Playing Vegas Odds with Doc, Sammy, and Bob
Content Warning
blood, gore, guns, gun violence, violent sports
by Gregory Nicoll
Doc wasn’t sure about the Black man, but if the other one — that smug fellow wearing the fancy embroidered shirt — if that pistoleer made a move for his Colt, his life wouldn’t last longer than a shot of whiskey.
“Where the hell are we?” asked Fancy Shirt. Fortunately, his hand moved in an upward gesture rather than down for the revolver.
Doc allowed his stare to move away briefly from the two men standing near him. He examined the surrounding space. There wasn’t much to see, just an endless void of pale blue with a hint of identically colored blue clouds — possibly smoke — moving in the distance. The only sound he heard was a faraway wind. He coughed one time, but it was a light cough which produced none of his usual sputum. The air here was cool and dry, with a faint sweetly floral scent, completely different from the hot, dusty Nevada street where he’d been standing just a moment before.
As for where he was now, he couldn’t venture a guess.
“A more pertinent question,” Doc offered, “is who are we?” He paused and bowed his head, tapping the broad brim of his black hat. “I do not believe I’ve previously made the acquaintance of either of you gentlemen.”
The Negro spoke first. He was short and ornately dressed in a long-fringed buckskin jacket, with a freshly blocked soft brown Stetson atop his head. His trousers were dark, immaculately pressed, and his fine russet boots appeared to be new, completely unscuffed. The detail that made the biggest impression, however, was the little man’s two elaborately tooled leather holsters, the tips of which hung down below the edge of his buckskin. When the man spoke, Doc noticed that his teeth were gleaming white and impressively well-maintained. He bowed theatrically first to Doc and then to Fancy Shirt. “I expect you both know me by reputation,” he said. He removed his Stetson, revealing a head of close-cropped woolly hair.
“In my native South,” Doc replied, “a man’s reputation is everything.” He shrugged. “But I remain unaware of yours.”
Fancy Shirt smiled and pointed at the little man. “You’re that song-and-dance guy, Sammy Davis, aren’t you?”
“Sammy Davis Junior,” he gently corrected. “Sam Davis is my father.”
“I saw you on TV, in The Rifleman,” said Fancy Shirt. He pointed at Davis’ holsters. “You were pretty handy with those guns.”
“Then you may recognize this.” He patted the lapels of his buckskin. “My wardrobe from the second episode. Been using it in my stage act at The Sands.” He looked around and shrugged. “That’s where I was, just a few minutes ago. Now I’m worried about missing a show.”
Fancy Shirt nodded. “I was in Vegas too, just starting my performance.”
Davis locked his gaze on him. “Which casino?”
Fancy Shirt tipped his black hat. “No casino. I get four grand for doing my act at the Ford dealerships. I’m Bob Munden, exhibition shooter — The Fastest Gun Who Ever Lived.”
Davis stared silently.
Munden tapped the embroidery on his shirt, directly over the right side of his chest.
Doc noticed that the words “The Fastest Gun Who Ever Lived” were spelled out there with white stitches against the dark cloth in a bold, running script. There were also several emblems from munitions manufacturers, giving Munden the somewhat comical appearance of an advertising handbill. Doc also observed that a small, strange rectangle of some glassy material was sewn into the shirt over the right side of Munden’s belly, just above where the heel of his revolver protruded from its holster.
Munden’s holster was extremely peculiar: rigid leather cut and folded back so that less than half of the entire pistol was covered. The tip canted forward at almost 45 degrees and was secured against Munden’s trouser leg by two small leather garter belts. Barely contained within the holster was a revolver just as odd: a gold-plated Colt’s Army with a hammer spur that stuck straight up, at a right angle to the frame, instead of swept backward for access by the shooter’s thumb. Doc found this modification as baffling as he found the twin garter belts absurd.
“The fastest?” asked Davis.
Munden grinned. “One fifteenth of a second. Got my name in The Guinness Book of World Records for that.”
“One fifteenth of a second,” Davis marveled.
Munden nodded proudly. “Quick Draw is the only sport in the world that takes place in less than a second.”
Doc let out a loud, impatient sigh. “Quick Draw? Sport? Gentlemen, forgive me, but I do not know this game.”
Munden and Davis turned toward him. He noticed that Davis moved his head with a somewhat exaggerated motion, as if he had difficulty seeing. The little man patted himself on the chest. “We haven’t finished introductions. I’m Sammy Davis Jr.” He gestured at Munden, “This is Robert Munden. And you—?”
