They walked into the city marshal’s office and found a tall man dressed in a black coat, white shirt with a string tie, and gray trousers loading a rifle in front of a gun rack on the wall.
“Wyatt,” Doc called out, “I’d like you to meet Falcon MacCallister, the fastest man with a gun I’ve ever seen.”
Wyatt raised his eyebrows. “That so?”
He stuck out his hand, and he and Falcon shook.
“Sheriff Behan’s deputies, Stillwell and Jimmy, braced him over at the Oriental Saloon. Said they’d seen some paper out on him a while back.”
Wyatt’s smile faded. “Are you wanted, Mr. MacCallister?”
Falcon shook his head. “Not any more. A judge ruled my fight was self-defense and sent out recall notices about six months after the original posters were circulated.”
Wyatt walked over to his desk and pulled a thick sheaf of papers out of the top drawer. After rummaging through them for a few minutes, he pulled one out of the stack. “You’re right, Falcon. Here it is.”
He passed the paper over to Falcon. “You’d better keep that while you’re in town. Sheriff Behan’s deputies aren’t known for their intelligence.”
Doc laughed. “Yeah, they’d probably have to get someone to read it to ’em if you pulled it out and stuck it in their faces.”
“Well, if you’re done with me, Marshal, I’m hungry and I’d like to go.”
“By all means, Falcon,” Wyatt said, sticking out his hand and taking Falcon’s. “However, I’ll have to ask you to leave your pistols here. There’s a town ordinance against carrying weapons inside the city limits.”
Falcon shrugged. “Okay, Marshal.”
He unbuckled his gunbelt and handed the brace of Colts to Wyatt.
“Have a good stay in our town, Falcon,” Wyatt said as he hung the belt over a peg on the wall. “And,” he added with a wink, “if you’re a gambling man, I deal the Faro table over at the Oriental Saloon starting at eight o’clock.”
“Faro is a game for men who don’t understand numbers,” Falcon said. “I prefer poker, preferably stud.”
Doc nodded. “A man after my own heart, Wyatt.”
Falcon smiled and touched the brim of his hat nodding at Doc. “Thanks for taking a hand over there, and thanks for the advice on where to eat, Doc. I’ll be seeing you.”
As he walked down the boardwalk looking for the Campbell and Hatch Saloon, Falcon wondered if they had baths there or if he was going to have to check into a hotel to get clean.
Suddenly four men stepped out of an alleyway to block Falcon’s path. It was the two Clantons and Ringo and Brocius, and they were spoiling for some trouble.
“Hey, mister. We don’t appreciate no strangers comin’ into our town and causin’ trouble,” Billy Clanton said.
He was a big man, about five feet ten inches tall, with a barrel chest and thick, muscular arms. Falcon thought he was probably a bully, starting fights with just about anyone who was smaller. He’d seen his type plenty of times before.
“Yeah,” Johnny Ringo added, “so why don’t you just get back up on your horse and hightail it on outta here?”
“I don’t believe I want to do that,” Falcon answered, a slight smile on his face.
“We ain’t exactly askin’. We’re tellin’ you to leave,” Billy said, flexing his muscles and sticking his chest out, as if that was going to scare Falcon off.
Falcon gave a lazy look at the four men. “Well, right offhand, I don’t see anyone big or mean enough to make me leave,” he said.
Clanton stepped out into the street and began to roll up his sleeves, revealing hairy, muscular forearms. “Oh, we’ll see ’bout that, mister, we’ll just see.”
Falcon took his hat off and hung it on the end of a hitching rail and walked slowly toward Clanton. “You sure you want to do this, Billy?” he asked. “I don’t particularly want to spread your nose all over your face. It’s already ugly enough.”
The big man growled and came running at Falcon, swinging his right hand in a roundhouse punch.
Falcon set his feet and didn’t move, merely leaning his head slightly to the side so Clanton’s blow whistled harmlessly by his face.
As Clanton twisted sideways from the force of his swing, Falcon threw a short left jab into his ribs, cracking one with a snap like a wooden stick breaking.
Clanton grabbed his side, bent over, and let out his breath with a giant groan.
