Gunman's Rhapsody

by Robert B. Parker

  He could see the softness go out of Josie’s naked body.

  “No,” she said.

  “No?”

  “Not by you, Wyatt.”

  “I didn’t say it would be me.”

  “It can’t be you. I can’t be in your bed knowing you killed the man I used to sleep with.”

  “Josie, we both know he wasn’t the first.”

  “Doesn’t matter,” she said. “I couldn’t.”

  “And if he came at me?”

  “He won’t,” Josie said.

  “You know that.”

  “He’s afraid of you, Wyatt.”

  “But if he did,” Wyatt said.

  “That would be different,” Josie said. “I’d rather you kill him than he kill you.”

  “Good.”

  “But only to save your life,” Josie said. “You have to promise.”

  “Josie, I can’t know what will happen. Virgil being city marshal is making Johnny look bad. He doesn’t want any Earps running against him for sheriff. He’s embarrassed that Morgan knocked him on his ass. And there’s you and me.”

  “He won’t try you, Wyatt.”

  “Maybe not head-on,” Wyatt said. “But he’s got most of the cowboys turned against us. I think he’ll try to use Curley Bill and Ringo.”

  Josie turned and pressed the full length of her nakedness against him.

  With her mouth pressed hard against him she said, “Promise. Promise.”

  He held her against him and kissed her back.

  “Promise,” she said fiercely. “Promise.”

  “Yes,” he whispered. “I promise.”

  He felt her hands pressed against his back, her fingernails digging into him. He held her damp body, with all his force, against him. She groaned, and softened, and neither of them whispered again.

  Thirty-five

  Virgil Earp was standing in the street outside the Grand Hotel, his back against one of the posts that held up the porch, one heel hooked over the edge of the boardwalk. It was mid-September and the soft desert fall had finally broken the summer heat. Two women wearing eastern clothes came out of the hotel and paused behind Virgil.

  One of them said, “What of the Apaches, Marshal?”

  Virgil took off his hat and turned toward the women.

  “Haven’t seen none in Tombstone, ma’am,” Virgil said.

  “We heard that General Carr’s men were slaughtered and that the Apaches are coming this way.”

  Virgil smiled. Every time some buck killed a wood hauler the fear of Indian attack raged through Tombstone like dysentery.

  “I don’t think so, ma’am. They had a little skirmish, I think. Apaches normally head for Mexico when the Army’s after them. They might pass by here, but they got no good reason to slow themselves down by riding into town.”

  “Wasn’t there a meeting at Schieffelin Hall last night?”

  “There’s a lot of meetings in Tombstone, ma’am. It’s about as meeting a town as I know,” Virgil said. “No need to worry about the White Mountain Apaches. They got enough troubles without adding in Tombstone.”

  The two women hesitated and then moved on as Frank McLaury turned the corner from Fourth Street and stopped next to Virgil.

  “Frank,” Virgil said. His voice was easy as it always was, as if he had few problems and all the time in the world.

  “I understand that you’re raising up a vigilance committee to hang us boys,” McLaury said.

  “You boys?”

  “You know,” McLaury said, “us, the Clantons, Ringo, all the cowboys.”

  “Remember the time Curley Bill killed White?” Virgil said.

  “Everybody does.”

  “Who guarded him that night,” Virgil said, “and run him up to Tucson in the morning, so’s to keep the Vigilance Committee from hangin’ him?”

  “I guess it was you boys,” McLaury said.

  He was staring down at the dirt of Allen Street.

  “So maybe we don’t altogether belong to the Vigilance Committee,” Virgil said.

  McLaury shook his head, looking at the street.

  “You believe we do?” Virgil said.

  “I got to believe the man told me that you do,” McLaury said.

  “Who told you that we do?”

  “Johnny,” McLaury said.

  “Johnny Behan?”

  “Yes.”

  “You don’t have to believe Johnny Behan about much,” Virgil said.

  “He’s always been straight with us boys,” McLaury said.

  “He’s not straight this time, Frank.”

  “You and your brothers come for us, there’ll be shooting. I don’t intend to strangle on a rope.”

