by Van Holt
“I guess that explains where the Bishop kid is,” Curly said. “I figgered he was back there somewhere practicing with that pearl-handled gun of his. He’s been like a kid with a new toy ever since he saved up enough money to buy it.”
Then Curly raised his voice and shouted, “Hey, Billy! There’s a black horse here needs some attention!”
“Sure thing, Curly!” the boy called back. “I’ll be right there!”
“I’ll be back for my Appaloosa later! I’m going to ride out to the Hatcher place!”
“Sure thing. I’ll saddle him up, soon as I take care of that black.”
“No hurry. It’ll be a while before I go.”
Ringo loosened the cinch on his saddle and then left the black horse standing there, just as the straw-haired Bishop kid appeared in the hall of the stable. The boy’s pale, almost colorless eyes were bright with interest as he watched the two tall men stroll along the street side by side and turn into the Bent Elbow. A gunfighter, the boy was thinking.
But who was the stranger and was he famous enough to make Billy Bishop’s reputation, if Billy killed him in a gunfight?
Chapter 2
In the saloon, Curly introduced Ringo to the Hatcher boys.
He introduced him as Easter, and smiled at the way everyone looked at him, including Ringo.
So Ringo had heard about Easter too. That didn’t surprise Curly. It had already occurred to him that Ringo might even be Easter. No one seemed to know who Easter really was, and it seemed that no one had ever heard of him until he had killed three men in a gunfight over in Silver City a few weeks back. A drifter who had been there at the time and witnessed the shooting had told about it when he stopped to wet his thirst in the Bent Elbow before drifting on west. He didn’t know how the shooting had started or who had drawn first. All he knew was that there was suddenly a gun in the stranger’s hand and the three men were falling in a heap with their own guns only half drawn. The stranger had not said anything before the shooting, and afterwards he had only said that his name was Easter. But since the Easter holiday wasn’t far away, everyone took it for granted he had used that name only because he didn’t want anyone to know who he really was.
The more Curly thought about it, the more likely it seemed to him that Easter was in fact none other than his old saddle pal Johnny Ringo. He didn’t know of anyone else who could shoot like that, with the possible exceptions of Wyatt Earp and Doc Holliday and they were in Colorado the last he had heard.
“I don’t believe I caught your name,” Ringo said, watching him with cold eyes.
“Curly Bill Graham,” Curly said. “Reckon you’ve heard of me sometime or other.”
Ringo pretended to think for a moment, then shook his head. “Heard of a Curly Bill Brocius once. But you couldn’t be him. Fellow calling himself by that name was a midget. He had to crawl up on a stool to reach his drink, and he was always whining about somebody stepping on him or kicking him out of the way. He didn’t know it was because he was so small. He had this idea in his head that he was a real big fellow.”
The Hatcher boys laughed and Curly joined in. Everyone around here knew Curly Bill Graham and Curly Bill Brocius were one and the same. They just let on like they didn’t around strangers. That was why the Hatcher boys didn’t say anything now.
Jackpot looked like he wanted to say something. But he alone had never believed that Curly was who he claimed to be, and he couldn’t make up his mind now what he wanted to say. But he continued to watch Ringo with an interest that was in no way diminished when Ringo asked for a tumbler and drained it at a single gulp. The Hatcher boys also watched with interest, and then glanced at the whiskey still in their small shot glasses.
Ringo laid some money on the bar and said, “You boys have one on me now.” Curly had bought the first round.
Curly merely smiled and nodded in silence, regretting that Ringo didn’t stay to drink another one with them. It seemed like a sobering reminder that the old days were gone. He didn’t know why Ringo was here, but it wasn’t to rustle cattle or hold up stages as in the past, and it wasn’t to renew his friendship with Curly.
Curly watched him bend down to pick up his saddlebags and blanket roll, using the left hand that seemed a little stiff in order to keep his gun hand free from old habit. Then without another word he went out through the batwings and turned toward the hotel.
