Bucking the Tiger (6 page)

“I haven't heard a damn thing about him since then,” Caleb said with a steely tone in his voice. “And it's like Earl never even existed. He got half a sentence in the obituaries, a pauper's burial, and that was that.”

“The matter is not resolved, I assure you. It's just a matter of patience,” Doc said as he flipped over the top card to reveal the five of diamonds, “and waiting for the proper time to make a move.”

Caleb twitched and immediately took the card he thought he'd replaced and flipped it over. It was the nine of clubs. “Dammit,” he said under his breath.

“You're getting better,” Doc said with a grin. “Just keep practicing.”

It was ten o'clock the next morning when someone knocked on Doc's door. The sound was just enough to make it through the flimsy wood, but not quite loud enough to make it through the fog that filled Doc's head at the moment. When the knock came again, it was strong enough to rattle the door on its hinges.

“Come in before I start shooting through that door,” Doc snarled.

The door opened, allowing Doc's nose to immediately pick up on the smell of potatoes, cooked buffalo meat, and something else that put a fond spark in his eyes.

“Did someone finally hunt down some grits?”

The man holding the tray of food stepped in and set the tray down on the small table normally reserved for a washbasin. He took a quick survey of the room using intent, close-set eyes and then shut the door behind him.

Doc sat on the edge of his bed, wearing trousers and an undershirt. He held a newspaper in his hands, but lowered it when he saw that the man was still in the room. “Is it fair to assume you're not just here to deliver my breakfast?”

“Yes, Holliday. It is.”

After lowering the paper, Doc asked, “And would it also be fair to assume your name is Boyer?”

The surprise on Boyer's face registered as something slightly more than a twitch in the corner of one eye. He twitched again when he noticed the gun holstered beneath Doc's arm.

“You're not the only one who remembers a name or two,” Doc said. “Since you didn't pay for that food, why don't you step aside so that I may indulge myself?”

“Be my guest,” Boyer said as he clasped his hands like a preacher and stepped to one side. “I hope you don't mind a little company while you eat.”

“A guest who doesn't expect to be fed? What better situation is there?”

“A better situation for you would be to pay your dues like the rest of the gamblers in Fort Griffin before some bad luck befalls you.”

Doc crossed his room in less than two full steps and took the fork from the side of the plate. He cut off a hunk of tough buffalo meat, dipped it in some of the grits, and wolfed it down. “Bad luck? Oh, you mean like the luck that was dumped on the head of Lottie Deno's unfortunate lookout?”

Without a flinch or even a spark of emotion, Boyer said, “You're a smart man, Holliday. Is it true you used to be a dentist back in Dallas?”

“And other places. I've been looking around for a spot to hang my shingle here, but these cowboys don't seem to be concerned with oral hygiene.”

Boyer couldn't help but smirk at the thought of any one of the dirty cowpokes squirming in a dentist's chair. “You're not like the other men I talk to, Holliday. You seem to have a head on your shoulders that's good for something other than counting cards.”

“Why, thank you.”

“Because you seem like a friendly sort, I'll pay you the compliment of being honest with you. The people I represent take a piece from all the gambling operations in Fort Griffin as well as many other spots on the circuit. Some might say that we're the reason there even is a circuit.”

“I've always wondered about that,” Doc said as he continued eating his breakfast. In between bites, he poured some of the contents of his own flask into the cup of coffee that had already been sitting at his bedside.

Boyer nodded, picking up on the smugness in Doc's tone and not approving of it one bit. “By keeping on our good side, gamblers like yourself can set up shop in saloons, run things the way you see fit, and conduct your business with a minimal amount of trouble from the law.”

“How generous.”

“All we ask in return is a small percentage of your profits.”

“And when there are no profits?” Doc asked.

“A small fee, which many consider to be the simple price of thriving within your chosen profession. Other folks pay their taxes and such. There's no reason why you should be any different.”

Doc's eyes widened as he got to his feet and straightened up. “Oh! You're a representative of the government? I did not realize, sir. I do try to keep up on paying taxes and the like. After all, it is what keeps this grand country of ours—”

“I've allowed you a certain amount of slack due to your condition,” Boyer interrupted. “But don't think, for one moment, that I will extend you such a courtesy if you try my patience.”

Doc kept right on eating his breakfast and sipping his coffee.

“Do you want to make a name for yourself on the circuit?” Boyer asked.

“That's the idea.”

“Then you'll have to abide by the rules. You pay us five percent of your profits, which will be collected on a monthly basis.”

“And I just hand over the money to yourself or someone else who claims to be collecting a gambler's tax?”

“You'll know us because we'll claim to represent the Tiger.”

“How colorful.”

Boyer nodded without a hint of humor. “When you hear that, you'll pay what you owe or you won't be allowed to run a game or play in one that's anything more than gin rummy dealt in a sewing circle.”

By this time, Doc had continued eating while also managing to get himself situated so the table was between him and Boyer. Within the confines of that cramped room, it made him feel a whole lot better.

“I suppose everyone pays this outrageous fee?” Doc asked.

“In time, the tributes can be lowered. That is, if you prove to be worthy of such a consideration. If you have a particularly fruitful month, we'll accept less than our percentage.”

“Just so long as you get more than normal on those months,” Doc pointed out.

“We're not being unreasonable, Dr. Holliday. Merely requesting a fee for a valuable service. Within our good graces, you'll find it a whole lot easier to get into games or even open your own in practically every saloon on the circuit.

