her.”
“I didn’t do no shooting,” King said. “I just held the horses.”
He looked down, and away from Holliday.
“Then you better tell me who done the shooting,” Holliday said. His voice was hoarse and there was no inflection to it.
“I can’t,” King said.
Holliday lowered the shotgun slowly toward him.
“Somebody’s going to die for Kate,” Holliday rasped.
“For God’s sake, man,” Virgil said. “For your own sake, tell him.”
“Who?” Holliday said.
Tears began to well in King’s eyes.
“Billy Leonard,” King blurted, his voice thick. “And Harry Head and Jim Crane. I just held the horses. I didn’t see nothing. I didn’t do nothing.”
“Rustlers,” Wyatt said.
“Where are they now?” Holliday rasped.
“They lit out. Head disappeared soon as the shooting started. Billy and Jim, they changed horses here, rode west across the river, going like hell.”
“Lenny rides with the rustlers too,” Wyatt said. “Him and his brother.”
“Got nothing on Len,” Behan said. “He had no way of knowing. He just traded some horses.”
“And tried to let Luther here get away,” Wyatt said.
“Appreciate your help on this, Wyatt, but I’m the sheriff, and you’re just along to help shoot, you know what I mean.”
Wyatt looked at Virgil, and both men smiled in a way that Behan didn’t understand, though he knew he didn’t like it.
“We’ll take Luther back to Tombstone,” Behan said. “Rest of you can follow on, see if you can’t run down these other fellas.”
“Behan and all his deputies?” Wyatt said.
“Under heavy guard,” Virgil murmured.
“I’m sorry about your wife, Mr. Holliday,” Luther said.
Doc grinned at him. “Kate ain’t my wife,” he said. “She wasn’t on the stage. She didn’t get shot, and if she had, I wouldn’t care.”
King looked as if he, Holliday, had said too much too fast, but Doc was already turning his horse, the shotgun back in the saddle scabbard under his leg. His shoulders shook. It might have been laughter, Wyatt knew. Or he might have been coughing.
“You writing about our thrilling adventures, Doc?” Wyatt said. “Sell it to one of those magazines in New York City.”
“I’m writing a letter to my cousin,” Holliday said.
“You got a cousin can read?” Morgan said.
“This one can,” Holliday said. “She’s a nun.”
“Goddamn,” Morgan said. “A nun? You a papist, Doc?”
“She is,” Holliday said. “And I don’t want to hear anything about it.”
Morgan shrugged. There was a thin rasp in Holliday’s voice that Morgan recognized. Doc sure did have a hair trigger.
“You telling her about us heroic lawmen?”
Doc snorted.
“I’m telling her that I’ll mail this tomorrow because I’m hauling my sore ass back into Tombstone,” he said, “instead of chasing around in these mountains like a goddamned fool.”
“Quitting, Doc?” Virgil said.
“You’re goddamned right I am,” Doc said. “We ain’t going to catch Billy Leonard or anybody else riding around these mountains. I’m going back and wait for them to show up.”
“He’s right,” Masterson said. “I’m a little saddle sore myself.”
“You’re getting soft, Bat,” Wyatt said.
“I’m getting smart,” Masterson said. “We’re just in the foothills and we’re low on food. You want to wander around out here, until you run out altogether, God bless you. I’m going to get a bath and a hot meal and maybe a whore.”
“We’ll resupply at Joe Hill’s ranch,” Virgil said.
“Resupply my ass,” Holliday said. “Hill’s in with the rustlers as much as Len Redfield.”
“Sure,” Wyatt said. “But he’ll sell us food.”
“I’m going back with Doc,” Masterson said and rolled over in his blankets, with his back to the fire.
“Free country,” Virgil said.
One by one, the posse dropped off to sleep, leaving only Holliday still sitting up by the fire writing in his notebook. The next morning, he and Masterson saddled up right after breakfast and rode their tired horses at an easy pace west toward Tombstone.
Two days later, Johnny Behan, with Billy Breakenridge and Buckskin Frank Leslie to track, caught up with the Earp posse in the valley of the San Simon River near the New Mexico border.
“King busted out,” Breakenridge told them, laughing, while Behan was ahead with Leslie looking for sign. “Henry Jones was drawing up a bill of sale for King’s horse to John Dunbar, and King went out the back door, mounted up and rode away.”
“Who had him?” Virgil asked.
“Harry Woods,” Breakenridge said. “Standing right there.”
“Amazing that Harry didn’t see him go,” Virgil said.
“Amazing,” Breakenridge said.
“Amazing that a horse happened to be saddled out back,” Virgil said.
“Amazing.”
“We’ll be out awhile,” Virgil said. “Somebody ought to go back and look for King.”
He looked at Breakenridge.
“Billy?”
Breakenridge shook his head.
“I’m with Johnny,” he said.
“Why not Johnny?” Morgan said. “He’s the damn sheriff.”
Virgil smiled and shook his head without saying anything.
“Johnny won’t go,” Wyatt said.
“It should be you, Wyatt,” Virgil said. “You’re the best of us anyway.”
Wyatt nodded.
“How long you planning to be out?”
Virgil shrugged.
“A week if we’re lucky, maybe more. See what Johnny says.”
“He’s talking ’bout a week,” Breakenridge said.
“Luther’s got a two-day start on me, three at least by the time I get to Tombstone.”
“What I don’t want,” Virgil said, “is for Luther to be swaggering around town making us look like a bunch of goddamned jackasses.”
Wyatt nodded.
