TRINIDAD, 1878
THE CITY LAY IN A NARROW VALLEY IN THE SAN JUAN MOUNTAINS OF southeastern Colorado, where the Purgatoire River crossed the Santa Fe Trail. The cowboys called the river the Picketwire, mispronouncing the French version of the original Spanish name, “El Rio de Las Animas Perdidas en Purgatorio.” Everyone else just called it Purgatory.
But it looked more like heaven to John Henry, as the train from Dodge City rose up out of the dusty plains and wound into the green mountains that surrounded Trinidad.
“I saved a man from Purgatory, once,” he mused to Kate.
“And just how did you do that? You’re no priest.”
“I rode a horse all night long, that’s how, and nearly froze to death doin’ it. My uncle was dyin’ and I had to go all the way to Atlanta to get the priest to give him his last rites.”
“You never told me you had a Catholic uncle,” Kate said in surprise.
“I never told you a lot of things,” he replied, as he touched the Claddagh ring on his little finger. Though Kate knew he wrote letters home to his cousin in Georgia, he was careful not to let her see the replies, with the envelopes addressed in Mattie’s delicate feminine handwriting. Kate still thought his cousin was a man and he didn’t plan to enlighten her any. “I almost became a Catholic myself, for instance. I never told you that either, did I?”
“You’d have made a good Catholic, with all that drinking.”
“And you’ve made a bad one, if you were ever good at it in the first place. Surely you must know that our sleepin’ together is a sin. We could both be damned, you know.”
“You can be damned now, for all I care,” she answered haughtily. “You’re the one who’s happy keeping a mistress. I’d be your wife, if you ever asked me.”
He hadn’t expected the sudden serious turn of the conversation, and he couldn’t find the words to answer for a moment. It was true that Kate had been more like a wife than a mistress to him, traveling the hard miles up from Fort Griffin without complaining, caring for him during his sick spells, bearing him the only child he would ever have. But he didn’t love Kate, not enough to marry her. Not the way he still loved Mattie.
“You wouldn’t want to be married to me, Kate!” he said with a laugh. “I’d be a poor bet as a husband. I’d just die on you someday, leave you a wealthy widow, or a bust one, dependin’ on my luck. And as I recall, I only promised to take you as far as Dodge City, anyhow. You’re free to leave now, if you’re tired of the way things are. Trinidad ought to suit you fine. I hear they have the most remarkable redlight district in Colorado.”
“Are you calling me a whore?”
“That would be a case of the pot callin’ the kettle black, I believe. I think you are a fine companion for a sportin’ man, and more than adequate to my other needs. In fact, if this ridin’ car had a sleepin’ berth . . .”
“Go to hell!”
“You first!” he laughed. “Ah, Kate! You do look lovely when you’re angry, with your eyes all on fire like that! It reminds me of why I wanted you in the first place, back in St. Louis.”
“And why was that?”
“To see if I could tame your arrogant soul.”
“That’s one thing you will never do!” she said, tossing her head. But there was a smile behind her eyes, enjoying the battle. “I don’t think I will marry you, even if you ask. You’re not nearly my equal. I could have married a nobleman if my family had stayed in Hungary.”
He smiled, too, intrigued as always by Kate’s quick passions, so unlike Mattie’s steady emotions that were like a balm to his troubled soul. Kate’s passions fired his own, though there were times he wanted to kill her more than make love to her. But now he was only amused and toying with her.
“Yes, you’re quite the princess,” he said, “wearing all that finery your outlaw lover buys for you. I wonder what your old Hungarian family would think of you now with your face all painted and your bosom showing in the daytime?”
And all at once, Kate’s haughty anger turned to tears, catching him off guard again.
“You are a cruel and heartless man!” she said with a sob.
The one thing John Henry couldn’t bear was to see a woman cry, and he quickly took her gloved hand in his.
“Kate, I was only teasin’! I didn’t mean anything by it. Do you think I’d stay with you if you looked like a street-walker? Why do you think I spend all this money dressin’ you up, anyhow? Here,” he said, pulling his own linen handkerchief from his vest pocket, “blow your nose. Your rouge is runnin’.”
