Yukon Wind

Prologue

Amaruq brushed away the snow that had fallen the previous evening on the covering of his sled. He spent a moment to glance at the bright stars above him and took in a deep breath of cold air, exhaling slowly. The winter sun would barely rise above the horizon soon and only provide a few hours of light before it fell into the long night that typified this time of year in the western Alaska Territory.

The thirty-year-old Inuit hitched his team of a dozen dogs to the sled, made sure his hunting gear was secured, and fondly looked back toward his home. It wasn’t much; he didn’t need much, but it was home, a shelter against the harsh elements.

Returning his attention to the dogs, he called out to them. They’d adjusted to his handicap, and he’d done his best to manage without a tongue. Every day he was reminded of the accident that had claimed the lives of his wife and mother-in-law. Angry family members made sure he carried the shame of his misfortune with him the remainder of his days by cutting out his tongue, an unusual act among the tribe. It was decided that Amaruq would be better served by living with his guilt and without a voice than be put to death. He briefly considered suicide, something not uncommon among the northern tribes but, in an act of defiance, chose a life of solitude away from the village but still near rich hunting grounds. Whenever he left his home, his mind briefly took him back to the day his world changed.

The dogs responded to his guttural cry, and the sled lurched toward the west. The rush of cold air as they moved forward was invigorating, turning his cheeks red, his adrenaline pumping as it used to in his younger years. He hummed quietly to himself as the sled tracked across the snow, the dogs faithfully performing their duty in the dark of the early Yukon morning.

Shortly before dawn, he observed a faint glow in the distance to the southwest toward the white man’s village. It seemed brighter tonight. There were more of them coming into this area every day. He’d observed one or two up close over the years. They were gruff men, usually sporting long, unkempt beards, smelling of whiskey, and carrying foul tempers. Amaruq was amazed that people could live among such filth and disease. He thought it best to avoid them, as conversation would be difficult at best. There was no reason to conduct business with them anyway, as he had all he needed whenever he checked in with his own village. Even those trips were rare. He was self-sufficient.

Still, his brow furrowed with concern at the thought that they were being crowded out of their traditional hunting areas. The feeling was momentary because it hadn’t gotten bad yet. There were no conflicts between the incoming white settlers and the natives, at least none that would indicate an invasion. While the situation could hardly be called desirable, this was a big, open expanse. Until the threat called for more urgent measures, it was best to leave the white men alone to govern their own affairs.

He encouraged the dogs to press onward. Aside from the noise of the dogs moving against the harnesses and the rushing sound of the sled over the snow, there was complete silence. Even the wind seemed to respond to his wishes. Before them, the snow lay unbroken, a vast sea of white stretching as far as his sight permitted. The future seemed limitless.

Amaruq was alone, but he was at peace.

GLENWOOD SPRINGS, COLORADO

NOVEMBER 1887

The young boy reached for the handle on the door and turned it slowly so that it wouldn’t squeak. All of the wooden doors in Hotel Glenwood had an annoying tendency to creak when opened, so he was equally careful to push it quietly inward. He was surprised that the door had not been locked. It was early in the morning, and light was just beginning to filter through the window at the eastern end of the second floor hallway. The hall lanterns had been trimmed earlier in the evening, but the lad had no difficulty navigating his way through the hotel.

It was dark when he peeked his head inside the room. A faint light came through the cracks in the slats of the window along the far wall, shuttered with wooden blinds. The boy’s heart was beating faster as his curious eyes tried to adjust to the blackness of the room. He took a step inside and closed the door behind him, being careful not to shut it completely for ease of escape. The room reeked of whiskey and sickness, and he fought hard not to gag as he took in each breath.

The air in the room was warm and stale, though on occasion, he could feel a draft coming from somewhere. The entire hotel was that way, poorly insulated against the winds that frequented the canyon. The draft was momentary, and the heat suffocated it as quickly as it had come. But the boy imagined it was a spirit moving through the room and had touched him briefly as it passed by. It sent an odd chill through him.

Through the dim light, he could make out a bed below the window with a dark figure lying on it. There was a nightstand to either side, too. As he tiptoed across the room toward the window to get a closer look, his heart skipped a beat as his foot clanked against a glass bottle that was lying on the floor. It skidded for a second or two, shuffling against the foot of the bed with a mild, uncomfortable thud. As he stopped his advance, the floor creaked in mild protest. He froze in his tracks for three or four minutes, openly questioning this foolish venture. I only want to see him, he convinced himself. Don’t want nothin’ else. Once I see him, I’ll up and leave, and no one’ll even know that I been here!

