Death Has Its Price

Chapter 19 – The Walls Close In

Less than forty-eight hours later Amy Stanhope's world was once again turned upside-down. She forced herself out of bed, against her better judgment, because her father had threatened to throw a bucket of water on her if she hid under the covers one more day. There was no time for extended grieving on a working ranch, and Gage had indulged her as much as he could.

She'd moved into the downstairs bedroom that John had occupied all those months, just to feel closer to him. She knew it was probably senseless, but it made her feel better. She changed clothes listlessly and shuffled down the hall for coffee, the only thing capable of keeping her awake. If she was this miserable two days after John left, how was she going to get through the rest of her life?

Cora was working on lunch already and smiled when she saw Amy. "Your daddy could use some help outside, Miss Amy," she informed the desolate young woman.

"Why? What's he doing, building a wall to keep gunslingers out of here?"

The housekeepers head shook 'no.' "No, two fellas just rode up, looking for Mr. John. Remember some months back when that Maverick boy came around here askin' after his brother? Well, he's back, and this time he's got – "

Amy didn't wait for Cora to finish. She ran outside and found Gage talking to the brother, who'd gotten down off his horse and was gesturing to the man still on horseback, who looked skeptical and none too happy. Dressed in black from head to foot, he reminded her of a surly version of John. It took her a minute to realize they were talking about the man she loved. Both of them stopped talking and the brother, who looked considerably better than he had the last time he was here, tipped his hat to her, as did the surly man on horseback.

"You remember my daughter, Amy? Amy, Bret Maverick and - "

Amy cut her father off before he could introduce the man on the horse. "I remember. What do you want, Mr. Maverick? We told you before your brother wasn't here."

Gage was appalled at Amy's rudeness and interrupted her. "Amy, that's no way to treat guests. You have to listen to the man."

"Why should I? He's got nothing to say that I'm interested in, anyway."

Maverick just stood there, silent, and waited for Amy's hostility to play itself out. Gage looked at the stranger and said, "Go ahead. Show it to her."

Bret reached for something in his coat and took it out for Amy to look at. "That's my brother, Miss Stanhope. Do you recognize him?"

He handed her the photo and she glanced at it casually, then looked more thoroughly as it caught her attention. It was a picture of a younger Bret Maverick with his brother, both in Confederate uniforms. Bret had his arm around his brother Bart, who was saluting the photographer. She stared at the brother's face. Though considerably younger looking, it was no doubt a photo of the man she knew as John Henry Holliday.

XXXXXXXX

John threw two cards down on the table. "Two, Mr. Dealer," he intoned. The dealer passed two cards across the table and John picked them up. Hmmm. A king and a deuce. That gave him three of a kind, all deuces. The cowboy to his left shoved four chips into the center of the table. "Two hundred."

Betting went around the table, with the dealer and the rancher to his immediate left folding. The undertaker to John's right called, which brought it back around to John. He moved eight chips into the pot. "Your two and two more," he offered, and the undertaker laid his cards face down on the table.

"I fold," the death broker stated.

The cowboy grinned an ugly, almost toothless smile. "Call," and he shoved four more chips onto the pile in the center. "Let's see 'em, tinhorn."

John glared at the cowboy, who should have stopped drinking a long time before he started playing. He laid his cards down and said quietly, "Three deuces."

"That's bull," the cowboy called. "You haven't lost a hand since I sat down. How're you doin' that without dealin'?"

"You accusing me of doing something crooked?" John asked. His voice was even and steady, but his eyes were on fire.

"I'm – " the cowboy started, interrupted almost immediately by the undertaker.

"I'd be real careful what I said if I were you unless you'd like to end up as my next customer," the man in the black suit said.

"Why's that, grandpa?" The cowboy snickered.

It was the rancher's turn this time. "Do you know who you're accusing of cheating, you idiot?"

The clueless cowboy shook his head. "Nope. Don't much care."

The rancher smiled as he asked, "Ever heard of Doc Holliday?"

As if to reinforce the statement, John coughed for several minutes. Whether it was the dust still in his lungs or the consumption didn't much matter. By the time he quit the cowboy's eyes were as big as saucers and he was stuttering. "D-D-D-Doc Holliday?" He swiveled his head around to stare at John. "You?"

