Bucking the Tiger (11 page)

Just over a week passed, and Caleb had heard nothing more about the Tiger, the game that had exploded into a war inside the Beehive, or much of anything else that took place outside his room. Once he made his way out of Lottie's place, Caleb slept through most of every day and made several agonizing attempts to get back on his feet.

His most recent attempt had proved to be the most agonizing and resulted in Caleb sitting backward in a chair for close to an hour without ever leaving his room. As another jolt of pain stabbed through him, Caleb grabbed on to the chair so tightly he nearly ripped it to pieces.

“Son of a…bitch!” Caleb snarled.

Another man sat in a chair next to Caleb. Actually, he looked more like a grizzled old bird perched on the edge of the chair. His shoulder-length gray hair hung in unkempt waves, and his wrinkled face was clean-shaven except for a patch of black and gray hair sprouting from his chin. With one hand, the old man inserted a probe into the bloody wound in Caleb's back. His other hand manipulated a pair of pliers within that hole.

“Sit still, Caleb,” the old man said through gritted teeth.

“Fuck that!” Caleb grunted. “I think you're pulling out a goddamn bone! How come we couldn't do this before? Like when I was dead to the world.”

“You were losing too much blood,” the old man said as he kept digging. “And it's not good to put you under this much stress while you're not even strong enough to stay awake. Besides, the bullet managed to miss everything vital, so it was best to let it set until you were strong enough to bear through this procedure.”

“Real good policy,” Caleb snarled. “Real fucking good.”

The old man shook his head and kept working. “You've been strong enough for days, but you wouldn't bother calling me. I had to wait until Dr. Holliday mentioned it.” When the muffled sound of metal crunching against metal could be heard, his eyes widened and Caleb tightened his grip even more around the back of the chair.

“I think I got it,” the old man said.

Caleb tried to speak, but only got out a series of vicious snarls.

Finally, the old man removed the pliers and eased out a hunk of twisted lead.

“You get the bullet out?” Caleb asked.

“Yep. That is, unless you're growing these things in your shoulder.”

Caleb didn't even try to laugh. When he let out a haggard breath, he practically wilted against the chair. “Lord, that feels better.”

“Told you it would. It would have been better a lot sooner if you would have come to see me again like I asked.”

“I know. It's just—”

“Save it,” the old man interrupted. He then wrapped Caleb's shoulder in bandages and tied them off with a sturdy knot.

“Thanks, Doctor,” Caleb said while carefully testing his arm as well as the bandages. “How much do I owe you?”

“I'm also here to visit John Henry. He said he'd settle up with me all at once. Now, if you'll excuse me…” The old man gathered up his equipment and tipped his hat. Before leaving the room, he asked, “You need anything for the pain?”

“Since I'm feeling good enough to walk to a saloon, I'll be able to find plenty there to ease my pain.”

Grumbling under his breath, the old man stepped out of Caleb's room and headed to the room directly beside it. He tipped his hat once more to the woman who watched the hallway like a nervous hawk. Ever since the trouble at the Beehive, the owner of the boardinghouse had started paying especially close attention to the boarders who'd been recommended by Owen Donnelly.

As soon as he got into the other room, the old man immediately set down his bag and fished out another set of instruments.

“Afternoon, Dr. Sanderson,” Doc said cordially. “I take it by the screams coming from the next room that my associate is feeling better?”

“He will after a bit more rest. How's your condition been treating you?”

Doc was sitting on a narrow bed with a cigarette case resting beside him. He wore a pair of black trousers with the suspenders gathered at his waist. A white undershirt could be seen beneath the more formal shirt that was unbuttoned all the way down to the waist. His skin was the same color as his undershirt and an almost skeletal frame could be detected through his clothing.

“I've never felt better,” Doc answered.

Sanderson fit the earpieces of a stethoscope in place and pressed the round end against Doc's chest. While listening, Sanderson shook his head slightly and grumbled to himself. “Your friend in there got shot and I see him the same amount of times as I've seen you. I don't know which one of you that makes me madder at.”

“The air has been doing wonders for my condition,” Doc recited. “And I have been watching my diet whenever possible.”

“I've heard all about you, John. The only time you get fresh air is when you're stumbling in or out of a saloon. Your diet consists of whatever slop those bartenders throw at you and all that smoking doesn't help matters either.”

“Some of those bartenders are excellent cooks.”