When he was confident there was no sign of detection, he willed himself to continue on. He was now at the foot of the bed. He could hear the man lying there as he struggled to breathe, a gasp in, a gasp out, a gasp in, a gasp out. Gee whiz. This is a famous outlaw? I bet no other boy my age has ever gotten this close to him. I wonder… I wonder where his guns are? If I could only get to hold one, imagine that! The boys at school would never believe me.

The figure’s labored breathing stopped, and the man’s head turned to face him in an instant. The boy caught his own breath in a sudden fright, and his body began to shake. He swallowed hard, his eyes glued to the figure before him.

What took you so long? I been waitin’ here for over an hour! said the voice with a raspy, Southern drawl.

The boy was too frozen to speak, but an answer came from directly behind him. Light had flooded into the room, and a figure called back from the door, I got here as fast as I could. Ciara wouldn’t let me leave without breakfast. You know how women are.

The light had illuminated John Henry Holliday, and his dark eyes were staring blankly into the boy’s. Holliday’s face was gaunt and gray, and black drool rolled from the right corner of his mouth as he tried to sit up on the soiled mattress. He coughed into a ragged handkerchief, averting his eyes from the lad and turning his attention to John.

John Henricksen, the boy’s father, strode into the room and flashed an angry look at him. He bent down to the boy’s left ear and growled out to him a warning,Get! Jesse didn’t have to be told twice. He darted out of the room and ran down the hall. Turning his attention back to Holliday, John’s expression softened as he pulled up a chair from the other side of the room and sat down. Sorry, Doc. Boys will be boys.

Think I scared the hell out of him, he motioned apologetically toward the door.

Reckon you did, Henricksen said with a light-hearted smile. Probably a good thing, putting the fear of God into that boy.

Yours?

Henricksen nodded. Oh yeah, that’s him.

Looks like you, Holliday said, raising his dark eyebrows in agreement. "But does he shoot like you?"

Hope he never has the chance. Least not on another man.

Holliday was racked with another coughing spell. This one lasted for several minutes. Henricksen could see the frustration in the old gunfighter’s dark eyes. Holliday had aged ten years in the few months he’d been there. His hair had grayed; his color had paled. It seemed an unfitting end for such a celebrity. The former dentist had come here to try to alleviate the effects of consumption. The hot springs that the region was known for were alleged to provide therapeutic relief. That was not the case for Holliday, as his condition deteriorated rapidly. With the exception of a few visits from his longtime friend and sometimes lover, Big Nose Kate, an attending nurse, and Henricksen himself, Holliday had no visitors these past few months. Tuberculosis was a serious matter, and no one wanted to breathe in that awful air for fear of contracting the sickness. Henricksen himself had limited his visits to short stays.

Holliday tried to compose himself again, his gaze falling on Henricksen. A sudden seriousness swept over his face, his gaunt features tightening and his jaw squaring as he tried to continue.

Let’s talk for a few minutes, John.

Sure.

I got some things I got to get off my chest.

Confessions?

Nothing so mundane, Holliday grumbled in mild annoyance, perturbed at the notion Henricksen would even mention it.

Well…

"I already have made my feelings on the matter known to both Father Downey and Reverend Randolph. You need not concern yourself with matters of my eternal soul, for they have more than adequately done so without relent since the moment I came to this town."

Okay, okay. Henricksen laughed, raising his hands in defeat.

They wouldn’t see Kate when she came to town, he rambled on. "Railed about her uncleanliness, said they preferred I stay away from her, wanted to keep her from seein’ me. She ain’t been back since. Probably scared to death they might turn her into somethin’ respectable. But they don’t know her like I do. That ain’t ever gonna happen."

I’m sure that’s true.

What? Am I not allowed to have visitors? Holliday continued in irritation as he thought back on it. He was on a roll, as if Henricksen were trying to change the subject. I can’t help I’m dyin’. Show a man some compassion, will ya? He tried to take in a deep breath but was overcome with coughing again.

Henricksen looked down at Holliday’s bare feet, which protruded from the ends of the soiled sheets. They were discolored and shriveled, a byproduct of so much time in bed. He doubted Holliday could even walk without assistance any more. All he could think to do was nod and let the gunman have his moment.

When the coughing finally subsided, Holliday spoke in a lower, broken voice. I want to tell you somethin’ I ain’t never told no one.

Yeah? What’s that? Henricksen asked.

