Part 31 (1/2)

”Dr. Holliday,” Oscar told him. ”He's-”

Rudd.i.c.k abruptly stopped walking, causing Oscar to do the same. Irritating. ”Doc Holliday?” Rudd.i.c.k said. ”The gun-fighter?”

”Yes. Fascinating chap. Quite a raconteur. Where's Grigsby?”

”But he was in El Paso,” Rudd.i.c.k said.

”Hmm?” Oscar looked around, couldn't spot the marshal anywhere among the Manitouians.

”And in Leavenworth, too,” Rudd.i.c.k said. ”I saw him there. I thought he was a reporter or something, like O'Conner.”

Oscar turned to him. ”What are you saying?”

”Doc Holliday. I saw him in El Paso, and then a few days later in Leavenworth. He was in the audience both times.”

And Holliday had been, by his own admission, in San Francisco.

”Are you certain?” Oscar asked him.

”Of course I am.”

Oscar looked back at the French door. He could see nothing through the gla.s.s. He could only make out, framed like a photograph along its surface, brightly lit beneath a spectral chandelier, looking sleek and das.h.i.+ng and more than a little alarmed, his own reflection.

”HOWDY, MATHILDE,” GRIBSBY SAID to the ringlets of gleamring blond hair, the opposed white arcs of naked shoulder blade fanned above the band of bright blue satin.

She turned, a gla.s.s of ehampagne held between both hands, and she smiled broadly up at him. ”Bohb!” She reached out and touched his arm. ”How are you?”

He grinned, deeply pleased by how deeply pleased she seemed to be. ”Just fine. Yourself?”

”Very well, thank you. When did you arrive?”

”While ago. I was over at the hotel, thought I'd step out and take a gander at this blowout here.”

After checking into the Woods and learning at the front desk that he had received no telegrams, Grigsby had drunk a quick bourbon in the bar and then limped painfully upstairs to his room. He had lain down-for only a moment or two, he had told himself, only time enough to rest up his hip a bit. Almost immediately he fell asleep. He had slept away the entire afternoon, the first time in years he had been able to sleep in the daytime.

She was good for him, this French countess.

In more ways than one-when he awoke, the pain in his hip had contracted to a memory of itself, a dim trivial blur, meek and powerless. And, even more surprising, he hadn't felt the need for a drink to get his head cleared and his stomach settled. (He had put one away anyhow, of course, down in the bar; but that had been just a bracer, what he called a heart-starter.) At the front desk, the clerk had handed him a packet of telegrams.

One of these in particular, Grigsby thought, just might hold the answer to all the questions he'd been asking lately.

At the moment, his pain in retreat, his hopes advancing, he felt strong and fit and convinced that he could go without drinking for the rest of his life. If he wanted to.

And maybe he would. Maybe he'd do exactly that. Clean himself out, stay off the booze. Maybe even stop smoking. Why the h.e.l.l not?

Mathilde was laughing. ”Gander. Blowout. I once believed that I knew the English language.”

”Seems to me you know it just fine.”

With her gla.s.s, she indicated the rest of the room. ”Are you familiar with all these people?”

He nodded. ”Some of 'em.”

He and she were standing near the entrance to the ballroom, beside a long trestle table supporting platters of food and iced silver buckets of champage. Grigsby glanced around, at the men plump and stiff in their penguin suits, the women plump and stiff in their billowing gowns.

They might look dumb-they did look dumb-but these were the movers and shakers of central Colorado, the mine owners, the cattlemen, the railroad men, the bankers. These were the solid citizens who had brought industry and civilization to the frontier. Naturally, along the way, they had raped the land, killed off the Indians and the buffalo, fouled the rivers with poisons and sewage; but they reckoned that this was a fair price to pay for progress. And, since they were the ones setting the price, the deal had gone through.

”Would you like some champagne?” Mathilde asked him. She smiled. ”I warn you, it is like no champagne I have ever drunk before.”

Grigsby smiled. ”Don't mind if I do.” A little champagne never hurt anybody. Stuff was like soda pop, not like real liquor at all.

”Allow me,” she said, and smiled.

As she moved around the table, Grigsby looked once more toward the crowd. He didn't like these people. Never had. They had grown rich, most of them, through swindle and fraud and outright theft; and yet they were the first to b.i.t.c.h and bellyache about law and order. Their law, their order. Once they had their pile together, they didn't want anyone else messing with it.

Grigsby felt the bitterness within himself, recognized it, and smiled ruefully.

Yep. No question. He was getting too old for this s.h.i.+t. Time to find himself a new line of work. Maybe start giving lectures. Famous Outlaws I Have Known.

”Monsieur,” said Mathilde, smiling as she handed him a gla.s.s of champagne.

”Much obliged.” He raised his gla.s.s.

She smiled and raised her own.

Grigsby sipped at the champagne. He frowned. Watery and kind of rotten-eggy. Shame they didn't have any good bourbon whiskey on hand.

He spotted Wilde and Rudd.i.c.k winding toward him through the thickets of crowd, Wilde nodding grandly right and left, like the king of Siam waltzing along a street packed with adoring riffraff. Well, if he could get these yahoos to fork out twenty bucks to hear a lecture and drink sheepdip, more power to him.

Grigsby turned to Mathilde. ”Can I come by and see you tonight?”

She smiled. ”I shall be in my room by midnight. Room 204 at the Woods Hotel.”

Grigsby already knew her room number; he had asked at the front desk. ”I'll be there.”

He turned to face Wilde.

”Marshal Grigsby,” Wilde said. ”Your arrival is fortuitous. Young Rudd.i.c.k here has just told me something that may possibly be important.”

Grigsby nodded to the lulu-belle. ”Wilbur.”

Rudd.i.c.k smiled a bitter-persimmon smile.

Jesus, Dell, why did it have to be this one?

”You're familiar with Doctor John Holliday?” Wilde asked him. ”The gunman?”

Grigsby nodded.

”Well, young Rudd.i.c.k-” Wilde stopped, glanced around, leaned toward Grigsby and lowered his voice. ”Perhaps we should discuss this in private.”