The Dead Man's Hand

"You fancy a tale of the west, do you? Even more specifically one from the year of our Lord, 1880. Pull yourself up a chair."

“Barkeep, a bottle and another glass if you don’t mind.”

I can spin a good yarn when I have a mind to, but I find that whiskey loosens the memory of those long ago days.

I don’t know much about anything, a little of everything though or so it seems. When you have spent most of your life astride a horse, looking at the world between their ears, you learn to see things differently. I don’t know where the Lord was in 1880, but I can say seldom was the case I found Him during my travels then.

“My name?”

Most folks in these parts call me Big Red, my Christian name though is Walker. The rest, we’ll let lay in the memories of forgone days of yesteryear. I was born in the cane breaks of Eastern Texas, about thirty miles south of Nacogdoches, little settlement called Lufkin near the Angelina River. It is said that my father came west out of Tennessee with a posse. More correctly, about ten miles ahead of it. He met my mother in a small community of Panola on the Sabine River.

I guess they took a shine to one another, for her Daddy married them after some time. I came along after almost two years of marriage, being the eldest of three, two boys and a girl. My mother’s family had some money somewhere, I was sent back east to be educated.

I am no authority on much just what I have seen with my own set of eyes. Many experiences have been woven into the fabric of my life. I’ve rode with the Lazy S, couple times over the trails to the railroad towns. Worked drag on couple a herds, eating nothing but dust by the light of day. Don’t ask me what a chuck wagon looks like, never seen one except in the shrouded hours of night. Second time up, I drew my wages, took a ride on a good dun colored mustang. That horse took me into the Powder River region, glorious country there.

However you have to look sharp, keep your powder dry, if you are aiming to keep your scalp. I have bathed in the sunset of the Rio Grande, and drank of the morning rains on Crazy Woman Creek. I tended bar for a time in a saloon called the Bon Ton down Pueblo way. When I got tired of being a reckless foolish youth, I moved back east, getting a degree in journalism. I plied my trade as a reporter, for a big paper, matters not which one. I wont speak ill of no man, who isn’t present to defend themselves. All I can say though is the editor there was one mean sonabitch.

I owe my practical education though to him. His endless forays to gawd knows where gave me numerous opportunities to hone my craft, damn near got me killed a time or two. Like the time in Denver, in the midst of winter’s hold. It was midst of January, 1880, I was ensconced at the Golden Spike Hotel. Hate to admit it, but the paper took care of those who care of them.

The Spike, was a plum of rare beauty in a coming town near the furtherest reaches of society. Marbled floors, mosaic tile adorned the walls, leaded crystal chandeliers hung in the lobby. My suite was neatly furnished with the essentials, as well as a writing desk. Couple of wonderfully carved credenzas fleshed out the wholeness of the dwelling.

I was minding my own, reading a paper in the lobby. Just having lit a cigarillo, I noticed a man of some means walk through the door. Being a journalist I tend to notice things, all manner of things. You learn sociology with a liberal dose of psychology as you observe your fellow man.

I had resumed skimming the local paper, listening slightly to the patron checking in. It was with the deep inhale, that the name floated through the air. With the strongest of effort, I covered my cough of surprise. There at the desk, stood a man of some reputation, if true, my ship of fortune had come in.

Rising slowly, I went and inquired of the desk clerk, giving the porter time to gather the man’s belongings and show him to his suite. There on the register, written with an obvious grace, Dr. John H. Holliday. Feeling my good fortune, I threw Pat, the clerk a $20 gold piece, tipped my bowler.

You see, I had only recently come to Denver enroute to Arizona. I had been dispatched to do an article or two on frontier law. Having grown up in Texas, and come over the trail a time or two myself, I could move amongst any element, dress for any crowd. I often spent time away from the hustle and bustle of the Eastern cities. I prefer the scenes of the open West , the determination of the people populating the frontier. When the assignment had come down, I jumped at it like stench on a three day old carcass.

I have heard of towns like Prescott, Hayes City, Wichita and Tombstone. I walked the boardwalks of Abilene and Dodge City myself. Equally well known were men like Masterson, Hickok, and Earp. I had high hopes to set a spell with men like them, if not themselves. Yet here in Denver, Lady Luck smiled upon me, sometimes favoring the foolish. I had just encountered one of the deadliest men of the era, or should I say… rumored to be so.