"I’m gettin’ ‘round to it. Give me a moment!" Holliday doubled over as pain radiated through his chest. It was hard for Henricksen to watch, but he wanted to be there for his friend. It’s a small price to pay to be there for one who’s suffered so much. When the latest spell left him, Holliday continued on, and for a while, the awful ailment allowed him a respite.

"I only ever loved two people in my adult life, John. I loved one woman and one man. Different kinds of love. I knew the kind of woman Kate was. I didn’t pay that no mind. She loved me too, in her own way. Her kind doesn’t ever settle down. How could she with the likes of me and all I’d done? It’s just the way she is. And that’s all right. I miss her. You understand? I miss her." He fought the tears welling in his eyes.

Henricksen nodded in quiet acknowledgement. They’d only met Kate once and found her deplorable, a first class whore, but Ciara and he had kept their opinions to themselves out of respect for Holliday.

The other was my friend, Wyatt, Holliday said, now speaking slower and more deliberate, making sure Henricksen understood every word. He watched him closely for any reaction to what was being said. "He was more than my friend. He was…like a brother. You know the way you feel about that gunslingin’ brother of yours? Well, that’s how I felt about Wyatt Earp. I said something I ought’n of. You know how sometimes the words a man says can be like bullets? Hurt you more than the lead? I said somethin’ that hurt my friend. I looked him in the eyes, and I truly meant what I said. He looked like a man who’d just been shot. You shoulda seen him. What was I thinkin’? Did I have so many friends that I could treat them so cavalierly? One that put himself on the line for me many, many times. What kind of man does that, John? I guess I didn’t think it was much at the time. I tried to brush it off, tellin’ folks it weren’t nothin’ serious. Oh, we’ve seen each other a time or two since that day. We were cordial and all, but it just wasn’t the same after that. Somethin’ changed that I can’t explain. In any event, perhaps it’s best that things end this way for me, here, alone like this. Maybe it’s justice for what happened in Tombstone. I don’t know."

Is this remorse I hear? From Doc Holliday? Henricksen asked, a grin on his face.

Holliday dismissed the notion with a grunt and corrected him. "That which died had it comin’. I am not remorseful in any way. I’m just sayin’ that maybe justice is being served at this present time."

I see. Henricksen reached up and pried the slats open and looked outside. I can’t tell you how glad I am that you’re my friend, Doc.

The feeling is mutual, Holliday continued, looking up at him. "You share a thing or two with Wyatt, John. You’re stubborn. I don’t mean that in a bad way. It can be a good thing. Maybe…Maybe what I mean to say is you’re constant. I know what to expect from you. You’ve put your own life on the line. For your cattleman friend. For your darlin’ Ciara. For your brother. I wish I coulda been more like you."

Henricksen returned to his chair. I’ve made my share of mistakes. Any one of those folks would tell you that.

Holliday tried to smile and choked out a laugh. "And you’re modest. It is tiring. And frustratingly admirable at the same time."

You did things in your own way.

Headstrong fool, he admitted.

Henricksen nodded. Aren’t we all?

John saw a concerned look return to Holliday’s face, and he couldn’t tell if the dark circles around his eyes were because of his friend’s illness or something deeper troubling him.

I’d hoped Wyatt might come here. I’ve sent word to him, but I haven’t heard back. Maybe no one knows where he is. I don’t know if he’s still sore. He may be on the way here as we speak. But if he comes after… He stopped mid-sentence, as he struggled to find the right words. If he comes after I should pass on, there’s something I would like you to do for me.

Of course.

Holliday motioned to the nightstand beside Henricksen. Open that drawer, he said, motioning with his head, his eyes fixated on the handle of a single wooden drawer underneath a kerosene lamp. Henricksen opened the shutters on the windows slightly and pulled the handle on the drawer toward him. In the nightstand was a Colt .45 revolver which Henricksen handed to Holliday. Cold as hell.

"Slual Krewlar wasn’t the only one to have special handguns made. This belonged to a man named Gaylon Williams, and I eventually procured it from him. He was lousy at cards, and I relieved him of it when we were all in Dodge some years back. Wyatt never cared for any special rifles or pistols. But he eyed this one good and long once I acquired it. He never said so, but I saw in his eyes how much he wanted it. I tried to give it to him on a number of occasions. Do you think he’d take it? Not Wyatt, he said, shaking his head as he thought back. Too humble. Didn’t take charity from anyone, much less a good friend. Was like that all his life. He did a little bit of thievin’ before Dodge when he’d gotten desperate. Turned his stomach sour. Found he didn’t have a taste for it, so he went on to other things. Huntin’ and skinnin’ buffalo. And when the situation presented itself, he turned into a lawman. Kept the peace pretty good, which wasn’t easy in a place like Dodge."