  McLaury turned sharply and walked away without looking back, as if he had frightened himself a little by what he’d said. Virgil looked after him until McLaury turned into the Oriental a block up and on the other side of Allen Street.

  Thirty-six

  It was October and Tombstone weather was finally comfortable. Wyatt was having breakfast with Josie in Maison Dorée, next to the Cosmopolitan Hotel.

  “You ever see any Indians?” Josie said.

  Wyatt smiled.

  “No,” he said. “Got a chance to eat breakfast, though, with the McLaurys and Curley Bill.”

  “My God,” Josie said. “Really?”

  “Yep. Weather got too bad to chase Indians in, rained so hard the horses were sinking into the mud half a foot. So we gave it up and headed back in. Stopped at Frink’s place for a bit to get out of the weather and then the whole posse went on to McLaury’s for breakfast. Fed us good, too.”

  “But aren’t they your enemies?”

  Wyatt smiled and put a piece of bacon in his mouth.

  “Not when I was eating their food,” Wyatt said.

  “Not even Curley Bill?”

  “Me and him didn’t talk,” Wyatt said. “But Virgil and him did. Seemed to be getting along fine.”

  “What did they talk about?”

  “Don’t know.”

  “And you didn’t ask afterwards?”

  “Nope.”

  “Don’t you men talk?” Josie said.

  She ate so pretty, he thought. She had a bowl of canned peaches. She cut off a bite-sized portion of one peach half and put it in her mouth with a fork, and chewed carefully with her mouth closed.

  “We talk,” Wyatt said.

  “So what about the Indians?”

  “Army’s chasing them now.”

  “Will they catch them?”

  Wyatt smiled widely.

  “The Army?” he said.

  “Yes.”

  “Army’s mostly kids from Chicago and Boston,” Wyatt said. “They can’t catch their own mounts in the morning. Their officers been shipped out here for failing someplace else. Pretty much they’re just putting in time until retirement.” Wyatt shook his head and smiled again. “The Army couldn’t catch Naitche if he was drinking agency whiskey at Fort Apache.”

  “You didn’t catch him either,” Josie said.

  “No,” Wyatt said, “we didn’t.”

  Thirty-seven

  It was after midnight when Wyatt sat down at the counter of the Occidental Lunch Room off the main room of the Alhambra Saloon. He ordered beefsteak and stewed tomatoes and drank some coffee while he waited for the meal. In the Alhambra, the bar was crowded, the faro tables were full and the sound of glasses and drunken men was loud. Ike Clanton came in from the saloon and sat down at the far end of the counter. He nodded at Wyatt, who nodded back, gave his order to the counter man and looked around the half-empty Lunch Room.

  Wyatt’s dinner was on the counter before him, and he was finishing the first cup of coffee when Doc Holliday came in. He had the high flush along the line of his cheekbones that he always got when he was drinking or when his lungs were acting up. His dark eyes seemed to recess deeper into his thin face when he drank. He was wearing a black cloth coat over a white shirt. The coat hung open.
>
  “Clanton, you lying sonova bitch,” Doc said.

  “You got no call to be talking to me like that, Doc.”

  “You been telling people that Wyatt Earp blabbed to me about your and his plans.”

  “Doc, you’re drunk,” Clanton said. “I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”

  Doc’s hand eased up to the edge of his coat, resting against his chest.

  “You sonova bitch cowboy, you calling me drunk?” he said. “You go for your goddamned gun, and we’ll see how drunk I am.”

  “I ain’t heeled,” Clanton said.

  Wyatt got up and walked to the doorway that separated the saloon from the Lunch Room. Morgan was in the saloon, doing special deputy duty, keeping order. He saw Wyatt in the doorway. Wyatt jerked his head, and Morgan strolled past the faro players and into the Lunch Room.

  “You ain’t heeled?” Doc’s rage spiraled and he could barely talk. He sounded, Wyatt thought, as if he were spitting.

  “You sonova bitch,” Holliday said, “go heel yourself, you ain’t heeled.”

  Morgan walked past Doc and hoisted his backside up and sat on the counter between Doc and Clanton and let his heels dangle. Morgan’s coat hung open, and the butt of his big Colt showed. He rested his hand against his body near the gun.

