supposed to be keeping the shooter busy. Whatever Morrison was planning, Butler couldn’t let the man get killed trying to help him.

He had fallen back onto his heels, so he made an adjustment, got into a crouched position, cocked the hammer on his gun, and then sprang out into the alley, his gun ready. As he did he heard a couple of sounds. First, what sounded like a melon hitting the ground, then a grunt and, finally, what sounded like a sack of potatoes hitting the ground.

He pointed his gun down the alley, but all he saw was Morrison standing there, slapping his left palm with his shillelagh. At his feet lay a man, unmoving, with a rifle next to him.

Butler walked down the alley to join the bar owner in staring down at the man, who looked quite dead. His skull had been split and rivulets of blood were running between the cobblestones.

“Wow,” Butler said. “You hit him hard.”

“I don’t use this unless I mean it,” Morrison said.

Butler bent down over the man to check him, then straightened, holstering his gun. “He’s dead.”

“You know him?”

Butler studied the man’s face.

“No.”

“Well, he broke my glass,” Morrison said, “shot up my place. I told you, I don’t allow that.”

“Yes, you told me,” Butler said.

Morrison suddenly prodded Butler in the chest with the end of the deadly club.

“Don’t come back.”

“What?”

“You heard me,” the big man said. “Don’t come back to my place. I don’t want trouble here.”

“I didn’t come looking for trouble.”

“Well, it found you in my place, and now I gotta pay.”

“I’ll pay for the glass,” Butler said.

“Yeah, you will,” Morrison said, “but I still don’t want you comin’ back.”

“Fine. I’ll just wait here and talk to the police.”

“You don’t gotta,” Morrison said. “I killed him, I’ll talk to the police.”

“I was a witness—”

“You didn’t see me hit him,” Morrison said, “and I got the bullets in my door to prove he was shootin’. I don’t need you.”

“But—”

“He might have some friends,” Morrison said. “If they show up I don’t want you here.”

Butler was thinking at that moment that if Morrison prodded him one more time with that club he was going
to take it from the man and shove it up his ass—or die trying. At that moment, though, the man dropped the club down to his side.

“Look, I pay the police to take care of stuff like this,” Morrison said. “Just go.”

“Okay, fine,” Butler said. “I’m going. I just have to do one thing.”

He crouched down and started going through the man’s pockets. He was wearing clothes that had taken a decent amount of money to buy. First he went through the trousers, then the dark jacket.

“You robbin’ him?”

“Looking for something with his name on it,” Butler said. He stopped looking, remained crouched. “Nothing.”

“I’m gonna send for the police now.”

“Yeah, go ahead. I’m done.”

As he left the alley Butler figured that this had nothing to do with Doc Holliday. This was just somebody else trying to cash in on that price on his head. It was probably already time to get out of Denver, but he had to wait for Bat Masterson to arrive. Then again, attempts on his life like this usually averaged out to one per location.

He walked back to his hotel without incident.