Anyway I digress from the story. Here let me frame the town for you, through words of observation. To understand men like Holliday, you have to also acquaint oneself with their surroundings. It is one thing to note a man’s appearance, another to know his habits. Both are equally telling of the individual.

There in Denver the sporting district comprised several blocks of Blake Street, the district is known as the Tenderloin. If you were apt at a sporting game of chance, numerous dives or saloons sought to fleece you should you indulge your whims. One street over, to the north was Holladay Street, home of the red light district as it were. Known as the Row, here you would find ample choices of sin Satan himself wouldn’t partake in. Women stood in the windows, advertising themselves, by the trick or by the hour. Simple dollar cribs or parlors of expensive bordellos, depending on your taste and bank roll. A den of flesh served up with a touch of any vice you can imagine.

Now myself, I cannot attest to the reliability of any service offered. I have never dabbled in the arts of the feminine frame, in such surroundings. I myself am clothed in celibacy and my feet are shod with commitment.

In all of my travels, only one woman has ever garnered my whole attention, spoken to my spirit, becoming the keeper of my devotion. When you find the one who speaks to you in such a way, you are forever transformed, never the same again.

As one writer once penned, “Her smile is a glory to the blood, a spark to the spirit, carrying a richer wine than any sold across the bar of a frontier saloon.”*

That smile has stayed with me many a moon. It has warmed me on the loneliest of nights in the most far away of places. Always she travels with me, no matter the distance between us. See even now she has appeared in this tale, what more can I attest to.

Back to the task at hand, in the coming month I would slowly solicit an acquaintance with Doc Holliday. Often times my day would begin by the ritual of shaving, standing in my trousers, suspenders hanging loosely at the sides. Having finished, I never failed to apply some bay rum to the face. A telling scent of the days in which we live, yes? Quickly I would finish dressing with a fine shirt tailored to fit impeccably. Pulling the suspenders into place, I would grab my coat of broadcloth. With no wasted movement I would find my way to the parlor for breakfast. Here over time and observation, I begin to know Doc.

He was a man of habit, as we all can become without notice. His breakfast, much like mine comprised of eggs, toast, and coffee. However he ate sparingly, more so than any other man I knew. Never did I know him to eat during the day unless lightly at all. However, there was always a flask of bourbon, at hand. He said it helped to stifle the cough, and he claimed it was the sole reason he continued to draw breath.

I placed him around thirty years of age, however his appearance was often deceiving. You see Holliday was in the throes of consumption, a “lunger“, a distasteful term of the day. Having been diagnosed shortly after graduation from Pennsylvania Dental College, his condition dictated a change in occupation. He stood around 5’7” to 5’9” in height, but appeared vulnerable to a harsh wind. Seemingly at risk to be displaced anytime a breeze would find its’ way down the streets. Deception can be found in the most surprising of places.

His appearance was immaculate, dressed as a man of means as well as a Southern gentleman of culture. He had been educated in the classics, languages like Latin. Phrases like In Vino Veritas would sometimes be heard to fall from his lips in the deadliest of whispers. A pianist of moderate degree, you could occasionally find him favoring you with a spirited rendition of Bach or other compositions.

Now Holliday, was not one to speak of himself, nor one who invited questioning. I knew than I would have to proceed with great caution. Outside, that year, the winds of the frigid north howled, bringing snow with some regularity. While inside, as the days passed, I carefully built a bond with him. We had several things in common. Both educated, in a time when education was not always the steadfast rule. Both of us, from the south, that hapless victim of Lincoln’s minions.

No, I wish not to speak of the conflict that tore this country asunder in 1863 forward. Only to say that even today, there are still fresh wounds. Every family I can call by name is still living with the effects. Rather those effects be of armed weapons belching a chorus of hell or a mob of carpetbaggers looting the states afterwards.

John and I would sit at times over dinner, discussing things of commonality or interest. More times than not, it seemed he would interview me. We spoke of Georgia, his home state, his patrician family somewhat as well. He spoke of the beauty of the country, the beauty of the fairer sex there. His words though sparse were often times filled with a vividness born of a sharp mind, keen intellect.

