by Mark Warren
Wyatt looked over the shelves of new clothing behind the counter and raised his chin to a stack of new denim trousers neatly folded on one of the shelves. “Bob, do you reckon if I wanted to own a new pair of those work trousers, I could send down one o’ the deputies to try them on for me?”
Wright frowned. “What are you talking about?” He wet his lips again and looked around the room, his head jerking in small increments as if he were desperately trying to locate something. “Why would you do something like that?”
Wyatt waited until the man’s gaze met his own. “I wouldn’t,” he said and walked out leaving the door open.
The next time a disturbance brought Wyatt and Jim Masterson to the Comique Theater, they employed a standard tactical maneuver: Wyatt entered first, walking into the crowd alone; half a minute later, Jim came in quietly and sidled along the wall to back him up from a strategic angle and unobtrusive distance.
The only part of the room functioning normally was the back section where the gaming tables were busy. Holliday, the dentist, was there concentrating on his cards. Kate Elder stood behind him. On stage the performers stood motionless in their costumes watching the standoff in the main room. The new bartender lay on the floor with his head bleeding. Standing over him with his legs spread, a tall, gangling Texan wearing a fresh-off-the-shelf striped shirt and a bright red scarf emptied a whiskey bottle onto the supine man’s chest.
“Which one of you Kansas bastards wants to water down my drink now?” The Texan’s laughter rattled through the quiet of the room until he saw Wyatt. His face suddenly lost its celebratory glow and shut down with a hostile glare that hardened the line of his jaw.
“You’re done here,” Wyatt said and hitched his head at the door. “Let’s go. You’re heading down to the jail.”
Though the Texan’s bravado had dissipated palpably, he would not back down. He wore no gun, but he widened his stance and stood his ground as if his boots had been nailed to the floor.
“Hard or easy,” Wyatt offered, “it’s your choice.”
Ten heartbeats passed, but the man would not submit. Wyatt slowly pulled his Colt’s from its holster and let it hang by his leg.
“Looks like you go hard.”
From Wyatt’s side a new voice broke in. “Not this time, tin star. You just stepped into a nest of Texas rattlesnakes.”
This one was broad-shouldered, an inch taller than Wyatt. When he swaggered forward and took his position, his closed fists hung down his legs almost to his knees. Three more men in fancy cattleman garb wove through the crowd to stand beside him.
Jim Masterson stepped up behind the first challenger and swung his revolver into the man’s skull. As the man fell, the Texans closest to him instinctively shuffled away. But one patron reconsidered and closed on Jim, trying to get his gun away from him. Wyatt had his hands full with three others who came on in a surge. The two lawmen swung their guns wildly, slashing at whoever came near. When Masterson’s gun went off, Wyatt capitalized on the momentary lull to knock a man senseless. The crowd backed up, and Wyatt pivoted his gun in a slow arc to cover them all.
“Next man who moves,” Wyatt growled, “I’ll put in a grave.” He looked at Masterson, who lay on the floor, his lip bleeding, and his shirt torn down one side of his body. The Texans who had not fallen under the sting of a gun barrel straightened up, relaxing from their fighting stances.
“Back away from my deputy,” Wyatt ordered.
Masterson stood up and began turning in half circles, searching the floor around him. “Lost my damned gun, Wyatt.”
Behind Jim a Texan raised the lost pistol, cocked it, and brought it to bear on Wyatt. The gunshot that went off was like the jolt of a giant buckboard, making everyone in the room jump. The man holding Jim’s gun bent double and appeared to tie his body into a knot as he reached across himself to clap his left hand over his right ear. He silently worked his mouth as if testing the hinge of his jaws.
Behind the deafened man, Doc Holliday cocked a smoking nickel-plated pistol and pressed it into the Texan’s neck. The dazed man let the still-cocked gun pivot upside down by the trigger guard and surrendered it to Masterson.
The brawl had come and gone like an unexpected gust of wind on the prairie. Now the room went silent. A red string of blood ran down Wyatt’s forehead and mixed with the sweat beading on his face. Extending his arm forward, he swept his gun in a half circle to include every Texan standing before him.
