Gunman's Rhapsody

by Robert B. Parker

  The horses were allowed to drink their fill before they left Benson, and now in the hard, dry heat they were allowed to find their own pace. Wyatt was riding the same still-sound blue roan gelding he’d ridden north to Wichita from the buffalo fields. Ringo was on a gray horse with the flared nostrils and smallish head that hinted at Arabian ancestry.

  “There’s a lot of bad feelin’ building,” Ringo said. “Curley Bill don’t like how you boys jumped him when Fred White got shot.”

  “Don’t know why he would,” Wyatt said.

  The road was dry, and the horses kicked up dust with every step. On either side the desert vegetation seemed fossilized in the heat.

  “Ike Clanton’s been snarling and spitting like a wet bobcat since Virgil took up for Denny McCann.”

  “I think Virgil was takin’ up for the law, John,” Wyatt said.

  “Prob’ly,” Ringo said. “But it got Ike a split lip, and he ain’t too good at seeing the differences among things.”

  “That’s pretty much Ike’s problem,” Wyatt said.

  He edged the blue roan left a bit with his right knee, to keep him from nosing Ringo’s mare.

  “Ike’s pretty cinched in with Behan,” Ringo said.

  “Uh-huh.”

  “And so is Curley Bill,” Ringo said.

  “Uh-huh.”

  “And Behan’s mad as hell at you.”

  “I expect he is,” Wyatt said.

  “Hope that girl’s worth it,” Ringo said.

  “Miss Marcus,” Wyatt said.

  Ringo grinned. He was mostly an easy-tempered man, Wyatt thought. And even when he wasn’t, he kept steady.

  “Miss Marcus,” Ringo said.

  He was slimmer than Wyatt and not as tall, and he had a kind of gracefulness about him. Like a bullfighter. Wyatt had seen bullfights in Mexico. He hadn’t liked them much, but he’d admired how quick and smooth the matadors were. Johnny Ringo reminded him of a matador. Everything was easy and graceful and much quicker than you thought it would be.

  “She’s worth it,” Wyatt said.

  The road went uphill, and the horses slowed. Ringo rode easily, relaxed in the saddle, his hands resting quietly on the pommel. He looked as if he could sleep on the horse if he had no one to talk with.

  “I ride with Curley Bill,” Ringo said.

  “I know.”

  “Can’t say I got much use for Ike. Seems to be mostly gut wind and mouth.”

  “That’s Ike,” Wyatt said.

  “Got nothing against you Earps, either,” Ringo said. “You’re looking out for yourselves like the rest of us.”

  “We are,” Wyatt said.

  “And none of you is a back shooter.”

  “Nope.”

  “Which is more than I can say for Ike,” Ringo said.

  “I know.”

  “But Curley Bill and me…” Ringo thought a moment how he wanted to say it. “We look out for each other.”

  “Like me and my brothers,” Wyatt said.

  “Just like that,” Ringo said. “So if there’s trouble, and there will be if it’s up to Behan…” Again Ringo paused, turning over what he’d say. “If there’s trouble I got no choice,” he said. “I’m with Bill.”

  “Can’t be helped,” Wyatt said.

  “No,” Ringo said. “It can’t.”

  The sky was cloudless. The horses walked quietly beside each other, heads half down, hooves muffled in the soft, dry dirt of the trail. In the desert heat, sweat evaporated from the riders almost the instant that it formed.

  “Wish it could,” Ringo said.

  Wyatt said nothing.

  Thirty-one

  When Johnny Behan came to arrest Doc Holliday he came with six deputies, three with shotguns. Behan found Holliday at the bar of the Crystal Palace. It was the day after the Fourth, and Doc was nursing a hangover like most of Tombstone, including a sulky Big-Nose Katie Elder, who was also sporting a darkening bruise on her left cheekbone. She sat at a table across the room, not speaking to Doc. The deputies came in from the Fifth Street door and formed a ring around Holliday.

  Behan stepped through the ring and said, “Doc, I have a warrant for your arrest.”

  Doc turned his back against the bar. He rested his elbows on the bar, a glass of whiskey in one hand, and stared at Behan.

  “Fuck you,” Doc said.

