Gunman's Rhapsody

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.”