Borrowed Time

Borrowed Time

S.M. Ballard

Published by S.M. Ballard at Smashwords

Copyright 2010 S.M. Ballard

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Chapter 1

April 1st 1878

Lanky frame settled comfortably into the battered chair, a glass of bourbon within easy reach, and an enigmatic smile upon his lips, the well dressed sporting man appeared a distracted participant in life as it swirled chaotically about him. In reality, nothing was further from the truth. Playing the part of the disinterested onlooker and doing it well was a ploy which worked to good advantage when a man made his living, or most of it, from reading the thoughts and actions of those with whom he interacted. For John Henry Doc Holliday, gentleman gambler, the ability to appear less than focused served him very well indeed. While sending clouds of cigarette smoke heavenward, tippling frequently from a bottomless bottle of the finest bourbon, cracking witty asides, or quoting liberally from the great poets, Holliday habitually distracted those with whom he gambled while he stayed sharp and focused beneath his facade. Little escaped his attention.

Deputy Marshal Wyatt Earp pushed in through the heavy doors of the Long Branch. A gust of frigid air enveloped the solemn figure like a shroud before being released onto those unfortunates closest to the door. Earp stood for a moment, his sharp gaze sweeping the smoky haze of the crowded room before settling quickly on Holliday. Naturally, Doc noticed him as well, acknowledging his presence with an almost imperceptible nod.

Before the deputy, muscling his way through the crush of Saturday night revelers, reached his table, Holliday folded. Stuffing bills and coins into various coat pockets, he slipped a delicate ruby ring onto his pinky.

Kate will enjoy this bauble if she sees fit to take leave of Wichita and return to this fair city.

Doc tipped his hat to those gamblers still at the table, Good evening to you, gentlemen. It appears the law requires my presence.

Almost as an afterthought, Holliday plucked the full glass of whiskey from the table and tossed the shot back. A waste of fine bourbon is a sin indeed, he quipped.

Without so much as word of greeting, Earp grabbed Holliday by the arm, steering him as away from the crowd as was possible considering the packed house. At the farthest end of the bar, he relinquished his hold on the gambler. Doc straightened his rumpled coat and adjusted his cravat. Words of droll, albeit sarcastic, rebuke at the less than civil treatment accorded him by the local law died on John Holliday’s lips, the agonized expression on the deputy’s face a potent silencer. Close up, the haze of tobacco smoke less thick, the yellow glare of the overhead chandelier revealed more than just a seriousness of purpose on the lawman’s face. It revealed horror and grief.

My God, Wyatt, what’s happened?

The deputy swallowed hard, once, before clearing his throat. One hand rested on the edge of the mahogany bar, the fingers tapping nervously. He looked away from Holliday, staring hard into the mirror before him.

A young woman died tonight, murdered. She was with child. There was a pause, long enough for Holliday to ask the man to go on, please.

Earp nodded, continuing to stare into the mirror. Across the tracks on Locust Street, the first shack on the corner. The husband found the body though how he recognized her as his wife I can’t guess. He lowered his chin to his chest, taking a moment to compose himself before continuing.

I smelled it from outside, the blood, thick, like the stink from a slaughterhouse, and Holliday? With effort the lawman raised his chin and gazed pointedly at the gambler’s thin face reflected back at him in the mirror.

Go on, Doc urged.

Make no mistake, it was a slaughterhouse. Here the narrative ended as the deputy fought to control his emotions, wiping one hand back across his mouth as if to wash away the lingering taste of the blood.

Bartender, two whiskeys here, Holliday ordered, but Earp shook his head. Doc quickly corrected his mistake. Make that one large whiskey and a coffee, black.

The deputy accepted the steaming brew, sipping slowly while Doc nursed the bourbon, for once not slamming it quickly down, but savoring the taste of it upon his tongue. The killer remains on the loose, I imagine.

Killers, four of ‘em. They wandered into the Alhambra. Guess they didn’t know, maybe they didn’t care, her blood was on their clothes. By the time somebody got round to sending for the law, they sobered up enough to realize the situation. They lit outta town headed for the territories.

What is it you want of me? Doc questioned softly. He’d known Earp just long enough to realize what the taciturn lawman didn’t say was often more telling than what he did.

Earp’s attention shifted from the coffee he held between both hands to Holliday, his gaze steady. You’re known to be good with a gun and pretty much fearless. All I want to know is if you’re willing to prove both.

