the Gentleman Gunfighter - C. F. Allison (ebook reader with android os TXT) 📗

Clay ordered himself a whiskey and looked around for a card game to join in on. There wasn’t but three card tables in the small saloon, and only one of them had a game going at it.

Clay decided to go on to his room and get a good nights rest for an early start tomorrow instead. Sometimes it was just better to call it a night he thought to himself. Besides, there’ll be plenty of card games once they got to Dodge City. “Just give me a bottle for the road Barkeep.” He ordered and left to go to his room at the hotel.

Clay’s pocket watch read one o’clock as he and his group of trail friend’s road into Dodge City. The day had turned blazing hot and their shirts were soaked with sweat and caked with trail dust turned to mud from the dripping wet shirts. Well, I reckon I’m going to get me a drink and a friendly card game before I go find Mr. McNulty. What about y’all.” John answered back “Sounds like a plan to me Clay.” Jack told Clay though, he thought him and Mario had better pass. “They aint going to serve no black men in these saloons here in Dodge. There’d be trouble if we tried it.” He said. Clay thought about it for a minute and then said “You’re most likely right there Jack. I’ll get a couple of rooms at the back entry of the hotel so you and Mario can have a room too. And I’ll bring you two by a bottle in a bit. How’s that.” Mario stepped up with a big grin on his face “That will suit us just fine. Thanks Clay.”

Clay went to his favorite hotel, got two rooms reachable from the rear entry and gave Jack the key to his and Mario’s room, then made his way down the street to the Long Branch Saloon. He bought a bottle and took it along with forty dollars to Jack and Mario. The cash was from the sale of the two horses, guns and holsters he had gotten from the two women killers.

They accepted the bottle, but refused to have anything to do with the cash. “That’s blood money.” Jack said. “I don’t want it. No offense meant Clay.” He continued. Clay gave Jack a look and replied “No offense taken my friend. It was just fair to offer it.” Then he left for the steak house. He had already given John some money so he could get a bath and a shave so his time was his own now. Everyone had been taken care of.

Clay finished up his steak and headed down to the Long Branch Saloon to find a good card game and a bottle of whiskey. He was feeling fat and sassy and was ready to relax. He walked through the winged shaped swinging doors and the first thing that caught his eye was the unmistakable figure of a man he had crossed trails with the last time he was in Dodge city. It was Wyatt Earp. He hadn’t changed any at all over the last few months. He still had those narrow gunslinger eyes and the bushy moustache. “How do?” he said as he walked past Clay on his way out the door. “Top shelf Marshal.” Clay replied. Apparently, the famous marshal didn’t remember him. That was just fine with Clay. He was there to have fun not to fight. He went onward up to the bar and got a bottle. Had a couple of shots from it and began looking around the long narrow bar for a friendly game. Of poker to join in on.

The saloon was pretty packed so Clay knew it might be a little while before a table would have a spot open up, so he got a deck of cards from the bar tender and walked over to an empty table in the corner. Something else he had learned early in his gun-fighting career was to always sit with his back to the wall. If you didn’t, eventually, someone would put a hole in it.

He was sitting by himself shuffling the cards and playing Solitaire as some other gentlemen approached the table looking for a game. It didn’t take long at all for enough men to sit down and get a game going. “Well gentlemen, let’s play some poker.” One of the men said with a smile and a friendly southern accent. Clay was looking the stranger over kind of sizing him up sort of speak in case he needed to know about him later. The man seemed to be gentleman like enough, but something about him told Clay this man was no tender foot. For one thing, the man took the other chair that backed against the wall. He even motioned one of the other men to move so he could have it. His pistol rig was a cross draw set up. Those were popular to a lot of gun fighters. The man was sickly though with a chronic cough. He was what most people referred to as a “Lunger.” He was wearing fancy clothes and hat. ‘Definite ear marks of a gun slinger.’ Clay thought to himself. Clay finished sizing him up with some light conversation while they played.

