Gunman's Rhapsody - Паркер Роберт Б. - Страница 34
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Mr. Jon Stetson has the honor to announce the engagement of Mr. Edwin Booth under the management of Messrs. Brooks amp; Dickson, commencing Monday, Nov. 5 in the following repertoire.
Monday and Tuesday, Nov. 5 and 6-RICHELIEU. Wednesday, Nov. 7-MACBETH. Thursday and Friday, Nov. 8 and 9-KING LEAR. Saturday Matinee, Nov. 10- RICHELIEU.
The young man void of understanding may be depended upon to fall into the ditch of debauchery without much pushing, and the gilded youth will seek out white sepulchers without other urging than their own fondness for folly, but the stranger must be enticed into the snares of the strange woman by cunning wiles. Not long ago Lillie DeLacy found it advisable to move out of a street at the South End, where the neighbors objected to her nocturnal festivities, and open a new establishment on Eliot St. In order to get the place upon a paying basis she sent cards through the mails to such persons who seemed most likely to accept invitations to call upon a strange woman, but these cards did not all fall into the hands of strangers from the country. The police got hold of some of them and detectives called at the house to investigate. The result was Lillie’s arraignment in court for keeping a house of ill-fame, but as the only evidence was her own admission to the detectives, which was not legally sufficient, she was discharged. It is very wrong in Lillie to carry on such a business, without doubt, but there are grounds for suspecting that several other persons in this city are engaged in similar pursuits and are never interfered with by virtuous administrators of the law.
A half hour after Morgan Earp died, Doc Holliday, in a black hat and no slicker, with half a quart of whiskey in him, and the bottle in his left hand, started to look for Johnny Behan.
“It was him killed Morgan, him and Will McLaury,” Doc said. “I don’t know they pulled the trigger, but they done it, either way.”
With the rain coming hard and the wind pushing at him, he walked up Allen Street armed with a Colt.45 on his hip and a Smith amp; Wesson hammerless.32 in a shoulder rig. Every door he came to he opened. If a door was locked he would kick it in, and curse the people whom he often rousted out of bed. In the saloons even the nastiest or drunkest of the patrons had nothing to say to him. His eyes were bottomless, his face was ashen. His clothing was soaked and his face was wet. Occasionally he stopped to pull at the whiskey bottle. When it was empty he threw it against the side of a saloon and watched it shatter. Then he went into the gaslight and reeking stove heat and took a nearly full bottle off the bar and drank some and scanned the room.
“Johnny Behan,” he shouted. “Behan, you back-shooting son of a bitch.”
Behan was not in the room. No one said anything. Doc rushed out, his Colt hanging loosely in his right hand, his left with a new bottle of whiskey. He didn’t pay for the whiskey. No one asked him to. He continued up Allen past Sixth Street and started kicking in doors in the cribs where the whores were. Behan wasn’t there. Neither was Will McLaury. Doc turned toward Toughnut Street where the miners lived. Again he banged on doors and pushed in past whoever answered. All night he rambled through Tombstone in the harsh rain with his gun in his hand, drinking, looking for Behan. Near dawn he stood in the middle of Fremont Street in front of the San Jose Rooming House and turned his face up to the downpour and screamed, “Behan,” at the black sky. Then he stumbled back down Fremont to Fourth Street and up Fourth into the face of the storm toward the Cosmopolitan Hotel. In the lobby he tossed the partly drunk whiskey bottle onto the lobby floor. The remaining whiskey spilled silently onto the carpet as Doc climbed the stairs to his room and went in and fell facedown on his bed, where he lay motionless, the Colt in his hand, his clothes soaked with rainwater, and cried.
It was morning. The early sun shone straight down Allen Street. In Hafford’s, Virgil and Wyatt were drinking coffee. Wyatt had some paper and a short pencil.
“It’s Stilwell,” Virgil said. “Everybody in town knows it was him. It was pretty surely him I saw heading toward the waterworks the night they shot me.”
Wyatt wrote down Stilwell’s name.
“Which means it was Behan,” Wyatt said.
“Stilwell’s his deputy.”
Wyatt wrote Behan on the paper.
“And Pete Spence and Indian Charlie.”
“That’s the talk.”
Wyatt wrote those names.
“McLaury was gone for two days when they shot Morgan,” Wyatt said. “He’s out of it.”
“Ike?” Virgil said.
“Nobody thinks so,” Virgil said.
Wyatt wrote down his name.
“Put him down anyway, in case I come across him.”
“Nobody be mad at you for shooting Ike,” Virgil said. “Sooner or later you’re going to have to deal with Curley Bill and Ringo.”
“I know.”
“People been coming to see me all night,” Virgil said. “There’s talk they were in on it.”
“Nothing much happens with the cowboys that Bill and Ringo don’t want to happen. Behan don’t do much that they don’t want done.”
“I know.”
“And they’re tight with Stilwell. You bring him down, they’re going to be looking for you.”
“They’ll be able to find me,” Wyatt said.
“Stay away from Behan,” Virgil said. “What with you romancing his woman, it’ll look like you murdered him to get her.”
Wyatt didn’t say anything. His face was expressionless.
“Besides which, he’s still the sheriff,” Virgil said. “Even Crawley can’t smooth it over if you shoot the sheriff.”
Wyatt nodded.
“I won’t drag her into this,” Wyatt said. “I kill anybody, it won’t be over Josie.”
Virgil nodded as if to himself. He rubbed his good hand over his jaw as though to see if he needed a shave.
“You know, and I know, that this is about Josie,” Virgil said. “You may have to kill Behan. If you’re too certain you won’t, he may get to kill you.”
“I won’t have to kill him,” Wyatt said. “Behan’s got no spine for coming at me alone.”
“He ain’t alone,” Virgil said.
“He will be,” Wyatt said.
Virgil stared for a time at his brother.
“You’re going to kill them all,” Virgil said.
“All I can find,” Wyatt said.
“Legal?” Virgil said.
“No. I am not a lawman now. I’m Morgan Earp’s brother.”
“And mine,” Virgil said softly.
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