Gunman's Rhapsody

“Yes.”

Wyatt turned to Blonde Marie.

“Go across the street and get Goodfellow,” Wyatt said. “We’ll be at the Cosmopolitan.”

Without a word Blonde Marie ran from the saloon.

They moved slowly out of the saloon, crossed Fifth Street, and walked almost the length of the block to the Cosmopolitan Hotel. It took them longer than it took the news. When they reached the hotel lobby Sherman McMasters was there, and Doc, and Morgan, all armed. Warren, slighter and darker than his brothers, was at the top of the stairs with a shotgun. Allie stood beside him. Her eyes were big, her face was white. When she saw them she clattered down the stairs.

“Bring him to our room,” she said.

Dr. Goodfellow came into the lobby, and behind him Blonde Marie, who stopped awkwardly just inside the door to stare at the Earp women as they gathered around Virgil.

“Oh Virgil,” Allie said, “oh goddammit, Virgil.”

Virgil put his right arm around her.

“Still got one arm to hug you with, Allie.”

Allie rested her head briefly against his shoulder and took in some air, and some of her briskness came back.

“Well, that’ll be plenty,” she said.

Wyatt and his brothers waited in the lobby while Goodfellow and a doctor named Matthews worked on Virgil. Blonde Marie in a burst of enthusiasm had sent one of the other whores to get Dr. Matthews, just to be on the safe side.

Doc was drinking in the lobby, walking back and forth with a whiskey glass and a bottle, swearing to himself, his black coat open and tucked on the right side behind the butt of his revolver. Sherman McMasters and Turkey Creek Jack Johnson were outside on the porch with shotguns. At two-fifteen in the morning, Dr. Goodfellow came down the stairs.

“Wound in his side is nothing,” Goodfellow said. “But his left arm’s a mess. We’re going to have to take the elbow out.”

“Will he be able to use it afterwards?” Wyatt said.

“Not much,” Goodfellow said.

“He can still shoot,” Wyatt said.

“A handgun,” Goodfellow said and moved past Wyatt to take some medical supplies from George Parsons. Wyatt turned and looked at Morgan.

“You heard the doctor?” Wyatt said.

“Yes.”

“Shots came from that construction on the corner,” Wyatt said. “Get a lantern.”

He and Morgan went out of the hotel and walked back up Allen Street, the lantern casting its uncertain light ahead of them. It was a cold night, and the stars seemed very high. The saloons were still. Light and sound spilled out of the Oriental across the street and the Crystal Palace on the opposite corner. The life in the saloons seemed to intensify the empty silence of the street. On the corner of Fifth Street, Huachuca Water Company had a building half built. They went in.

“Virgil would have come out of the Oriental and walked across Fifth Street,” Wyatt said. “So they would have to have been standing about here. Two men with shotguns.”

Morgan moved the lantern.

“No shell casings,” he said. “Nobody used a Winchester.”

“Goodfellow said it was all pellets,” Wyatt said.

They stood looking around the partial room. It seemed colder in the empty, partly open building than it had on the street.

“Virgil’s always been fine,” Morgan said.

Wyatt nodded.

“Seems funny,” Morgan said, “thinking about him not being fine.”

“I know.”

“I mean he can still shoot a Colt, I guess. But he can’t shoot a rifle, can’t fight a man except one-handed. I mean, it’s like Virgil ain’t quite there anymore.”

“I know.”

“I guess Virgil will still know what to do,” Morgan said.

“It’s not the same,” Wyatt said.

“No, I guess it isn’t,” Morgan said.

“And it never will be.”

The lantern light picked up something lying beside a stack of rough siding. Morgan went over and squatted down, holding the lantern up.

“Somebody’s hat,” he said and picked it up.

Wyatt squatted beside him and they examined the hat. It was like everyone’s hat except that inside it, crudely burned into the leather sweatband, was a name: “I. Clanton.”

“Ike,” Morgan said. “Sonova bitch Ike Clanton.”

“Doesn’t mean he did it,” Wyatt said.

“What the hell does it mean?” Morgan said. “Mean that Ike goes around, throws his hat away in empty buildings?”

“Means we got a place to start,” Wyatt said.

Forty-six

Wyatt and Josie shared pigeon pie at Maison Dorée in the Cosmopolitan. Both picked at the food, without much appetite. Josie drank wine. Wyatt drank coffee.

“Virgil says he thought he might have seen Frank Stilwell scoot into the Huachuca building,” Wyatt said.

“Just before he got shot.”

“He’s with the cowboys?”

“Sure.”

“You think he shot Virgil?”

“Maybe. Virgil couldn’t be sure it was him.”

“But you found Ike’s hat,” she said.

“We’ll talk to Ike about that. Crawley Dake’s appointed me a U.S. marshal. Means I can appoint some deputies.”

“But what are you going to do?” Josie said.

The wine was making her impatient.

“It’s what I’m trying to do,” Wyatt said. “I’m trying to still be a lawman. I’m trying to find out who did what they did, and then I’m going to try and arrest them.”

“And if they try to kill you again?”

“They’ll try,” Wyatt said.

“Kill them first,” Josie said.

Wyatt put his hand over hers.

“Aren’t you fierce,” he said.

“I don’t care anymore about anything else. Kill everyone. I don’t want you hurt.”

“What I need from you is to go visit your father,” Wyatt said.

“I told you before, I won’t leave you.”

“You’re not leaving me,” Wyatt said. “You’re leaving me free to do what I need to do without worrying about you.”

“Johnny wouldn’t hurt me,” Josie said.