“And I understand the two of you were very close as children.”
“Like brothers.”
“Then how do you think he would feel about you drinking yourself into a stupor every other night and not even showing up for work more than two or three days out of the week? How would Robert feel about you taking up as a professional gambler and carrying a pistol like so many of the troublemakers that live in saloons like this?”
“I don’t show up for work because there’s hardly any patients showing up anymore. It’s been that way all year, and it’s only getting worse. And if you have the gall to say I’m to blame for slow business, then I will be forced to disagree.”
Seegar lifted his bands and shook his head. “I wouldn’t dream of blaming you for that. But there are ups and downs in any business. A dental practice isn’t any different. Someone needs to call you out for the mess you’ve made of things on those other accounts.”
“Mess? Whatever do you mean?”
“Don’t make me repeat myself, Henry.”
“I still practice dentistry when I can, and will never give up that profession. In case you haven’t noticed, this lovely Texas air hasn’t cured my condition, which is why I must seek comfort in the arms of this particular mistress,” Doc explained while holding up the whiskey bottle. “I find spitting up blood and having dizzy spells much easier to bear after a few drinks. Besides, since most drunks already have those conditions, I might as well taste the benefits as well.”
“What benefits?”
“Being able to ignore the pitying looks I receive, for one. Folks see me coming, and they give me those god- damned doe eyes like I’m some invalid that somehow managed to get up and dressed for a walk.” Doc’s voice had lowered almost to a hissing snarl. “They ask how I’m feeling or how the fine weather’s been treating me as if they truly gave a damn. At least the men at a card table offer more by way of conversation than the hushed condolences I get otherwise.”
“Folks mean well,” Seegar retorted. “You know that.”
“Then maybe I prefer putting the odds in my favor for a change. You ever think about that?” As if suddenly realizing the aggression in his voice, Doc took a breath and let it out calmly. “Ever since I’ve been born, folks have been planning my funeral. And when I manage to pull through, they say it’s a miracle. Well I have news for you and everyone else. It’s not a miracle. I’ve been fighting every day of my life, and when I was too weak to fight anymore, there have been precious few out there to help me along.
“You say I’m putting those people I care about to shame? I say that I’m still fighting tooth and nail, even though I sometimes don’t see the sense in doing anything but curling up and hacking out my last breath.”
Seegar listened to every word and thought carefully before responding. “Your condition isn’t too far along to —”
“This is the condition that killed my mother,” Doc said, “and she was one of the strongest people I ever knew. It might kill me, and it might not, but I’ll be damned if I’m going to just stay quiet and keep my head bowed as some illness has its way with me! My mother as well as anyone else who truly cares for me would rather see me indulge in all seven of the deadly sins rather than roll over and give in.”
“Anyone would be proud to see the things you’ve accomplished, Henry. All I’m asking is that you don’t throw it all away. By all means, keep living life to the fullest, but don’t waste away in places like this, filling yourself with liquor. You’re better than that!”
Nodding, Doc looked down at the table to collect his thoughts. When he looked up again, his anger had left him completely. In fact, he barely even displayed the effects of drinking half a bottle of whiskey.
“You know what I think the problem is?” Doc asked.
Seegar’s face brightened a bit. “What’s that?”
“You and I have different interpretations of living life to the fullest.”
And with that one sentence, Seegar knew he’d just lost the battle he’d come to fight. “Can I at least ask you to stop dealing faro? That reflects badly on a man in my . . . a man in our profession.”
“Dealing cards is a profession,” Doc pointed out.
“It’s hardly a profession. A trade, perhaps, but definitely not an honest one.”
“Well then,” Doc said as he lifted his whiskey bottle, “here’s to a dishonest trade.”
As much as Seegar wanted to be angry, it was hard to look at the young man in front of him and hold onto his animosity for more than a few seconds. The twenty-two-year-old Holliday wasn’t quite the anxious youth he’d been when he’d stepped off that train a year ago, but he still possessed an undeniable spark in his eyes. That spark hadn’t dimmed once, even when Doc had been in the grips of the roughest days his consumptive disorder had to offer.
Seegar motioned toward the bar and had a glass brought over to him. All he needed to do from there was hold the glass out for it to be filled by Doc’s steady hand. “To a dishonest trade,” he said somberly.
Both men knocked back their drinks without saying a word.
There was plenty more that Seegar wanted to say and there was always a storm brewing behind Doc’s eyes, but they both managed to just sit back and enjoy their whiskey. It wasn’t a stony silence that formed between them, but more of a quiet contemplation. Each of them sifted through the memories that had been stirred during the conversation, knowing full well that both trains of thought were no longer on similar tracks.
It took Seegar a few more sips to empty his shot glass and when he was done, he set it down in front of him. Turning the glass between his fingers, he looked at Doc and said, “I’m sorry for coming in here and speaking to you the way I did.”
“And I’m sorry for listening,” Doc replied with a smirk.
Laughing a bit, Seegar kept rolling the shot glass between his fingers as if he was hoping there was just a bit more whiskey in there. “You’ve got plenty of promise, Henry, but I hope you understand that I can’t have a partner that would rather be somewhere else instead of at our practice. I’d say the same thing even if you’d taken up ranching or any other activity that occupied you as much as playing cards.”
“I understand.”
“I hope there’s no hard feelings,” Seegar said, even though the look on his face showed that he wasn’t expecting any good feelings. “This is just the way it needs to be.” When he managed to take another look in Doc’s direction, however, he found the younger man extending a hand across the table.
“No hard feelings, John,” Doc said. “Although I will take exception if I stop getting Martha’s invitations to dinner.”
“You don’t have to worry about that. Whenever you’re in Dallas, there’s a spot for you at our table.”
No matter how much Seegar wanted another shot of whiskey, he got up while shaking Doc’s hand. After that, he turned and worked his way through the crowd until he could find his way out the front door. Once outside, Seegar let out a slow, sorrowful breath.
[10]
Caleb had walked out of the Busted Flush without taking much notice of the table where the two dentists were sharing drinks. He was too concerned with the bad intentions scrawled all over the faces of the men who were waiting for him at the front door. And though the old man standing there with those other two wasn’t anything close to threatening, he couldn’t have been there to wish Caleb good luck after being released from jail. The elderly miner was shifting and squirming way too much on his feet to be pondering anything good.
“What’s this about?” Caleb asked once he was practically toe-to-toe with the biggest of the three.
The man taking up the most of Caleb’s field of vision was slightly shorter than Caleb and had a gut that hung like a sack of lard over his belt. Although the top of his head was shiny bald, the hair on the sides and back of his head hung down like a thick, greasy curtain. Thick arms hung out at an angle from his shoulders, and sausagelike fingers dangled like meaty fringe at the ends. When he spoke, a brushy mustache curled in to scrape his teeth and collect saliva at the ends of each whisker. “You remember my uncle?”
Caleb didn’t need another look at the miner. Instead, he took a moment to examine the third member of the group. That one might have been of a similar height to Caleb but was stooped over at an odd, sideways angle, thanks to the way his left shoulder was gnarled and twisted into something of a hump.