Impressive.

Holliday nodded. Been fired a time or two, as you can see. It’s come with me to Tombstone, Albuquerque, Durango. Between us, I’ve shot better guns. But I’ve always remembered that look he gave me the first time he saw it. This should go to him. I’m entrusting you to see to it that happens, John.

John admired the weapon in Holliday’s hand, and though he, himself, had no desire to own another gun, he wasn’t about to refuse Doc’s request to pass on a gun to his friend.

How do I find him?

Don’t know that you ever will. I’m not sure if Wyatt’s even still alive. I haven’t spoken to him in quite some time. But if you ever do see him, I’d appreciate you givin’ this to him, along with a note I’ve prepared. It’s in there, too.

John reached deeper into the drawer and found a piece of paper that was neatly folded and he put it into his vest pocket. Why’s this so important now, after all this time?

"It’s important, Holliday insisted through another coughing fit. I need to make amends for what I said. He won’t want to take it. You gotta make sure he does."

Force Wyatt Earp to take it, Henricksen repeated back to him, raising his eyebrows.

Holliday nodded. Tell him who it’s from and give him this note. He’ll know it’s from me when he sees the writin’.

And what if I never find him?

Holliday’s eyes pleaded with him, and the room grew silent. Henricksen could feel a touch of claustrophobia close in until the wind outside rattled the windows and snapped him back to attention. His brow furrowed with uncertainty as he saw Holliday’s desperate look, his dark eyes clouded over and barely showing a reflection. The gunslinger saw the concern in Henricksen’s eyes, and his expression softened. "I don’t expect you to go lookin’ for him. Just…if you chance upon him. That’s all."

It’s gonna look a little strange, me handing over a firearm and a note.

You don’t have to go into details with him. The note’ll explain everything well enough. Holliday was unable to get comfortable, leaning back against the hard brass railings at the head of the bed. You know, if you ever do meet him, he’ll know I sent you. Even before you give him anything.

How you figure?

"Oh, he’ll know."

The attending nurse knocked on the door and walked into the room. She was a middle-aged woman, far from attractive, but Holliday appreciated her concern as she began to ask him questions. It seemed as good a time as any for Henricksen to make his exit. Standing up, he began to walk to the door. Casting one long look back at Holliday, John noticed how pale and sickly he appeared, dark eyes on a gaunt face with a lanky, malnourished body.

You know somethin’, John? he asked weakly, his voice hoarse and crackly. He motioned to the foot of the bed, where his bare feet still stuck out past the sheets. It’s funny, don’t you think?

What’s that, Doc? he called back to him from the door.

Holliday alternated his attention between the nurse and Henricksen for a moment and let out a cough-shortened laugh. I always thought I’d die with my boots on. Ain’t that the damnedest thing?

Henricksen flashed a wry smile and made his way down the hall. He could still hear Holliday’s hacking coughs when he reached the stairway.

Doc Holliday’s condition steadily worsened throughout that morning. He never spoke a word again as delirium took hold, and he died the next day.

I

Departure

1

Canyon Serenade

I should’ve known life was about to change in Glenwood. It wasn’t just that Doc had passed on. I could feel something tugging away at my gut, a yearning to explore, an insatiable desire to try something new. I hadn’t felt that way since we left Nebraska for Colorado back in 1878. We’d been in Glenwood for a few years, and we’d enjoyed our time there, but I never fancied myself a bartender or host, at least not the way my friend, Bess, had been. We were wealthier than we could imagine, having lived off the profits we’d earned from the Hiram Finius Mine in Central City. Still, something was missing.

Ciara could sense something was changing, too. I’d grown restless in that place. I wasn’t eating. I’d been especially hard on Jesse, and nothing seemed to motivate me. Before I’d realized it, I’d reached my forties. My unrest may have stemmed from boredom, resulting in frustration, but it came to a head in the summer of 1896.

John Henricksen sat on a large boulder along the Colorado River east of town. He’d just cast a line into the frothing rapids, and although the prospect of catching anything hadn’t been encouraging, he enjoyed the solitude of a bright blue sky and the roaring of the waves as they echoed a serenade against the red sandstone canyon walls. The reflection of the water raging past danced along the smooth surface of the canyon floor. In no other place had he noticed such a perfect balance between light and darkness as the hours passed by, and the shadows choreographed their routine around him.