  “There’s an affidavit says you held up the Benson stage and killed Bud Philpot.”

  “Bullshit,” Doc said.

  Behan was watching his hands. Doc wouldn’t stand a chance if he jerked on six men with their guns drawn, but Doc was crazy drunk and Behan knew it. They all knew it. Doc drank some whiskey.

  “Warrant said you got to appear before the justice of the peace promptly.”

  “Whose affidavit is it?” Doc said.

  The way Holliday was standing, his coat was open and Behan could see the butt of Doc’s revolver. If he did decide to jerk on them, he might be quick enough to kill one of them before they cut him down. It would probably be Behan. Behan knew that, and so did the deputies.

  “Big-Nose Kate’s,” Behan said.

  Two bright spots of color appeared on Holliday’s gray face. Behan found himself wishing that one of the Earps were there. They were the only friends Holliday had, and they had a calming influence on him. Maybe he should have let Virgil arrest him. The crime hadn’t happened in Tombstone. It had happened outside the town in Behan’s county and it was Behan’s arrest, and everybody would have known it if he went to Virgil.

  “That clap nest? She says I killed Bud Philpot? And you come for me with a fucking warrant because Big-Nose Whore says I did it?”

  “You done it, Doc, you goddamned well know you done it.”

  Kate had come from her table and stood behind the ring of deputies. She was swaying slightly, and her tongue was thick.

  “You killed Bud Philpot sure as I’m standing here,” she said. It came out shtanding.

  Holliday looked at her. His cheeks were bright red. His eyes were alive with something that made Behan uncomfortable. Despite the way he looked, Holliday’s voice was as flat as tin when he spoke to her.

  “I’m going to knock out every tooth in your ugly whore head,” Holliday said.

  “You already tried doing that, you peculiar bastard,” Kate said. The remnants of her Hungarian accent lengthened the a and liquor slurred the st, and the word came out Baashtaard.

  One of the deputies, Bill Breakenridge, said, “Why’nt you take that Colt out with your left hand, Doc, and put her on the bar and come on down to the jail.”

  “Why’nt you kiss my ass, Billy.”

  “I’ll do that when you got the ten-gauge and I don’t,” Breakenridge said. “Put her on the bar, Doc.”

  Holliday didn’t move.

  “Shoot the sonova bitch,” Kate said.

  “Shut up, Kate,” Breakenridge said pleasantly enough. He had the shotgun at his shoulder, aimed straight at Holliday.

  “Come on, Doc,” Behan said. “No need to be a hard case about this, somebody’ll bail you out in a couple hours.”

  “Don’t matter somebody bails me out when we get there,” Holliday said. “I don’t take orders from anybody, let alone a goose fucker like you, Johnny.”

  Behan flushed. He felt Doc’s insane gaze on him. He realized suddenly what was disturbing in Holliday’s eyes. Doc didn’t care if he died or not. Behan felt the coldness of that sudden knowledge in his crotch. Nobody moved. Nobody seemed to know what to do. Behan felt the chill in his crotch spreading. He didn’t know what to do either. Could they just cut him down here, right at the bar? If he gave the go-ahead to shoot, would Doc get him before he died? What would the Earps do if he killed Holliday? Why hadn’t he thought all this out before he came in to the saloon? He could hear the silence building. He felt Doc’s eyes on him. When someone spoke behind him, he jumped visibly and hated himself for jumping.

  “Doc, this ain’t worth your time,” the voice said.

/>   Doc’s face relaxed into a smile. He picked up his whiskey and drank it.

  “Why don’t you go on with Johnny,” the voice said. Behan knew it was an Earp, though he wasn’t sure which one; they all sounded the same.

  “I’ll get a couple of boys,” the voice said, “and go down to Wells Spicer’s office and post bond.”

  “I was thinking I might shoot this pismire,” Holliday said.

  “Watch that ten-gauge, Billy,” the voice said, and a man stepped past Behan and took Holliday’s gun from its holster. Behan still didn’t know which Earp it was until he turned, holding Doc’s gun, and it was Wyatt. Wyatt stuck the gun in his belt.

  “Come on, Doc,” Wyatt said. “I’ll walk down with you.”