Doc tapped two fingers on his hat brim. “I am John Henry Holliday, late of Valdosta, Georgia — a gambler by trade, but a dentist by profession.” He smiled. “So they call me ‘Doc.'”
Davis and Munden exchanged a quick, startled glance.
Munden’s brow furrowed. “You mean to tell us that you’re Doc Holliday?”
Doc nodded.
“Like, Doc Holliday from the O.K. Corral?”
Doc shook his head. “No. As I stated previously, I am a dentist, not a farrier.”
Davis snapped his fingers. “Wait a sec. Where were you before you found yourself here? What day was it — or, what year?”
“I was outside the saloon over which I share proprietorship, on Center Street in East Las Vegas, and the year is 1879.”
Munden’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Okay, so if it’s 1879, then who is America’s president?”
“My president is the honorable Rutherford B. Hayes,” Doc replied immediately and with mild irritation. “Who is your president?”
Davis answered “Kennedy” in the same instant in which Munden replied “Clinton.”
Davis’ jaw dropped. “I get it! We’ve been brought here from different times.” He pointed at Doc. “So… you’re Doc Holliday, but you haven’t even been to Tombstone yet, have you — the town in Arizona?”
Doc shook his head. “My dear friends the Earp brothers are relocating to that region and have repeatedly suggested I should join them.”
Munden shrugged. “So, if this bull is true — and I know bull makes the world go around — if I’m here with Doc Holliday from 1879 and Sammy Davis Jr. from the JFK era, I gotta to ask why.”
A voice boomed reverberantly from somewhere nearby, as if it came from both above and below, loud yet gently emphatic. “There will be three challenges,” it said, “and then you shall be returned from whence you came.”
Doc drew in his breath. As the words echoed in his head, he recognized the voice as that of Henry Burroughs Holliday. “My father’s voice!” he exclaimed.
“That was my dad,” said Munden quietly.
“No, it was mine,” Davis declared. “He even called me ‘Poppa.'”
Munden snorted with annoyance. “He did not. And why would your dad call you ‘Poppa’?”
Davis shrugged. “It’s just a thing he does. Started when I was a kid.”
“That was my dad’s voice,” Munden asserted. “I could always hear his pain, whenever he spoke. Got shot up bad in the Pacific. Family was constantly moving to where he could get better care.”
“It is apparent, gentlemen,” observed Doc, “that whoever gathered we three in this mysterious locality is equipped with the power to mimic the sounds of those in whom we place our trust. It also appears we are to participate in a competition — three challenges, as I heard it.”
Davis and Munden nodded agreement.
“And I bet someone, somewhere,” added Davis, “is offering Vegas odds on how it all comes out.” He grinned broadly. “Far out, man. This is gonna be a gasser.”
Doc smiled. “Vegas odds? Is that what they call it? Well then, let those games begin. Carpe diem!”
High in the blue haze surrounding them, a series of symbols took shape in the air. Three dark grey letters spelled out something that looked like “Xip” — each man heard his own father’s voice translate this as “Speed” — and below it appeared a row of zeroes displayed in a strange configuration which Doc likened to the stencils he’d seen on cases of ammunition. Below this, at eye level to the three men, was a large dull red disc that seemed to be made of clay. Doc sensed this was to be a target.
Silently, a thick glass tube rose from the blue mist. There were six brass cartridges standing upright on its smooth surface.
Munden took a step forward and picked one of the cartridges up, examining it closely. “This is one of my own wax bullets,” he marveled, “like I use in my shows.” He drew his revolver slowly from its holster and thumbed open the loading gate. He inserted one cartridge, rotated the cylinder past an empty chamber, and then loaded four more. Leaving the sixth cartridge untouched where it stood, he cocked the Colt’s hammer back and then gently lowered it so that the firing pin came to rest safely on the pistol’s one empty chamber.
The tube descended into the blue void, spiriting away the unclaimed sixth round.
Munden carefully replaced the revolver in his holster. “I’m ready,” he said, his voice a near whisper.
Doc was completely astonished by what happened next.
A strange, faraway bell pealed. At that instant, Munden’s right hand flashed down to his pistol. In the same moment, his left hand swept across the Colt’s topstrap, connecting with its peculiar upright hammer just as the tip of its muzzle cleared the leather. There was a fearsome bang as the shot went off. The red clay target spun wildly from the impact of the wax projectile.