“Pick up your friends lying here and clear out! I want you all across the river in five minutes or I’m going to arrest every goddamned one of you, even if I have to lock you up in the stockyards. You can pick up your guns tomorrow. Now git!”
Without comment the surly patrons began shuffling out the door, some using their friends as crutches, others oblivious as they were hauled out by their boots and armpits. Standing on the boardwalk with their weapons drawn, Wyatt, Doc Holliday, and Jim Masterson watched the sullen parade—Wyatt fully expecting carbines to burn powder in a rousing Texas farewell as soon as the cowhands were mounted. Instead, the unorganized mob moved out with their horses at a walk and crossed the bridge without a disturbance.
Wyatt holstered his gun and turned to look at Holliday. In the dark outside the building, the dentist’s complexion was paler than Wyatt remembered, his cadaverous face even more emaciated. The hollows in his cheeks made dark shadows that contrasted starkly against the washed-out slate-blue of his eyes. Holliday looked as out of place in Dodge City as he had in north Texas.
“I’m obliged, Doc.”
Kate Elder attached to Holliday’s arm and tightened her mouth into a vindictive smile. The venom in her penetrating eyes still seemed to be her natural reaction to anyone whose name was Earp.
“Well,” Holliday said, “I suppose I took umbrage at the interruption. I was winning my game.” The dentist tucked his plated pistol into a scabbard hanging against the ribs of his gaunt body.
“We got a law about totin’ guns in town, you know,” Wyatt said.
Kate bristled. “You two of-fi-cers can t’ank Godt Doc was dar to break da law, Mar-shal. Maybe it be you d’ey haff to carry out uff dis saloon.”
Jim blew a stream of air from his lips. “You sure as hell saved our hides . . . that’s for damned certain.”
“Still got the law,” Wyatt said. “Nobody carries in town, Doc.”
Holliday coughed up a laugh, unscrewed the cap of his flask, and downed two gulps. “I’m not quite the physical specimen that you two gentlemen are,” he said, handing the flask to Kate. “My bite will have to be my bullet.” He smiled, patted the gun’s bulge under his coat, and produced a stained white handkerchief. Turning away, he bent forward from the waist and started coughing just as the cloth covered his mouth. Kate leaned with Doc and wrapped her arms around him as the racking continued.
Wyatt bent at the knees to get his face level with Masterson’s. “Your lip’s busted open, Jim,” he said. “Better go and let Doc McCarty see to it.”
Jim touched his mouth gingerly and then checked his fingertips for blood. He nodded and headed up Second Avenue. At Doc’s request, Kate went inside to refill his flask, leaving Wyatt and Holliday standing in the light from the Comique and listening to the bartenders cleaning up inside.
“What made you do what you did in there, Doc?”
Holliday cleared his throat roughly and gazed down the street at the abundance of saloons and entertainment houses. Two doors down a lively out-of-tune piano poured an upbeat melody from the Lone Star out into the thoroughfare. After a brief pause a deep-throated woman’s voice attached itself to the tune, and the roar of the crowd welcomed her.
“Hell, I don’t know,” Doc said. “What makes you walk into a room of Texas trash and risk your life over a beat-up barman?” Holliday coughed up phlegm and spat into the street. “I read in the newspaper you’re one of the Republican delegates headed for the convention in Topeka. Maybe I figured you were getting too important to get shot.�
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Wyatt looked down Front Street and considered the idea of dying in such a place as Dodge City. It made him realize that—except for Morgan—there was nobody in this town who really knew him. Not even Mattie. Especially Mattie.
“Whatever it was made you do it,” Wyatt said, “I ain’t likely to forget it.”
Holliday snorted quietly through his nose, his mood turning quickly to sarcasm. “Does that mean I can keep my shooter next to my skinny ribs?”
Wyatt watched the dentist’s body curl up as if a drawstring had been pulled tight along the length of his frail body. Holliday’s face reddened, and he exhaled a long wheeze that led to another spate of wrenching coughs. The handkerchief pressed to Holliday’s mouth muted the sound, but the man’s eyes teared up as though he were trying to contain the last shreds of his life. When he pulled away the handkerchief to inspect it, flecks of blood glistened brightly on the soiled linen.
