Robert Parker - Gunman's Rhapsody

“I know.”

“But Curley Bill and me…” Ringo thought a moment how he wanted to say it. “We look out for each other.”

“Like me and my brothers,” Wyatt said.

“Just like that,” Ringo said. “So if there’s trouble, and there will be if it’s up to Behan…” Again Ringo paused, turning over what he’d say. “If there’s trouble I got no choice,” he said. “I’m with Bill.”

“Can’t be helped,” Wyatt said.

“No,” Ringo said. “It can’t.”

The sky was cloudless. The horses walked quietly beside each other, heads half down, hooves muffled in the soft, dry dirt of the trail. In the desert heat, sweat evaporated from the riders almost the instant that it formed.

“Wish it could,” Ringo said.

Wyatt said nothing.

When Johnny Behan came to arrest Doc Holliday he came with six deputies, three with shotguns. Behan found Holliday at the bar of the Crystal Palace. It was the day after the Fourth, and Doc was nursing a hangover like most of Tombstone, including a sulky Big-Nose Katie Elder, who was also sporting a darkening bruise on her left cheekbone. She sat at a table across the room, not speaking to Doc. The deputies came in from the Fifth Street door and formed a ring around Holliday.

Behan stepped through the ring and said, “Doc, I have a warrant for your arrest.”

Doc turned his back against the bar. He rested his elbows on the bar, a glass of whiskey in one hand, and stared at Behan.

“Fuck you,” Doc said.

“There’s an affidavit says you held up the Benson stage and killed Bud Philpot.”

“Bullshit,” Doc said.

Behan was watching his hands. Doc wouldn’t stand a chance if he jerked on six men with their guns drawn, but Doc was crazy drunk and Behan knew it. They all knew it. Doc drank some whiskey.

“Warrant said you got to appear before the justice of the peace promptly.”

“Whose affidavit is it?” Doc said.

The way Holliday was standing, his coat was open and Behan could see the butt of Doc’s revolver. If he did decide to jerk on them, he might be quick enough to kill one of them before they cut him down. It would probably be Behan. Behan knew that, and so did the deputies.

“Big-Nose Kate’s,” Behan said.

Two bright spots of color appeared on Holliday’s gray face. Behan found himself wishing that one of the Earps were there. They were the only friends Holliday had, and they had a calming influence on him. Maybe he should have let Virgil arrest him. The crime hadn’t happened in Tombstone. It had happened outside the town in Behan’s county and it was Behan’s arrest, and everybody would have known it if he went to Virgil.

“That clap nest? She says I killed Bud Philpot? And you come for me with a fucking warrant because Big-Nose Whore says I did it?”

“You done it, Doc, you goddamned well know you done it.”

Kate had come from her table and stood behind the ring of deputies. She was swaying slightly, and her tongue was thick.

“You killed Bud Philpot sure as I’m standing here,” she said. It came out shtanding .

Holliday looked at her. His cheeks were bright red. His eyes were alive with something that made Behan uncomfortable. Despite the way he looked, Holliday’s voice was as flat as tin when he spoke to her.

“I’m going to knock out every tooth in your ugly whore head,” Holliday said.

“You already tried doing that, you peculiar bastard,” Kate said. The remnants of her Hungarian accent lengthened the a and liquor slurred the st , and the word came out Baashtaard .

One of the deputies, Bill Breakenridge, said, “Why’nt you take that Colt out with your left hand, Doc, and put her on the bar and come on down to the jail.”

“Why’nt you kiss my ass, Billy.”

“I’ll do that when you got the ten-gauge and I don’t,” Breakenridge said. “Put her on the bar, Doc.”

Holliday didn’t move.

“Shoot the sonova bitch,” Kate said.

“Shut up, Kate,” Breakenridge said pleasantly enough. He had the shotgun at his shoulder, aimed straight at Holliday.

“Come on, Doc,” Behan said. “No need to be a hard case about this, somebody’ll bail you out in a couple hours.”

“Don’t matter somebody bails me out when we get there,” Holliday said. “I don’t take orders from anybody, let alone a goose fucker like you, Johnny.”

Behan flushed. He felt Doc’s insane gaze on him. He realized suddenly what was disturbing in Holliday’s eyes. Doc didn’t care if he died or not. Behan felt the coldness of that sudden knowledge in his crotch. Nobody moved. Nobody seemed to know what to do. Behan felt the chill in his crotch spreading. He didn’t know what to do either. Could they just cut him down here, right at the bar? If he gave the go-ahead to shoot, would Doc get him before he died? What would the Earps do if he killed Holliday? Why hadn’t he thought all this out before he came in to the saloon? He could hear the silence building. He felt Doc’s eyes on him. When someone spoke behind him, he jumped visibly and hated himself for jumping.

“Doc, this ain’t worth your time,” the voice said.

Doc’s face relaxed into a smile. He picked up his whiskey and drank it.

“Why don’t you go on with Johnny,” the voice said. Behan knew it was an Earp, though he wasn’t sure which one; they all sounded the same.

“I’ll get a couple of boys,” the voice said, “and go down to Wells Spicer’s office and post bond.”

“I was thinking I might shoot this pismire,” Holliday said.

“Watch that ten-gauge, Billy,” the voice said, and a man stepped past Behan and took Holliday’s gun from its holster. Behan still didn’t know which Earp it was until he turned, holding Doc’s gun, and it was Wyatt. Wyatt stuck the gun in his belt.

“Come on, Doc,” Wyatt said. “I’ll walk down with you.”

Holliday fell into step beside Wyatt, and the two of them walked through the ring of deputies and toward the saloon door.

“I’ll be seeing you, bitch,” Holliday said to Kate Elder as they passed her.

Behan had nothing to do but follow. And the deputies strung out behind him as they went out onto Allen Street and headed for the jail.

Doc was out on bail within the hour, and in three days the county attorney dropped all charges.

“Said he couldn’t find no grounds for them, Wyatt,” Doc said, sipping whiskey and beer at the bar of the Alhambra. “I’m going to slap that bitch silly.”

“Maybe you didn’t hit her so much,” Wyatt said, “she might not say bad things about you.”

“They got her drunk,” Doc said. “Behan and his crowd. Filled her with hooch and got her to sign the complaint. She’s drunk, she’d sign a complaint against Jesus Christ.”

“Specially if he thumped her around,” Wyatt said.

Doc laughed.

“Well, she’s gone off to Globe for a while, waiting for me to cool down, I suppose.”

Wyatt was drinking coffee, even though the temperature in the street was over a hundred.

“How come you never have a drink, Wyatt?”

“Don’t like it.”

“What don’t you like?”

“Don’t like the taste. Don’t like being dull and slow and loud from drinking it.”

“Like me?”

“Ain’t seen you dull and slow yet, but you do get loud.” Doc finished his whiskey and ordered more.

“I do,” Doc said. “That’s a fact. You know why I drink so much, Wyatt?”

“Yeah,” Wyatt said, “I do.”

“Being a drunk and having a temper like I do might get me killed someday.”