While he stood there, Falcon swung from his heels with a right uppercut, catching Clanton flush on the bridge of his nose, flattening it and spreading it all over his face. Blood and teeth went flying as Clanton’s head snapped back and he staggered upright.
He stood there in the middle of the street, swaying and shaking his head, trying to uncross his eyes, blood streaming from his ruined nose. He spat two more teeth from between split lips and howled in anger as he ran at Falcon once more, his arms spread wide as if to catch him in a bear hug.
Falcon bent under the arms and threw two quick jabs into Clanton’s paunch, doubling him over. The big man stood there, leaning over with his hands on his knees, and began to vomit onto his boots.
Falcon doubled up his fist and slammed it in the back of Clanton’s head, knocking him flat on his face in a pile of horse manure.
He took the toe of his boot and rolled Clanton over so he wouldn’t suffocate, then turned to the three men remaining, his chest heaving from the exertion of the fight.
Ringo had a long Bowie knife out and began to walk toward Falcon, waving it back and forth, when Wyatt Earp and Doc Holliday stepped up behind him. Wyatt clubbed Ringo in the side of the head with the butt of a sawed-off express gun, knocking the gunman to his knees and making him drop his blade.
“All right, men, break it up,” Wyatt said.
Curly Bill Brocius pointed at Falcon. “He started it, Marshal. Why don’t you arrest him?”
“Arrest him? Hell, I ought to pay him for the pleasure of watching him beat the crap out of Billy Clanton.”
Ringo shook his head and started to pick up his knife, until Wyatt eared back the hammers on the shotgun with a loud double click. “I wouldn’t do that, Johnny,” Wyatt said. “Not unless you want your brains scattered all over the street like Billy’s teeth.”
Ringo glared hate at Wyatt. “I’ll be seein’ you, Earp. This ain’t over yet.”
Doc grinned down at Ringo. “You look right nice on your knees, Johnny. Perhaps you should spend more time there.”
Ringo jumped to his feet, his hand unconsciously going for his empty holster.
Doc let his hand caress the butt of his pistol under his coat. “You are twice lucky today, Johnny. First Wyatt hits you in the head, where he cannot possibly do you any harm, and then you face me with an empty holster.”
“Damn the both of you!” Ringo said as he walked out into the street. He and Curly Bill Brocius lifted Clanton up by his arms and walked him off down the road.
Falcon retrieved his hat from the hitching post and dusted it off. “Like I said, Doc, a right unhealthy town you got here.”
Doc laughed, “Don’t be too critical, Falcon. After all, you haven’t tried the local cuisine yet.”
“Would you care to join me for supper, Doc? It’s the least I can do,” Falcon offered.
Doc shrugged. “Sure, why not? It’ll certainly be a change for me, eating supper instead of drinking it.”
* * *
After the meal at Campbell and Hatch’s Saloon, Falcon got his saddlebags from the livery and checked into the Grand Hotel on Main Street. It was the newest and finest hotel in Tombstone, and Falcon was finally able to get his hot bath.
Afterward, dressed in his gambling duds, he walked out onto his balcony for a smoke. He stood there in the dark for a moment, breathing the crisp, autumn air and looking up at the night sky, marveling at the number and brightness of the stars as he often did while on the trail.
From the alleyway below his balcony, Falcon heard a familiar voi
ce. He ducked back out of sight as Billy Clanton said in a hoarse whisper, “Hello, Frank. How’s it going, Tom?”
Two voices answered in muted greetings. Billy continued to talk, pulling the men farther down the alley with him. “You boys all set for tomorrow night, Frank?”
“Yeah, you can count on the McLaurys, Billy. Is Ike ready?”
“More than ready. We’re sick of those Earp brothers stickin’ their noses in our business. So the plan’s set?”
“We’ll meet at the OK Corral and get our extra guns outta our saddlebags, and then we’ll hunt those bastards down and shoot ’em like the dogs they are.”
“It’ll be easy, since they won’t be expectin’ us to be carryin’.”
Then Falcon could no longer hear them talking. He leaned back against the wall and lighted his cigar, letting the tobacco calm his nerves. He’d never before heard the planned execution of three men discussed so openly. Now he had to figure out what to do. He usually made it a practice to mind his own business, but he liked and admired what the Earp brothers were trying to do in Tombstone. After a while he threw his cigar butt into the alley, where it landed in a shower of sparks. He decided it was time for him to play a few hands of Faro.