Wyatt kept his eyes on the saloons and stores across the railroad tracks, giving Holliday a modicum of privacy in which to compose himself. Between the Alamo and the Alhambra, he could see the shop light shining from Zimmerman’s. He imagined the gunsmith busy with repair work at his workbench. The German had a secure job with a good income. And a future. A gun was always going to be one of the primary tools a man counted on. In some cases it was the difference between a man’s life and an early grave. Zimmerman also sold lumber. Here was a man with vision. Compared to the merchant’s life, Wyatt knew his own occupation could not claim the security of a crapshoot.
“Keep the gun hidden, Doc,” Wyatt said. “Far as I’m concerned, you can wear it to church.”
“Hell, Wyatt,” Holliday laughed weakly, “I doubt there’s a chance of that happening any time soon.”
CHAPTER 18
Late summer, 1878: Dodge City, Kansas
Sitting at a table in the Delmonico, Wyatt was reading the newest issue of the Times when Jim Masterson hurried inside, his face at once both solemn and agitated. Wyatt lowered the paper and spoke to the waitress as she set down two breakfast plates. Masterson frowned at the double order.
“My brother, James, is in town,” Wyatt explained.
Masterson removed his hat, sat, and leaned close to Wyatt. “There’s some talk Clay Allison is coming into town to put it over on us,” he said in a low monotone.
“Us?” Wyatt said.
Masterson nodded. “The law.” Jim made a concerned face and lowered his voice to a whisper. “Well . . . people are sayin’ it’s mostly ’bout you.”
Wyatt folded the paper and set it aside. “People like to talk.”
“I’m talking about Clay Allison—the shootist. You know who I mean?”
Wyatt positioned one of the plates before him and broke open a steaming biscuit with his fingertips. “I’ve heard of him,” he said and inserted a slice of butter that quickly melted and spread out to the crusty sides of the bread.
“He’s a mean sonovabitch,” Jim said. “Said to ’a killed two marshals down in New Mexico.”
Wyatt sawed at a slice of ham. “Far as I know, we’ve got no warrants that have come in on him.”
When James Earp walked into the dining room, Masterson picked up his hat and stood.
“James,” Wyatt said. “This is Bat’s brother, Jim.”
The two men shook hands, and James sat down before the second plate. Wyatt wiped his moustaches with the cloth napkin and turned to Masterson.
“Anything else, Jim?”
The deputy held his hat before him, his arms extended down with both hands clutching the brim, tapping it against his knees. He frowned at Wyatt.
“You ain’t worried ’bout Clay Allison?”
Wyatt bit into his biscuit, chewed, and sipped coffee. “Just circulate and keep me posted.”
Masterson hesitated, took a step closer, and licked his lips. “Word is . . . he’s comin’ into Dodge on a paid-up job, Wyatt.”
Wyatt smoothed the napkin in his lap, rested his elbows on the table, and looked out the window. He sat like that in deep thought for several seconds. Finally he turned back to Masterson.
“Would Allison hire out like that?”
Jim nodded. “They say he’s a little crazy in the head. Probably love to kill us all and get paid for it, to boot.” He waited for a response, but Wyatt began sawing at another slice of ham. “Who do you reckon would put up the money for that kind o’ thing,” Jim said, “ ’round here in Dodge, I mean?”
Wyatt forked the ham into his mouth and, chewing, looked out at a crew of men rolling the fire hose into a coil just beyond the railroad tracks. The saloons lined up south of the deadline appeared to laze in an off-duty slumber. The only other activity to be seen was an occasional tenant going into or coming out of the Great Western Hotel.
“Bob Wright can be a mighty tiresome fellow,” Wyatt said simply.
When Masterson left, James watched Wyatt continue to work on his breakfast. “Is this Clay Allison of the Washita we’re talking about?”
“The same.”
“And he’s looking for you?”
“If he is, he can find me. Prob’ly just a lot o’ talk.”
The waitress appeared and poured fresh coffee for both brothers. Wyatt nodded his thanks, but James barely gave her any notice. Still watching Wyatt, James set down his silverware and sat back deeper in his chair. The furniture made a little ticking sound and then quieted.
“That ain’t what I heard about Clay Allison,” James said. His voice was as flat as a preacher’s last words at a funeral.