“Fall out of our graces,” Boyer added, “and we'll see to it that your name is uttered in the same breath as words such as amateur, untrustworthy, poor cheater, and high risk. Things like that won't bode well for a sporting man's career.”

“Ironic, but true.”

“So, do we have a deal?”

Doc sipped his coffee and let the whiskey-soaked brew roll around in his mouth as he furrowed his brow thoughtfully. After setting the cup down, he picked up his plate and moved some of the food around. He set that down as well, but not on the table.

“A man doesn't get a good reputation by having vermin like yourself speaking on his behalf,” Doc said.

“And I suppose lying about your own exploits is any better?”

“At least I'm making my own way.”

“A very short way if you make the wrong decision right now.”

Nodding as a bit of fire glinted in his eyes, Doc said, “Let's find out, shall we?”

With that, Doc bent at the knees and slapped his left hand against the bottom of the table. As the table upended and landed noisily on its side, he dropped down behind it while making a quick grab for the pistol holstered under his arm.

Boyer was caught off his guard by the sudden move, but was quick to react in response to it. While dropping to one knee, Boyer drew his own pistol and fired a quick shot at Doc. The gunfire exploded within the little room and punched a hole through the table directly in front of him.

Doc could feel the lead whip past his knee after it had cut through the table like warm butter. He'd cleared leather by now and fired a shot of his own, which chipped off a healthy chunk of wood as it tore through the edge of the tabletop. Rather than pick his next shot with the same patience Boyer was displaying, Doc focused his gaze on his target and pointed his gun as if he were pointing his own finger.

Three more shots blasted through the room.

One of them came from Boyer as he straightened up to shoot over the table.

The next two came from Doc, both of which drew blood.

For a moment, Boyer stood his ground and blinked a few times in quick succession. He kept hold of his gun, but wasn't quite able to raise his arm enough to point it at the slender man who now walked calmly around the table.

As the burnt black powder drifted into his nose, Doc felt it irritate the tender strip at the back of his throat. When he started coughing, it seemed as if he wouldn't be able to stop until the taste of blood welled up on the back of his tongue.

“This is precisely the sort of thing…my physician warned against,” Doc said in between vicious coughs.

As Boyer dropped to his knees, he reached with his free hand to his own bloody torso. There was a blackened spot on his side, but it was the dark pool of blood soaking into his gut that concerned him even more. When he took his next breath, it was accompanied by a powerful, jabbing pain.

While keeping his gun trained on Boyer, Doc reached out with his free hand to take hold of the coffee that he'd saved by placing it on the edge of his bed. He sipped it and let out a relieved breath as the warm, liquor-laced brew went down his throat. “I'm a great admirer of irony. Considering the facts, I'd say it's ironic that you're on the floor coughing while I'm still on my feet.”

Boyer tried to get up, but the effort of doing so brought another agonizing stab into his gut. When he dropped down, he landed with his hand pressing down on top of his gun just to keep from falling over.

“And considering what I've heard about what you did to Miss Deno's lookout,” Doc continued, “this becomes ironic on another level.”

“Shut…up,” Boyer snarled through gritted teeth.

Doc holstered his gun and squatted so he could get down to Boyer's level. “Tell me more about this Tiger,” he said while calmly taking Boyer's gun out from under his trembling hand.

“You're a…dead…man.”

“I knew that already. Tell me something else.”

“You won't…get away…with this.”

As Boyer said that, Doc heard footsteps and excited voices outside his room. He stepped over the fallen man and glanced out into the hall. After stepping out for a minute or so, Doc returned and grabbed hold of Boyer under both arms.

“You're going across the hall,” Doc said as he dragged the man out the door. Fortunately for him, his words and actions were enough to get Boyer kicking and struggling again. That kicking made it a little easier for Doc to move the man the short distance from one room to the other. Even though Boyer was fairly slight of build, the effort of dragging him brought a layer of sweat to Doc's brow.

“Tell me whatever you need to tell me,” Doc said. “In my professional opinion, you haven't much time left.”

Boyer was glancing around in disbelief. Judging by the look in his eyes, he was having just as much trouble accepting that he'd been shot as he was in believing who'd shot him. “There are…others…”

“How many others?” Doc asked.

The footsteps outside were getting closer as the folks inside the boardinghouse were gathering enough courage to approach the spot where they'd heard the shots.

Doc stepped across the room to the window and pushed it open. It wasn't until then that he spotted the saddlebags propped in one corner and the dirty shirt crumpled near the bed.

“Who's your connection with the law?” Doc asked. “Who's the crooked one wearing the badge?”

Boyer shifted and looked at Doc with confusion as more and more of the color drained from his face.

Once it was obvious that no more shots were forthcoming, the owner of the boardinghouse made her way up the stairs and down the narrow hall. She was a lady in her early sixties and had eyes that rarely missed a thing. She didn't make ends meet, however, by pointing those sharp eyes too long in the direction of the people who were put up in her rooms by the saloon owners. Of course, she wasn't about to be a party to murder, either.

“Hello?” she called down the hall. “Were those gunshots?”

She knocked on one door and then another while working her way down the hall. Most of her boarders had fled, but she knew it would take an act of God to get the blond consumptive out of his room before noon. Before she could knock on his door, she saw it come open and Doc stick his head out.

He wore a baffled expression as he asked, “Who's renting that room?”

“Some young man in on a cattle drive,” she replied.

“I don't know what he's up to, but those noises came from in there. Stand aside, ma'am,” Doc said as he stepped into the hall and placed his hand on his holstered Colt. “Better let me see to this.”

Boyer was nothing but a husk, and Doc did a fairly good job of acting surprised at having found him.