Ringo had a distinctive way of walking, with his toes straight ahead but with just the suggestion of a swing in his stride. It was the stride of a bold strong man, one who wasn’t afraid of anything, unless it was himself and the violence seething inside him, hidden below the calm stony surface but ready to explode without warning.
Cash glanced toward the batwings, and then studied Curly’s big dark face, which was strangely solemn when he wasn’t smiling. “He really Easter?” Cash asked.
Curly shrugged one heavy shoulder. “I said he was, didn’t I?”
“I know how you are about making up names for people. Nearly everybody around here has found themselves stuck with a nickname since you came here. And I noticed the look on his face when you called him Easter.”
Curly grinned and said nothing. He was dying to tell them who Ringo really was. But he knew Ringo would soon find out about it and Curly didn’t want to get him sore. Ringo could be very unpleasant when he got sore.
“If it is Easter,” Cash said, “what would a man like that be doing here?”
“What would a man like that be doing anywhere?” Curly asked.
Cash thought for a moment. “You think Uncle Willy sent for him?”
That possibility had occurred to Curly, but he wasn’t ready just yet to admit it. Not even to himself.
He finished his drink. “You boys stay out of trouble. It’s about time for my morning coffee.”
Beanbelly snickered. “He’s going to see Miss Sarah.”
“Better watch old Darius don’t run you out of there,” Cash said.
Curly grinned. “He’ll prob’ly try.”
It was too late for breakfast, too early for lunch, and he found Miss Sarah sitting alone in the hotel dining room. On the table before her there was a cup of coffee that she hadn’t touched, and he noticed that she looked sort of sick. Her face wasn’t rosy like it should be, it looked pale and sort of numb, and she didn’t seem to see him come in. But Curly didn’t let it bother him too much, knowing that women had their moody days. He just turned on the old charm, reasoning that sooner or later it was bound to work its magic on her, and turn her from an indifferent lady into an eager woman, glowing and rosy with love.
“Good morning,” he said, flashing his big white teeth at her in what he hoped was a winning smile. “How’s the lovely lady today?”
She glanced up at him as she might have glanced at a noisy fly buzzing around the table. Clearly she had more important things on her mind. But Curly didn’t let it get him down. Women had been known to change their minds. Pulling back the chair opposite her, he eased his manly form into it.
“You’re not looking very bright-eyed this morning,” he said, squinting thoughtfully at her through the smoke of the cigar he lit up from habit, without thinking to ask if it would bother her. “If I didn’t know you better, I might even think you’d been in old Darius’s private bottle.”
Her lovely lips twisted as if she didn’t consider it much of a joke, nor in the best of taste. Her expression also suggested that he didn’t know her at all. Which Curly had to admit was true. In the weeks she had been in Boot Hill he hadn’t been able to find out anything about her or her past, which remained a mystery and was the source of a good deal of speculation. Everyone called her Miss Sarah. She seemed to have no other name, or none that anyone knew.
Curly glanced about the empty dining room. The shady light and the red and white oilcloths on the ta
bles made the place seem cooler than it was. But Curly was watching for old Darius Winkler. He expected to see the old jelly-belly bust in from the kitchen at any moment, his nervous mustache twitching with jealousy when he saw Curly sitting there at Miss Sarah’s table. Old Darius had planted his wife some time back and he ran the hotel with the help of Miss Sarah and an old Mexican cook, a man, not a woman. But the way old Darius was always fluttering around like a beheaded chicken, you’d have thought he did all the work by himself. There were never more than a few people staying at the hotel at any one time—at the moment there was no one except Ringo, and Miss Sarah who had a room on the second floor—but a good many people ate their meals in the dining room and that was what kept old Darius in business. The old Mexican was a good cook and all the lonesome men around there considered themselves very lucky to have a beautiful lady like Miss Sarah bring them their chuck, even though there was something about her that discouraged familiarity. All the men who came there to eat took it for granted that she wasn’t married and didn’t have a man anywhere, because that was what they wanted to believe.
But none of them made as big a fool of themselves over her as old Darius did. The fact that he was more than twice her age, short and fat and almost bald, with those long ridiculous mustaches, may have kept him from proposing marriage at once. But it didn’t keep him from watching every flicker of her long dark eyelashes and every little ripple of her body inside her clothes. He rarely took his eyes off her curves. At the same time he couldn’t bear for anyone else to look at her.