Within an hour Jim Masterson came marching into the city office and stood before the desk where Wyatt was reading through a stack of new circulars. Jim spread his boots and propped his hands on the sides of his cartridge belt, waiting for Wyatt to meet his eye.
“He’s here,” Jim said.
Wyatt looked up.
“Allison,” Jim said. “He’s in Dodge. He was down at Springer’s saloon asking about you.”
Wyatt returned to the papers and sorted out the ones he knew to be outdated. “He can ask,” Wyatt allowed.
Masterson kept his attention fixed on Wyatt’s face. “Is your younger brother still in town?”
“Morgan? No. Gone back to Montana to seek his fortune . . . again.”
Masterson walked to the window and leaned on the sill to survey the goings-on in the plaza. On the side track a big Santa Fe engine built up steam west of the depot as a man with a mail sack ran toward the express car.
“I can’t tell if Allison is alone with an audience . . . or if he’s got men with him backing him up.”
Wyatt dropped the obsolete papers into the trash barrel and slipped the active ones into a drawer in the desk. “Go to the sheriff’s office. Tell Bat we need some backup.” Jim started to leave, but Wyatt stopped him. “Jim . . . we don’t go looking for Allison like he’s got our attention, understand?”
Jim stood very still, frowning as though memorizing every feature of Wyatt’s face. “He ain’t got your attention?”
“He’s got my attention. No need to give him that kind of satisfaction.”
Wyatt waited until Masterson nodded. Outside they heard the train building up its powerful rhythm as it moved west along the rails. The whistle blew two short blasts and then a long strident wail that filled the plaza with its urgency. The sound was like a periodic, celebratory scream keeping inventory on the town’s thriving commerce. The wheels clack-clacked over the coupling onto the main track, and the long line of cars rolled out of town bound across the prairie.
“Jim, I want everyone to stay clear of Allison till I tell you how this will go. Is that understood?”
The deputy nodded again. “Can I go tell Bat now?”
“Go,” Wyatt said.
Twenty minutes later Wyatt was writing up an invoice for delousing powder for the cell mattresses when Jim returned and stopped in the doorway. “Allison is over at the Alamo Saloon, Wyatt. Ab Webster wants ’im out o’ there.”
> “You get that from Webster?”
Jim shook his head. “That German boot-maker’s the one that told me. But I dug into it a little. You wanna guess who told him?” Jim screwed a tight smile onto his face and arched an eyebrow. “Bob Wright.”
Wyatt stood, put on his coat, and nodded at the gun rack. “Get a rifle and put plenty o’ shells in your pocket. I want you down at the Opera House, taking an angle from the east. Hang back in the doorway and keep your eyes open.” Wyatt walked to the door and opened it. “Go tell Bat to take the other angle from the drugstore. I’ll go over to Webster’s and see what this third-hand complaint is all about.”
Jim frowned. “You’re not carrying a gun?”
Wyatt patted the bulge in his coat pocket. “Less invitation this way.”
Wyatt crossed the plaza diagonally toward Ab Webster’s Alamo Saloon. There was no outward sign of unusual activity. The door was closed to the dust, but lighted lamps could be seen inside. The silhouettes of men standing at the bar showed clearly through the window—no more than three or four men.
Stepping up on the boardwalk Wyatt paused and listened. He heard nothing more than the clink of glasses and the normal murmur of conversations coming from inside the saloon. Looking one building west, he saw Bob Wright staring back at him through the front window of his clothing store. When Wyatt walked toward him, Wright widened his eyes, turned, and moved deeper into the store.
As Wyatt stepped through Wright’s door, he saw the councilman busily smoothing the buckled creases in a long spool of muslin. Even when Wyatt crossed the room—his boots tapping a blatant cadence on the bare boards—Wright did not look up. Stopping at the cutting table Wyatt tossed down his hat, and Wright jumped as if he’d been surprised by a sharp cattle prod.
“Buy you a drink, Bob?” Wyatt said quietly.
Wright quickly wadded the unwrapped muslin to the spool and shoved it beneath the table. Without looking at Wyatt he walked to his cash register, where he busied himself with a stack of receipts.