“Names Clay” he said to everyone at the table. The two cowhands introduced themselves but the southern gentleman to Clay’s left just replied “Whiskey.” Clay sent the man an annoyed look and said “Odd name for a man, Whiskey.” The man busted out laughing and replied “No, The name’s Holiday. I want some whiskey. My friends of course call me Doc.” His eyes turned cold and his face became serious. “Are you my friend Mr. Clay Allison or should I start hating you now and avoid the rush?” he said as he stared Clay down with the cold killer’s look of a gun fighter. “Not unless you’ll be my friend back Mr. Doc Holiday.” By that time the two cow hands had already gotten up from the table and backed away slow and careful being sure not to make any moves that could be mistaken for aggression or a challenge. The two gunmen saw the look of terror on both of their faces. Clay and Doc both laughed in agreement that they just hated it when that happened. Clay glanced to the chair at the right of him and just about fell out of his laughing. Doc, dying to know what was so damn funny rose up to see a small puddle standing in the seat of the chair where one of the cowboys had been sitting just minutes before. Doc started laughing too until that annoying cough came back and took over the moment. Clay poured him a shot to try and help subdue the cough and it did to a degree. “Damn Doc. You need to do something about that cough my friend.” He said handing Doc another shot of whiskey. “I’m afraid there is nothing that can be done my new found friend. The cough is from my Tuberculosis.” That made Clay snap a fast look at his new friend in reply “Damn Doc, I hate to hear that…” he started to say something else but Doc interrupted him saying “Lets play some cards friend.” Taking the hint, Clay dealt the cards and they began to play five-card stud and talk about other things.

The two famous gunmen played poker well into the night without anyone else even acting like they were going to try to join the game. Almost everyone in the saloon watching to see which one would lose their temper first and draw down on the other. That never happened though, even as they played well into the night and got as drunk as anyone could possibly get. The two of them remained perfect gentlemen and kept their manners about them with each other. It truly was a friendly game.

The next afternoon when Clay woke up he began trying to remember just how it was he had managed to get to his room the night before, or rather that morning. The images that ran through his mind from the night before were a mere blur past the third or fourth bottle he and Doc had opened. John had left the room earlier that morning and was still gone when Clay woke up. Clay felt as if someone had beaten him in the head with a pistol butt. He knew no one had, but his head was pounding just the same. He tried to remember what had happened the night before, but the images were just too blurred to make out. He decided the only way to get rid of his headache was to drown it with some whiskey so he pulled his boots on and was going to start toward the Long Branch. ‘Hair of the dog.’ He thought to himself. As he put his hat on to walk out the door, he noticed a hole in the front of it that hadn’t been there the night before. ‘Where the hell did that come from?’ he asked himself. ‘Looks like a damn bullet hole’ he thought. He went ahead and put his hat on and started to the saloon.

“How’s your hat band Huckleberry?” Clay heard a voice call out from the corner table as he walked through the swinging doors of the bar room. He turned to look and saw his new friend Doc Holiday sitting by himself against the back wall. Once again, Clay got his own bottle and joined him. Noticing the hole Doc had in the front of his hat, Clay had to ask “Doc, what the hell is the deal with the holes in the hats do you remember?” Doc laughed and replied “Damn Huckleberry, you really don’t remember do you?” Clay shook his head with a puzzled look on his face. Doc laughed again and said “It was indeed a hot time in the old town last night. We made one hell of a bet.”

Just then, Marshal Earp came strolling thru the doors and walked straight over to the table where they sat. “Now Doc,” he started “You’re one hell of a friend, but I’ve already told you I cant have repeat from last night with you two.” He finished. “Now Wyatt, You look like a rooster with his feathers positively ruffled. What ever has set you off?” Doc replied smiling at his friend. “I gave you my word as a southern gentleman that we would not again showdown on a bet in your town streets.” Wyatt began to get red in the face as his temper heated up and he shouted “I don’t want it happening in my saloons either!” Doc began laughing and looked at Clay, “We can both give our word to that as southern gentleman now can’t we Huckleberry.” Clay nodded in puzzled agreement. After Marshal Earp had left the saloon satisfied the two would