But as Kate opened the handkerchief, elegantly embroidered with his initials JHH, she saw the brown stain of old blood that wouldn’t wash out.
“Oh, Doc!” she cried. “Why do we have to fight all the time? I don’t want to lose you! I don’t want you to die!”
“Everybody dies, Kate. Me and you and all the rest of the world, too. But I’m not dead just yet, so stop your weepin’. We’re coming into Trinidad. You don’t want to make your entrance with your face all a mess, do you?”
He could have stopped her tears all at once, he knew, by telling her that he loved her, and for a moment, he almost tried. Heaven knew he’d told enough other lies in his life. What difference would one more make? But heaven knew, too, that he’d made a vow to Mattie, and that one vow he meant to keep. Always, he had promised her. And though Kate was looking up at him with yearning in her eyes, he couldn’t break that vow.
Trinidad was one of the boomtowns of the Santa Fe Trail, sprung up as a supply stop on the eight-hundred mile highway that ran from Missouri to the New Mexico Territory. The trail brought thousands of oxen-drawn prairie schooners driving along the two main streets of the town, and with the arrivals of the railroad from Denver in 1876 and Dodge City in 1878, Trinidad had quickly become the major shipping point for most of New Mexico, Arizona, and West Texas. The town boasted a population of 3,000 permanent residents, with eighty-eight stores, three hotels, a daily newspaper and mail, and the red-light district that was the wonder of Colorado.
But it wasn’t Trinidad’s bordellos that interested John Henry, and as soon as he got Kate and himself settled into a room at the swank new Southern Hotel, he headed up the street to the Exchange Club, the biggest saloon and gambling house in town. Though the Exchange had a reputation for violence, it also had a reputation for drawing some of the best-known sporting men in the west. Wild Bill Hickok had played there, and Frank and Jesse James. Some claimed that young Billy the Kid had tried his luck at the Exchange’s gambling tables while running from the law in Lincoln County, New Mexico. With all that action, the Exchange was the kind of place where a gentleman gambler could rake in a bundle, and that’s just what John Henry proposed to do.
The first night in town he won $200 on Faro; the second night he cleared $300 more on Spanish Monte and knew that he was on a roll. And though Kate pestered him about letting go of the games for an evening or two and getting a little rest after the trip up from Dodge City, he couldn’t stop playing as long as things were going so well. He was riding on the wave of euphoria that a successful gambling spree always gave him, and he didn’t feel like sleeping or eating or even making love.
But he did feel like drinking, both to celebrate his success at the card tables and to mask the growing pain in his lungs. The summer months in dusty Dodge City had been hard on his health and he was having more trouble breathing than usual, coughing and wheezing between every play. If it hadn’t been for the blessed relief of the whiskey, he might not have been able to keep playing at all, streak or no streak. So by the end of his first week in Trinidad, he was $2,000 richer, tired beyond tired, and thoroughly soused, as well.
“Come on, Doc,” Kate cajoled as he took another hand of cards and laid down his bet. The poker game in the Exchange Club had been going on for most of the day and into the night, and Kate was getting tired of waiting. “Let it go for awhile. Haven’t we made enough money for one week? You need to rest.”
“With you?” he said, looking up with blood-shot blue eyes. “That’s funny, Kate! When did you ever let me get any rest, anyhow? You are a veritable virago in the bedroom. I’d get more rest right here on the green baize than in your eager embrace.”
“Then come eat something, at least. Or take me shopping and buy me a new dress . . .”
“Ah! Is that what you’re after? Well, hell, darlin’,” he drawled, “why didn’t you say so?” and he tossed her a wad of bills from the stack in front of him. “You go on ahead and get to shoppin’ without me. I’m gonna stay on a little longer and see how much more money these fine gentlemen have to lose.”
But although Kate took the money, sliding it down into the plunging neckline of her satin dress, she still persisted in trying to get him to give up his game. “You’re going to make yourself sick, Doc. Take a break and come walking with me. Trinidad’s not the place for a lady alone.”
