Gunman's Rhapsody

“I’ll go up to Allen Street,” Wyatt said. “See if I can find him, see what he wants.”

Morgan and Virgil began to look for Ike along Fremont. Wyatt walked up Fourth Street toward Allen. He could smell snow in the air. He shrugged himself a little deeper inside the mackinaw and put his hands into his coat pockets. Wouldn’t want them stiff with cold if he was going to have to shoot Ike Clanton.

Behind him Ike came out of the Capitol Saloon. He looked toward Wyatt. Virgil, with Morgan beside him, came around the corner of Fremont and took hold of Ike’s rifle barrel with his left hand. Wyatt turned.

Virgil said, “Are you hunting for me?”

“I am, goddamn you, and if I seen you a second sooner you’d be dead.”

Wyatt began to walk back toward them. Ike went for the six-shooter he wore stuck into his waistband. Virgil hit Ike on the side of his head with the big Colt revolver he was carrying. Ike grunted and sank to his knees. He stayed down for a moment, shaking his head, and then looked up into the barrel of Morgan’s six-shooter. Ike could see that it was cocked.

“We’re arresting you, Ike, for carrying a concealed weapon,” Virgil said.

Wyatt was there now, standing beside Morgan. Virgil reached down and took Ike’s revolver and handed both guns to Morgan.

“You fucking Earps don’t give a man a chance,” Ike said.

“We didn’t shoot you,” Virgil said.

Forty

Recorder’s Court was across the street in one of Dick Gird’s block of buildings. Ike sat on one of the benches holding a handkerchief against the oozing cut on his head.

“I’m going to go find Judge Wallace,” Virgil said.

Morgan leaned against the wall holding Ike’s weapons. Wyatt sat on the bench next to Ike, turned so he could face him. The courtroom was crowded, and everyone in it stared at them.

“I’ll get even for this,” Ike said. “I had something to shoot with, I’d fight you all right now.”

Morgan smiled and held out a Henry Rifle, muzzle down. Ike stared at it. People around them in the courtroom scattered into the street.

“I’ll tell you what, Ike,” Morgan said. “I’ll pay your damn fine if you’ll fight us.”

Ike didn’t move.

“You thieving sonova bitch,” Wyatt said. “You’ve been threatening our lives, and you know it. I could shoot you right here and be justified.”

“Fight is my racket,” Ike said. “All I want is four feet of ground.”

Morgan continued to hold out the rifle. Ike continued not to take it.

“Okay, how about a six-gun too,” Morgan said and offered Ike the Colt he’d taken from him earlier.

Ike didn’t move. One of Behan’s deputies, a squat muscular man whom Wyatt didn’t know, stepped in front of Ike.

“No fuss now,” the deputy said, “I don’t want any fuss.”

Judge Wallace entered the room in back and walked toward the front. There was a big cast-iron stove near the bench. The judge took off his overcoat and hung it on a hook behind his bench. Then he sat down and looked at Clanton and the Earps. The onlookers, who had scattered when the rifle was offered, trailed back in behind the judge. The people close to the stove took off their coats. It was too hot to wear them on the side that faced the stove, though it was cold without a coat on the side away from the stove. The people farther from the stove kept their coats on.

“Nor do I want a fuss,” he said. “What are the charges?”

“Apprehended Ike Clanton carried a concealed weapon on Fremont Street,” Virgil said.

“Rather vigorously, I would say,” Judge Wallace said, looking at Ike’s bleeding head. “How do you plead?”

“Guilty, I guess… Your Honor.”

Judge Wallace nodded.

“Twenty-five dollars.”

Ike took money from his pocket and walked toward the judge with it. Wallace shook his head.

“Not me,” he said, “give it to Mr. Campbell.”

Ike looked embarrassed and veered to the clerk and handed him the money. The clerk wrote out a receipt and gave it to Ike.

“Next case,” Judge Wallace said.

“Where you want to pick up your hardware, Ike?” Virgil said.

“Anyplace you won’t be hitting my fucking head with your six-gun,” Ike said and walked out of the room.

Virgil looked at Morgan and shrugged.

“Drop them off with the bartender,” Virgil said, “over at the Grand.”

Morgan left. Virgil stood with Wyatt in the courtroom, where the spectators still jostled one another and the cast-iron stove reeked unevenly of heat.

“This ain’t gonna go away,” Virgil said.

“No it ain’t.”

“Ike’s a gasbag,” Virgil said.

“It ain’t just Ike,” Wyatt said. “The McLaurys are wound up too, and you know that it’s Behan did the winding.”

“Which means probably that Brocius will be in,” Virgil said.

“And Johnny Ringo.”

“Too bad,” Virgil said.

“Yes, I like him too.”

“Maybe I should settle this with Behan,” Wyatt said.

“Behan won’t fight you,” Virgil said. “He’s got Ike and the cowboys to do that.”

Wyatt didn’t say anything.

“Besides which, he’s the goddamned sheriff,” Virgil said.

Still, Wyatt was silent, watching the business of the courtroom slowly proceed.

“Maybe,” Wyatt said, “we ought to get to it instead of waiting around for one of them to back-shoot us.”

“I’m the city marshal, Wyatt.”