  “I ain’t afraid of you, Holliday, even if all the Earps in Tombstone are backing you up.”

  “I ain’t exactly backed Doc here,” Morgan said, “but you sonova bitch, you keep talking and you are going to have all the fight you want right now.”

  Wyatt went back to his end of the counter and began to eat. Virgil came into the Lunch Room from the street and stood in the doorway. He had a deputy with him named Jim Flynn.

  “Take Doc out of here, Morg,” Virgil said.

  “Nobody takes Doc out of anywhere,” Holliday said.

  Morgan grinned at him and swung down from the lunch counter and stood beside Holliday. He was probably a foot taller than Doc.

  “Come on, John Henry,” Morgan said.

  He put his hand on Holliday’s arm and turned him slightly toward the door and walked him past Virgil and out into the street. Clanton looked down the counter at Wyatt for a moment, then he turned and went out the same door that Morgan and Doc had gone through into the street. Wyatt continued to eat his steak and tomatoes. The tomatoes had some green chilies cut up in them and had been heated with several squares of bread tossed in. As he ate, he could hear Doc’s spitting rage outside and Ike Clanton’s voice almost as frantic and just as angry. Wyatt gestured with his cup to the counterman and the counterman came down and poured him more coffee. As he drank some of the fresh coffee, blowing on it first so as not to burn his lip, he heard Virgil’s voice in the street.

  “Goddamm it, that’s enough,” Virgil said. “Either you go in different directions, or I’ll arrest both of you right now.”

  Wyatt stood and walked to the door. In the street Doc was walking away. Morgan walked beside him, herding him with his bulk. Ike lingered for a moment, looking at Virgil, looking over his shoulder at Wyatt. Then he turned and walked past Virgil in the other direction.

  “Don’t you bastards shoot me in the back,” Ike said.

  Virgil watched him go, then nodded at Wyatt and walked off down Allen Street.

  Wyatt went back to the counter and finished his meal. Then at about 1:30 in the morning Wyatt left the Occidental and strolled up Allen Street toward the Crystal Palace to pick up the bank money from his faro game. Ike Clanton was in the street, with a Colt revolver in his belt.

  “Wyatt,” Clanton said.

  “Ike.”

  “I just want you to know that I ain’t a man to walk away from a fight.”

  Wyatt didn’t say anything.

  “I wasn’t fixed just right when Doc fronted me in there,” Clanton said.

  Again Wyatt was silent. He began to move along the street toward the Crystal Palace.

  “In the morning I’m going up against Doc, man to man. All this fighting talk has gone on long enough.”

  “You know how Doc blows off,” Wyatt said. “He just wanted you to know I didn’t tell any secrets.”

  “Like hell,” Ike said. “And don’t think I won’t fight you too. All of you. I’ll be ready for all of you in the morning.”

  “I don’t see any reason to fight somebody if I can get away from it,” Wyatt said. “There’s no money in it.”

  “You better be ready tomorrow,” Ike said. “Doc and you and your brothers.”

  “Try to get some sleep, Ike,” Wyatt said and turned into the Crystal Palace.

  Thirty-eight

  They played poker all night. Virgil Earp, Johnny Behan, Ike Clanton, Tom McLaury, and another man none of them knew. Mostly it was five-card draw, and by morning Virgil had won some money. With the sun shining down Allen Street and throwing long shadows in front of it, Virgil stuffed his revolver into his belt and stepped into the street with Ike behind him.

  “I don’t see why you have to play cards all night with a Colt in your lap,” Ike said.

  “I’m a peace officer,” Virgil said. “I like to keep it handy.”

  “Well, it ain’t comforting, being as you was throwing in with them that want to murder me.”

  “I’m throwing in with the law,” Virgil said.

  “Well, you want to have at me, I’m in town.”

  “I been up all night, Ike,” Virgil said. “I’m going home and go to bed.”

  “Well, ’fore you do that, I want you to carry a message to Doc Holliday,” Ike said. “The son of a bitch has got to fight me.”

