The man’s mustache shifted as he grinned. “Of course.”
“It’s a topic you’re interested in, I gather.”
“Certainly. I’ve heard such good stories. Like yours. Traveling ’cross the Rockies on horseback at night? Why ever would you do such a thing?”
“The train was all booked up.” In fact, the train had been watched, and he couldn’t risk getting cornered. After what had happened on this trip, he might risk it next time.
Holliday chuckled. “I can tell you are a man who always finds a way. A survivor.”
“Yes,” he murmured. “I am that.”
“Any advice? For someone who might like to survive?” He waved a hand in a casual gesture, and Ricardo had a strange thought. Holliday was dying, that was clear. Cough by cough, his life ebbed. Ricardo could smell it, a miasma that hung about him—unlike everyone else in the room, he didn’t smell like food.
He had no advice. Not really. “I keep to myself. Try not to bother anyone.”
“And if they bother you?”
Ricardo glanced at Holliday sidelong. Holliday had never once met his gaze. He looked in his glass, he studied the crowd, traced the grain in the wood of the bar. But he knew better than to look in Ricardo’s eyes. Ricardo just about came straight out to ask, How? How did he know?
“Well then,” Ricardo said. “I send them on their way as politely as I can.”
“Amen, sir.”
Ricardo had been in Central City for ten days when he figured it was time he moved on. Holliday had made noise about doing likewise. As fascinating as this stop had been, as much as he was sure there were more stories to learn, Ricardo was starting to get a reputation, and people were starting to know him. This was too small a place for that to be healthy for him. He’d been through about as much of his food supply as he could without doubling up and raising questions. Best to get a horse and head on out.
One more night, he decided. One more night of watching Holliday, of watching people watch Holliday, and then maybe he’d have his own story to tell about the man. Holliday had been dealing for an hour or so already. His regulars and more than a few folk passing through surrounded his table and took part in the action. The night was perfectly normal. Which made it all the more jarring when a chair clattered back as a man stood up from the faro table and shouted, “You cheat! You’re a lying cheat!”
A young cowboy type stood pointing at Doc Holliday. He was not a regular.
Ricardo set down the cloth he’d been using to wipe down glasses and moved around the bar. The room had gone still, conversation falling quiet, everyone looking over.
A space had formed around the table—a number of players took up their cash and rushed away and couldn’t be faulted for it. That left the cowboy type, a beardless kid in boots, trousers, a plain shirt, and bandana around his neck, sandy-colored hair brushing his ears, and a fiery look in his eyes. He wore two six-shooters in holsters on his belt.
Ricardo had a feeling this wasn’t about faro.
Holliday hadn’t moved. He sat straight as always in his chair, one hand holding his ubiquitous handkerchief, the other tapping on the box from which he’d apparently dealt a double, if Ricardo read the board right. Banker won half the stakes on a double, and Ricardo wondered how many pairs Holliday had dealt out of that box. Didn’t really matter, faro was an easy game to cheat at, and in any case you didn’t just stand up and call Holliday a cheater. At least, most folks didn’t.
“Might you repeat yourself, sir? I don’t think everyone heard you clear enough,” Holliday said, leaning back.
“You cheat! You fixed the deck!”
The corner of Holliday’s lip curled up. “You’ve been betting so little, how do you even notice you’ve lost?”
The cowboy looked like he wanted to lunge across the table at him, but he restrained himself. Ricardo watched, fascinated.
“Doesn’t it bother you? Me calling you a cheater?”
“Boy, I’ve been called so much worse. You seem quaint to me.”
The young man snarled. But still, he didn’t start the fight Ricardo was sure was coming. He was ready to grab whichever fist shot out first.
“Doesn’t this blowhard bother any of y’all?” the cowboy called out to the rest of the room, to his fellow players who’d pressed even farther away. “You sit here every night and let him take your money! Why?”
“Kid, you know who that is?” a voice hissed from the crowd, and the cowboy’s hard gaze turned straight back to Holliday. Of course he knew exactly who Holliday was. It was why he’d come here, and his expression twisted, trying to come up with something to say that would get the gunfighter out of his chair.
Holliday read him right. He’d probably seen a dozen of these young hotheads in his time. Ricardo hoped Holliday would stay seated, tell the kid to simmer down. Maybe buy him a drink. Not egg him on, because something about this didn’t feel right. But alas.