Doc now understood the bizarrely configured hammer on Munden’s pistol. It facilitated his swift, two-handed shooting style.
Munden holstered the revolver. He pointed at the strange reflective rectangle sewn into the lower right front of his shirt, then ran his finger across it. The motion left a streak in what must have been a coating of burnt gunpowder.
“Shooting this close to my side,” Munden explained, “I gotta have some fire-proof material down there.”
Up above them, the strange stencil-like numerals spelled out “00.00.00.23.”
The translucent tube arose again from the blue mist, this time bearing 12 brass cartridges. Davis stepped forward and, after shucking off his buckskin jacket, began loading his revolvers. He followed Munden’s example and only put five rounds in each, lowering their hammers onto empty chambers before replacing the pistols in their ornately decorated holsters.
When the bell rang, Davis instantly had both weapons in his hands and leveled at the target, hammers already thumbed back, the tips of his fingers squeezing their triggers. Doc was impressed that Davis’ two shots sounded like one, with only the matched pair of holes in the target — one at the 9 o’clock position and the other at 3 o’clock — to testify that he fired more than a single round.
“Well now,” said Doc. “Isn’t that daisy?”
The stencil numbers counted out “00.00.00.47.”
“Your turn, Doc,” snapped Munden. “Let’s see how fast you are.”
Doc shook his head. “I do not know this game.”
“Sure you do, Doc,” Davis offered encouragingly. “You must have your own special speed tricks.”
Doc shook his head. “Wyatt Earp always tells me the best man in a gunfight is not the fastest, but rather the steadiest.”
The clear tube emerged from the blue mist yet again. This time there was only a single cartridge atop it, cased in copper rather than brass.
Doc stepped forward and, reaching under his black frock coat, withdrew the stubby 3-inch barreled revolver that was tucked deep into the soft brown leather of the shoulder holster on his left side. He thumbed open the loading gate, rotated the cylinder very slightly, and plunged out a spent round.
“What’s that little thing you got there?” asked Munden, pointing at the pistol. “That looks like a Colt Lightning .38 — right?”
Doc held the revolver up for inspection. “This is a Colt’s Thunderer,” he announced. “The caliber is .41.” He tossed the extracted copper casing to Munden.
Munden caught it and looked at it closely. “Oh yeah, .41 Long Colt.” He turned toward Davis and said quietly, “They discontinued these back in the ’30s.”
When the bell sounded, Doc took his time. With his left hand he gripped the lapel of his coat and theatrically swept it back. With his right he carefully withdrew the Thunderer and aimed it. The little pistol was a self-cocker. As he squeezed the trigger, the hammer moved back on its own and then, reaching the end of its rearward arc, snapped forward. The revolver discharged loudly, emitting a thick plume of cottony smoke and filling the air with a burnt-sulphur stink.
The clay target swung back and forth with a prominent hole in it, dead center, just below the smudge left by Munden’s wax bullet.
Doc smiled and whispered, “The steadiest.”
The stencil-numbers spelled out “00.00.06.02.”
Munden snorted. “Well, I sure won First Place in the Speed challenge.”
“I was a close Second,” chirped Davis.
“Graveyards are full of Second Place,” Munden quipped.
Davis shrugged. “Guess I’ll have to practice a lot more to be fast like you.”
Munden pointed at Davis’ pistols. “A little advice: Never practice Quick Draw with live ammo. Not even once,” he added sternly. He raised his hands. “So now, what’s next?”
“I care for some refreshment,” said Doc as he tucked the Thunderer back under his coat.
The clear tube arose from the mists again, this time bearing an assortment of glass bottles. Doc was pleased to recognize Overholt Rye among the selections. He reached into a side pocket of his coat and withdrew a miniature pewter loving cup, hooked his finger into its loop handle, uncorked the whiskey, and poured it to the rim.
Without a word Davis helped himself to a strangely shaped clear bottle with flowing script letters encircling its center. “Coca — something,” it said. The liquid was dark but with a pale foam on its surface.
Munden opted for plain water.
Doc offered a toast. “To our next challenge.”
As they raised their beverages, the blue haze surrounding them morphed to a golden hue, and the mid-air letters spelled out “Xay.” Each man heard his own father’s voice translate this as “Flash.”