  “That’s no way to talk to a peace officer. I want you to be easy while I’m sleeping.”

  “You won’t carry the message?” Ike said.

  “ ’Course I won’t.”

  “Well, he’ll have to fight, damn his ass. You may have to fight too, ’fore you know it.”

  Virgil shrugged and turned west on Allen Street with the sun behind him and his shadow ten feet long in the empty dirt street. At home, Allie was awake but not yet up. She watched as he undressed and put the big Colt on the bedside table before he climbed in.

  “There something going on?” she said.

  “Been trying to keep Doc and Ike Clanton from killing each other,” Virgil said.

  “Why didn’t you let them go ahead?” Allie said. “Neither one of them amounts to snake spit.”

  Virgil patted her hip as she lay on her side beside him.

  “Doc’s been with us a long time,” Virgil said, and fell asleep almost at once with his hand resting on her hip.

  Allie lay on her side for a while looking at him. There was in him such a great calmness that he could fall asleep like that. He was motionless as he slept. His breathing was even. After a while she gently took his hand away from her hip and laid it on the blanket and got up and began to make herself some breakfast. At midmorning she came into the bedroom. Virgil came wide awake as she opened the door. He was always like that, she thought. Either full asleep or full awake. He never seemed in between.

  “Bronk’s here,” she said. “Got jail business. Something about a prisoner.”

  “Tell him I’ll be in later this afternoon,” Virgil said.

  “Bronk also says that you better get up because Ike Clanton is on a rampage and there’s liable to be hell. Says Ike’s threatening to kill Doc, and you boys too.”

  Virgil nodded.

  “Ike’s probably drunk,” Virgil said. “Tell Bronk I’ll be in later this afternoon.”

  He closed his eyes and appeared to be instantly asleep. Allie went out to tell Bronk what Virgil had said. When he left she picked up where she’d left off ironing Virgil’s shirts. While she let the iron heat on the stove she thought about Ike Clanton. He was a mean, loudmouthed drunk. She knew that. She’d seen a lot like him in saloons in Wichita and Dodge and Ellsworth. And she knew that mean, loudmouthed drunks with a gun could be dangerous. He’d need to be drunk to go up against Virgil
; the whiskey would give him fortitude. But it didn’t mean he couldn’t pull the trigger. She thought about going to Virgil’s brothers. She knew they’d stand with him. It was who Bronk had meant when he said Clanton would be going after “you boys.” The Earps were always “you boys,” she thought. She took the iron off the stove with a potholder and licked her finger and tapped it on the flat of the iron. It sizzled. She nodded and began to iron careful creases in the shirt she’d stretched out on the board. Always “you boys.” Always the brothers. It was a good thing sometimes. Sometimes it was bad. She set the iron on its heel and turned the shirt and ironed another careful crease. She decided not to go to Wyatt or Morgan. Virgil wouldn’t approve. And God knew he’d handled things like this before. He slept peacefully in the next room while a man raged in the streets threatening to kill him. Maybe Ike would call Doc out before Virgil even woke up, and Doc would kill Ike, and it would be past. Allie took a deep breath and let it out slowly and kept ironing.

  Thirty-nine

  Just before noon Katie Elder was looking at some of Camillus Fly’s photographs in the gallery Fly kept next to his rooming house. Fly came in.

  “Ike Clanton’s out there with a rifle and a side arm,” Fly said. “He is looking for Mr. Holliday.”

  “Why?” Kate said.

  “He says he is going to kill him,” Fly said.

  “Doc’ll be interested to hear that,” Kate said.

  She went next door into the boardinghouse and up to their room and woke Doc up.

  “Ike Clanton’s looking to kill you,” Kate said. “He’s got a rifle.”

  Doc rolled out of bed and began to put on his pants.

  “ ’Less I die on the way,” Doc said, “he’ll get his chance.”

  The air smelled of impending snow when Wyatt met Virgil and Morgan on Fremont Street. It was cold for October. All three men wore mackinaws; the hem of Wyatt’s was tucked up above the walnut handle of his gun.

  “Harry Jones tells me Ike is after us with a Winchester and a six-shooter,” Wyatt said.