“They're not to blame,” Sanderson snapped. “You are. For Christ's sake, would it kill you to keep normal hours or eat healthier?”

Rather than put together any sort of answer, Doc took a cigarette from the case and lifted it to his mouth. By the time he found and struck a match, he seemed close to passing out from exertion.

“I can't be the first doctor to tell you this,” Sanderson said.

Doc shook his head and expelled a smoky breath.

“Then why won't you listen to anyone?”

“And what if I do listen?” Doc asked. “What good will that do? Will it keep me alive?”

“Yes, it just might”

“For how long? Another couple of months? A year?”

“You're only twenty-three, so time might not have as much of an impact as it does on a man closer to my age, but there's no reason why you shouldn't try to get every bit out of it that you're entitled to.”

“My concept of time is just fine,” Doc said. “In fact, I feel every second slap me in the face. Now, why the hell would I want to fight for any more?”

“You can get better if you try. Your condition has been known to improve.”

“You and every other doctor out there would have me eat like a bird and take a morning constitutional and all sorts of other nonsense just to make yourselves feel better.”

“It will help,” Sanderson insisted. “Just give it a chance.”

“A life following the orders I've been given is hardly a life.”

“You'd prefer spending your days in a smoky saloon playing cards and getting shot at?”

“Wouldn't anyone?”

Sanderson pulled in a deep breath and let it out slowly. “So why the hell am I wasting my time with you?”

“Contrary to what you might believe, I do like to know where I stand.”

“You're standing on the edge of a cliff, John. How about that for an answer?”

Doc grinned and took another puff of his cigarette. “I was hoping for something a bit more technical.”

“Have you had any bad spells lately?” Sanderson asked. “Any time in particular where your condition acted up?”

“There's been some weariness lately. I've been tiring out somewhat quicker than normal and it's been harder to relieve my cough.”

“Hacked up any blood?”

Slowly, Doc nodded.

After digging a few more things out of his black bag, Sanderson examined Doc a bit more before saying, “You're doing better than one might expect, but that's not saying a whole lot. Near as I can tell, your situation is remaining stagnant rather than swinging one way or another. Since you won't listen to everything I have to say, perhaps you could cut back on the smoking or try to trim back your late nights. At this point, every little bit helps.”

“I can do that.”

“After you have a bad fit, you might want to stay off your feet for a while. If you must move around, you might consider using a cane to help you.”

“A cane?” Doc asked in disbelief.

“Some find them to be very fashionable,” Sanderson retorted. “Considering your fancy clothes and expensive tastes, I dare say carrying a cane wouldn't be too out of place. Hell, you could hollow it out and fill it full of whiskey.”

Doc shook his head as if to clear his ears and then started laughing. The physician wasn't too far behind, although his laughter seemed more of a guilty pleasure.

“I'll see about a cane,” Doc conceded. “What about a different location? Would that help add some time onto the end of my sentence on this mortal coil?”

Sanderson nodded and genuinely seemed to lighten up a bit as he did so. “It might. Anyplace with clearer air would help. Preferably somewhere near the mountains.”

“You mean like Denver?”

“Good Lord, John. If I didn't know any better, I'd say you were actually starting to care whether or not you lived or died. Denver would be splendid for your condition. In fact, there are several different clinics that I would highly recommend.”

“Make a list and I'll look into them, but I won't make any promises.”

Squaring his shoulders, Sanderson placed a strong hand on Doc's shoulder and said, “The fact that you're able to do…what you do…is amazing. I may not approve, but I must say it gives me some hope.”

“How much hope?” Doc asked.

After something of a pause, Sanderson said, “My guess is that you've probably got another year or two. Perhaps double that, if you started cracking down and following my orders.”

“That's all I needed to hear. Thank you very much.”

“I just hope you heard everything, John. At least think about what I said, won't you?”

Doc took a wad of folded bills from his pocket and peeled off a few from the top.

When he saw the money he'd been given, Sanderson immediately shook his head and handed some of it back. “I don't mind the occasional gratuity, John, but this is too much.”

“Keep it. You can earn the rest by forgetting about the particulars of your appointments with myself and my friend in the next room.”

“Particulars?”

“As in, everything. If anyone asks, you don't know our names and you don't know what condition we're in. Understand?”

Sanderson nodded, but kept his hand with the leftover money extended toward Doc. “I understand just fine. You think whoever shot up Caleb might come around to finish the job?”