“I do not know this game,” Doc protested. He sipped the whiskey. Its aroma was strong, sweetly inflaming his sinuses, the flavor fiery but smooth. He gulped down the rest.
Davis was first to tackle the second challenge, after first unloading both pistols. At the sound of the bell, he drew both revolvers from his gunbelt and spun them on his fingers like miniature windmills, forward then backward. He spun them horizontally below his waist and then above his head. He tossed them so they narrowly crossed paths in mid-air, his left-side pistol landing in his right hand at the same instant the right-side pistol landed in his left. He then ducked his body forward and swung his arms down, throwing both revolvers into the air again, but behind his back, so each traveled in an arc that crossed over his shoulders. He caught them at waist level, spinning them forwards and then backwards one more time before reversing them so that they extended butt-forward in his hands. To conclude, he dropped them backwards into their respective holsters, rotating them so that, like magic, they returned to their original positions in the gunleather.
The numbers in the air quickly counted up to “09.”
Doc had no idea what unit of measure this score represented but could only assume it was a favorable total.
“Doc,” said Davis cheerfully, “how about you go next?”
Doc shrugged. He was incapable of anything so spectacular with his Thunderer — the self-cocking mechanism would likely cause a discharge if he chose to spin it — but an inspiration struck. When the bell sounded, he flipped his now-empty pewter cup forward and back, following the same pattern Davis had used. As he picked up speed with it, he began to mimic Davis’ aerial antics, tossing the cup from hand to hand, over his head, over one shoulder and then the other, keeping it in motion, catching it and sending it spinning again. He completed the presentation by landing the cup back upright atop the tube and then taking a bow.
Davis burst out laughing. Munden shook his head.
The mid-air numbers awarded Doc a total of “04.”
For his part, Munden wasted no time. When the bell sounded, he took Doc’s empty copper shell casing, tossed it in the air, drew his revolver, and shot it. A faraway metallic jingle attested it had been propelled father than Munden’s arm could have thrown it.
He was awarded a total of “08.”
The three men were startled to learn that the final challenge — “Xax” — would be a test of “Nerve.” The golden haze around them morphed to a rich, deep red.
“This one doesn’t sound fun,” grumbled Davis. His joy at winning the previous challenge quickly dissipated. As if addressing an omniscient deity, he asked, “How will we demonstrate nerve?”
The answer, which each man heard as if spoken by his own father, was blunt: “You must shoot a fellow man.”
They looked at each other in disbelief.
“Mr. Davis,” Doc asked, “have you ever shot a man before?”
“I served in the U.S. Army during the second World War,” Davis answered.
Munden held up his left hand. “I’ve shot a man before.”
Doc nodded. “As have I. Moments prior to my appearance here, I put a ball through the chest of an unfortunate Mr. Gordon, who was causing a disturbance in my saloon. He, shall we say, threw a pair of sixes.”
Davis looked at Doc with bafflement, then laughed as the meaning came clear. He tapped the handles of his revolvers. “A pair of sixes!”
Doc nodded. “So I, shall we say, called his hand.”
“Well,” Davis observed, “you always have two choices: your commitment versus your fear. I’m just not sure I can commit to shooting a man now, just for this contest.”
Doc nodded. “I shall proceed.” He stepped forward, past the array of bottles, threw back the left lapel of his coat, and called out, “Say when!”
The bell sounded.
From the red mist, where previously the clay target had hung, stepped a tall grey irregular shape. It was a human figure, clad in an unfamiliar costume, carrying what appeared to be a rifle. It raised the object and directed its muzzle at Doc.
Without hesitation Doc extracted his Thunderer from its holster and fired. The report was ferociously loud and filled the air once more with the pungent stink of burnt gunpowder.
The distant figure turned as the bullet struck, an explosion of blood and bone bursting from its head. There was a horrid, almost inhuman cry. Doc fired again and it fell silent, dropping lifeless into the mist, its rifle clattering to the ground.
The stencil numbers in the air above displayed a score of “10.”
Doc holstered the pistol and closed his coat. He gestured at Davis, then Munden.
Davis held up his hands in surrender. “Count me out on this one. I told you I was in the Army, but I only served stateside — in Special Services. We put on shows for the troops. Singing and dancing.”