Before I answer that, I’d like to say something.

Wyatt nodded.

Although you know little of John Holliday aside from hearsay and innuendo, it appears you are willing to take a chance on me. Your faith is not taken lightly, I assure you. Therefore, I am willing to prove both.

Somewhat embarrassed by the stretch of silence following his statement and tired of toying with the whiskey he still held, Doc tossed the liquor back, blotting a drop or two from his moustache against a shirt cuff. It had little effect on the queasy feeling in the pit of his belly, and he signaled to the bartender for a refill which he disposed of quickly. He welcomed the hot burn of it. The queasy feeling vanished.

What about the other members of the Dodge City constabulary? Might they take offense at an interloper stepping on their toes, so to speak? After all, marshal, I am no lawman.

Charlie Bassett is off refereeing a range argument. Bat and Ed Masterson are over to Hays City on county business. That leaves me and Charlie Trask, and Trask is down with the measles. So long as he stays in the office he’s all right, but as for going out in this weather. Earp angled his head toward the steamy window where a drover worked vigorously with his neckerchief to open a spot which allowed him to peer, squint-eyed, out at the storm. Snow, driven horizontally by a vicious north wind, made the lawman’s point.

I’m certain no offense will be taken, Holliday, Earp added.

Doc extended his hand. To seal the deal, marshal. The handshake between them was warm and solid.

Wyatt did not bother with thanks, but got straight to the point. Meet me at the Dodge House Livery at dawn.

****

Totally occupied in loading supplies onto the horses tethered in front of the livery, Earp seemed taken aback by Holliday’s wraith like appearance from out of a whirlwind of blowing snow. The surprise on the other man’s face allowed Holliday a wicked, if quick, moment of satisfaction. It wasn’t often he took Wyatt by surprise. It’s just me, marshal, he added for effect.

Earp nodded, his earlier surprise already past. He stopped Doc before Holliday could so much as check the cinch on his saddle. It was now the gambler’s turn to be surprised. Raise your right hand, Earp instructed.

Holliday did so, but not before first removing his glove.

Do you, John Holliday, solemnly swear to uphold the laws of the city of Dodge and the state of Kansas to the best of your abilities?

I swear.

You’re now a deputy marshal. Put your glove back on and let’s get goin’. Oh, before I forget, pin this to your coat. Earp handed Holliday a deputy’s badge.

Doc stared dully at the badge of office and then, figuring he’d better pin it on before his fingers froze, he did so with a pride he had not thought possible. Already the numbing cold made shoving the pin through the heavy sheepskin and fastening it difficult.

Although the wind eventually died down, the unseasonable cold held and the hours in the saddle passed slowly. Wyatt’s question came seemingly from out of the blue, jolting Doc from some rather more pleasant thoughts of warm saloons, pretty girls, and straight flushes. Why did you come along, really?

Doc took out a cigar and lit it with clumsy fingers. Inhaling deeply, he felt the usual calming influence tobacco always provided. Because you asked me, he said. Noticing his companion’s wrinkled brow and the scowl playing around the lips beneath the thick mustache, Holliday elaborated.

I was bored. An adventure sounded like just the ticket. I don’t mind your company, though at times you are dour to the point of exasperation. However, you are honest and sincere to a fault, qualities I find admirable. You listen well. I like to talk. Simply put, we are perfect foils for each other.

Earp’s scowl deepened. Not to bring killers to justice, Holliday? This is just a lark to you?

Doc shrugged. Naturally, that. I want justice for that murdered girl as much as you, but there are other motives for a man’s actions. And honestly, marshal, I do not believe this expedition will be anything even remotely resembling a lark. Finished with the cigar though the cigar itself was far from finished, Doc flipped the remainder away.

The pair crossed over into the Indian Territories late in the afternoon, having yet to stop for a meal or rest. They dismounted and continued at a brisk walk, allowing their horses a much needed break.

Not that I am versed in the laws of the state of Kansas, Doc asked, but do we have any actual jurisdiction in the territories?

Plodding along, reins in hand and eyes focused forward, Earp replied succinctly, We’re two civilians intent on bringing killers to justice. Does that bother you?

Doc lit yet another one of his endless cigars. Not in the least, he said. Besides, it’s a bit late for that question now, don’t you think?

