Denver Draw by Robert J. Randisi Page B

men.
    “Come on, lunger,” Pennington sneered, “I ain’t afraid of you, neither are my boys.”
    “Four against one,” Doc said. “That sound like good odds to you, Bat?”
    “I can’t let this happen, Pennington,” Bat stated, but again it was Doc who called him off.
    “Don’t worry, Marshal,” Holliday said, “they won’t draw unless I turn my back.”
    Stung, Pennington brought his hand back, as if he was ready to draw, but it looked like more of a pose than anything else. Butler thought that Doc was going to be able to talk these boys out of drawing on him—but then it happened. The cough Doc had been trying to suppress came up, and there was nothing he could do about it. Before he knew it he was in its grip, racked by spasms of choking that seemed to disconnect his arms and legs. He staggered, caught himself on the bar. and hung there, halfway between standing and falling.
    Frank Pennington saw his chance. His eyes widened, he couldn’t believe his luck, and he yelled to his boys, “Take ’im now,” and they were ready, too. The sight of Doc hanging off the end of the bar emboldened them, and the four men went for their guns.
    But Butler, who had been expecting the fit, was moving already. He pushed off from the bar with his left hand and drew his gun with his right. His concentration was so focused on the four men, who in turn were intent on killing Doc Holliday, that none of them saw Bat Masterson also draw his weapon.
    Butler and Bat both knew that Doc was a sitting duck, and they had to move both swiftly and with deadly accuracy.
    Butler shot Pennington first, taking him square in the chest, and then moved his gun a fraction to fire at one of the other men.
    Bat fired twice in succession, and two men gasped and staggered back. They righted themselves briefly, but then Butler’s lead hit them and put them down.
    The fourth man was stunned by what was happening and was riddled by lead from both Bat’s gun and Butler’s.
    As the four men hit the floor Butler quickly stepped in front of Doc, in case one of them was able to fire a shot from there. Bat, meanwhile, moved in on them, gun ready. If any of them was still alive they would not be for long. If Bat hated anything it was a bushwacker, and shooting Doc while he was in the throes of a coughing fit amounted to the same thing.
    “Doc,” Butler said, reaching back with one hand to steady the man. “You okay?”
    “I’m not hit if that’s what you mean,” Doc said in a raspy tone. “Damn.” He looked at the bartender. “Whiskey!”
    “Comin’ up, Doc,” Roscoe said, and got a shot glass of rotgut in front of him fast.
    Doc grabbed it, downed it, and released the edge of the bar. He staggered, but remained standing.
    Bat came over and said, “They’re all dead.”
    “I’m obliged to the both of you,” Doc said. “I would have handled them if not for…this.” He patted his chest.
    “We know that, Doc,” Butler said. He and Bat replaced the spent shells in their guns and holstered them.
    “Roscoe,” Bat said. “Grab some men and get these bodies out of here.”
    “The undertaker?” Roscoe asked.
    “Yeah,” Bat said. “There’s only four of ’em. He should have room.”
    “He might be asleep.”
    “Wake him up, then.”
    “Yes, sir.”
    Bat turned to Doc.
    “You’re not hit?”
    “Not hit,” Doc said. “Just a little…chagrined, I guess you’d say. Not used to havin’ somebody else fight my battles for me. You two acted pretty damn quick.”
    “It’s my job,” Bat said.
    “I saw you were having trouble breathing,” Butler said, “knew that a cough was coming.”
    “You’re very observant,” Doc said. “I thank you both again. I think I better go back to my hotel now.”
    “Sure, Doc,” Butler said. “Want me to—”
    “I think I can manage on my own, tonight.”
    Butler nodded and stepped back.
    Doc looked at Bat.
    “Any word on that warrant?”
    “I’m gonna pick it up in the mornin’,”