Denver Draw (8 page)

Wherever men like Bat Masterson and Doc Holliday were, there were men like Frank Pennington.

Pennington was what was known in the West as a “mudsill.” It meant he was worthless, a nobody. It also meant that when he saw someone who had a reputation, he usually felt he was entitled to it.

Bad enough Bat Masterson was the marshal in Trinidad, but now Doc Holliday was there.

In Pennington’s mind, even if he had been able to back shoot Masterson or Doc Holliday, it would make him worth something, give him a reputation, even in his own mind.

He’d been in the saloon the night before when they all walked in, the Earps, Doc Holliday, and Masterson. He’d also been among the men who had filed out to look for someplace else to drink, but unlike the others he’d lingered outside in the shadows, waiting. He really didn’t care who he caught coming out, but somebody was going to pay for the fact that Frank Pennington was a nobody.

Virgil Earp had come out first. Pennington figured there was no percentage in back shooting a cripple, so he let him go.

Wyatt Earp came out next, but by this time Pennington had convinced himself that he wanted the lunger, Doc Holliday. He figured he’d be putting the poor bastard out of his misery by gunning him down in the street, then he’d do himself good by letting the word slip out that he’d done it. Thirty years on this earth and he hadn’t done anything worth a damn, but he figured to change that right quick.

Then when Doc Holliday came out that gambler came with him. Back shooting one man was one thing, but he wasn’t about to take two men on at the same time. Especially not after what he’d heard about the gambler and Masterson shooting up the Bucket of Blood.

So Pennington had backed off, and today he was sitting in a small saloon down the street from the Bucket. This was the only saloon in town that opened in the morning, only place a man could get a decent drink this early. He had arranged to meet three men here, because he figured he was going to need a little help if that gambler, Butler, had taken up with Holliday.

His friends were of the same ilk as he, although a couple of them were “waddies,” cowpokes working on nearby ranches. Still, in their hearts they were mudsills, like he was.

Around town, unbeknownst to them, they were all simply known as “coffee boilers,” men who’d rather shirk their duty and sit around the coffeepot.

His three friends filed in, looking the worse for wear after a hard night at the Bucket of Blood.

Deke Walton, Seth Cates, and Waldo Ferguson filed in, stopped at the bar for a beer, and then joined Pennington at his table.

“What’s so important you got to get us up this early?” Waldo complained bitterly.

“Early?” Pennington asked. “You fellas work on a ranch. Ain’t you up at the crack of dawn?”

Waldo Ferguson looked over at Deke Walton, who said, “Ah, we got fired yesterday.”

“Fired? It’s about time. They finally realized what layabouts you two are?” Seth Cates said, laughing.

“At least we had jobs,” Waldo said.

“Jobs are for suckers,” Cates said. “I’ll bet Frank’s got somethin’ hot for us.”

“I got somethin’,” Pennington said. “It ain’t gonna make us no money right away, but it’ll give us a name.”

“You still singin’ that same old song?” Waldo asked. “Gonna make a name for yerself? Why don’t you just admit none of us is ever gonna amount to nothin’.”

“You ain’t never gonna be nothin’ with that attitude,” Pennington said. “I ain’t like that.”

“So whataya got, Frank?” Seth asked. Seth Cates was close to being the town drunk, except that honor was usually reserved for older men than he. But he was usually pretty roistered, and ready for any half-baked scheme Frank Pennington could come up with.

“I got Doc Holliday,” Pennington said.

“What about him?” Waldo asked.

“He’s in town.”

“We know that,” Deke Walton said. “So are the Earps.”

“They pulled out early this mornin’,” Pennington said. “Now Holliday is here by himself.”

“So?” Waldo still didn’t get it.

Seth thought he did.

“We gonna rob ’im, Frank?”

“No,” Pennington said. “We ain’t gonna rob him. We’re gonna kill ’im.”

The other three were silent for a few moments, then Seth asked, “Can’t we rob him, too?”

“Kill him?” Waldo asked, ignoring Seth. “What for? He’s a lunger. He’s gonna cough himself to death soon, anyway.”

“Not if we get to him first,” Pennington said. “Imagine bein’ the men who killed Doc Holliday?”

“Yeah,” Waldo said, “we’ll be the most famous men in prison.”

“We ain’t goin’ to prison,” Pennington said.

“We are if we gun down Doc Holliday,” Waldo said.

“Just shut up for a minute and listen,” Pennington said, “and you’ll see what I mean.”

