stayed in the shade, drinking now and then from the river, and cropping at the sparse green buffalo grass. They twitched their skin occasionally the way horses do to shake off flies, and swished their tails sporadically for the same purpose.
“Maybe someday,” Wyatt said.
“Why not now?”
“Not rich yet,” Wyatt said.
“We could go to San Francisco,” Josie said. “You could get rich there.”
Across the river a coyote stopped in a splash of sunshine and stared at them calmly, then loped on.
“It’s a city,” Wyatt said. “None of the things I’m good at will make you rich in a city.”
“You could be a policeman.”
Wyatt smiled and shook his head.
“You’re a policeman here, sometimes,” Josie said. “You’ve been a policeman in Dodge City and Wichita and… where, Ellsworth?”
“San Francisco,” Wyatt said, “the captain tells you what to do and the lieutenant tells you what to do and the sergeant tells you what to do.”
He shook his head again. Josie leaned her head against his shoulder. His shirt was damp with sweat.
“So what are you so good at here?” she said. “Doing what you want to?”
“Yes.”
“When you’re Virgil’s deputy, doesn’t he tell you what to do?”
“He’s my brother.”
“That makes it different?”
“Means he’s asking. He’s got a right to ask.”
“But no strangers.”
Wyatt shrugged and drank some of his coffee.
“What else you good at, staying here?” Josie said.
“I can shoot,” Wyatt said.
“Uh-huh.”
“And I like being where it’s not so crowded,” he said. “I’m a farm boy, you know, from Illinois.”
“Would you ever want a ranch?”
“Maybe someday. Right now I’m a town man. I got interests in saloons and mines.”
“Not a city man,” Josie said. Her voice had a happy, teasing quality to it that he liked. “And not a cowboy. A town man. Right in the middle, I guess.”
“Right in the middle,” Wyatt said.
“Then I guess that’s where I am,” Josie said. “Right in the middle.”
Wyatt smiled at her.
“How’d you get so good at shooting?” Josie said.
“We’re doing it backwards,” Wyatt said, smiling. “First we fall in love, then we learn about each other.”
“So how?” Josie said.
“Lot of men can be good at shooting, they practice enough.”
“Anybody?”
“Not anybody. You got to have sort of the feel for it. Your hand and your eye need to connect in the right way.”
“And yours do.”
“Yep. Must be in the blood. All of us do. James before he got hurt. Virgil, Morgan, Warren, too, I suspect.”
“I haven’t even met Warren.”
“He’s the baby,” Wyatt said. “I imagine he’ll be along.”
“All the Earps,” Josie said.
“You can trust family.”
“So do you practice more than most men?”
“Probably.”
“Why?”
Wyatt was quiet for a while, looking at the way the sun filtered through the overhanging trees and danced on the still surface of the barely moving river. Josie shifted slightly to be more comfortable. The place where their bodies touched was damp, but neither one cared. They were used to hot as they were used to cold, and both conditions were simply part of the natural order.
“If you come to something natural,” Wyatt said finally, “and it’s something that can be put to use, I always figured you ought to polish it up, best you can.”
She thought about that. Something rustled briefly along the riverbank and went into the water with a splash.
“Have you killed many people?”
“No.”
“But some?”
“Yes.”
“Do you mind?”
Again Wyatt looked at the river. The surface of the water was smooth. Whatever had gone into the river had disappeared without a ripple. Wyatt usually did what he thought he should do, and moved on. Josie was asking questions he had not thought about. It was hard to think about them now, and harder to put them into words. But Josie wanted to know, and he would tell her.
“I’ve never taken any pleasure in it,” Wyatt said. “But if it needs to be done, I’m willing to do it, and when it’s done, it don’t bother me much afterwards.”
“Do you remember your first gun?”
“You mean the first one I shot?”
“Yes.”
“I suppose it was one of my father’s. He was provost during the war. James and Virgil was gone to the war, and Warren was still little, but me and Morgan used to steal a big old Colt forty-four from my father’s room and sneak off and shoot it. It was a percussion cap pistol, Dragoon model, and we’d shoot a thousand rebs at once with it at the far back end of the cornfield.”
“Could you hit anything with it?”
“Not much. It was too big a gun for us.”
“Your father ever catch you?”
“Nope. I suspect he didn’t want to. I’m pretty sure he knew. Be hard shooting off a forty-four Colt around our cornfield without somebody noticing.”
“And you liked shooting it.”
“Sure.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know exactly. Lotta people like it. You ever fire a handgun, Josie?”
“No.”
“Well, there’s a lot of power there. You squeeze off a shot and you feel it.” Wyatt made an enlarging gesture with his hands. “You create it out of nothing… right there in your hand.”
“And it makes you powerful.”
“Yes,” Wyatt said. “It does.”
