Gunman's Rhapsody

“Well, at least,” Behan said, “I can count on you if there’s trouble.”

“Depends on the trouble,” Wyatt said.

“Well, of course,” Behan said. “ ’Course it would, Wyatt. And thanks for your help. Nice of you to give me your time.”

Wyatt didn’t say anything. Behan stood.

“Good to talk with you,” Behan said.

Wyatt nodded, and Behan nodded back and stood for a moment and then turned and left. Wyatt sat without moving, holding his coffee, looking over the rim of the cup after Behan.

Twenty

The way Bob Paul told it later, to Wyatt riding beside him, after he had joined the posse, was that Bud Philpot had wanted Paul, who was the shotgun messenger, to drive the Benson stage that night.

“His bowels was all cramped up,” Paul said. “So when we got to Contention, I give him the shotgun and took the reins. We was coming up out of a wash couple miles north of Contention, when a fella steps out and yells, ‘Hold.’ And then there’s some other boys in the road and they’re shooting and poor Bud gets it right through the gizzard.”

“Wanted to eliminate the shooter right off,” Wyatt said.

“Yep, so I grab the shotgun from Bud and get off both barrels with my right hand, hanging on to the reins and Bud with my left, and the team bolts, and one of the passengers, riding back in the dickey seat, says he’s hit, and we’re rolling like hell flat out now along the road with the team out of control, with the coach swaying, and I lose Bud off the side, and making a grab for him, I lose the reins and finally got to get down onto the wagon tongue to get them back and get the damned horses steadied. And I figure Bud’s done anyway, and maybe I can save the passenger, fella named Roerig, so I keep her rolling on into Benson.”

“Boys from Drews Station heard the shots,” Wyatt said, “and then you went whooping on past. So they run out and found Bud and one of them come galloping into Tombstone yelling for the sheriff.”

The first thing Behan had done when he got the report was to come into the Oriental looking for Wyatt.

“Benson stage was held up, Bud Philpot’s dead, and we’re organizing a sheriff’s posse,” Behan said.

“I’ll get my brothers,” Wyatt said.

They rode north from Tombstone just after sunrise. Three Earps, Bat Masterson, Doc Holliday, Marshall Williams, the Wells Fargo agent, Johnny Behan, and half a dozen of Behan’s deputies. They picked up a trail where Philpot had died, and Billy Breakenridge, one of Behan’s deputies and the best tracker in the posse, followed it across the shale-littered desert floor, the horses picking their way among the jagged desert plants. In patches where the desert earth was clear, Breakenridge would get off his horse and study the ground.

“Four riders, I think,” Breakenridge said, squatting on his heels, his head bent. “Looks to me like we keep going the way they’re going, we’ll run right into Len Redfield’s place.”

“Cowboys,” Doc Holliday said.

“Now, Doc,” Behan said. “Don’t go deciding things ’fore you know.”

In an hour and a half, with the sun well above the horizon, they were sitting their horses in front of the small frame house that was the main building of the Redfield ranch. There was a stable past the house and an outhouse that looked as if it hadn’t wintered well. Nobody came out of the house.

Virgil said, “See what’s in the stable,” and Morgan turned his horse with his knee and walked on down and into the open stable door. In a moment he rode back out and up to the group.

“ ’Bout six horse,” Morgan said. “Two of ’em been ridden hard and not long ago. They’re still lathered.”

Virgil nodded and squinted at the house.

He said to Behan, “Don’t you think you ought to spread ’em out a little, Johnny?”

Behan nodded and gestured with his right hand, and the riders moved away from each other, putting space between them until they were in a half-circle in front of the silent house.

“Goddamned fool had us bunched up like quail,” Doc said to Bat Masterson. Masterson shrugged.

Wyatt held his Winchester vertically in front of him, its butt resting against his saddle horn. Most of the men had Winchesters; Doc had a shotgun.

“Redfield,” Behan shouted. “Len Redfield.”

There was no sound but the ones the horses made: the snort of their breath, the sound of their hooves as they shifted patiently, the creak of leather, the small clink of the bits and buckles.

“You in the house,” Behan said loudly, “you either come on out or we’re coming in.”

After a moment a tall man with narrow shoulders and a big belly stepped out onto the small front porch. He had on pants that had been washed threadbare, and colorless. He wore the suspenders over his undershirt.

“What you boys want?” he said.

“Benson stage got held up,” Behan said. “Bud Philpot got killed. We tracked ’em here.”

“I got nothing to do with no stage holdup,” Redfield said.

“Got two horses in the barn,” Behan said. “Been rode hard, and recent.”

Virgil said, “Why don’t we just take a look, John?”

Behan nodded.

“Go ahead,” he said.

Wyatt’s horse pricked his ears up and forward. Wyatt heard it too, behind the house. He moved the horse forward and around the corner of the house. Bent low as if to conceal himself, a man was running for the brush cover, trying to keep the house between him and the posse. Wyatt’s horse shifted into a trot, and Wyatt caught up with the man and passed him and turned the horse in front of him. Morgan came around the other side of the house on the dapple gray mare he was so proud of. As the man broke the other way, Wyatt turned him again and, with Morgan on the other side, slowly herded him, his desperate dashes becoming shorter and more breathless, back out in front of the house until he stood exhausted in front of the posse.

“You know him?” Behan said.

Redfield didn’t speak.

“What’s your name?” Behan said.

The man’s breath was rasping loudly in and out. Behan had to ask him again.

“Luther…” he said. “… King.”

“I’m Sheriff Behan,” Johnny said. “I’m head of this posse, and we’re looking for the people held up the Benson stage.”

“I… didn’t… have… nothing… to do… with that,” King gasped.

“What you doing, sneaking out the back way?”

“I didn’t do nothing but hold the horses,” King said. “That’s all. Just holding the horses. I didn’t know there’d be no shooting.”

Redfield stood motionless on his porch, his arms folded tight over his chest. The horsemen sat quietly in a semicircle around King so that he had to look up to look at them. Behan sat his big white-stockinged bay gelding directly in front of King.

“Who’d you hold the horses for?” Behan said.

“I can’t tell you that,” King said. “You know I can’t peach on my friends like that.”

Bob Paul leaned forward in his saddle, his forearms resting on the pommel.

“You know who this man is, Luther?” He nodded toward Holliday.

King shook his head.

“This is Doc Holliday. You know who Doc Holliday is, Luther?”

“Yes.”

Holliday sat motionless on his horse and stared at King.

“You wonder why Doc Holliday is on a posse, him not being too much of a lawman usually?”

Behan smiled. Several of the riders laughed audibly. King shook his head.

“He’s here on a mission of vengeance,” Paul said. “His beloved Katy was on that stage, and somebody shot