“Dealing cards is a profession,” Doc pointed out.
“It’s hardly a profession. A trade, perhaps, but definitely not an honest one.”
“Well then,” Doc said as he lifted his whiskey bottle, “here’s to a dishonest trade.”
As much as Seegar wanted to be angry, it was hard to look at the young man in front of him and hold onto his animosity for more than a few seconds. The twenty-two-year-old Holliday wasn’t quite the anxious youth he’d been when he’d stepped off that train a year ago, but he still possessed an undeniable spark in his eyes. That spark hadn’t dimmed once, even when Doc had been in the grips of the roughest days his consumptive disorder had to offer.
Seegar motioned toward the bar and had a glass brought over to him. All he needed to do from there was hold the glass out for it to be filled by Doc’s steady hand. “To a dishonest trade,” he said somberly.
Both men knocked back their drinks without saying a word.
There was plenty more that Seegar wanted to say and there was always a storm brewing behind Doc’s eyes, but they both managed to just sit back and enjoy their whiskey. It wasn’t a stony silence that formed between them, but more of a quiet contemplation. Each of them sifted through the memories that had been stirred during the conversation, knowing full well that both trains of thought were no longer on similar tracks.
It took Seegar a few more sips to empty his shot glass and when he was done, he set it down in front of him. Turning the glass between his fingers, he looked at Doc and said, “I’m sorry for coming in here and speaking to you the way I did.”
“And I’m sorry for listening,” Doc replied with a smirk.
Laughing a bit, Seegar kept rolling the shot glass between his fingers as if he was hoping there was just a bit more whiskey in there. “You’ve got plenty of promise, Henry, but I hope you understand that I can’t have a partner that would rather be somewhere else instead of at our practice. I’d say the same thing even if you’d taken up ranching or any other activity that occupied you as much as playing cards.”
“I understand.”
“I hope there’s no hard feelings,” Seegar said, even though the look on his face showed that he wasn’t expecting any good feelings. “This is just the way it needs to be.” When he managed to take another look in Doc’s direction, however, he found the younger man extending a hand across the table.
“No hard feelings, John,” Doc said. “Although I will take exception if I stop getting Martha’s invitations to dinner.”
“You don’t have to worry about that. Whenever you’re in Dallas, there’s a spot for you at our table.”
No matter how much Seegar wanted another shot of whiskey, he got up while shaking Doc’s hand. After that, he turned and worked his way through the crowd until he could find his way out the front door. Once outside, Seegar let out a slow, sorrowful breath.
[10]
Caleb had walked out of the Busted Flush without taking much notice of the table where the two dentists were sharing drinks. He was too concerned with the bad intentions scrawled all over the faces of the men who were waiting for him at the front door. And though the old man standing there with those other two wasn’t anything close to threatening, he couldn’t have been there to wish Caleb good luck after being released from jail. The elderly miner was shifting and squirming way too much on his feet to be pondering anything good.
“What’s this about?” Caleb asked once he was practically toe-to-toe with the biggest of the three.
The man taking up the most of Caleb’s field of vision was slightly shorter than Caleb and had a gut that hung like a sack of lard over his belt. Although the top of his head was shiny bald, the hair on the sides and back of his head hung down like a thick, greasy curtain. Thick arms hung out at an angle from his shoulders, and sausagelike fingers dangled like meaty fringe at the ends. When he spoke, a brushy mustache curled in to scrape his teeth and collect saliva at the ends of each whisker. “You remember my uncle?”
Caleb didn’t need another look at the miner. Instead, he took a moment to examine the third member of the group. That one might have been of a similar height to Caleb but was stooped over at an odd, sideways angle, thanks to the way his left shoulder was gnarled and twisted into something of a hump.
The humpback’s face was crusted as though he hadn’t bathed in a month, and he had the pungent stench to go along with it. Dirty clothes hung on his narrow frame, making the gun belt around his waist look more like a rope tied around the middle of a scarecrow.
“I asked you a question,” the fat man said, his intrusive mustache lending an odd sound to some of his words. “You remember my uncle or not?”
“Sure, I recognize him,” Caleb said. “That just leaves me wondering who the hell you other two are.”
Digging his thumb into his chest, the fat man said, “I’m Kyle, and this here is Jim.”
The humpback gave a short, upward nod when he heard that last word.
“We’re Orville’s kin, and we got a problem with you.”
Already, Caleb could see a few people outside trying to get a look into the Flush. When they realized they couldn’t see through Kyle’s girth, they moved along toward some of the other saloons down the street. That sight made Caleb feel like he’d just tossed some money from his own pocket into the gutter.
“I’ve had a real bad couple of days,” Caleb said angrily. “So how about you roll your asses away from the door so folks can get in?”
For a moment, Kyle looked stunned. He glanced from one side to another as if he was waiting to see the person that Caleb was really talking to. When he didn’t find any likely candidates in the vicinity, he grabbed hold of Caleb’s shirt and dragged him outside.
Kyle’s strength was a bit more than Caleb had been expecting. Before anyone could do anything about it, all three of the younger men were outside the saloon with the miner not too far behind.
With his face twisted in an ugly snarl, Kyle slammed Caleb against the closest wall he could find. “You see that old man, there?” he asked, jabbing a finger toward the miner. “That’s Orville Deagle.”
“Orville Deagle is both of our uncle,” the humpback said as he leaned in so close that Caleb could smell the rot in his teeth.
“Yeah,” Caleb said with a grimace. “Why the hell should I care?”
“I know all about the shit stains you cater to in that saloon of yours. It’s men like Virgil Ellis and that Doc Holliday that took damn near everything my uncle had in this world.”
After waiting this long, Caleb figured that he’d seen the best that these men had to offer. If there were any more armed assholes waiting for him outside, they would have surely made themselves known just to put some more bite into Kyle’s bark. Caleb met Kyle’s stare and snapped both arms up and out to knock the fat man’s hands away.
“I asked you once already,” Caleb growled. “Why the hell should I care? The last I saw of your uncle, he was running out of my place without leaving behind what he rightfully lost. If you’ve got a problem with Virgil, then you’re in luck, because he’s already been fitted for his coffin. If you’ve got a problem with Doc, you can mention it to him in person, because he’s right inside.”
Jim reached over Kyle’s shoulder and pushed Caleb toward the wall. “My uncle got out with some claims, but they weren’t worth half as much as the money he got cheated out of before any of that trouble started. Our problem’s with the asshole that set up them crooked games. We know damn well you get a cut from every—”
The humpback was cut off as Caleb shot both arms out in a quick snap of motion. His left arm caught Kyle right under the chin, and the right extended to take hold of Jim by the collar. Shocked by the way Kyle was suddenly staggering back, Jim let out a pitiful groan when he realized that he wasn’t able to get away from Caleb.