He walked down the street to the Oriental Saloon and entered the batwings. The place was full to the brim with cowboys, miners, merchants, bar girls, and gamblers. He threaded his way through the crowd to a corner table in the back, where he saw Doc Holliday playing poker with four other men. Doc didn’t look good. His face had a fine sheen of sweat, and he was pale as a ghost. A large bottle of whiskey sat nearly empty on the table next to him, and a woman dressed in red satin sat on the arm of his chair, her arm around his shoulders.
Falcon stepped up and tipped his hat at Doc, who immediately waved him over. “My, Mr. MacCallister, but you certainly do clean up very nicely,” Doc said in his soft Southern accent. There was no trace of a slur in his words, though it was evident he’d been drinking heavily all night.
“I would like you to meet my special lady friend, Kate Elder. Kate, this is Falcon MacCallister, from Colorado.”
“Pleased to meet you, Miss Kate,” Falcon said. The girl was pretty, in an overblown, western sort of way. Her features were less than delicate, and she had a thin face with a large nose that was her most prominent feature. Her eyes were gentle, and it was evident from the way she looked at Doc that she worshiped him.
Before Doc sat back down, Falcon leaned over and whispered, “We’ve got to talk. Meet me at the Faro table later.”
Doc winked and nodded, then returned to his poker game. Falcon noticed that even with the drinking, the pile of money and chips in front of Doc was sizable. Evidently the man was a master card player. Falcon looked forward to playing with him.
Falcon slowly made his way to the Faro table, smiling at Wyatt Earp, who was dealing cards from a brightly painted and lacquered box with a bright yellow tiger emblazoned on it. Bucking the Tiger, as playing against the house was called, was a game of high rewards, if you could beat the tremendous odds against you. It was a game, as Falcon had said, played by men who either didn’t know the odds, or were too drunk to care.
Wyatt grinned as he passed out cards to two drunken miners sitting before him. “You ready to give the tiger a go, Falcon?” he asked.
Falcon shook his head. “I’m going to get a table. How about you joining me when you take a break?”
Wyatt nodded, then said, “Queen. So house wins again, boys.”
Falcon finally managed to find a small table against the wall that was unoccupied and settled in, sitting facing the crowd out of habit even though he, along with everyone else in the room, was unarmed.
After a while, Doc and Wyatt joined him at his table. Falcon leaned forward and put his face near theirs, so no one else could hear him. “Wyatt, I just heard something you need to know.”
He told them of the conversation he’d overheard between Billy Clanton and Frank and Tom McLaury.
Wyatt sat there a moment, his face set and grim. Finally, he smiled slightly. “Well, I guess I knew this was coming. It’s time to put a stop to this feud, once and for all.”
He stood up and shook Falcon’s hand. “Thanks for the information, Falcon. I’m much obliged to you.”
“What are you going to do, Wyatt?”
Wyatt took a deep breath. “Stick around until tomorrow afternoon and you’ll see ... the entire town will see.”
Chapter 3
October 21 was a clear, chilly day without a cloud in the sky over Tombstone. Falcon was finishing lunch at Campbell and Hatch’s Saloon when, through the window onto Main Street, he saw Wyatt, Virgil, Morgan, and Doc Holliday come out of the marshal’s office. As the four men walked down the street, all dressed in long dusters over their suits, he noticed Doc put a shotgun under his coat, keeping it out of sight.
Falcon threw a couple of banknotes on the table, grabbed his hat, and strolled outside, staying well behind the Earps and Doc Holliday on the boardwalk. He was curious to see how they would handle the threat he’d overheard the night before.
They turned left on Fourth Street, toward the OK Corral, walking abreast in the middle of the street. Falcon stepped around the corner, and he could see Ike and Billy Clanton and Frank and Tom McLaury out in front of the corral at the corner of Third and Fremont Streets, standing next to their horses.
When Wyatt noticed the men were all wearing sidearms, he called out, “You boys surrender your weapons, or you’re under arrest.”