Sunset came upon them with little introduction, so it was a piece of good fortune when their trail led them to a small sod hut, a reminder of earlier times when the earthen structure most likely housed itinerant buffalo hunters. It provided shelter from the vicious changeability of the plains’ weather, and little else, with its low door, no windows, and no fireplace to speak of aside from a hollowed out pit in the dirt floor holding the sad remains of a fire long ago burned out.

There was little in the way of wood to burn around the soddy, barely enough to make coffee and fry up some bacon for dinner, and certainly none to spare for a fire against the creeping chill of night. The men slept in their heavy coats and covered themselves with wool blankets. Accommodations were far from luxurious, but comfortable enough in a make do situation.

Doc hunkered down for a long night. Sleep was slow to come and for the second time in less than a day, his companion surprised him by beginning a conversation.

We’ve known each other for some months and I’ve never had reason to ask this before. Wyatt cleared his throat as if what was coming next was a mighty uncomfortable subject for him to broach.

Doc waited with interest for Earp to continue.

By what name should I call you? We’re apt to be in this for some time and callin’ you Holliday lends itself to boredom.

For some reason, Wyatt’s question amused Doc, and he smiled into the darkness. Few people asked him by what name he would like to be called. Most just made up their minds without bothering with formalities or pleasantries, yet here was this rough shod frontiersman being more gentlemanly than most gentlemen.

My family calls me John Henry, but I consider that a pet name, more the name of a boy. Some call me John and others Doctor Holliday. A few just call me sonofabitch. And then there’s Doc. You, sir, since you were kind enough to ask my preference, may choose for yourself. Holliday fumbled a hand out from within the many folds of his blanket. Cigar? he offered. He felt the stogie lifted from his fingers.

Thanks, Doc.

So it’s settled then, I take it? Holliday lit up.

You have any brothers or sisters? Earp asked.

Doc took several moments to answer. Family was something he tried not to think about too much or too often, the pain of separation a dreadful ache in a lonely man’s heart. I had a sister, he began. She died before I was born.

He continued uninterrupted and for that he was grateful, for if Wyatt stopped him to question or to comment about his mother’s death when John was still a boy, about the schism which developed between him and his father after Major Holliday’s precipitant remarriage, about the brutal aftermath of war on a conquered people, he wasn’t certain he could have continued with any sense of detachment. Finished at last, he lay staring with dry, burning eyes into the surrounding blackness, grateful for its cover. Wyatt’s softly offered, Goodnight, Doc, went unanswered.

Finishing off yet another smoke, Doc flipped the butt into a far corner, pulled the blanket closer, and tried to sleep. Through the open doorway he heard the sound of the plains. Mostly it was the wind, rushing, always rushing, as if in a terrible hurry to get somewhere fast. At this time of year there was no rustling of high prairie grass, but a soulless wail that swept across the bare landscape, sometimes accompanied by the mournful song of a coyote calling for its mate. In this lonely world, John Holliday felt right at home. Sleep did finally come, but it was restless.

Morning broke noticeably warmer, the bone-chilling cold of the previous day only a memory. The lawmen started out with no hot coffee and no breakfast to speak of aside from a bit of leathery beef jerky.

Good thing I’ve always taken care of my teeth. Eating this is like masticating a boot sole. Holliday tore off another stringy strip, grinding away with purpose. Forgoing water, he pulled a full bottle of whiskey from the depths of his saddlebag

Something to wash down breakfast, marshal?

Holliday extended the bottle to Wyatt who looked at him with a disapproving expression and a firm shake of the head. I loaded the supplies and that bottle wasn’t among ‘em, he said.

No need to apologize, marshal. You can’t be called upon to remember everything. Holliday peeled away the paper and uncorked the bottle, taking one long pull, then another. The whiskey burned going down, but warmed his stomach and made it at least feel full. It also served to warm the slender body. Replacing the cork, Doc stowed the bottle back among his things and changed the subject.

So, preacher, aside from there being four of these killers, what else do you know? Doc did not fail to notice Earp’s furrowed brow at the term preacher, though Wyatt said nothing.

I’m thinkin’ they’ll steer clear of Fort Smith, too much law there.

Wyatt, that leaves a great deal of territory they won’t steer clear of.

I know, but when I was checkin’ on one of ‘em, J B Dixon by name, I saw a pattern. Him and his gang rode a loop last year, up from Guthrie in the territories, north to Deadwood in the Dakotas, across into Iowa, back over to Nebraska, and down into Kansas. Back then they seemed more interested in small potatoes: thieving, horse stealing, and robbin’ miners of their pokes. This year it’s rape and murder, seven killings in the past ten months. I’ll just bet they’re gonna follow the loop back around.