When Bat and Butler hit the street again Bat said, “I might as well give Doc the word.” They had each had a cup of coffee, and then gone together to the telegraph office, where Bat sent a telegram to Denver. He knew Wyatt and Virgil were going to be staying at the Denver House Hotel. The telegram would be waiting for them when they got in.

“I guess he’ll be glad he won’t have to stay around here for more than a few days.”

“Maybe not even that,” Bat said. “Judge Abernathy is usually quick. He’ll draw it up and have to file it with the state.”

“What happens if somebody else in Colorado realizes there’s a warrant and decides to execute it?”

“Word’ll get back to me or the judge,” Bat said.

“And what’s the charge?”

“Well, I had to make it somethin’ serious enough,” Bat said. “It couldn’t be for spittin’ on the street or somethin’.”

“So what is it?”

“I cited him for lewd conduct,” Bat said.

“Jesus…”

“He’ll get a kick out of it.”

“You think so?”

“Hey, it’ll keep him out of jail for murder.”

“I don’t know…”

“Let’s go tell him and see,” Bat said.

“Doc Holliday doesn’t seem like the kind of man who can take a joke,” Butler said, “but let’s go.”

“I don’t like it,” Waldo Ferguson said.

“Why not?” Pennington demanded.

“Well, for one thing it ain’t like Doc Holliday’s here all hisself,” Waldo complained. “Masterson’s here, and I was in the Bucket of Blood when him and that gambler shot up Fred Vance and his boys slicker’n snot. That gambler—what’s his name—Butler? He handles a shotgun about as good as he handles a deck of cards.”

Pennington decided not to tell Waldo and the others that it looked like Butler had become friends with Holliday. He’d keep that little bit of information to himself.

“Look,” he said, “it ain’t like we’re gonna face ’im head on.”

“Whataya mean?” Seth asked. “We gonna dry gulch ’em?”

“How else you gonna kill somebody like Doc Holliday?” Pennington asked. “Jesus, I ain’t stupid enough to stand in front of him.”

“I dunno,” Waldo said.

“You don’t know what?” Pennington asked.

“I just ain’t never seen myself as a dry gulcher, Frank.”

“Waldo, you ain’t never seen yerself as anything,” Pennington said. “That’s your problem.” He looked at the other two. “What about you? You got a problem bushwackin’ a dirty killer like Doc Holliday? Hell, we’ll be doin’ people a favor.”

“I don’t have no problem with it, Frank,” Seth said. “You know me. I’m ready for anythin’.”

“Deke?”

“Sure,” Deke Walton said, “why not? I sure don’t want to go back to punchin’ cows.”

“That leaves you, Waldo,” Pennington said, giving the man a hard look. “You with us, or against us?”

“I ain’t against ya, Frank,” Waldo said, hurriedly.

“You are if you ain’t with us,” Pennington said. “Come on, make your play. You gonna make somethin’ of yerself or not?”

Waldo Ferguson didn’t know if he wanted to make somethin’ of himself, but he sure didn’t want these three thinkin’ he was against them.

“Okay, Frank, okay,” he said finally. “I’m with ya. When are we gonna do this thing?”

“That’s somethin’ we gotta talk about,” Pennington said. “When, and where. Let’s get some more beers.”

“I’ll get ’em,” Seth said, excitedly, then looked at Pennington and asked, “You got any money, Frank?”

Bat and Butler were prepared to knock on Doc Holliday’s door—god forbid he was dead in there, how would Bat explain that to Wyatt Earp—but there was no need to. As they entered the hotel Doc came down the stairs to the lobby. Dressed in black he looked both frail and pale, but at the same time as healthy as they had seen him.

“’Mornin’, Doc,” Bat said.

“Bat, Butler,” Doc said. “You lookin’ for me already? Sorry I’m up so late. Wyatt and Virgil get away okay?”

“Early this mornin’, Doc,” Bat said. “Said to tell you they’ll see you on the trail somewhere.”

“Yeah, we will,” Doc said. “If I last long enough.”

“Give any more thought to that Glenwood Springs thing?” Bat asked, making Butler cringe, but there was no need.

“Actually, I have,” Doc said. “But there’s still time. I can still stand on my feet, anyway. If I decide to go there I’ll walk in myself, I won’t make anybody carry me.”

Neither Bat nor Butler knew what to say to that.

“What’re you lookin’ for me for?” Doc asked then.

“Got some news about that warrant,” Bat said.