“Why, Kate! I’m surprised at you! Don’t you still have that derringer tucked up inside your garter? If anybody tries to give you trouble, you just give ‘em a little of what you’ve got between your legs!”
He always found himself immensely amusing when he’d been drinking and playing cards. Hilarious, Morgan had called him, and he had to agree. But Kate seemed to think otherwise.
“You’re disgusting. I don’t know why I stay with you.”
“Then leave. But do so quickly, if you must. You’re ruinin’ my concentration on this fine hand of cards. Gentlemen, shall we play poker?”
Kate stood beside him fuming a moment longer before sweeping out of the gaming room, her head held high and her aristocratic nose in the air, and her dramatic exit wasn’t lost on the other gamblers at John Henry’s table.
Kid Colton, a scar-faced youngster who fancied himself another Billy the Kid, watched her with lusty young eyes and whistled in admiration. “That’s a helluva woman, Holliday! Are you her pimp? I got $50 here I’ll give you for a trick, if you’re running her business.”
Kate heard his words from the doorway and turned back haughtily. “What did you say?” she demanded. “What did you call me?”
“I said you’re a helluva woman. Asked Holliday if he’d take a fifty for you. But I’ll give it to you myself, if you’d rather. Don’t make no difference to me. Long as I get a good lay for it.”
“How dare you!” she cried. “Doc, you’re not going to let him insult me like that, are you? You’re not going to let him insult you . . .”
It was the personal insult, pointed out by Kate, that got John Henry’s ire. Calling a spade a spade was one thing. But calling a gentleman a pimp was not to be borne.
He laid down his cards and said with a sigh, “Kid, you have put me in a difficult position. I’d rather keep beatin’ you at cards than have to shoot you, but unless you apologize to Miss Elder and myself . . .”
“Apologize, hell! That was a damn good offer. The madams up on parlor hill don’t make any more on a trick than that!”
“Then I shall have to challenge you to a duel in defense of Miss Elder’s honor and my own.” And as he rose to his feet, wobbly from a week of liquor, he waved his hand toward the other players at the table. “Gentlemen, may we have some room, please? Mr. Colton and I are about to have a duel . . .”
“You’re crazy!” Kid Colton sneered, “crazy and drunk.”
“Drunk perhaps, but only a little crazy,” John Henry said, his drawl beginning to slur. Then he pulled open his suit coat and laid his hand on the pearl-handled revolver in his shoulder holster—Bat’s revolver, special ordered from the Colt’s Manufacturing Company. “Who’s your second, Mr. Colton? You’re gonna need him in a moment.”
Kid Colton still seemed to think John Henry’s growing anger was just a joke, as he sat unbelieving—and worse, laughing out loud.
“I’d like to see you try it, Holliday! They don’t call me Kid for nothing. Ain’t nobody faster on the draw than me, not even Billy the Kid hisself. Why, I bet I could take you with one hand behind my back.” And as he reached toward his revolver, John Henry’s new Colt’s flashed and fired, the bullet slamming into Kid Colton’s shooting arm and throwing him backward in a howl of pain.
“Well, I reckon Billy’s reputation is still intact,” John Henry commented, as he covered the startled crowd with his smoking six-shooter in one hand and swept up his poker winnings with the other. “Hold the door for me, will you, Kate darlin’? My hands are full.”
Though John Henry had done his gentlemanly best to assuage both their honors, Kate was still fuming after their quick retreat to the Southern Hotel.
“I wish you had killed him for me. He deserved it, the bastard!”
“Watch your language, Kate. There’s a lady in the room,” John Henry replied, as he sat sprawled in an easy chair holding a glass to his aching head. The pleasant glow of the gambling was wearing off and he was beginning to have a raging headache.
“You had an easy shot at him,” Kate went on as she paced the expensive carpet. “Why didn’t you just put a bullet through his head and be done with it? Insulting me that way! Now he’ll come back looking to settle the score and you’ll just have to fight him all over again.”
“He won’t be comin’ back again anytime soon, not with that shootin’ arm. I did enough damage to teach him a lesson, anyhow. Besides, Bat asked me to stay out of trouble.”
