Doc Holliday was sloshed. He knew he was sloshed. He enjoyed it. Still, he should have known better. It was a foolish thing to say, bound to get his opponent riled. That was why he said it.
"It seems poker's just not your game, Ike. I know! Let's have a spelling contest!" Doc giggled. Ike spluttered.
Johnny Ringo stepped out of the shadows where he'd been watching the game. "All right, lunger. Let's do it!"
Doc shook his head. "My challenge was not for you, Ringo."
"Of course it wasn't. I might stand a chance. But I'm not about to let you take down Ike that way! You can't have a battle of wits with an unarmed man!"
"Hell, thanks, Johnny," Ike muttered. "Knew I could count on you."
Curly Bill Brocius stepped in and drew Ringo aside. "Careful, Johnny. I hear he's real good."
"I can take him, Curly. I matched him sentence for sentence in that Latin showdown, didn't I?"
"We don't know what would have happened if Marshall White hadn't stepped in. Juanito, it's not worth the risk."
"The hell it ain't!" Ringo slammed his fist down on the table. "You name the time and place, Holliday. I'll be ready for you. And none of your tricks. No medical or legal terms."
Doc nodded. "Very well. I accept," he drawled. "Tomorrow, sunset, in the Oriental. Provided we can find a neutral party to arbitrate." He took a long drag on his cigarette. "If there's anyone in this godforsaken town who owns a copy of Webster's."
Hannibal Heyes stood in the doorway to the Oriental Saloon, letting his eyes adjust to the dim light. The scents of fine cigars and bourbon floated across the room, calling to him. He smiled in approval of the rich appointments, the gleaming woodwork, the crystal and mirrors glinting in the lamplight, then stepped in to make way for his cousin, Kid Curry. A man sat down to the piano and ran through a medley of Stephen Foster tunes. Heyes winced; the piano needed tuning. Still, it was a nicer place than he'd met outside of Denver or San Francisco. Should be just the place to find a game.
"I don't know, Heyes," the Kid muttered. "Looks a little rich for my blood. And if Wyatt Earp is running the faro game..."
"Calm down," Heyes replied. "Earp won't be turning us in. We did him a favor last time we met up. All we're doing is," he shrugged, "Bringing in some business. Though I'm not about to play faro, with Earp or anybody else."
"Didn't Soapy tell you how to spot a faro dealer who's cheating?" the blond man asked.
"He did," the dark one replied. "You can spot a faro dealer who's cheating because he'll be the one dealing faro. Or she." He tipped his hat to the exotic -- and expensive -- looking woman currently working the game, then worked his way over to the bar. "Two whiskeys, please," he told the balding man who came to take his order.
The bartender filled the glasses with amber liquid, then leaned forward conspiratorially. "If you're looking to get in on the action," he said softly, "you'd best get on over there. They're about to commence." He pointed toward a small crowd clustering around a poker table. "Or, if you'd rather, I'm taking side wagers. So far the odds are even on Ringo and Holliday. Some fool put money on John Clum, but everybody knows he'll be out in the first three rounds. And nobody's even betting on Doc Goodfellow."
Kid Curry gave a soft whistle. "Grudge match?"
The bartender nodded. "Those two have been hankering for a bite of each other ever since Holliday hit town. Now if you gents will excuse me?" He bustled off to the other end of the bar.
The Kid took a sip of his whiskey, enjoying the smooth feel of the clean glass and smoother taste of the spirits. Then he noticed with alarm the expression on his cousin's face. "Heyes? Are you thinking what I think you're thinking?"
Heyes nodded. "I've played with Doc before, and won. I could do it again."
"Maybe, maybe no. He's good. And this Ringo fellow, I've heard of him. He's just as good with a gun as Holliday is. And Holliday is almost as good as I am."
"Almost?" Heyes tried to suppress a smile.
"You know that in a grudge match tempers run high. I don't want to have to step in and save your hide if it comes down to more than cards."
"I know, Kid. I know. But it can't hurt to at least have a look, can it?" Heyes was halfway across the room before his partner could tell him that yes, it could hurt.
The Kid finished his whiskey and set the empty on the bar. Then he sighed and followed his cousin.
Heyes shook his head. This didn't look like any poker game he'd ever seen. There were chips and cash money on the table, but no cards, and there were only four men who appeared to be playing, all in their late twenties to early thirties. A fifth man, a scrawny fellow dressed a little too dapperly, appeared to be consulting a rules book.
"Doc?" a woman's voice called. Both Holliday and another player looked up, and Heyes realized the other man must be The Gunfighter's Surgeon, Doc Goodfellow. He couldn't be much over twenty-five, which surprised Heyes given the doctor's reputation both with a scalpel and a weapon. This was surely the same man who'd pulled a man's guts out of him, put them back together and stitched the man up on the middle of a saloon table, then gotten himself arrested for dueling on the street (and winning) the next day.
