Authors: Robert J. Randisi
Inside the restaurant Bat sat with his back to the wall, leaving Butler to sit uncomfortably across from him.
“Don’t worry,” Bat said. “I’ll watch your back. Least I can do after what you did for my brother.”
“I didn’t do much.”
“Jim and I talked after the Dodge City thing was over,” Bat said. “You and me, we didn’t get a chance to talk. He told me you saved his life.”
“Well…”
A middle-aged woman came to the table then and said, “’mornin’, Marshal. What’ll ya have?”
“Steak and eggs, Maggie, what else? Butler?”
“The same.”
“Coffee?” Maggie asked.
Butler looked at Bat.
“The sheriff always has coffee,” she said.
“Then I’ll have some, too.”
“Thanks, Maggie.”
Butler looked around.
“I know,” Bat said. “It’s empty. Word gets around where I’m havin’ breakfast and the place stays empty till I’m done.”
“That the way you want it?”
“Naw,” Bat said, “but that’s the way it is. When you got a rep with a gun, folks don’t want to be around you much. And if you’re wearin’ a badge, that goes double.”
“Folks like Maggie don’t mind?”
“Nobody minds. They like havin’ me here as sheriff. Eatin’ breakfast somewhere else is a small price to pay.”
“What made you come here after Dodge?”
“Didn’t come straight here, but ended up here,” Bat said. “They needed a marshal, I needed a place to stay for a while. Also got a faro layout in one of the saloons, so I’m doin’ pretty well. Where’d you go after Dodge?”
“Here and there. Ended up in Leadville for a little while.”
“I heard a gambler killed three men in Leadville some time ago,” Bat said. “That you?”
“That was me.”
“Three on one?”
“I had an advantage.”
“What was that?”
“They were all stupid.”
“Guess you and me’d have that advantage over most folks I’ve met,” Bat said.
Maggie came over with the coffee and promised the plates soon.
“She’ll get ’em out here quick so I’ll eat and skedaddle,” Bat said.
“I’ll eat quick,” Butler offered. “I’ve got to get my horse seen to and get myself a room.”
“I got some rooms over in my saloon,” Bat said. “You can have one if you want.”
“On what condition?” Butler asked, wondering if Bat had a table or actually owned a piece of the place.
Bat smiled.
“Hey, you are smart. I need a relief dealer. You do that for me and you can have the room free.”
“Can’t make myself much money if I’m dealing for the house.”
“I’ll pay ya.”
“I can make more playing poker for myself.”
“So play poker for yourself,” Bat said. “Don’t play nowhere else in town and you can still have the room. But you can also relieve me when I need it. You can deal faro, can’t you?”
“Sure, but let me get this straight. You want me to play exclusively in your place? And relieve you once in a while at your faro table, Butler asked. “That’s all you want?”
“That’s it. Sounds cushy to me. We got a deal?”
“For how long?” Butler asked.
“Long as you want,” Bat said. “I get the feeling you and me ain’t long for this town, anyway.”
Bat stuck his hand out and Butler shook it.
“You got a deal.”
“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.”
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.
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?”