I myself had traveled through parts of his home state, having seen the peach trees heavily laden with blossoms. In addition I could wholeheartedly agree to his recollections of all things there. One has only to listen to a woman there speak, to know that even butter can be found to melt in the middle of December.

Most times, dinner for me would be a beef steak with a side of vegetables, couple cups of coffee. I faintly remember how Doc would chuckle every time I’d order from a new waitress. When asked how I liked my steak, I’d tell them to cut off its’ horns, wipe its’ nasty ass and throw it on the plate. When I cut into a piece of beef, I want to hear the damn thing bellow. He’d sit there, oftentimes looking out through the plate glass window toward the darkened sky of the East.

After a tonic of good bourbon, I’d sometimes join him as he strolled down to the Progressive Club. Most late evenings into the early morning hours, you would find him at a reserved table. Doc could deal faro, or most any game of sport for the day. None the less, his calling he found by playing poker. Stud, or draw mattered not to him, he had a quick eye for shenanigans, even faster for counting cards.

Other nights we might take in an opening at the Alcazar Theatre, where the likes of Josephine Marcus could ease the mind. Dramas, tragedies mattered not, both of us could recognize, appreciate the bewitching power of live theatre. In a spotlight’s cidered glow, tales of the Bard would be played out. With much more frequency, the stage would be inhabited by an angel of the first order, whose voice testified of a higher being. Beneath the stage lights, numerous companies played to a earnest yet restless crowd.

“Barkeep, another bottle and a couple of those hand rolled cigarillos if you don’t mind.”

“Excuse me, you don’t mind if I smoke do you? If so, just push your chair back a little further, I’ll speak a little louder. Like my granddaddy always said, I won’t blow smoke in your face, if you don’t spit in mine.”

“Where were we? Oh yes, I am sorry at my age my train of thought often times gets derailed. I do apologize, it is the victim of aged happenstance. You too shall one day feel its’ wrath, I am afraid.”

I have shared all of this to speak of this one event. How I nearly lost my life, through my association with Holliday. Now all men went heeled, armed I mean. I carried a forty four myself, in addition to a pocket derringer. Doc, carried a shoulder holster, as well as a Colt Peacemaker in a traditional holster and belt. In his breast pocket, was a sheathed dagger honed to a sharpened edge. Word had it, he had once sliced a man’s jaw from ear to neck. Laying aside the meat of the jowl, to where the sun caught the glint of teeth arrayed in a bloody gore.

This night, I was late in arriving for dinner, having to eat alone. As I walked the boardwalks, my feet sounded softly on the landings. A product of my years spent hunting out of doors. As I progressed, the street lighters were out, for Denver had gas fueled streetlights. A true rarity for many towns west of the Mississippi.

I arrived at the Progressive Club to find Doc sitting at his table surrounded by four men.

I learned later two were cattle buyers, one a thespian from a traveling troupe, another a wayward merchant in over his head. The stakes were ten dollar ante, fifty dollar limit with three raises max. One the cattle buyers name was Pendleton, with a company out of Chicago. The other a real hothead by the name of Duphrain from parts unknown. The names of the other two are lost to me now.

After several rounds the thespian had cashed out, and I took the empty seat. I had always liked pushing the limits a time or two. While I was not in the leagues with the likes of Doc, my play had steadily improved since I had arrived.

The deal rotated around to myself, I called five card draw, dealing the cards out left to right, round the table. Doc had first bet, and seemed to be surmising his cards for some time. Duphrain, tried to rush him by calling a limit to the time, seeking for him to be made to fold. No such rule had ever been mentioned prior to the start of the evening, therefore his words were of no great benefit to him. Doc bet ten, Pendleton called along with Duphrain. The merchant folded as did I. I dealt two cards to Doc, and three to each of the cattle buyers. Doc bet twenty, Pendleton folded while Duphrain raised ten. Doc re-raised another ten, followed by the final re-raise. With another lengthy pause, Doc took a drag off of a hand rolled cigarette. With impatience wearing a hole in his soul, Duphrain challenged Doc by calling him a coward.

“Either call you yellow bastard, or fold the damn cards.”