“Something like that.”

“Then it's my duty as a physician to keep that information to myself,” Sanderson said while setting the remaining money on the edge of the bed. “That sort of thing falls under keeping the two of you healthy, even if you are infrequent patients of mine.”

“At least take some of it,” Doc said. “It's not much, but you've earned every bit of it.”

After a few nervous glances toward the money, Sanderson took a few of the extra bills that Doc had offered. “There is some new equipment coming in from California that I've had my eye on.”

“Have at it,” Doc said as he lifted the flask that he'd fished from the jacket hanging on the back of a nearby chair.

As soon as the door to Doc's room was shut, there came another knock and the door was opened once more. Caleb stuck his head inside and nodded a quick greeting. “What did the doctor say?” he asked.

“It seems I have a condition that affects my lungs,” Doc reported dryly.

“Well, if you feel like stretching your legs, we can head down to the Beehive. I'm buying.”

“Maybe some other time.”

“Will you be there to deal your game?”

“You can set your clock by me.”

“All right. I'll look for you.” With that, Caleb winced and grabbed onto the door frame for support. Even that wasn't enough to cause his anxious grin to fade.

“Are you certain you're in a condition to walk all that way?” Doc asked.

“Coming from a man who deals faro while looking like death warmed over, that's downright touching.”

Doc shrugged and stubbed out his cigarette against the bedside table.

“You, there,” came a familiarly grating voice from the hall.

Caleb didn't have to look at the old lady running the boardinghouse to know it was her. “I'm going, I'm going,” he said over his shoulder.

“Just make sure you're going to the Beehive and that you're going quick. Mr. Donnelly told me to tell you there's trouble.”

“What kind of trouble?” Caleb asked as he turned toward the old woman.

“The kind that makes Sheriff Jacobs angry enough to threaten closing that saloon down for good.”

Caleb and Doc practically exploded from their rooms, despite the variety of ailments that were plaguing them at the time. They were a pair that attracted plenty of looks from folks they passed, but not a single word to catch their attention. Just seeing the pair charge toward the Beehive got rumors flying about another fight brewing in the saloon. Doc and Caleb ignored all of the suspicious looks and pushed past the few people who were too slow to get out of their way. They had business to attend to and would tolerate no obstruction.

By the time he arrived at the Beehive, Caleb was looking through a red haze that had filtered in behind his eyes. The pain had stopped by now after being washed away by a throbbing numbness that started beneath the freshly wrapped bandages and crept all the way out to the tips of his fingers.

Doc's eyes were a bit more hooded than normal, but that wasn't as big of a difference for him as were the clothes that he wore when walking into his current place of employment. Some of the people that looked toward the front door when it opened didn't even seem to recognize the house's faro dealer. Sheriff Jacobs was not one of those people.

“We were just talking about you two,” Jacobs said as two of his deputies stepped up on either side of him. “Seems your game caused quite a stir.”

“Owen knew where to find us,” Caleb said. “Anytime you wanted to have a word, all you had to do was ask.”

“I thought I'd wait until you were feeling better. Truth is, I heard you hadn't even paid a proper visit to Dr. Sanderson yet, so I thought it would be a while. Glad to see you up and around.”

“So you can drag me into jail?”

Sheriff Jacobs lowered his head and stepped closer to where Caleb and Doc were standing. Compared to the fairly amiable voice he'd been using before, the one he switched to was a fierce growl. “You want to spend some time behind bars, then that's the way to go about it.”

Owen Donnelly rushed up to the growing group at the front door and placed a friendly hand on both Caleb and Doc's shoulders. “Why don't you two come in and have a seat? It's important for a saloon to have folks be able to come and go as they please. You and your men are free to join us, of course, Sheriff.”

The moment he got some distance between himself and the lawmen, Donnelly spoke to Doc and Caleb in a quick whisper. “I didn't tell them the whole story about what went on in here, but I think he's heard about it from some of the others that saw what happened.”

“You mean he doesn't know about the men that were killed?” Caleb asked.

“He knows about that. He just doesn't know exactly how they wound up that way. Since that rich fella didn't stick around to give his account, it wasn't too hard to pass off the story.”

“Where is Taylor?”

