Buffalo Trail (6 page)

McLendon planned to lose himself in San Francisco or some other California city. On the way, he detoured to the small mining community of Glorious in Arizona Territory, where Gabrielle and her father now
operated a dry goods store. He hoped to persuade Gabrielle to come to California with him—they would start a new life there. But Gabrielle had put her St. Louis heartbreak behind her by starting a new romance with Joe Saint, the sheriff of tiny Glorious. Reluctantly staying in town while he tried to win her back, McLendon was drawn into a conflict between the townspeople and powerful rancher Collin MacPherson, who, like Rupert Douglass in St. Louis, wanted the owners of Glorious's few small businesses to sell out to him and move along. When they refused, he employed his own thugs to force them out. Thinking of others instead of himself for one of the few times in his life, McLendon helped the townspeople thwart MacPherson's plans. But in the process he was betrayed to Douglass by someone he trusted, and had to flee again when Killer Boots unexpectedly appeared at the end of a frantic night gun battle between the townspeople and MacPherson's Mexican vaqueros. He thought that leaving Gabrielle behind to marry Joe Saint—she probably had a baby by now—was the worst thing that could ever happen.

Then, through a combination of his own stupidity and bad luck, he found himself in Dodge City, and realized that he was wrong.

•   •   •

W
HEN
M
C
L
ENDON ESCAPED
Killer Boots in Arizona Territory in the late summer of 1872, he traveled south and east, reasoning that his pursuer would expect him to continue west. He was certain that he would be running for the rest of his life. Killer Boots would never abandon pursuit until his boss ordered him to, and Rupert Douglass was not a man to ever give up. McLendon did his best to throw off pursuit. He sometimes used the pseudonym H. F. Sills, the name of a railroad man he'd known back in St. Louis. The constant fear of turning a corner to find Killer Boots waiting, combined with his terrible sense of guilt for Ellen's death and his anguish at losing Gabrielle, haunted McLendon
whenever he closed his eyes at night. The more he tried not to think about any of it, the more he obsessed. He rarely slept more than two or three hours a night. He believed that his nerves would never mend, and, remembering his accidental complicity in Ellen's death, thought he deserved it.

There was one advantage. For the present and at least for the short term, money was no problem for McLendon—he still had nearly seven hundred dollars of the money he'd taken from Rupert Douglass's safe in St. Louis. He thought he'd disappear into Texas for a few months to throw Killer Boots off the scent, then resume his flight to California. San Francisco sounded like the kind of city where a smart, ambitious young man could avoid much notice while still making a good living.

Traveling mostly by stage, McLendon lingered awhile in Austin and San Antonio, enjoying the latter so much, with its constant
fiesta
atmosphere, that he considered staying there. He started using his real name again—surely Killer Boots would never look for him in such a far-flung place. Gradually, he felt a little safer. So long as he avoided attracting attention and remained far away from the remorseless thug's home base of St. Louis, he would probably be all right. But in the end the town didn't seem quite sophisticated enough. McLendon had enjoyed enough of the fine life in St. Louis to want it again, so in May 1873 he set out once more, intending to reach San Francisco sometime in the summer. Rather than ride the main stage from San Antonio to Houston and then turn west, he decided to take a series of smaller stage lines, just in case Killer Boots had spies watching major city depots. That was how, in early June, he found himself in Fort Griffin, a desolate Army post and adjacent town in West Texas. It was a crossroads of sorts for drummers and gamblers, and McLendon was stuck there for three days while a broken axle on his stage was repaired. He checked into a bug-infested hotel and tried to catch up on his sleep, but as usual he was haunted by
regrets and lay awake most of the night. By the end of his second day there, he decided to distract himself by seeking out whatever entertainment Fort Griffin had to offer.

A poker game was in progress in a town saloon; sipping beer, McLendon watched as the hands were played and relatively small stakes were won and lost. The four players consisted of two off-duty Army sergeants, a fat drummer who'd come to town on the same stage as McLendon, and a wraithlike, coughing fellow with fierce eyes who took most of the pots.

“Goddamn, it's your lucky night, Doc,” one of the sergeants complained. “I might as well hand over what's left of my pay and save myself additional trouble.”

