The Accomplice (28 page)

“Sure it would.” The sheriff nodded to one of his men and said, “Go have a look at them cards. Why don’t you turn out your pockets as well, Holiday?”

Doc emptied his pockets as the deputy disappeared into Thompson’s. By the time Doc was finished, the younger lawman was already stepping back out onto the street.

“I don’t see anything here to be worried about,” Hopper said after patting Doc down. “What about those cards?”

“These were the ones on the table,” the deputy said as he handed over a deck. “I couldn’t find any marks on them.”

The sheriff ran his fingers along all sides of the deck. “Feels nice and even to me,” Hopper said with a grin.

“That’s impossible!” Weeks growled. Obviously not too concerned with paying the minor fine that accompanied playing with a crooked deck, he examined the cards himself. The more he traced along the edges of the deck, the more flustered he became. “These aren’t the cards! These aren’t the ones we played with, goddammit!”

“I trust my deputies just fine,” Sheriff Hopper said. “Looks like you’ll just have to reap what you’ve sown.”

Weeks gritted his teeth and nodded to himself. He made eye contact with each of his gunmen in turn, lingering only on one of them for more than a second. That single gunman nodded and immediately turned to head down the street.

The sheriff hauled Weeks toward the jail. His deputies followed behind him, carrying the pistols and shotguns that had been dropped by Weeks’s men. As soon as the lawmen rounded the first corner, all the owners of those weapons turned and scattered.

In no time at all, folks started walking in and out of the saloon as if it was just another night in Dallas.

“That was beautiful,” Caleb said as he walked out to stand beside Doc. “There were a few moments where I thought it was going to head south, but it turned out just great.”

Stepping up to them with his hat in hand, Steve let out a shaky breath. “Please tell me there’s nothing else you need me to do.”

“Take a drink,” Doc said as he offered his flask. “Looks like you need it.”

Steve did so gladly. As the whiskey burned its way down his throat, he wiped away the sweat that drenched him from the top of his head all the way down the front of his shirt. With a trembling hand, he took a deck of cards out of his jacket’s inner pocket. “I don’t think anyone saw me take these. As far as I could tell, nobody was paying much attention to me at all. Just like you said.”

“Trust me,” Caleb said as he took the cards and tucked them away in his own pocket, “if anyone saw you, we would’ve heard about it. You did a real good job, Steve.”

“You should thank Jen as much as me,” Steve said. “She was the one who got Sheriff Hopper to be here and wait for Weeks to come out.”

“Well, as far as I’m concerned, you worked off your debt and then some. You agree, Doc?”

“I was happy when you brought in so many players to my faro table,” Doc replied. “Everything after that was frosting on the cake.”

Although Steve seemed happy at first, he became visibly more nervous the more he thought things over. Finally, he let out the breath he’d been holding and said, “I guess I’ll just be happy I wasn’t killed tonight and leave it at that.”

Caleb let out a laugh. “I’ll even make sure you leave here with the same amount of money you brought in. How’s that?”

“Wonderful!” Steve said as a smile exploded onto his face. “That’s just wonderful! It’s been a real pleasure meeting you fellas.”

“You did us a real service,” Caleb said as he shook Steve’s hand. “But you might still want to head home before Weeks gets cut loose.”

When it was his turn to shake Steve’s hand, Doc added, “That is, unless you’d rather try a few more hands to see about doubling your money?”

“No thanks, Doc. Jen will be anxious to get moving.”

Caleb and Doc watched as Steve all but bounded down the street. Once the man was out of earshot, Doc said, “How about we take a look at your new saloon? There’s a bottle of imported scotch that I’ve had my eye on every time I’ve played here.”

“Let’s go and open her up,” Caleb said. “I think I could use some of that myself.”

Caleb felt pretty good about the way things had turned out. He’d managed to keep the Busted Flush, deal a satisfying blow to Bret Weeks, and even acquire a significant piece of another one of Dallas’s more profitable saloons. That night, Caleb got one of the best night’s sleep he’d had in some time.

Doc’s hearing came and went without a lot of fuss. Although most everyone else who’d been dragged in on that gambling sweep was set loose on a ten-dollar fine, Doc was charged one hundred dollars for the same privilege of sleeping in his own bed that night rather than in a jail cell. He paid it, tipped his hat, and left the newly opened courthouse.

The next few weeks were filled with talk and gossip regarding the arrest and pending hearing of Bret Weeks. Although most folks didn’t even know Weeks personally, the charges that were being filed were enough to shock anyone who hadn’t dealt with Weeks for themselves.

The most recent tidbit to reach the masses was splashed across the front of the
Dallas Weekly Herald
. It read: “Possible Bribery Charges Link Saloon Owner to Texas Rangers.” Caleb was reading those very words when he heard a familiar cough echoing through the main room of the Busted Flush.

“Where have you been, Doc?” Caleb asked after poking his head out of his office. “The courthouse has been closed for hours.”

“I had business to attend to,” Doc replied. “I am, after all, a prominent, educated professional that still has plenty to offer the citizens of Dallas.” When he saw the look on Caleb’s face, he added, “At least, that’s what Myers said.”

T. M. Myers had acted as surety to post Doc’s bail. Myers had even gotten Caleb out of more than a few scrapes throughout his time in Dallas.

Doc made his way to his normal spot at the bar, reached behind it, and found a bottle. Reflexively tensing to break the wrist of anyone making such a move, Hank stopped just short of swinging his arm. He grudgingly allowed Doc to take his drink as he slumped back down to read the section of newspaper Caleb had already finished.

“It won’t even be much of a trial,” Doc said. “More of a judicial formality.”

“Weeks will probably have even less to endure,” Caleb muttered.

“If anyone on his payroll had a hand in this, Weeks would be free as a bird by now,” Doc pointed out. “Also, if that is the case, then there really wasn’t much for us to do about it in the first place. I’m fairly satisfied with the irony of being the one to get him arrested for cheating.”

“But he’ll still have his day, and since nobody was actually killed, he’ll walk free sooner rather than later.”

After a few seconds, Doc nodded. “You’re probably right.” As he said that, he set down the bottle and pushed it close enough to Hank for the barkeep to reach out and reclaim it. “And he’ll be wanting to take back his saloon.”

“If you’re talking about Thompson’s, I intend on handing over what I won to the man who it rightfully belongs to.”

Doc’s eyes were focused on the wall behind the bar, although it was plain to see that he wasn’t really looking at anything in particular. “That’s probably for the best.”

Furrowing his brow, Caleb leaned against the bar so he could face Doc. The slender dentist had a bit of color in his cheeks and smelled like shaving cream. Even his clothes were none the worse for wear. “I was just wondering if . . . well . . . if going through all that trouble was really worth it. I mean, as far as Weeks was concerned.”

“We did what we could. No matter how crooked that Texas Ranger is, it’ll be hard for Weeks to make a move around here without being under someone’s watchful eye. Besides, I’m the one he’ll be after, and if he wants to find me, he’ll have to look a whole lot farther than Main Street.”

“Where did you have in mind, Doc?”

“I’m not certain just yet. I was considering Dennison. This place is getting to be more trouble than it’s worth.”

Caleb nodded and stepped up so he was standing right next to Doc. That way, he could speak without being overheard by Hank or anyone else. “That might not be a bad idea. Considering how things turned out, handing Weeks over to the law rather than killing him might not have been the best idea.”

Doc shrugged. “Learn as you go. Next time I’m dealing with a murderous, card-playing saloon owner, I’ll know better.”

Both men laughed at that one.

Tucking his flask into his pocket, Doc straightened up and extended his hand. “I need to make arrangements for wrapping up my practice before leaving town. If I don’t see you before I leave, I’ll try to look in on you the next time I visit.”

“Sure thing, Doc. I’ll make sure to keep the whiskey out of reach.”

After one last grin, Holliday turned and strode out of the Busted Flush. His steps were just as sure as a man who’d never had a drop of liquor pass his lips. Caleb still had no clue how Doc managed to stay upright after drinking the same amount it would take to drop a buffalo.

Caleb leaned back against his bar and rested both elbows on its edge. He could see the front door as well as the narrow front window, which had been so recently cleaned. He didn’t recognize the men outside right away. After studying their faces for more than a second, Caleb remembered them just fine.

“Hank, where’s the shotgun?”

The barkeep snapped to attention while still holding the newspaper in his hands. “Huh?”

“The shotgun. I need it.”

As he spoke, Caleb was stepping up to the window so be could get a better look outside. He could still only spot three of Weeks’s hired guns but didn’t have much faith in that being the final number.

When Hank brought the shotgun out from its spot behind the bar, the few regulars in there weren’t rattled by the sight of the weapon. The remaining customers were too wrapped up in their games to worry about much else.

“What’s the matter, Caleb?” Hank asked as he stepped up beside him.

Without taking his eyes off of the street, Caleb stepped even closer to the window. The moment he did, he regretted it. As soon as he was within a few inches of the glass, the men across the street started walking forward. Each of them had their eyes fixed upon the Flush as they reached into their long coats.

Too anxious to answer Hank’s question, Caleb snatched the shotgun from Hank’s hands. He expected to see the gunmen take similar weapons from beneath their coats, but was even more shaken when he saw what they were packing.

Instead of pistols or shotguns, two of the men carried bottles with rags stuffed into them. The third man stepped ahead of the others, gripping a brick in each hand. Before Caleb could do much of anything, those bricks were already being flung toward the window.

Caleb dropped to the floor. The only part of Hank that he could grab was the barkeep’s belt, but that was enough for him to be able to drag Hank down along with him. Both men hit the floor as the first brick smashed through plate glass.

The sound of breaking glass filled the saloon and was quickly followed by the thump of a brick pounding against the bar. A second brick crashed through the remains of the window, sailed over the bar, and made short work of the rectangular mirror that hung lengthwise behind a shelf of liquor bottles.

Caleb winced at the sound of more breaking glass. With his body pressed against the floor, he could feel the patter of broken shards raining down onto him. Just outside the window, heavy steps thumped against the boardwalk.

Throughout the saloon, folks were shouting or stumbling over each other to get away from the window.

The gunman who’d tossed the bricks stepped aside while fishing a smaller bottle from his pocket. The other two jumped in front of the window, carrying full-sized bottles in their hands. The man at the front of that group extended his free arm and scraped a match along a nearby post and touched the little flame to the end of the rag sticking out of his bottle. After lighting the rag in the other man’s bottle, he flicked away the match and cocked his arm back.

The Flush’s window was nothing more than an open space with a few rows of stubborn glass that looked more like jagged teeth. Aiming for a spot in between those teeth, the first man prepared to toss his bottle into the saloon. Before he could complete the throw, he saw Caleb stand up, bring a shotgun to his shoulder, and pull his trigger.

The weapon exploded in a thunderous, smoky roar. Hot lead spewed from the barrel, shattering the bottle in midair while also tearing off a good portion of the hand that held it.

Before the man realized he’d been hit, alcohol from his own bottle sprayed across him, and sparks from his fiery rag set the alcohol on his clothes to burning. With blood still spraying through the air behind his mutilated hand, he was soon engulfed in crackling flames.

Still holding his own bottle at the ready, the second gunman watched in wide-eyed horror as his partner began a stumbling, frantic dance to try and put out the fire that consumed him. When he turned and saw Caleb standing there with shotgun in hand, he tossed his own bottle straight at him.

Caleb gritted his teeth and emptied the shotgun’s second barrel while ducking out of the bottle’s path. Although he heard a bit of glass chipping, he knew he’d missed his target.

“Son of a bitch!” Caleb shouted as the bottle slammed against the wall no more than a few feet away.

He could hear the roar of a fire and could feel its heat on his face. The next thing Caleb felt was himself being roughly hauled from his feet.

“Get the hell away from there!” Hank shouted as he grabbed Caleb’s arm and pulled him back.

Caleb stumbled backward and soon found himself landing hard on his rump. Even as a good amount of air was knocked from his lungs, he was still opening the shotgun and pulling out the spent shells. “Everybody clear out!” he shouted.