Robert Parker - Gunman's Rhapsody

“Talk about something else, Doc,” Wyatt said.

They reached the top of the long rise and looked down into the valley where Spence’s wood-cutting operation was set up next to a stand of timber.

“We’ll circle,” Wyatt said, “so we don’t come at them with the sun in our eyes.”

The horses strung out single file as they moved down the valley side and away from the wood choppers. When they were on the other side Wyatt turned them toward the camp, straight west, so that the sun would be at his back and straight into the eyes of the people in the wood camp. McMasters took his Winchester from the saddle boot and rested it across the pommel. