Gunman's Rhapsody - Паркер Роберт Б. - Страница 9

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“Nothing wrong with money,” Wyatt said.

“I know,” Josie said. “My father has money.”

Wyatt was quiet for a time as they stood on the corner of Fourth Street, outside the post office, waiting for a freight wagon to pass, the six big draft horses leaning their mass into the harness.

“You’re from San Francisco,” Wyatt said.

“Yes.”

“And your father has money.”

“Yes. Quite a lot.”

“So why are you here?”

She smiled up at him. Her mouth was wide. Mattie had a thin mouth that turned down at the corners.

“Looking for adventure,” she said.

“With Behan?”

She laughed out loud this time.

“Wyatt, you’re speaking of my fiance,” she said.

“I know. I apologize,” he said. “But I never thought Behan was much for adventure.”

“Well, maybe,” Josie said. “He’s been a law officer, you know. In Prescott.”

Wyatt nodded.

“That’s adventurous, isn’t it?”

“Uh-huh.”

The wagon pulled past. They waited a moment for the dust to settle, and then crossed Fourth Street.

“You’ve been a law officer in a lot of places.”

“Yes,” he said. “I have.”

Her face was sort of heart-shaped, and her eyes were very large and dark and seemed bottomless to him. When she talked she had none of Mattie’s Iowa whine in her voice. In fact, you couldn’t tell where she came from by the way she talked. She sounded educated to Wyatt, and the way he assumed upper class would sound. He wasn’t sure he’d ever met anybody upper class before. Certainly he’d had little to do with the daughters of rich men.

“My brother Virgil was a constable in Prescott,” he said. “I did some teamstering up there for a while.”

“Did you or your brother know Johnny?”

“No.”

They were quiet then. Walking side by side, Wyatt carrying the groceries, they could have been a domestic couple strolling home from the store.

“I heard you buffaloed John Tyler a while back in the Oriental,” Josie said.

“He was making trouble.”

“Everyone says he’s really dangerous.”

Wyatt smiled.

“Maybe they’re wrong,” he said.

She nodded as if to herself, and tilted her head so she could study him as he walked beside her. Outside of Bauer’s butcher shop, across the street from the Tombstone Epitaph, Josie stopped. Wyatt stopped with her. She put her hands on her hips and examined his face for a moment. Whatever she was looking for there, she seemed to find.

“You’d be an adventure,” she said.

“You think so?”

“Yes,” she said. “It’s why Johnny worries about you.”

“Because I’m an adventure?”

“Because everything’s inside,” she said. “Everything’s under control. You don’t hate and you don’t love and you don’t get mad and you don’t get scared. You are a dangerous man, the real thing.”

“Maybe I’m not so much like that as you think,” he said.

“Oh, I’m sure you have feelings,” she said. “But they don’t run you.”

“They might,” Wyatt said. “If they was strong enough.”

“Lord, God,” she said. “That would be something to see.”

“It would?”

“It would,” Josie said. “Then you would really be dangerous.”

Wyatt didn’t comment. And they continued down Fremont Street, past the Harwood House toward Third Street, walking quietly, feeling no discomfort in their silence.

Mattie had gone to bed already when Allie Earp came into Wyatt’s front room without knocking.

“Virgil wants you up on Allen Street, Wyatt. Some cowboys are shooting at the moon, and Marshal White and Virgil have gone up there.”

Wyatt took his Colt revolver from the top of the sideboard, looked to see that it was loaded, and headed out the door without saying anything. It was near the end of October and nights had grown cool in the desert. But the air was still, and Wyatt didn’t mind being coatless. The moon was high and clear and nearly full as he hurried up Fremont Street, and then up Fourth to Allen. The street was full of people. One of the bartenders was standing outside Hafford’s Saloon looking up toward the east end of Allen.

“Up there, Wyatt,” he said. “Sixth Street.”

Wyatt kept going. Several other men on the street recognized him and pointed east. From the corner of Sixth Street, Wyatt could see his brother and Fred White halfway down the block toward Toughnut Street, near where Morgan was rooming for a time with Fred Dodge. They were walking toward a group of cowboys. Wyatt walked after them. As Virgil and the city marshal approached, the group scattered, heading into the darkness among the cribs east of Sixth. One man stayed, facing Virgil and Fred White, a big man, hatless, with a lot of curly black hair. He had his pistol out. As Virgil and White approached the cowboy, Virgil separated away from White, stepping into the street and coming at the cowboy from his right, while White came at him straight on.

“Evening’s over, Bill,” White said, and put out his hand.

The cowboy moved the gun toward White, and Virgil came in from his right side and locked his arms around him.

White said, “Gimme the gun, Bill.”

There was a single gunshot, and White staggered backward. Wyatt reached them as the shot sounded, and he slammed his big Colt against the side of the cowboy’s head. The cowboy sagged, and his gun fell to the ground. White was down. The gunshot at close range had set his shirt on fire, and Morgan, who had rushed out of Fred Dodge’s cabin at the sound of the shots, dropped to his knees to pat it out with his hands. When he was finished his hands were bloody.

“Fred’s shot,” he said.

Wyatt looked closely at the dazed cowboy that Virgil still held in a bear hug.

“Curley Bill,” Wyatt said. “You sonova bitch.”

“Gun went off,” Curley Bill said.

“He ain’t lying,” Fred White said, lying quietly on the ground. “I could see he didn’t pull the trigger.”

Still kneeling beside White, Morgan picked up Curley Bill’s gun and handed it up to Wyatt.

“Go get some help for Fred,” Virgil said. “Can you stand by yourself, Bill?”

Curley Bill said he could, and Virgil let him go. Fred Dodge, who had come out of his cabin behind Morgan, started up the street on the run for Dr. Goodfellow.

“Five rounds still in the cylinder,” Wyatt said to Virgil, looking at Curley Bill’s gun.

He opened the cylinder and worked the hammer.

“Looks to me like he’s got the trigger sear filed so he can fan it.”

“No wonder it went off,” Virgil said. “Where you shot, Fred?”

“Gut shot, Virgil.”

None of the Earps said anything. They all knew the news was bad.

“Bill Brocius,” Wyatt said. “I got to arrest you for shooting City Marshal Fred White.”

“Virgil hadn’t ’a grabbed me, it wouldn’t ’a happened.”

“Maybe,” Wyatt said. “Still got to arrest you.”

He put his hand on Curley Bill’s arm. As he did so, gunfire came from one of the arroyos behind the cribs east of Sixth. Bullets thudded into the house behind them. All three Earps turned, and shot into the darkness. After the gunfire, the silence was intense. No more shots were fired from the arroyo.

“Go see if we hit something,” Virgil said. And Morgan headed into the arroyo as Dr. Goodfellow rounded the corner at Allen Street and walked briskly toward them carrying his medical bag. His assistant followed, carrying a folded canvas stretcher. Morgan’s voice came from the darkness.

“Nothing here, Virg.”

Morgan came back from the arroyo, his pistol holstered. He had to push his way through the crowd that had gathered once the shooting stopped. Goodfellow arrived and dropped to his knees beside Fred White. The pool of blood under White had spread.

“Gut shot, Doc, down here.”

Goodfellow unbuttoned White’s pants and felt under White’s shirt. He shook his head. The crowd was very quiet. The sound of Goodfellow’s long inhale was loud in the silence.

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