Gunman's Rhapsody

“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.”