Robert Parker - Gunman's Rhapsody

“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.

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.

“I don’t think he would,” Wyatt said. “But Johnny’s got something rolling downhill that he can’t stop. I want you safe.”

“And where do you think it will end?” Josie said.

“People got to go to jail,” Wyatt said. “And some got to be shot, I expect.”

“And it’s harder for you if I’m here?”

“I love you,” Wyatt said. “I will always love you. But, yes, it will be easier if I know you’re safe.”

“Then I’ll go. I’ll pack tonight and go tomorrow.”

They were silent, most of the pigeon pie uneaten on their plates.

“How’s Virgil?” Josie said finally.

“He’ll be all right,” Wyatt said. “He’s full of morphine now. Virgil’s tough. And Allie’s with him.”

“Allie doesn’t like me,” Josie said.

“No,” Wyatt said. “She doesn’t like me much either. But she likes Virgil.”

Josie drank a little more claret.

“And how are you?” Josie said.

“Nobody shot me,” Wyatt said.

“I know that Virgil was as much like a father as he was a brother.”

“He’s not that much older than me,” Wyatt said.

“I know.”

“But you’re right,” Wyatt said. “He’s always been the one. Maybe I’m closer to Morgan, for just playing cards and talking. But it’s always been Virgil. He’s the one counted. We always cared what Virgil thought. Always wanted to do things the way Virgil did them. It’s probably why me and Morg are gunhands, ’cause Virgil was a gunhand. Hell, now Warren ’s a gunhand.”

“And Virgil?”

“Now he’s not a gunhand anymore. I mean he can still shoot. He’s got his right hand. But a man can only use one arm isn’t the same in a fight. Hell, he’d have trouble reloading, according to Goodfellow.”

“So he can’t take care of things anymore.”

“No.”

“And now you are the one,” Josie said.

“I guess.”

Wyatt drank the rest of his coffee. Josie finished her wine.

“You want to come to my place?” Josie said. “And help me pack?”

“Yes,” Wyatt said. “But you can pack later.”

Josie smiled at him.

“Of course I can,” she said.

It was mid-March and the desert spring was already beginning to ornament the scrub around Tombstone. The window was open and the hopeful smell of it drifted into Virgil’s room at the Cosmopolitan, where Wyatt and Virgil sat together. Virgil was shaved and dressed. His white shirt was freshly laundered, though he wore no collar. His face was indoor pale. The white cloth sling on his left arm was freshly laundered too. On the table near his right hand was a big single action Colt with walnut grips. They were drinking coffee.