"I've been called that a time or two," John answered and smiled slyly.

No man had ever moved as fast as the cowboy did. He grabbed his hat and jumped to his feet, all in one fluid motion. "S-S-S-Sorry, Mr. Holliday." And he was gone.

John, the rancher and the undertaker all burst out laughing. The dealer was the only one who sat there, stony-faced. "You just took ten years off that boys life."

"Because we told him the truth?" the rancher asked, still laughing.

"No, because you made it sound like he was in imminent danger of dying."

"Maybe he was, friend. We're all in imminent danger of dying from one thing or another." John was no longer smiling. Just then he went into another coughing spasm as if to illustrate his point. He reached for the coffee cup instead of the whiskey glass; he still didn't like the taste of the liquor. Once he put the cup back down he told the dealer, "We were just tryin' to have a little fun."

"That was your idea of fun?"

"Considering what my life has been like for the last year, yeah, that was my idea of fun."

One of the saloon girls brought the coffee pot over and filled John's cup. "I get off in an hour, Doc."

"I remember, Sascha. I'll be ready." She smiled at him and took the coffee back where it belonged. She was the opposite of Amy – tall and dark, with eyes that were almost black and lashes long enough to braid. She had a sweet smile and a body to die for, and she'd taken a shine to John as soon as he got there. They'd been sleeping together ever since.

A new player walked up to the table. "Seat available, gentlemen?"

"Sure, sit down," the rancher answered. "My name's John Benning."

"Gil Stafford," the undertaker volunteered.

"Paul Davids," from the dealer.

"Jimmy Fitzgerald," the new man stated. He turned to John. "And you, sir?"

"John Holliday."

"The John Holliday?"

"The only one I know of, Mr. Fitzgerald. Have a seat."

"I'm honored, Mr. Holliday. I didn't know you were in Tucson."

"Just got here three days ago, Mr. Fitzgerald. Been out of touch for quite a while."

The new man was curious. "Oh? Sick?"

John nodded. "In a manner of speaking. Got caught in a rockslide in the Superstition Mountains almost a year ago. Broke more bones than I knew I had. Been out of circulation since then."

Fitzgerald's ears perked up. "In the Superstitions, you say? I ran into a fella, another gambler, names Maverick, lookin' for his brother. Got caught in a rockslide in the Superstitions. Coincidence? You ridin' with somebody then?"

John shook his head. "Naw, I saw the guy, too. Don't know him or his brother. Must be a coincidence. Maybe it happened before, or after." The cards were dealt and John picked his up. Something about the hand was familiar. Aces full, over eights. He'd had this hand before. Where?

Jimmy Fitzgerald looked confused. "This Maverick insisted his brother was ridin' with you."

"Man's wrong, I was alone. Don't know either of the Mavericks."

"Well, wouldn't be the first time somebody's made a mistake. Won't be the last. I'll open for a hundred."

The dealer called, as did the rancher and the undertaker. John threw in two hundred. "See yours and raise a hundred."

The betting went around the table, one more time. Everybody called, and cards were requested. Two, one, one, two, until it got to John. "Stand."

They went around again, Fitzgerald and Holliday raising each other until they were the only two left. Finally John called, and his opponent laid down Queens full. "Sorry, Fitzgerald, Aces full over eights." Just then Sascha walked up behind John and whispered something in his ear. He laughed and raked in the pot, telling the dealer, "Cash me in, Paul. The lady's waiting." Paul Davids did so, and John put almost thirty-six hundred dollars into his wallet.

He tipped his hat to the table. "Gentlemen, it's been a pleasure. Let's do this again real soon." He offered Sascha his arm and she took it, walking away from the table and out the door with Doc Holliday.

Jimmy Fitzgerald shook his head. "I don't understand that. This Maverick fella was positive that his brother was ridin' with Doc. Could he have forgotten?"

Benning nodded. "The man's dying of consumption, Mr. Fitzgerald. I would imagine he forgets a lot of things."

"Still, if you know a man well enough to ride with him – "

"Let it go, Fitzgerald. Doc doesn't want to remember, for whatever reason. Man's entitled to his secrets."

"Even if he remembers things wrong?"

"Even then."