The woman was the one who had been dealing faro when they came in. She sidled over to Holliday's side and leaned over to whisper in his ear, "I know you'll win, Doc. You're the best. It's time everyone in this town knew that." She kissed his lips, then tucked a cigarette between them. Heyes couldn't quite place her accent; somehow it suited the throaty voice. Between her sinuous movements and purring tones, she reminded him of a spoiled housecat, one of those long-coated ones that needed a lot of brushing and pampering.
Holliday glanced at the woman, then looked over the assembling crowd, picked out Heyes, and nodded coolly. "Mr. Smith," he acknowledged. "I fear you are too late to join our game, but perhaps we may be of some amusement to you. May I present Mr. John Clum, editor of the respectable town paper; Dr. George Goodfellow; and Mr. John Ringo, a man who pursues many professions but has not yet caught one. Oh, yes, and Mr. William Breakenridge, deputy sheriff. Gentlemen, Mr. Joshua Smith, a fellow gaming man. Joshua, pull up one of the empty chairs. Please feel free to bet on me."
The deputy marked his place in the rules book and fixed his eye on Goodfellow. "Mis-cheev-eee-us," he called out with an air of challenge.
"Billy, if I spelled that the way you pronounced it, I'd look as big a fool as you do," the doctor retorted. "Mischievous. M - I - S - C- H - I - E - V - O - U - S. I call for a new pronouncer."
"Hear, hear!" said Holliday. "I swear, Billy's been trying to throw the match to Ringo."
"I have not," the little deputy protested, pushing his glasses up his nose. "There are just some words no one uses in conversation, so I've only ever seen them written."
"A likely story," Clum said. "About as likely as the one where all the Cowboys agreed to pay you their tax money because they're afraid of your reputation with a gun, Breck."
"I don't have to put up with this," Billy stated. "If you need me, I'll be at the faro table. Since it's the closest this town has to a game of whist." He stomped away, a chorus of catcalls following him from the assembled onlookers.
"Shall I get that English fellow, the actor?" Clum asked the table.
"Hell, he'd disqualify us for leaving the U out of honour," Ringo growled. "And that actress friend of his dumped Behan and went over to the Earp side. You know who'd win if she had her way."
"Why, Johnny," Doc exclaimed, his voice level. "What an ugly thing to say about a lady."
"What about you, Smith?" Goodfellow nodded toward Heyes. "You well read? Can you work your way around a dictionary? And keep friendship and grudges out of the match?"
Heyes shook his head, reluctant to get into the middle of this. "I don't think I'm your man, gentlemen. I mean, I went through grade school, but no higher. I read when I can, but I'm not a professional man like you."
"Perfect," said Ringo. "Neither am I. Pass him the dictionary, Clum."
Three hours later, Heyes pushed his hand through his hair. This was grueling work, keeping his pronunciation precise and careful, not favoring any man above another. He hadn't even placed any wagers of his own, not wanting to seem to have a conflict of interest.
As the bartender had predicted, Clum had gone out in the third round, leaving an L out of alluvial.Goodfellow had lasted longer, finally tripping up on worsted, which Heyes had very carefully pronounced, woostid. Fortunately for him, the dictionary agreed, and Goodfellow had conceded the loss with good humor. The recovering outlaw took a careful pull at his whiskey, only his third of the evening. It wouldn't due to slur his words.
Ringo was growing progressively drunker and more snarly as the bee progressed. With each word Doc successfully spelled, Johnny's hand twitched toward his gun. Doc had just delivered syzygy with a flourish, and all eyes turned to Heyes. He thumbed through the dictionary, frantically looking for something that hadn't already been used. Then an inspiration struck him.
He showed his choice to the two men who were already out of the game, just in case he needed a witness later, marked his place, then fixed Ringo with a level gaze. "Sou," he said.
Ringo grinned. "Sioux," he declared. "S - I - O - U - X."
Heyes shook his head. "I'm sorry," he said. "That's incorrect."
"What? You cheating son of a bitch!" Ringo started to go for his gun, but found himself staring at the barrel of Kid Curry's revolver. A shocked whisper ran through the room.
"Gentlemen," Clum interjected. "Before Doc can be declared the winner, he must correctly spell the last word."
"That's right," Goodfellow agreed.
Holliday nodded and puffed on his cigarette. "Sue? Definition and use in a sentence, please, Mr. Smith."
"Sou. A French coin of little value. He didn't have a sou."
"Sou," Holliday repeated. "S - O - U." He looked at Heyes, who nodded in confirmation. "Never assume, Johnny." He leaned forward and raked in his winnings. "And never try to beat a man at his own game."
Ringo stalked out of the saloon, walking on the balls of his feet like a boxer, or a dancer.
"There goes a tomcat in search of a fence," Doc muttered, then turned to Heyes. "Your tip, my good man," he said, handing over a stack of bills. "Always good form to tip the dealer. And you," he said to the Kid. "That's quite a fast draw you've got there. Would be interesting to see whether you could outdraw Johnny if he knew you were there. Don't know which of you I'd put my money on. Might be worth an experiment someday."
"I think I'll pass, thank you," Curry said. "I don't make a game of this."
Holliday nodded. "Gentlemen," he said to those remaining. "I do believe I shall buy a round for us all."
THE END