“Suit yourself,” the emaciated fellow grunted. He was wracked by a coughing spasm. Another onlooker whispered to McLendon that the man's name was John Henry Holliday. He was called Doc because of his dental practice in Dallas, where he'd just won the grand prize at the Dallas County Fair for crafting the best set of false teeth.

“Doc's got consumption something awful and prefers poker to pulling teeth,” the fellow told McLendon. “He comes this way every other month or so, cleans out whoever he plays with, and goes back home.”

“Does he, now?” McLendon said. “Is he that skilled a player?”

“We all think he's benefiting from marked decks or other tricks, but we dassn't make the accusation. Doc's got a bad temper, and is quick to go for his gun.”

McLendon watched the game a while longer, trying to discern how Doc was cheating. The dentist always agreed whenever any of his playing partners asked for a fresh deck of cards. When it was his turn to deal, his short cuffs rode high up on his forearms—no cards were concealed there. As he studied Doc, McLendon switched from beer to whiskey. The bite of the hard liquor relaxed him. He had two glasses and
called for a third. By the time he'd drained that one, he found himself thinking that maybe Doc wasn't cheating. Maybe he was just good at poker. McLendon hadn't played cards much, but he'd always suspected he would be an excellent gambler, since he was adept at reading expressions and guessing what others were thinking.

Just then the drummer lost his last few dollars and quit the game. Doc glanced around at the onlookers and said in a syrupy Southern drawl, “We're down a man. Who's the next huckleberry?”

McLendon said impulsively, “That would be me.” He got another drink before he went over to the table, carefully setting the glass down so the liquor wouldn't spill. He and the two sergeants shook hands and introduced themselves, but when he held out his hand to Holliday, Doc asked sharply, “Can you pay off if you lose? I want to see your money.”

“By all means,” McLendon said. Feeling reckless, he pulled a wad of bills from his boot, his remaining stake of about five hundred dollars. He was pleased to hear a collective sharp intake of breath from the onlookers, and even Doc Holliday nodded approvingly.

“You can afford to participate,” he said. “Now let's see if you can play.”

The first hand was exhilarating for McLendon. The two sergeants soon folded their hands, and McLendon found himself gazing at Doc Holliday over a pot of nearly twenty dollars.

“How many cards will you have?” the dentist asked courteously. He was dealing. McLendon, who had a pair of jacks, asked for three cards, and one was a third jack. Doc took two cards. Trying hard not to look too confident, McLendon chewed on his lower lip a moment before raising the pot by five dollars.

“The rich stranger isn't afraid to push,” Holliday announced to the crowd. “I believe I'll just test his mettle.” He matched McLendon's five dollars and raised him another five. McLendon made a show of trying to decide what to do, then called Doc's raise. The dentist slapped down a
hand with three tens and reached for the money in the middle of the table.

“Not so fast,” McLendon said, and showed his jacks. Holliday, obviously impressed by such coolheaded calculation, grinned ruefully and tipped his hat.

McLendon's luck held. He won several more pots, once bluffing his way to victory with only a pair of treys. After a while the two sergeants were cleaned out, and McLendon was up by almost ninety dollars. Instead of calling for new players, Doc suggested that he and McLendon play a two-man game “so the best player can be determined.” Fortified by several more drinks, McLendon agreed. He was having fun, and for the first time in quite a while wasn't obsessing about Ellen's death, Killer Boots on his trail, or Gabrielle and Joe Saint being in each other's arms back in Arizona Territory. It was a fine thing to have a little recreation. The last months had been hard going, and he'd earned a chance to enjoy himself.

Doc and McLendon dueled at the card table for several more hours. McLendon still won more hands than he lost, but the pots Doc took were usually bigger. They both drank hard while they played. Doc didn't show any effects from the liquor and McLendon didn't think he did, either, though it seemed to him that the stakes must have been gradually raised because suddenly every hand involved a hundred dollars or more. McLendon studied the dentist's face closely, but there was nothing to read in his eyes but a certain belligerent gleam.