“Bat?” she said, stopping to stare at him. “What are you talking about?”
“Sheriff Masterson, back in Dodge City, when he gave me this pistol. He asked me to stay out of trouble, if I could, for Wyatt’s sake. I reckon killin’ was the kind of trouble in particular that he was talkin’ about.”
“Wyatt?” Kate said, her eyes flashing. “Always Wyatt! What about me? I’m the one whose honor was defiled! Damn Wyatt! I wish Larn’s men had collected on that bounty and killed him back in Dodge.”
“What did you say?” John Henry said, looking up sharply. “What do you know about Larn’s men? I swear, Kate, if you do know somethin’ . . .”
“I know plenty! I know it was Larn’s money that was behind the bounty on Wyatt’s head. I know it was Larn’s men who tried to kill him back in Dodge. And I wish they’d done it!”
“That’s a dangerous accusation to make. Are you sure of this?”
“Of course, I’m sure!” she said with a haughty laugh. “Who do you think told John Larn about Wyatt’s nosing into his rustling, anyway? Who else knew what Wyatt was doing there in Shackleford County, except for you and me, or knew Larn well enough to pass the message on? It was me who told John Larn about Wyatt’s detective work! And my only regret is that I didn’t tell him sooner. Wyatt would be dead by now and out of our lives forever . . .”
“Damn your schemin’ little soul to hell!” John Henry cursed as he flew from the chair and grabbed her roughly. “You almost got your wish, and got me killed, to boot! I ought to finish you before you can do any more damage!” And as he spoke, his hands slid up from her honey-colored shoulders to her perfumed neck. “I could kill you right now!”
“You wouldn’t dare!” she said defiantly as his hands tightened. “You don’t want to make any trouble, remember? For Wyatt’s sake . . .”
“Damn you!” he said again, and let his hands fall away from her. “Get out of here! Get out of my life! Go back to the streets where you came from and leave me in peace . . .”
His words were choked off by a sudden tearing pain in his chest, sharper than any pain before, searing his lungs like fire.
“Doc?” Kate said, as he gasped and reached for the chair to steady himself. “What’s wrong? What’s the matter?”
But he couldn’t answer her as his chest gave way all at once and the blood came up from his lungs, filling his mouth and choking him as he struggled to breathe.
“Doc!” Kate screamed again, reaching for him as he fell, and the world spun around him and went dark.
There was a voice hanging above him in the misty darkness.
“How long has he been like this?”
“Two days,” Kate replied, her voice mingling with the other, a man’s voice.
“And the bleeding? It was worse than this?”
“Yes. I was afraid to leave him to send for you. There was so much— clots and tissue.”
“The lesions, no doubt,” the man’s voice said. “You are aware that he has the consumption?”
“I know,” Kate said, “I don’t need to hear about it. I just need to know what to do. My father was a surgeon. I can do whatever you tell me, Dr. Beshoar. Just tell me what to do for him, please. I can’t let him die like this . . .”
“It won’t be easy,” the voice answered heavily. “You must take him down to New Mexico, to the hot springs in Las Vegas. There’s a resort there that specializes in treating consumptives. The best doctors in the country visit to try out new treatments. There have been some remarkable cures . . .”
“But it’s winter! He’ll die if I take him over that mountain in the snow!”
“He’ll die if you don’t take him,” the voice said. “Don’t wait too long to decide.”
Kate hired a wagon and team to carry them over the Raton Pass into New Mexico, joining on with a big freight outfit that was taking supplies to the military outpost of Fort Union. It would take a week or more for the wagon train to reach the fort, and Las Vegas was another day past that. They could have taken the faster route by Barlow and Sanderson Stage, four days direct to Las Vegas, but Dr. Beshoar warned that the jarring ride of the coach could start the bleeding again. Better to make a bed in the back of the wagon, he advised, and pray for a gentle journey.