  Holliday fell into step beside Wyatt, and the two of them walked through the ring of deputies and toward the saloon door.

  “I’ll be seeing you, bitch,” Holliday said to Kate Elder as they passed her.

  Behan had nothing to do but follow. And the deputies strung out behind him as they went out onto Allen Street and headed for the jail.

  Thirty-two

  Doc was out on bail within the hour, and in three days the county attorney dropped all charges.

  “Said he couldn’t find no grounds for them, Wyatt,” Doc said, sipping whiskey and beer at the bar of the Alhambra. “I’m going to slap that bitch silly.”

  “Maybe you didn’t hit her so much,” Wyatt said, “she might not say bad things about you.”

  “They got her drunk,” Doc said. “Behan and his crowd. Filled her with hooch and got her to sign the complaint. She’s drunk, she’d sign a complaint against Jesus Christ.”

  “Specially if he thumped her around,” Wyatt said.

  Doc laughed.

  “Well, she’s gone off to Globe for a while, waiting for me to cool down, I suppose.”

  Wyatt was drinking coffee, even though the temperature in the street was over a hundred.

  “How come you never have a drink, Wyatt?”

  “Don’t like it.”

  “What don’t you like?”

  “Don’t like the taste. Don’t like being dull and slow and loud from drinking it.”

  “Like me?”

  “Ain’t seen you dull and slow yet, but you do get loud.” Doc finished his whiskey and ordered more.

  “I do,” Doc said. “That’s a fact. You know why I drink so much, Wyatt?”

  “Yeah,” Wyatt said, “I do.”

  “Being a drunk and having a temper like I do might get me killed someday.”

  “Might.”

  “You know I don’t care if it happens,” Doc said.

  “I know.”

  Doc drank some more whiskey and tipped his head back, letting the whiskey trickle down his throat. Then he swallowed and laughed and chased it with some beer.

  “And I like whiskey, and beer, and,” he laughed again, “and wild, wild women.”

  “Why do you suppose Behan put Kate up to that trick?” Wyatt said.

  “You got his girl,” Holliday said. “Johnny figured to paint me with shit and get some on you. You and Virgil ought to bring in them boys who really done the Benson stage. Take some of the bite out of Sheriff Behind.”

  “Got to locate them first,” Wyatt said.

  He wasn’t looking at Holliday. He was gazing out through the saloon doors into the street.

  “They’re out there with the rustlers, Wyatt.” Doc leaned back in his chair and made a wide sweeping gesture with his left hand. “Somewhere out there.”

  Wyatt smiled, still looking out the door.

  “You ain’t being much of a help, Doc.”

  “No, I probably ain’t,” Holliday said. “Mostly I’m probably a hindrance.”

  And he drank off the rest of his whiskey.

  Thirty-three

  The Citizens Safety Committee met in Schieffelin Hall two days after Pete Spence and Frank Stilwell had robbed the Bisbee Stage and been caught at once.

  “Frank Stilwell’s a goddamned deputy sheriff,” Bill Herring said. “We can’t trust the damned law officers; who we got left but ourselves?”

  Milt Clapp tried to make a motion, but the noise in the room was too much. Everyone spoke at once. On one side of the room, Virgil leaned silently against the wall with Wyatt on one side and Morgan on the other. John Behan stood up beside Clapp and gestured for silence. No one paid him any mind. He waited. Several people yelled that everyone should shut up and let Johnny talk. The noise level dropped only slightly. But Behan jumped at it.

  “You people are not fighting men,” Behan said. “You can’t go up against the cowboys.”

  The crowd roared that it damned well could, and was eager to do it.

  “If you do this, at least get some people who know how to do it,” Behan shouted. “You’re a bank teller, Milton. Bill’s a lawyer.”

  The crowd responded in a hundred tongues that it knew how to do it, and would be thrilled at the chance.

  “The Earps are here,” Behan shouted. “At least get some men like that with you. Let them be the enforcers.”

  The crowd liked the idea so much that it drowned any further sound that Behan might have made. The Earps were impassive against the wall.

  “What’s Johnny’s game?” Morgan said.

  “Putting us on the side of the vigilantes don’t do us no good with the cowboys,” Wyatt said.