Being one to speak to a matter if need be, I asked, "Duphrain, did you get out of bed this morning wishing to have his ass whipped?"

Now don’t misunderstand, Doc needed no one to pick up his slack. Yet I had grown tired of this windbag with each passing minute. With a sudden surprise of shock, I gathered my broad frame, standing quickly. Pendleton, tried to calm the situation, while Doc said, “Walker take a seat, a fool and his money are quickly separated.”

Giving a cold glare of indifference, it mattered not to me, rather Duphrain found himself shot or split from stem to sternum. As long as it deprived my ears of his habitual whining.

With his call, Duphrain showed three lovely ladies. Doc, characteristically laid down his as Duphrain reached for the pot. Doc too had filled his three of a kind making three tens with a pair of matching twos.

I laughed as Duphrain’s angry eyes beheld the full house. With no short retort, or needling of his victim, Doc raked in the pot.

Duphrain became belligerent, threatening all manner of evil. Finally, he had blown his steam off, the play resumed. Never had I known Holliday to tolerate such behavior. I thought he must have been off his feed somehow. The deal passed once more around to Duphrain who called five card draw. Without fail, since the last outburst, the game had garnered some unwanted attention. I wondered if any of the onlookers were friends of Duphrain’s.

Taking a look at his pocket watch, the merchant excused himself from the game leaving but the four of us. Pendleton and I were each ahead about three hundred, while Doc was up over a thousand. Most of it having come from his nemesis at the other end of the table.

The cards were dealt round once more, I found myself staring at a pair of cowboys. I opened the bidding at ten dollars, everyone called until Duphrain raised twenty. I took a hunch, staying in the hand as did Doc. Pendleton folded once more being a tight player to say the least. I took three more cards as we all did. Once again I opened the betting, placing a twenty dollar bet on two pair, cowboys over sevens. Doc called, with no surprise that Duphrain raised another ten. Inside my head, I knew by instinct, I was only a fleeting thought in this battle of nerves. However I called, Doc raised and with a look of absolute joy, a final raise was called on my right once more.

Now my throat was as dry as the hard baked western plains of my native state. I took a swallow of rye, liking the warming sensation as it flowed downward. I figured, what the hell, if nothing else it’d make one grand story for a woman with a knowing smile. I called, as did Doc. The cattle buyer was beside himself with glee, showing two pair with aces and eights. I mucked my losing hand, with a knowledge of tension so thick, it hung like freezing fog in the Rockies.

Suspiciously Doc asked me to turn over my hand, totally a breach of poker etiquette. Duphrain suddenly bolted upright and challenged the request. Now I knew there must be some reason for the inquiry into my muck. With a steadiness of my hand, I turned over the cards, showing all. Doc immediately laid down his hand, revealing the same down to the kicker.

Erupting in laughter, Duphrain begins to reach for his winnings, only to be stopped by the sudden flash of a dagger into the table at the side of his hands.

With agility, Duphrain, reaches for his holster, as the sound of Doc’s Peacemaker fills the air with three shots coming so quickly, they seemed to be as one. All the while Pendleton made a play for the winnings, drawing as well. With a bit more time, he might have made it for his gun was level, as he faced Doc. Doc’s fourth round hit him in the his left shoulder spinning back towards me. As the Colt leveled two more rounds into the man, his own pistol went off. His bullet found its’ way into my shoulder.

With the confusing sound of gunfire, smell of smoke and gunpowder assaulting the nose at close range, it took a moment for the head to clear. As my eyes once more focused with clarity, I found the town marshal standing near. Evidently the bartender had sent for him prior to the last round having been played out. With him as a witness, Doc reached over and pulled a deck of cards from the breast pocket of the cattle buyer.

Being a faro dealer at times, Doc knew the tell tale signs of shaved cards. Detecting them on cards not previously noted, he paid rapt attention to the deal. He had reasoned Duprain, with sleight of hand introduced a cold deck into the game. Being the sole survivors, with matching hands, Doc and I split the winnings. He then walked with me to the town doctor’s office.

The shingle hanging on the clapboard building read Gaylen Adams, M.D. As we walked in I heard Holliday reminding the marshal of one bit of poker knowledge Duphrain must have forgotten. That aces and eights were quickly becoming known as the dead man’s hand.