But there was nothing gentle about it. The wagon, a white-canopied prairie schooner on iron-rimmed wheels, took every rut in the road with a thudding jolt that woke John Henry from his feverish sleep and set him off to coughing again. And in his fitful sleep, he dreamed he was back in Jonesboro again, with Mattie’s cool hands wiping his fever-drenched brow. But it wasn’t Mattie, he kept trying to remind himself. It was Kate, selfish and haughty Kate who was putting her own life in danger to take him to safety, and he clung onto her hand as if she could stave off the sickness and keep him alive.
“Doc, Doc,” she whispered, as she hovered close to him in the wind-blown cold of the wagon bed. “You’ll be fine, you’ll see. We’ll be in Las Vegas soon. The doctors at the hot springs will know what to do for you . . .”
Then the wagon would hit another rut, jostling him and starting the bleeding up again.
“Kate,” he mumbled, coughing and retching into the bowl she held to his mouth. “Don’t let me die . . .”
“Never!” she said, her voice as fierce as the howling wind all around them. “I will never let you die!”
And in the comfort of her courageous words, he slept again.
They were five days crossing the Raton Pass, the wagons crawling carefully forward to avoid the deep ravines that crisscrossed the mountain. At the bottoms of those ravines were the remnants of wagons that hadn’t survived the crossing: wagon wheels and axles and harness-trees smashed to pieces along Raton Creek. To help the wagon trains make the crossing, someone had driven huge iron rings into the mountainside, and the wagons were tied down onto the rings, holding them back from careening out of control.
At the crest of the mountain, the outfit rested at the ranch of Dick Wooten, the shrewd owner of the toll road over the Raton Pass who charged two bits a head to make the crossing, collecting on every oxen, horse, sheep, and man who made the trip. It was his iron rings that made the crossing possible at all, and his hot coffee and hospitality that made it bearable. But Kate was impatient, waiting for the teams to be watered and fed, and she bent over John Henry, spooning some of her own coffee into him.
“Kate,” he whispered, meaning to thank her, but she shushed him.
“Save your strength, my love. We’ve a long way to travel yet.”
But with the Raton Pass behind them, the road became easier, the mountain falling away into long plateaus with the green paradise of New Mexico lying ahead.
The outfit stopped again at Willow Spring to water the horses, and camped out near the Clifton House before over-nighting at the trail town of Cimarron. John Henry spent the night in a real bed at the St. James Hotel there, and though there was noise all night from the bar-room below, he slept well for the first time in many days.
When the wagon train pulled in sight of Wagon Mound the next day, Kate roused him to see it for himself.
“The last landmark of the Santa Fe Trail,” she told him. “The drover said it’s the one thing every traveler prays to see, if they make it this far.” And as she helped him to sit up, cradling him in her arms like a child, he had the grandest view he had ever seen: a single mountain rising up out of the rolling vastness of New Mexico, and looking for all the world like a huge prairie schooner with its canvas canopy blowing open in the wind.
“A wagon of stone!” Kate called it. “We’ll tell our children how we saw it when we traveled the Santa Fe Trail together. We’ll tell our grandchildren, too, one day. You are going to get well, my love! You are going to live!”
The wagon train reached its destination at the military outpost of Fort Union, a circle of red sandstone barracks standing starkly against the blue New Mexico sky. But though Fort Union had a small hospital with a doctor on staff who treated travelers as well as the soldiers, Kate was determined to keep pushing on to Las Vegas.
“Just one more day,” she promised him, as their hired wagon separated off from the rest of the outfit and rolled on in creaking solitude, following the tracks left by thousands of wagons gone before. The ruts were so deep in some places that they could be seen for miles ahead, two lines traveling off into the tall prairie grass, leading the way to Las Vegas and beyond to the trail end at old Santa Fe.
It was with wonder and relief that John Henry took his first sight of the green meadows around Las Vegas and the Church of our Lady of Sorrows, Nuestra Señora de Dolores, standing silently over the old Spanish plaza that was the heart of the town.
“Gratia plena,” he mumbled, all of the Latin prayer that he could still remember. Then he added in the Spanish he had learned from Francisco Hidalgo as a child so long ago: “Gracias, Catarina.”