Munden waved his left hand and pointed at it with his right. “I’m done here too. I said I shot a man before, yeah, sure, but it was myself, at the county fair in Paso Robles. A stupid accident. Took surgeons nearly nine hours to put this hand back together.” Munden let out a sigh. “Besides, I saw what real bullets did to my dad, and what he had to endure afterwards.”
Doc smiled. “Then I declare myself a huckleberry to your persimmons. Veni, vedi, vici. Farewell, gentlemen.”
• • •
Sammy Davis Jr. was surprised to find himself dressed in his Rifleman costume, standing onstage at The Sands, with spotlights in his face. Beyond the bright beams, an audience murmured impatiently.
“Are you okay, Poppa?” his father called to him from stage-side. “Did you fade out for a second?”
Davis nodded. “I think so,” he whispered in response. “Felt like I had a fast dream — but I’m okay now.”
He stepped forward to the centerstage microphone. “Now, my friends, I’m going to demonstrate some fancy gun-handling tricks for you—”
There was a burst of applause.
Davis smiled. “But before I do… before I do… just let me offer a word of caution for anyone here who might be tempted to try this at home. Never practice Quick Draw with live ammo.” He smiled and shook his head. “Not even once.”
• • •
Robert Munden stood before the excited crowd gathered between rows of gleaming new Mustangs and Thunderbirds. The sun was high, hot, and bright. A giant American flag flapped overhead in the slight breeze.
“Are you all right there, Bob?” his wife, Becky, asked him. “You sure got mighty quiet for a bit.”
Munden shrugged. “Yeah, just sorta drifted off for a sec.”
He turned to address the crowd. “Now folks, before I begin, let me tell you something, something important. Quick Draw is fiction. Back in the Wild West, there really was no such thing.” He paused for a moment, then added, “In fact, Wyatt Earp himself said that the best man in a gunfight is not the fastest, but rather the steadiest.”
• • •
John Henry “Doc” Holliday blinked his eyes and leaned against the rough wooden hitching rail in front of his saloon. The dust rising from Center Street was thick, various wagons and horsemen stirring it as they passed. He had rarely seen Las Vegas so busy. Doc coughed twice and gripped the rail for stability.
“Steady, Doc,” said his business partner, young Jordan Webb. “Did ya help yourself to too much tanglefoot in there?”
“No,” Doc answered, “it was as if I had a waking dream. For a few moments I was someplace else.”
“Glad to have you back,” Webb said. “You sure did a fine job of facing down Gordon with nothing but your little vest pistol.”
Doc smiled. After a long pause he observed, “A man always has two choices: his commitment versus his fear.”
“I’m grateful your commitment took precedence.”
“You can bet on it,” asserted Doc. “Vegas odds.”
Webb grinned. “Hey, Dr. Hoyt was here looking for you. Said there’s a card game over at The Exchange that you wouldn’t want to miss.”
A half hour later Doc walked into The Exchange Hotel. The air was musty, thick with cigar smoke, and he coughed hard as he stepped into the crowded room. Dozens of tables were alive with rowdy poker games, and a roulette wheel clicked loudly near the foyer. A piano player pounded away on an out-of-tune instrument, notes falling irregularly.
Dr. Henry F. Hoyt gestured from the far corner, beckoning Doc over to a distant table. His breath was hot and his tone excited as he whispered in Doc’s ear. “The fellow handling the cards, that’s William Bonney.”
Doc stared at the young man with the bad teeth, seated across the table. “Billy the Kid?”
Hoyt nodded. “Yes. And the one with the big beard, he goes by ‘Mr. Howard.’ He’s from Missouri.”
Because the man’s back was to him, Doc couldn’t see his face, but he picked up on the clues Hoyt offered. “And here we have none other than Jesse Woodson James.”
Hoyt nodded. Doc stepped around the table and selected a chair between two players. “Deal me in, gentlemen,” he said confidently. “I’m Doc Holliday, and this is a game I know.”
About the author and the piece
Gregory Nicoll tells us this story was written for a themed call, but didn’t make it into that anthology and went on to earn another 17 rejections. It seemed weirdly appropriate for Hell Itself, though. Greg’s long history of published fiction includes four appearances in Year’s Best anthologies. His most recent work is in two 2025 anthologies from Raconteur Press, Wyrd West and Creature Feature. He can be found on Facebook under his “surfer name,” Nick Concorde.
©2025 by Gregory Nicoll. All rights reserved. May not be used for A.I. training.