“Take some air with me and tell me about it,” Doc said, heading for the door.

“You would think that was funny,” Doc said to Bat moments later.

“Oh, I can change it if you—”

“No, no,” Doc said. “What’s it matter? My reputation can’t get any worse than it is right now. Let it stand.”

“Okay,” Bat said. “I’ll let you know as soon as I have it in my hand. Shouldn’t be more than a couple days.”

“That’s fine,” Doc said. “By then I’ll be ready to move on. By then I’ll also have some of this young man’s money to take with me.”

“Oh-ho, that sounds like a challenge,” Butler said. “I’ll see you in the Bonanza tonight, my friend.”

“Bring plenty of money,” Doc said. “I’ve been takin’ it easy on you until now.”

“This sounds like a game I’m gonna stay out of,” Bat said. “I’ve got some rounds to make, boys. If you’ll excuse me.”

“See you later, Bat,” Butler said.

“Much obliged for the information, Bat,” Doc said, “if not the, uh, extra smudge on my rep.”

“Glad to be of help, Doc.”

Bat left Butler and Doc Holliday there on the boardwalk.

“He’s a good friend to Wyatt,” Doc said.

“Seems to me Wyatt’s got a lot of good friends,” Butler said. “How does he rate that?”

“He’s an honorable man,” was all Doc said then, “I’m going to continue on walkin’.”

Butler had the feeling Doc wanted to walk by himself and think.

“I’ve got some things to tend to myself,” Butler said. “I’ll see you later at the Bonanza.”

“I look forward to it.”

“We just have to catch Holliday off by himself,” Frank Pennington told the others.

“How do we do that?” Waldo asked.

“We watch him.”

“When?” Seth asked.

“Startin’ now,” Pennington said. “Today.”

“How do we do that?” Deke asked.

“Well, Jesus,” Pennington said, “do I have to tell you everything? We all get out there and look for him. Whoever finds him will have to find the others.”

“How do we—”

“We go out in twos,” Pennington said. “Seth, you’re with me. Waldo and Deke, you go south of town, Seth and I will go north.”

“Why don’t we just start at his hotel?” Seth asked as the other two left.

“At this time of the mornin’ he’s bound to already be up and around,” Pennington said. “Come on, we got things to do.”

“Hey,” Seth said, “if we find him first, we can just take him. Why do we need Waldo and Deke?”

“We’ll see,” Pennington said. “Let’s just decide that when the time comes, okay?”

Butler spent the afternoon checking on his horse, cleaning his guns, looking at some new boots, and then going back to the Bonanza to make sure there were new decks for the game that night. He didn’t know how many men would sit at the table with him and Doc, but he knew it would eventually come down to them. Except for Bat Masterson, there didn’t seem to be another poker player in town who could play with them at the same level.

So far he’d found his stopover in Trinidad both entertaining and dangerous. Where else would he have been able to meet Doc Holliday and the Earps? And being introduced to them by Bat Masterson had immediately put him on the inside. Wyatt had been impressive in both size and demeanor. Doc, while not physically imposing, was an imposing presence, nevertheless. As for Virgil, he’d found himself feeling sorry for him. But he didn’t know if he would have been able to face the prospect of a future with one arm as courageously as Virgil was.

And, in the short time he’d been there, he felt that he and Bat had become friends—even more friendly than he’d gotten with Jim Masterson in a much longer time period in Dodge. The only man he’d come away from Dodge feeling he was friends with was Neal Brown, and he had no idea what had become of him after Dodge City.

Butler was sitting at a table playing solitaire with a fresh deck when men started entering, bellying up to the bar and surveying the place to see what was going on.

Bat made rounds of the town, settled a couple of petty disputes, and then went back to his office. The first
thing he did was burn his hand when he tried to remove the deputy’s badge from the stove. He didn’t even know why he’d put the thing there. He had to use a kerchief to take it off, and then he laid it aside to cool off. He was lucky the damned thing hadn’t melted. It would have been hell to clean, and he would have had to pay to replace it.

He made a mental note to get more deputy’s stars made up.

He settled in behind his desk and wondered what kind of trouble he might get into over this phony warrant. There was certainly no one else who could have asked him for such a favor other than Wyatt Earp.

He found himself wondering exactly the same thing Butler had been wondering earlier—what was it about Wyatt Earp that commanded the friendship and loyalty of men like himself and Doc Holliday? He was not able to answer it as succinctly as Doc Holliday had.