“Where is that old goat anyway?”
Miss Sarah still seemed lost in thought and didn’t answer. Her face was rather strong, with high cheekbones, and in some ways more handsome than beautiful. But in most ways she was the most attractive woman Curly had ever known.
Trying to get her attention, he bent forward and lowered his voice. “Do you know who that tall handsome fellow is who just checked in?”
She looked at him with dread and still didn’t answer.
But at least he had her attention now.
“That’s Johnny Ringo,” he said, forgetting Ringo’s request to keep quiet. “Me and him rode together for years, in Kansas and Texas before coming to Arizona. I thought he was dead, but I reckon I should of known better than to believe everything I hear. A lot of people think I’m dead.”
Miss Sarah hugged herself as if she had a sudden chill.
“Do you know him well?”
“As well as anyone does, and maybe a little better. What he did before I knew him, he never said. But I reckon it couldn’t be as interesting as what happened over around Tombstone about a year or two ago. Me and Ringo rode with the Clantons till the Earps figgered we’d all done enough mischief. I think what made them so mad was that we helped spread the rumor that it was really them, and not us, who were rustling all the cattle and holding up the stages. Old Wyatt declared war. Not long after that little misunderstanding at the OK Corral, he filled my hide full of buckshot out of pure meanness. When I heard Ringo was dead I figgered they’d got him too. But later on I found out it was somebody else who bushwhacked him. It’s going to be a big disappointment to them when they find out he ain’t dead.”
Miss Sarah nodded, watching him with her serious dark eyes. “Do you think that’s why he came here? To find the men who tried to kill him?”
Curly blew out smoke in a long sigh. “I wish I knew. He wouldn’t tell me anything. But I figger that’s one of the reasons he’s here. I’m not sure it’s the only one.”
Miss Sarah shot him a quick glance, her eyes widening a little in surprise. Then after a moment the long dark lashes lowered and seemed to cast a shadow over her eyes. She said in an almost hesitant tone, “I heard once that there was some trouble between him and Doc Holliday over a woman. Do you know anything about that?”
Curly had a feeling she had heard it from him, but if so, the occasion had slipped his mind. That was what came of running his big mouth so much, he thought. He couldn’t remember half of what he had said, or how he had said it.
“I don’t know how rumors like that get started,” he said, while Miss Sarah watched him blankly. “As I recollect, it never had anything to do with a woman. Ringo and Doc just hated each other at first sight and it got a little worse every time they saw each other. I never knew of anyone who could stand old Doc except Wyatt Earp. Ringo once said Doc was the only serious flaw in Wyatt’s character. He always had a higher opinion of the Earps than I did. But that was back before all the trouble got started.
“When me and Ringo first arrived in Tombstone from the Mason County War in Texas, Wyatt made motions like he wanted to recruit Ringo as a friend, or maybe as a gun hand. He’d heard how slick Ringo was with a gun and he wanted Ringo on his side in the big trouble he saw shaping up with the cowboys, as the rustlers and outlaws around Tombstone were called. In a scrap like that Wyatt knew an extra gun like Ringo’s would come in mighty handy. But Doc Holliday never liked the idea one bit. He seemed to think Ringo was trying to take his place as Wyatt’s sidekick, and he went out of his way to cause trouble between them every chance he got. Wyatt owed Doc a lot of favors and Doc couldn’t do any wrong as far as he was concerned. He just naturally had to take Doc’s side in all the trouble Doc caused, and that led to a few little arguments between Wyatt and Ringo. But some people thought it was just for show and that Ringo was really giving the Earps information about us rustlers when he seemed to be having an argument with one of them.”
“What do you think?” Miss Sarah asked.