And that would bring them to where after this? Doc asked.

I’d say Fort Gibson.

A guess then?

Let’s just say an educated one, unless you have a better idea?

Fort Gibson it is. Holliday pondered several moments. Why hasn’t anyone caught them yet, I wonder?

That’s the part scares me. Can’t be nobody didn’t care enough to run ‘em down. Maybe they’re so greasy they slipped away back into a hole somewhere, or could be they’re just that good that nobody wanted to try. You worried, Doc?

Holliday met his companion’s question and inquiring gaze with typical directness. I would be a fool if I said no, he replied.

Chapter 2

Winter’s last blast gave way to the first moisture laden breezes of spring and the promise of better weather to come. Doc delighted in the warmer temperatures. Shrugging out of his sheepskin jacket, he folded the garment across the saddle in front of him.

Wyatt had long since shed his. Take a while for you to warm up, does it, Doc? Sort of like a lizard needin’ a hot rock?

Holliday stretched his arms toward the distant sun, raising his face to meet the welcoming rays. Damn straight, marshal. In Georgia cold weather is fleeting, like a pretty girl’s smile. It doesn’t hang on as it does out here. His voice took on a dreamy tone. Back home the magnolias are in bloom, lilacs, roses, wisteria. The scent is intoxicating. All you have here, he glanced around, and a look of disdain settled onto his face, is dust and scrub brush and too much of both.

If you like Georgia so much, then why leave? Runnin’ from something? The law maybe?

Holliday turned abruptly in the saddle to face Earp, his expression anything but friendly. Anger churned hot in his gut, anger he found difficult to control. An invisible line had been crossed.

Why I left my home is no concern of yours, marshal. It has no bearing whatsoever on the business at hand. Suffice to say, if I could return to Georgia, I would gladly and most happily do so. I might not have brothers or even a mother, but what family I have, I hold most dear. Rest assured, if or when I deem it necessary you know of my past, I will inform you. That is at my discretion, not yours. Doc delivered the tirade in a low, rather menacing tone which appeared to have the desired effect. The lawman seemed totally chagrined. Perhaps he meant no offense after all. Doc fervently hoped that to be the case. Do we have an understanding?

We have, Wyatt replied.

As quickly as Holliday’s anger flared is as quickly as it ebbed. Good. I’m glad that’s past, he said emphatically. Tugging a pair of cigars from his vest pocket he handed one across to his companion. Smoke, marshal?

****

With the sun threatening to dip below the horizon, the men were pleased when a small ranch came into view. Maybe we can fill our canteens there, Wyatt said. Looks like a right enough place to me. Nicest spread we’ve come across so far.

Indeed and perhaps, if the lady of the house is kindly, we can prevail upon her for a bite of supper. Doc sighed. It seemed forever since he’d sat down for a meal at a table, eaten from china plates, or drunk coffee from anything but a heat conducting tin cup. Absently he ran his tongue over the last blister raised on his lip from just such a torture device.

Wyatt rode up close. You miss the homey comforts, Doc?

Holliday couldn’t tell by his companion’s expression if Earp mocked him or not. He settled on not. You read me like a book, sir. I do. You might say roughing it has never been my strong suit.

I’ve done a lot of roughing it, sleeping out cold, wet or both, eating half cooked game and poor coffee, and all I have to say is it never gets any easier. Wyatt pulled his hat down low and urged his horse into a trot, calling back over his shoulder, Let’s see if the lady of the house might find it in her heart to set two extra places at the dinner table.

Doc needed no encouragement to follow.

They did not expect the sight which greeted them. Between the house and barn, a man toiled over a shallow grave, his work with the shovel slow going. Every other spade full or so he stopped to blot his eyes against a filthy shirt cuff. Near him stood two boys, one about six years old, the other perhaps ten, the youngest crying loudly, the older standing stiff and silent.

Doc and Wyatt rode up to the house and tied their horses to the hitching post. On the narrow porch and covered by a blood soaked quilt were what appeared to be two bodies. While Wyatt checked, Doc walked over to where the farmer labored. Oddly enough, no one paid any attention to his approach and he waited silently, hat in hand, for Earp.

In the nearby corral stood a sorry looking gray gelding, its condition in vivid contrast to its well tended surroundings. Healed scars