“Haven't seen him for a while and I ain't about to go looking.” By now, Donnelly had taken them to the farthest table he could find from the door. He turned and saw the lawmen taking their time in joining them. By the looks of it, Jacobs and his deputies were swapping some last-minute words among themselves.

“I saw most of what happened and I know you both a hell of a lot better than I knew Taylor,” Donnelly said in a fast ramble. “You and I go back a ways, Doc, so I figured you'd want to know that Jacobs and his boys were coming around looking for you and they meant business. That said, I don't want any more trouble in here. I can justify cleaning up after some asshole that steps out of line or some dispute over gambling debts, but I ain't about to be a part of lawmen getting gunned down in my place, Caleb, and I won't see those same lawmen kill a friend of mine in front of me. Don't put me in that position, Doc. I'm beggin' ya.”

“Why does the sheriff want to speak to us?” Doc asked.

“He—” Although Donnelly started to throw out a quick answer to that question, he stopped short when he heard the sound of approaching footsteps.

The lawmen surrounded the table. “Have a seat, Doc,” Sheriff Jacobs said. “You too, Caleb. Owen, you can get back to your business.”

Since there was obviously no reason or use in questioning the orders they'd been given, the three of them carried them out. Caleb eased himself into a chair with a painful wince and Doc reluctantly did the same. Shrugging his apologies, Donnelly turned and headed back toward the bar.

“You two look like shit,” Jacobs said.

“Feel like it, too,” Caleb replied. “What's the problem?”

“The problem is that you've been holding questionable games in my town and you've been doing it right out in the open.”

Doc waited for a few seconds, but the lawman didn't say anything else. “That's it? Sheriff, every game played in any place is questionable.”

“Gambling in a place where liquor is sold is against state and county laws,” Jacobs reported. “There are plenty of witnesses around who can testify to you men doing just that.”

“This is a joke, right?” Caleb asked. Looking around, he said, “Everyone in here's gambling. Why don't you arrest them?”

“As far as I know, they're engaging in friendly games of chance.”

“And what are the chips for?”

“Tokens to represent the score. Being a gambler yourself, you shouldn't need to ask these questions.”

Doc laughed and fished his cigarette case from his pocket. The moment his hand drifted under his jacket, every deputy positioned around the table went for his gun. Despite the sudden flare of temper, Doc retrieved his cigarettes after the slightest of pauses. He even removed one, lit it, and started smoking, as if he were on his own front porch.

“This is a load of bullshit,” Doc said.

Oddly enough, Caleb was a bit surprised to hear that kind of language coming from Doc. Judging by the look on Sheriff Jacobs's face, he was, too.

“Would you rather I hauled you in for murder?” Jacobs asked.

Doc stared a hole through the lawman as the cigarette in his mouth flared up. “If you could do that, you wouldn't be wasting your time with this nonsense.”

“I can do that, Doc, don't doubt it. After all the blood that was spilled in here during your little game, we could toss both of you in a cell and then go after your friend Mike Lynch.” Picking up on something in Doc's eyes, Jacobs added, “We already spoke to Lynch. He was smart enough to take his charge without a fuss. Even so, I doubt he'll show up for his court date.”

“And that suits you just fine, doesn't it?” Doc asked.

“Just so long as I don't have to look at his face anymore.”

Caleb laughed under his breath and repositioned himself in his chair so he could sit without aggravating his wound. “I guess I see where some of those taxes go.”

“No secret there,” Jacobs said. “We're servants of the governing bodies of Fort Griffin.”

“Not those taxes. The taxes collected by the asshole who stomped out of this place when the smoke was still in the air. The asshole who probably still had blood on the bottom of his boots when he told you to run us out of town.”

“That's a hell of an accusation. You'd better be able to back it up.”

“Why would he want to do that?” Doc asked. “So you'd be justified in shooting us while we were committing some other sort of trumped-up charge?”

“The charge is real. You can look it up in any law book there is.”

“Sure it is, Sheriff,” Caleb sneered. “But it's only enforced when it suits your purpose. Otherwise, none of the saloons in town would be open and Fort Griffin wouldn't be such a popular place for local gamblers.”

Jacobs listened to all of this with a blank stare. Finally, he crossed one leg over the other and started drumming his fingers on top of his knee. “If I were you, I'd take this little bit of harassment with a smile. Plenty more before you weren't so lucky.”

“And why's the Tiger being so generous with us?” Doc asked.

