Doc - Mary Doria Russell [187]
Doc got to his feet. “Sweet Jesus,” he breathed. “Darlin’, you are a vision, and I am a lucky man.”
He helped her into her wrap and offered her his arm. They strolled toward town, stopping now and then to let him catch his breath and to gaze upward, for the west Kansas sky is black velvet on clear, cool December nights, and the Milky Way is strung across it like the diamond necklace of a crooked banker’s mistress.
Turning onto Front Street, they could hear Beeson’s Famous Cowboy Band and agreed that the musicians were pretty good. Chalkie had provided them with first-rate instruments and imported a decent conductor as well. Bat had rented their services for the evening.
“Is that Strauss?” Kate asked.
“Does anyone else write waltzes?”
“Oh! Speaking of Vienna! I saw Alex von Angensperg today. He came on the afternoon train.”
“He stayin’ longer this time?”
“Overnight at least. He’s here to do midnight Mass for the Germans. He’ll be at the party tonight.”
Presuming that he had the strength, Kate stepped aside and let Doc open the door of the dance hall for her. They stood in the entry for a minute, letting their eyes adjust to the dazzle.
“Well, now,” Doc said. “Looks like Sheriff Masterson takes the prize.”
It was Bat’s widely reported goal to spend more on his Christmas party than Doc Holliday had famously squandered on Johnnie Sanders’ wake. By all appearances, he had achieved his ambition. The Lone Star was festive with drapery, blazing with candles and lamps, jammed with couples dancing. At dozens of tables crowded around the edges of the large main room, guests were taking full advantage of expensive booze and lavish food brought in by train from St. Louis, and made available in abundance. Hundreds of people were crammed into the place. Even the more prosperous German farmers had been invited, for they were becoming an important voting block that liked its beer and opposed the temperance reforms. Bat was courting votes.
Word got around that Doc Holliday and Kate had arrived. People started coming over to say hello to the dentist and to lie about how well he looked. Christmas Eve was a big night at the brothel, so Bessie and James were working, but Wyatt and Mattie led the way to a table where Morg’s girl, Lou, was saving a couple of places for Doc and Kate. Wyatt told Kate quietly, “We got a table near the door, so you can leave easy if he gets tired,” while Doc told Mattie that she looked ravishin’. Even if she wasn’t sure what that word meant, Mattie could tell it was nice and said, “Thank you,” with a smile.
The band started a polka. Wyatt asked Mattie if she’d like to dance.
“No,” she said. “Dance with Lou.”
Clapping her hands, Lou jumped up. “Thank you, Mattie—I’ll just borrow him until Morg gets here! Come on, Wyatt!”
Grabbing his hand, Lou pulled Wyatt toward the dance floor. Foot tapping to the music, Doc watched them for a time. Wyatt was surprisingly light on his feet, and Lou was very good.
“We should go to Las Vegas,” Kate decided.
Doc looked at her. “Las Vegas?” he said, as though she were mad, and that settled it.
“This town’s played out. Ain’t been a decent game since September.”
“Wait five months. The cattlemen will be back.”
The polka ended. Lou and Wyatt stayed on for a reel.
“How many two hundreds in fourteen hundred eighty?” Kate asked.
“A little more than seven. Why?”
“Then we still got enough money! Let’s try five or six months at that sanatorium.”
We, he thought.
“Are you—the goddess of parsimony—seriously suggestin’ that we spend two hundred dollars a month so I can lie around listenin’ to lungers cough night and day?”
“You get used to it,” she told him and pointed out, “Si finis bonus est, totum bonum erit.”
What ends well is wholly good.
Her Latin was always a treat.
“God a’mighty,” he said when he noticed: “That piano’s been tuned.”
Kate was smiling. “Merry Christmas. I brought in a man from St. Louis. Go on! Play something.”
He couldn’t seem to move. “I’m out of practice,” he said.
“So? If you hit