The canyon towered above him on either side like solemn sentinels, and he saw no other person that morning along the winding riverside road. He listened to the deafening drone of the river and nearly fell asleep to its gentle rhythm a time or two, soaking in the warm sunshine. The day progressed a bit better than anticipated, as he’d snagged three beautiful rainbow trout, which he’d fastened to a stringer. When it felt his arm was about to fall off from repeated casts into the icy torrent, he heard the sound of a horse behind him. John’s face tightened, and he nervously looked for his guns before remembering he’d walked the two miles from town and had no horse, much less a gun. He was armed only with a crude knife to clean the fish he’d caught. When a voice called to him from above and behind him, his mind was immediately set at ease.

I see some things don’t change. Hopefully you’re having better luck than you did on Fillmore Creek.

Fillmore Creek wasn’t likely to kill you the way this river can, he motioned in front of them, and it sure as hell wasn’t as cold. John turned to face his brother who was just dismounting from his horse. They shared a warm embrace and sat down along the riverbank.

Zephram looked much different than John remembered. His hair was long, and he sported a well-kept black beard. Zephram’s face was weathered, the lines on his forehead more pronounced. He looked more like their friend, Cody, now with buckskin clothes and the kind of cowboy hat that was in style. John had one himself, and on any other day, he’d probably have been wearing it.

I didn’t expect you out here, John started. Figured you’d be tending your mine in Leadville.

Zephram nodded. I felt the need to see how my brother was getting on these days in Glenwood.

John shook his head and laughed quietly to himself. Ciara sent for you.

She surely did.

I warned her not to.

Probably thought I could get to what’s eatin’ at you.

Mmmm, John acknowledged. She’s a devious one.

I gathered that. Still, she cared enough to ask. So? Zephram prodded. Out with it.

Not sure it’s as simple as that.

Oh?

John took in a deep breath and stared out across the rapids. Do you remember when we left Omaha on that train in ‘68?

How could I forget? I never went back.

John shook his head. That’s not what I meant, he said, his expression showing confusion and uncertainty on how to word what he wanted to say. We had this feeling that the whole world lay in front of us. The rolling grass, the railroads, the Rocky Mountains. The sense of adventure, the possibilities and uncertainty of what lay around the next corner or in the next town.

Zephram eyed his brother and laughed. What are you getting at? That you pine for that adventure again?

John thought for a moment. No, not really.

You’ve just turned forty. Sure this isn’t a touch of wanderlust setting in?

John shook his head and muttered a dismissive response, a hurt expression washing over his face.

Zephram glanced over at his brother for a moment then reached for the fishing rod. Do you mind?

Be my guest.

First time I’ve ever used one of these fancy rigs.

You’re not after catfish here.

No, I reckon not. I’ll figure it out, though, Zephram said, examining the mechanism and casting the line with a snap of his wrist on the very first try. John raised his eyebrows in mild surprise. Zephram looked back at him with a wide grin. You liked that, huh? There was a knowing twinkle in his eye. I never used to care about simple things like fishin’, John. I know you always did, though. The ways of the world have taught me more than ever to appreciate the things that don’t take a lot of mind work.

Yep.

I’ve seen a lot of things. More than you, and you’ve seen a bunch.

True.

Seen most of our country, even some areas outside of our country. Been all the way to the Pacific Ocean on the railroad. I’ve seen cotton fields, tobacco fields, cornfields, and wheat fields. Toured gorgeous plantations, entertained presidents and foreign dignitaries. I’ve seen so much in my life. And you know what I’ve learned after serving in the Seventh, gunning down Fred Verning’s men in Central City, and running that mine in Leadville?

John shook his head.

The best moment of my life came when I was alone in the South one evening, and I chanced upon a young black girl. Pretty thing. Couldn’t have been more than, oh, seventeen or eighteen. She stayed with me for more than three months after that first night. She was so young and willing. I’d never done anything like that in my life, making love to a strange girl. There was just something about her. I’d never felt that way toward any girl before, no matter the color of her skin. Can you imagine Ma and Pa’s reaction to something like that? The scandal it would’ve caused? Then, one day, gone! She just up and left. Funny thing about it was, after all these years, I’m the one left wanting more. There’s more to life than a few reckless nights of forbidden passion. I’d give up everything I’ve known and experienced to be in your shoes, married to a pretty Irish girl, with a fine young boy and a stable place to put down roots.

This ain’t got anything to do with that kinda thing.

You’re missing the point. Doesn’t matter: women, profession, money, whatever. What’s so wrong with things the way they are now?

Nothing I do makes a difference.

It seems you made a difference in Holliday’s life right to the end, Zephram objected. "He trusted you to