Sometime around four in the morning, when he'd lost count of the drinks he'd consumed and the number of hands that had been played, McLendon suddenly found most of his money on the table, matched by a high pile of Doc's. How did that happen? He wasn't sure.

“How many cards?” Doc asked impatiently, punctuating his words
with coughs. The dentist dabbed at his lips with a handkerchief and McLendon thought he saw a red smear on the linen.

“What?”

“How many cards?”

McLendon studied his hand—two nines, two sevens, a deuce. “One, I suppose.”

Doc shot a card in his direction. Cash picked it up—a six.

“Dealer takes three. What's your bet?”

McLendon tried to cut through the alcohol haze enveloping his brain. Most of his stake was already on the table. If he won the hand, he could travel to San Francisco in style with enough left over to live on for months. He had two pair, and Doc had just drawn three cards. The odds were very much in McLendon's favor, and for a moment he thought a hesitant expression flickered across the dentist's face. McLendon pushed his last hundred dollars across the table and announced, “I'm putting it all in.”

“Well, now,” Doc said. He studied his own hand. “What the hell. Can't let you just walk away with it. I call.”

McLendon tossed out his nines and sevens. “Two pair.”

“Impressive.” Doc spread out his cards. “Three fours, two fives. Full house.” He had to use both hands to rake the massive pot over to his side of the table.

“Full house? When you drew three? Why, that's— You—”

Doc pulled back his coat and rested his palm on the butt of a handgun. “What are you saying?” he asked quietly, and everyone in the saloon shut up.

McLendon looked at Holliday's face and sobered up enough to see the eagerness for violence there. “Nothing. I'm not saying anything.”

“All right.” Doc stuffed the money into his pockets and walked out.

Afterward McLendon slumped on the plank sidewalk in front of the saloon, his battered valise at his feet. All he had packed in it were a rumpled suit, two shirts, a change of underdrawers,
The Last of the Mohicans
, and the Navy Colt .36 that he'd only fired on a single occasion, the climactic shootout in Glorious the previous summer. His head ached terribly as he considered his plight. He was stuck in Fort Griffin, Texas, with no money at all.

“Hey, fellow.” McLendon looked up and saw two straw-haired men standing over him. They'd been among the onlookers at the saloon. Even fighting his vicious hangover, McLendon took them for brothers because they looked so much alike, except that one was much taller than the other.

“You all right?” the taller man asked. “Lot of money you lost in there. Foolish thing, to take on Doc Holliday at poker. When it gets to the nut-cutting, the Doc never loses.”

“Well, I'm too often prone to be foolish and my nuts got cut,” McLendon groaned. “This is only the latest calamity I've brought on myself.”

The two men laughed. “We're all fools at times,” the short one said. “Come with us to get some breakfast. Things will look better on a full stomach.”

“I can't afford it. Doc Holliday took my last cent.”

The tall one said, “Come along, we'll buy.” They led McLendon to a small café and ordered hard-fried eggs, biscuits, and coffee. He introduced himself and learned that they were brothers named Isaac and Jacob Scheidler, though Jacob, for obvious reasons, answered to “Shorty.” The Scheidlers were teamsters who used their two wagons to transport freight for clients. They were in Fort Griffin to pick up a load of saddle tack for delivery to Fort Dodge, in Kansas.

“Once we unload there, we'll head a few miles west to Dodge City for recreation,” Isaac explained. “We'll spend the next few months taking
loads to Wichita and Kansas City; then in the spring, when the hide men in Dodge go out after buffalo, we'll hire on with them to haul their hides back into town. It's decent money and with luck we'll have steady hide-hauling work right through the fall.”

When they asked McLendon where he was headed, he said California. “Not that under my new impoverished circumstances I'm going to get there anytime soon. I'll have to scrounge for work here. Have you any suggestions?”

“Can you ride well?” Shorty asked. “Some of the ranchers in the area might be needing a good hand.”

“I can stay on a horse if it doesn't move too fast, but no more than that. What I'm good at is talking to people, making arrangements. I can do sums fairly well. I can read acceptably.”

Shorty shook his head. “In this part of the country, those are slender talents. I fear all you'll be good for is slop work, washing dishes or cleaning privies and such.”