Robert Parker - Gunman's Rhapsody

She looked straight into his face when she said it. And had a swallow of whiskey and drank some water behind it. Wyatt sipped his coffee, holding the cup in both hands, looking at her over the cup. Then he smiled. She had never seen him smile. Though he was always polite, he was always reserved, and the smile was startling. When he smiled, all of him smiled. His mouth, his eyes, his whole face. He was so of a piece, she thought, that his whole person seemed to express him.

“Now you’ve come along,” Josie said.

“You think I might be fun?” Wyatt said.

“I think you might be a lot of fun,” Josie said.

They looked at each other in silence. Josie drank a little more whiskey. She knew who he was. She knew he was dangerous. She could see what Clay Allison had seen. What is it? She had thought about it since she’d met him. He was different from other men she had known. Different from Behan. Maybe it wasn’t something. Maybe what she was seeing was the absence of something, like looking at the dark.

“Behan’s up to Tucson till Thursday,” Josie said. “Now that he’s the new sheriff, he’s up there a lot.”

“Johnny always liked the political stuff,” Wyatt said.

Josie kept studying Wyatt’s face.

“I hate to eat alone,” she said.

Wyatt drank the rest of his coffee and put the cup down slowly. She loved how precise he was. How even his smallest gesture seemed perfectly controlled.

“I’d be pleased to buy you dinner at the Russ House,” Wyatt said.

“I accept,” she said. “But first I’d like another whiskey.”

Wyatt nodded at the bartender, and he brought her another drink. Wyatt had more coffee. The only effect the whiskey seemed to have on her was to heighten the color in her cheeks. Her big dark eyes remained clear and challenging. Her speech still sounded what he always assumed to be upper class. She met the glances of people in the Oriental straight on. She drank the whiskey, Wyatt thought, without pretense. She didn’t act like it was too strong, the way many women did when given whiskey. She didn’t sip it like tea, and she didn’t gulp it like a drunken miner. She took a swallow, chased it with water. She wasn’t thinking about it. And it didn’t appear to be anything she needed. It was just something she chose to do while talking with him. Her clothes were good. He couldn’t tell why, but he knew they were. Too good for Behan’s income. Her father, probably. Like the house. Behan’s luck had been good.

They ate chicken fricassee at the Russ House and afterward they walked through the town. The March evening had not yet settled, but the sun was gone and there was a bluish cast to the light.

“I like Tombstone at this time of day,” Josie said. “It looks nicer than it is.”

“I like it early in the morning,” Wyatt said. “Before people are on the street.”

Josie laughed.

“I’ve never seen it then,” she said.

“Not an early bird?”

“No,” she said, “a night owl.”

They walked up Fifth Street, past the Vizina mine. The streets were busy.

“Johnny never wants me to walk around town. Not even with him. Says it’s undignified.”

“Probably is,” Wyatt said.

“Probably,” Josie said.

Past the Palace Lodging House across the street, an alley ran up to Sixth Street.

“Curley Bill killed Fred White down there,” Wyatt said. “Other end of the alley.”

“I heard he was acquitted,” Josie said.

“Fred said it was an accident, ’fore he died.”

“Wasn’t it just about cowboys being noisy on the street?”

“Yes.”

At Allen Street they stopped by Meyers clothing store. Across the street the Crystal Palace stood on one corner and the Oriental on the other.

“Luke Short killed Charlie Storms right there last month,” Wyatt said.

“Why?”

“Charlie was drunk,” Wyatt said. “Pushed Luke into it.”

“Did you know them?”

“Sure,” Wyatt said. “Knew Luke back in Dodge.”

“Is he a good fighting man?”

“You don’t want to jerk on Luke Short,” Wyatt said.

“Would you?”

Wyatt smiled.

“I’d get my brothers,” Wyatt said. “Outnumber him.”

“But you’re not afraid of him, are you?”

Wyatt looked startled.

“No,” he said. “ ’Course not.”

Josie smiled to herself.

“People die for so little in Tombstone,” she said.

“Not just Tombstone,” Wyatt said.

They stood quietly on the corner for a time watching the miners and cowboys moving in and out of the saloons. Light and sound splashed into the street when the saloon doors opened. There were saddle horses in the street, but very little wheeled traffic.

“We got some mining interests,” Wyatt said. “Office is down there, this side of the Grand.”

Josie nodded, but he could see she wasn’t interested in mining.

“What’s up this way?” she said, looking to her right.

“Past Sixth Street is whorehouses,” Wyatt said.

“Let’s walk up there.”

“It’s kind of raw,” he said.

“Oh good,” she said.

He smiled, and they turned right on Allen Street past the retail stores, mostly closed for the night, and the Arizona Brewery, still open. A construction site stood near the corner of Sixth, with a building half completed.

“Going to be the Bird Cage Theatre,” Wyatt said. “Bill Hutchinson’s putting it up.”

“Not a saloon,” she said.

“Well, a saloon too,” Wyatt said.

“I swear if they put up a convent,” Josie said, “it would have a saloon in the front.”

And they both laughed as they crossed the street into the bordello district.

No one paid much attention to Josie east of Sixth Street. They assumed she was a whore. But several people glanced at Wyatt.

“People are surprised to see you here,” Josie said.

“Haven’t spent much time here.”

“Faithful to what’s-her-name?”

“Mattie. I didn’t think I should embarrass her.”

“And now?”

“Now I’m with you,” he said.

By the time they walked back along Fremont Street it was dark. They turned up Third Street and stood for a moment on the front porch of her house. During the entire afternoon and evening they had not touched each other. They did not touch now.

“I’m not going to ask you in,” Josie said.

“All right,” Wyatt said.

“I will someday, I think. But now is too soon.”

“I have time,” Wyatt said.

“But I would like you to kiss me good night,” she said.

“That would be fine,” Wyatt said.

Bat Masterson walked into the Oriental with his bedroll across one shoulder, wearing two Colt revolvers and carrying a Sharps rifle, and sat down in a chair at Wyatt’s table. A big, high-shouldered horse wrangler named Bear shook his head at him.

“Don’t want no new players this game,” he said. “Break the way the cards are falling.”

Masterson paid no attention.

“Wyatt,” he said.

“Bat,” Wyatt said.

“You hear me, boy?” Bear said.

Bat glanced at him curiously for a moment and turned back toward Wyatt.

“Hear they might be hiring here,” he said.

Wyatt nodded and started to deal.

“Don’t you deal with him at the table,” Bear said.

“Friend of mine,” Wyatt said. “I’ll deal around him.”

“Don’t care if he’s a friend of the Virgin Mary,” Bear said. “I don’t want my luck changed.”

Wyatt looked almost as if he was going to smile.

“You going to change his luck, Bat?” Wyatt said.

Bat turned and looked at Bear. He was half Bear’s size. His eyes were a very pale blue.