Curly shrugged his broad shoulders. “Ringo ain’t a man to sell out his friends. But it ain’t always so easy to tell who Ringo considers his friends. I always thought me and him were the best of friends, but there were times when he seemed to think we were the worst of enemies. But even on his bad days I couldn’t always be sure whether he was serious or joking. Ringo ain’t a easy man to figger out, and he sure ain’t an easy man to get along with. I remember something old Ike Clanton said one time. He said that as long as we had Ringo, we sure didn’t need the Earps.”
Miss Sarah managed a sad little smile. “I think I know what you mean,” she said in a low voice.
Just then old Darius Winkler charged in from the kitchen with a dirty apron tied about his fat waist, shaking his finger at the big grinning rustler. “Curly, you know we don’t serve nothing here before twelve!” he said, and pulled out a heavy gold watch. “That’s almost two hours away! Why you always come at the wrong time? Over and over I tell you, we serve breakfast six to eight, dinner twelve to one, supper six to seven-thirty! In between these times we don’t serve you nothing!”
“Morning, Darius. How the hell are you?”
Old Darius winced at the language, and mopped his fat oily face with his apron. Then he looked at Miss Sarah and licked his lips, smoothing down his unruly mustaches with a corner of the apron. “Miss Sarah, Don Juan he need help in the kitchen, if you please!”
Miss Sarah got up without a word or another glance at Curly and disappeared into the kitchen. Old Darius followed her swaying form with his moist eyes and again mopped his face. Then he saw the cup she had left on the table and came over to get it. He saw she hadn’t drunk any of the coffee and he sputtered, “Why she want to waste good coffee? No wonder I soon go broke thisaway!”
“Hand me that cup, Darius. No need to let good coffee go to waste.”
Curly took the cup from the plump soft hand and raised it to his lips, eager to put his where hers had been. It was then that he noticed the coffee was cold. He told himself that Miss Sarah had been so interested in his talk that she had forgot all about her coffee. But old Darius hadn’t given him a chance to talk that long. Her coffee must have been cold when he came in. She had sat there thinking about something else until her coffee was too cold to drink, and then had forgot to take the cup into the kitchen with her. H
e wondered what she had on her mind.
Old Darius was gaping at him, his little eyes popping out in wonder. “You don’t drink neither? What’s wrong with my coffee all of a sudden? You always like before.”
Curly silently handed him the cup and old Darius tasted the coffee for himself, then made a face. “Cold! Why she let good coffee get so cold?”
“Something on her mind, I guess,’’ Curly said, glancing toward the kitchen.
Old Darius mopped his face and pointed the cup at him. “You don’t come back no more till later, Curly! You want coffee, go to restaurant. We too busy here now.”
Curly smacked his lips and sat up with interest. “What’s for dinner, Darius? Old Don Juan cooking up something special today?”
“You come back later and see what we got, Curly,” Darius said, and waddled into the kitchen to check on his help. Curly heard him yelling something at the old Mexican whom everyone called Don Juan because he was very polite and respectful to women, and they seemed to find him attractive in spite of his age and his ugly brown face. The joke had gone a little sour lately because he had been heard in the kitchen talking and laughing with Miss Sarah. That was probably what old Darius was so excited about now—he had caught the old Mexican smiling at her. “I would fire you already, Don Juan,” old Darius said. “But good cooks not easy to find who work for nothing like you do. Except what you eat, and that’s too much.”
Left alone, Curly smoked his cigar and glanced at the chair Miss Sarah had been sitting in. He kept remembering the cold coffee and the way she had looked at him when he said, “If I didn’t know you better ...” A damn fool thing to say to a woman he knew so little about. She was almost as secretive about her past life as Ringo was about his.
Ringo, knowing how Curly liked to talk, had never told him anything that he didn’t want everyone else to know. He had never said anything at all about the years before Curly had known him, which amounted to about the first twenty-five years of his life. But he must have come from a well-to-do family. He always dressed like a gentleman and talked like an educated man. He could read Greek and Latin better than Curly could read English. Sometimes when he was drunk he spouted Shakespeare. But he hardly ever got that drunk. Ringo could hold more hard liquor than any man Curly had ever known, not even excepting old Doc Holliday, who had coughed up his insides long ago and had plenty of room for the stuff.