Without blinking at the mention of that moniker, Sheriff Jacobs said, “It's not their call to make. You owned a saloon back in Dallas, right, Caleb?”

Caleb nodded.

“From what I've heard, it was as good a place as any.” Narrowing his eyes, Jacobs asked, “Did every bit of your income come from selling liquor? Of course it didn't. Like every good businessman, you did some fast dealing of your own and you were also forced to feed from the same trough as a whole lot of dirty sons of bitches. You can like it or hate it, but it's a necessary part of the business. Am I right?”

As much as he wanted to disagree with the sheriff, Caleb would have had an easier time debating that rain wasn't really wet. Still, he decided to keep quiet rather than agree with the sheriff.

Jacobs didn't need to hear the words to know what was going on inside Caleb's head. He nodded and kept talking as if he'd already gotten what he wanted just by looking at Caleb's face. “I like to think I'm making this as easy as it can be for everyone involved. You two can go along with it and try your luck somewhere else. Hell, you might even try your luck here again someday after things cool down.”

“We don't get a day in court?” Doc asked with a straight face.

“Sure you do, Holliday. And you'll get to hear a preponderance of evidence that shows how much of a bad influence you are on this town and the good people that live in it. Now, if you'll excuse me,” Jacobs said as he got to his feet. “I have other matters to attend to. When you see Lottie, be sure to send my regards.”

With that, Jacobs turned his back to the table and walked away. One of his deputies walked along with him, leaving the rest to stay behind and make sure nobody was going to get any bad ideas when the sheriff wasn't looking. Once they saw that Caleb and Doc had no such notions, the remaining deputies left the saloon.

“Goddamn,” Caleb grunted. “I should not have rushed down here like that. I feel like I've been gored by a bull.”

“Here you go,” Donnelly said. He stepped up to the table as if to fill the spot that Sheriff Jacobs had left. “On the house.”

Normally, Caleb left the whiskey drinking to Doc. Although he preferred beer any day of the week, Caleb also didn't normally get a taste of Donnelly's specially brewed whiskey. It was a concoction that Doc raved about the way a poet would praise a sunrise, and it did a real good job of taking some of the bite out of the pain that throbbed in his wounded back. Caleb barely even realized he'd tossed back all of the whiskey until he was setting the empty glass back onto the table.

Donnelly was right there to refill it. “I guess that wasn't too bad after all, huh?” he asked while pouring. He seemed more than a little surprised to find Doc's glass still full.

Rolling his cigarette between his fingers, Doc hardly seemed to notice that the whiskey was in front of him. “We were arrested for gambling,” he mused. “Isn't that a pip?”

“Hold on, let me see if I can remember.” Donnelly closed his eyes as a wistful smile drifted onto his face. Without opening his eyes, he recited, “Playing a game of cards in a house where spirituous liquors are sold.”

“Pretty much,” Caleb said.

“I haven't heard that one in a long time.” Shrugging, Donnelly left the bottle of whiskey and headed back to where a group of customers had gathered at the bar.

“I've heard it before,” Caleb said reluctantly. “The sheriff was right. It is a real law and it is statewide. I can't speak for the county, but it's in the Texas books.”

Doc wrapped his fingers around the whiskey glass, but didn't lift it from the table. “It was nothing,” he said, “but a polite way to ask us to leave town.”

“Polite?” Caleb grunted. “Is that what you call it?”

“Most certainly.”

Doc stared down at his glass while swirling the amber liquid inside. He eventually lifted it to his mouth and sipped just enough of it to feel the burn on his lips. After savoring that for a bit, he poured a bit more into himself and let out a breath as the firewater made its way into his stomach. “I'm sure going to miss this stuff.”

“What?” Caleb asked in disbelief. “You actually want to leave town because that badge-wearing asshole told us to?”

“Don't sound so put out, Caleb. We're not running away.”

“Then what would you call it?”

“Moving on to greener pastures. Running a game here will be too difficult for a while, so there's no reason to stay when there's a whole circuit out there waiting to be explored. Besides, my doctor told me that I don't have much time left to enjoy.”

Caleb rolled his eyes and groaned. “Don't even try to put on the sickly act with me, Doc.”

“He said the climate in Denver would suit my delicate constitution much better.”

“Denver, huh?” Caleb asked with a gleam in his eye.

Doc nodded. “I owe some back taxes that I'd prefer to pay in person.”