Sheriff Behan hurried up to the Earps, saying, “It’s all right. They promised me they weren’t gonna stay armed.”
Virgil elbowed the sheriff aside and continued walking toward the four cowboys wearing red sashes. “We don’t want any trouble,” he said. “Throw down your guns.”
Billy Clanton and Frank McLaury drew their guns, and Doc shot Billy through the chest, the sharp report of a scattergun echoing up and down Fremont. Then he turned his shotgun on Tom and put a double load of buckshot into his chest, killing him instantly, dropping him in his tracks.
Ike screamed, “Don’t shoot, don’t shoot!” and began to run down the street. Wyatt allowed him to pass, but Doc fired twice at him, missing both times.
As Ike ran, his brother Billy tried to fire a last few shots before he died. Camillus Fry, the proprietor of a photo studio nearby, raced over and took his pistol away from him.
Frank shot at Doc, but the bullet hit Doc’s holster and ricochetted into his hip, producing a minor wound. Doc whirled and fired his Colt, hitting Frank in the forehead as the Earps all opened fire.
In less than thirty seconds, Billy, Frank, and Tom lay dead. Virgil had a bullet through his leg, and Morgan was wounded in both shoulders. Wyatt was the only one unscathed by the fusillade of bullets flying up and down the street.
As Falcon watched the melee, he noticed movement out of the corner of his eye from the alley before him. Johnny Ringo was in the shadows, aiming a rifle at the Earps.
Falcon pulled his derringer from his boot and stepped up behind Ringo, placing the double-barrel against the back of his head. “I don’t think I’d do that, if I were you,” he said in a low voice.
Ringo dropped the gun and raised his hands.
Falcon hesitated, then said, “Get on your horse and get out of town. There’s been enough killing here today.”
Ringo glanced back, hatred in his eyes, then sprinted down the alley toward his horse and jumped into the saddle, spurring his mount into a gallop without looking back.
Falcon put his derringer back in his boot and went to help get the wounded Earps to a doctor.
Doc pulled out a silver flask, calmly took a deep swig, and announced that what medical care he needed Kate Elder could provide. He walked off toward his room over the photography shop, whistling a tune Falcon thought he recognized as “Dixie.”
Chapter 4
Naiche, Chief of the Chiricahua Apaches, watched the tiny settler’s cabin from mottled shad
e beneath a gnarled pinyon pine, resting his rifle atop the high withers of his starving sorrel pony. Behind him, below the rim of the ridge, ten warriors sat on their ponies, awaiting his signal.
Naiche was worried. He counted four white-eyes moving about the cabin and barns near the spring, and if they had repeating rifles an attack would be costly. Since leading their escape from Fort Thomas and the Indian agency he’d been careful to avoid army patrols and all other white men traveling in large numbers. Now the Dragoon Mountains, in what the white-eyes called Arizona Territory, was crawling with soldiers looking for Naiche’s half-brother, sworn enemy of the white Star Chief. In the tongue of the People he was called Gokaleh. Now most Apaches called him by his white man’s name ... Geronimo ... after the attack on a Mexican village on the day of the Feast of Saint Jerome—Santo Geronimo in Spanish—when Geronimo began his bloody war on all who settled traditional Apache lands in Mexico or the southwestern United States.
Chokole rode her pony quietly to a spot near the rump of Naiche’s sorrel. She was a woman warrior, rare among the Apache bands, chosen for her bravery and marksmanship with a rifle. She had taken many white and Mexican scalps. “Why do we wait, Naiche?” she whispered, the sound of her voice lost on a breath of hot desert wind.
“There are four white-eyes men. If they have Winchester rifles, the price for taking their food and livestock will come high.”
“Will we wait for the night?” Chokole asked, as her pinto stamped a hoof to rid its leg of a stinging horsefly.
“I will watch them a longer time, until the shadows come to hide our approach.” Naiche often doubted his wisdom in the ways of war, for he was not like his brother, a master of illusion and disguise who always caught an enemy by surprise. Naiche’s thirst for blood often made him reckless. He longed to hear the screams of the wounded and dying enemy, see the sight of blood, hear the sound of a scalp being torn from an enemy’s skull. Waiting to enter a fight was hard.
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