  “Hell, arresting Stilwell and Spence didn’t do us all that much good,” Virgil said.

  “Frank McLaury’s tight with both of them,” Morgan said. “Him and the Clantons. They’ll be cussing us out for sure.”

  “Give me the real rustlers anytime,” Wyatt said.

  “Like Ringo?” Morgan said.

  Wyatt nodded.

  “And Curley Bill,” Wyatt said. “Those boys make their run, and if the law catches them at it, they expect the law to arrest them. They don’t take it like you insulted them.”

  The crowd, having roared its approval of the Earps, was now roaring its disapproval of murder and robbery and ignoring the Earps entirely. There was a good deal of movement on the floor, and the Safety Committee members were jostling each other unmercifully.

  “Remember we took Bill in after he shot Fred White?” Virgil said.

  “That’s what I mean,” Wyatt said. “He knew we had to.”

  “Bill’s a stand-up fella,” Virgil said. “John Ringo too, when he’s sober. Shame they get lumped in with people like Clanton and McLaury.”

  The Citizens Safety Committee was now making so much noise that the Earps could barely hear their own conversation.

  “Let’s get out of here,” Morgan said.

  When they left, no one except Behan noticed that they’d gone.

  Thirty-four

  They lay on their bed at the Cosmopolitan, with the window open so that the wind that drifted up from the west end of Allen Street played across their naked bodies.

  “Your brothers like me, Wyatt?”

  “Yes.”

  “How come we never spend time with them together?”

  “Trouble with the women,” Wyatt said. “ ’Specially Allie.”

  “Virgil’s wife?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “She close to Mattie?”

  “ Lot closer now than she was when I lived with Mattie,” Wyatt said.

  “You run into Johnny at all?”

  “Now and then,” Wyatt said.

  “He don’t give you any trouble, does he?”

  “Not straight on he don’t,” Wyatt said.

  “Straight on isn’t Johnny’s way,” Josie said.

  She propped herself on her left elbow and ran her right hand lightly over Wyatt’s chest and stomach, tracing the muscles of his abdomen with the tips of her fingers.

  “He’s awful tight with the cowboys,” she said.

  “I know.”

  “What’s wrong between you and the cowboys, Wyatt? I know there’s hard feeling, but I don’t know why.”


  “Not just me,” Wyatt said. “All the Earps.”

  “Why? What have you done to them?”

  “Not much. We fronted the McLaury boys once over some mules. Doc got into it with Ike Clanton.”

  “But Doc’s not you.”

  “He’s with us,” Wyatt said.

  “Why?” Josie said.

  “He was with us in Dodge,” Wyatt said.

  “That’s no answer,” Josie said.

  “Best answer I got.”

  “You know Doc’s nothing but trouble. He’s drunk most of the time. He’s crazy when he’s drunk.”

  “Hell, Josie, Doc’s crazy when he’s sober,” Wyatt said.

  “So why is he with you?”

  “Because he is. This isn’t San Francisco. It’s hard living out here, and you don’t always get to pick the people that’ll side with you. Sometimes they pick you.”

  “Like Doc.”

  “Doc would walk into the barrel of a cannon with me,” Wyatt said.

  Josie was quiet. Wyatt raised on an elbow and looked at her. Her skin was very white. It was still hot in the desert, and her body was damp with perspiration. Wyatt bent over and kissed her gently on the mouth. She smiled at him.

  “I don’t mean to be full of questions,” she said.

  “You can ask me anything you wish,” Wyatt said.

  “It’s complicated being a man,” Josie said.

  “It’s easy enough,” Wyatt said, “knowing what to do. It’s hard sometimes to do it.”

  “I don’t think it’s so hard for you.”

  “Hard for everybody, Josie.” He smiled and kissed her again. “Even us.”

  “I think even knowing what he should do was hard for Johnny.”

  “He sure as hell doesn’t know what he shouldn’t do,” Wyatt said.

  “I don’t think Johnny is a bad man,” Josie said. “He’s more a bad combination of weak and ambitious, I think.”

  “Doesn’t finally matter which it is,” Wyatt said. “Comes to the same thing. It can get him killed.”