Gunman's Rhapsody

“Morning, Dave,” Wyatt said.

Neagle nodded back at Wyatt.

“Dave don’t look so comfortable,” Warren murmured. “He scared?”

“Dave’s never scared,” Wyatt said. “Probably embarrassed at being with Johnny.”

“You fellas going someplace?” Behan said.

He was smiling. No one answered him.

“Anyplace special?” Behan said.

Breakenridge and Neagle stood on either side of him a few feet from him. Both wore deputy badges. Both wore Colts. Neagle’s eyes moved steadily as he looked at all five of the horsemen.

“Wyatt, I need to see you,” Behan said.

No one spoke. Wyatt looked at Behan. His gaze was heavy. It was as if Behan could feel the weight of it. He didn’t move, but he looked like he wished to back up. The silence lengthened awkwardly. Finally Wyatt broke it.

“About what?” Wyatt said.

“About killing Frank Stilwell,” Behan said.

“You are going to see me once too many times, Johnny,” he said.

Behind Wyatt his party began to spread out. Doc sidled his horse left, Warren right. The pack mule wouldn’t move sideways, so Vermilion stayed with it where he was. But McMasters and Turkey Creek Jack moved wider still so that the Earp party was now in a wedge-shaped phalanx.

“I will talk with Paul,” Wyatt said. “Next time I’m in Tucson.”

Behan didn’t say anything. Wyatt made a small clicking noise and tapped the roan with his knee. The roan moved forward and the rest of the horses moved after them. The pack mule had no objection to moving forward and joined the rest of the party as the horses walked on past Behan and his deputies. Wyatt lit a cigar carefully, turning it to get it right, then when it was going as he wanted it. He clicked to the roan again and the horses broke into a trot as they turned onto Third Street and out of sight, as Behan, watching them go, could see them no more.

“Who’s Paul?” Warren said.

“Bob Paul. Sheriff in Pima County.”

“Why’ll you talk to him?”

“Well,” Wyatt said, “it’s his jurisdiction…”

Wyatt drew on his cigar and let the smoke out slowly. The horses were eager in the early desert spring, tossing their heads and arching their necks to strain against the reins as the posse moved out of town.

“And,” Wyatt said, “he’s a real lawman.”

“Unlike Mr. Behan,” Doc said.

“He ain’t a real anything,” Warren said.

At the back, holding the pack mule, McMasters raised his voice.

“Why don’t we just plug him, Wyatt.”

“We won’t plug him,” Wyatt said.

Fifty-three

They camped that night a few miles north of Tombstone, sleeping close to the fire in the still, cold night.

“Got the coroner’s report,” Wyatt said to no one in particular. “Says that most likely the people who killed Morgan are Frank Stilwell…”

“The late Frank Stilwell,” Doc said softly.

“… Peter Spence, Fries, Swilling and Florentine Cruz.”

“Cruz?” McMasters said.

“Indian Charlie,” Johnson said.

“That’s all,” Doc said.

“That’s all they named as suspects,” Wyatt said.

“You know Curley Bill was in it, and Ringo,” Doc said. “And you know that goddamned weasel Behan was behind it.”

“Don’t know that for sure,” Wyatt said. “But we’ll ride over to Spence’s lumber camp tomorrow. See if somebody there will tell us.”

“Should we take turns on guard?” Vermilion said.

“No need,” Wyatt said. “Doc sleeps so light he can hear a rattlesnake yawn.”

“Can’t tell I’m asleep,” Doc said, “ ’less I dream.”

He took a pull on a whiskey bottle he had taken from his saddlebag.

“That help you to stay awake, Doc?” Turkey Creek said.

“That helps me stay alive,” Doc said and handed the bottle to Johnson, who took a pull and passed it to Vermilion.

The bottle went around the campfire for a while, skipping Wyatt each time, until one by one, wrapped in their blankets under the infinite sky, close to the fire, they went to sleep and Doc alone sat awake, alone with the bottle.

In the morning they ate bacon and biscuits, drank coffee-Doc added whiskey to his-and rode east toward the Dragoon Mountains, with their hats tilted forward to keep the sun out of their eyes. The horses picked their way carefully through the low, harsh brush. A hawk cruised soundlessly in the high sky. Doc sipped whiskey from a bottle in his saddlebags. Wyatt knew that Doc hated quiet. He’d start talking soon. Doc talking was something to hear. He talked about guns and dental tools and Catholic theology, and whores, and people he’d shot, and meals he had eaten, and cards he had held, and the nature of man, and why it was best to steam Prairie Chicken before you roasted it.

As they started up the long gradual rise toward Spence’s wood-cutting operation, Doc said, “Where’s your ladies, Wyatt?”

“Josie’s in San Francisco,” Wyatt said. “With her father.”

“How ’bout Mattie?”

“Gone to my mother’s place in California.”

“Funny thing,” Doc said, “you hadn’t taken up with Josie Marcus, we wouldn’t be out here riding down the people killed Morgan.”

The horses were blowing as they shuffled up the long grade. There was only the sound of the horses’ hooves, the jangle of harness metal, the creak of saddle leather.

“Talk about something else, Doc,” Wyatt said.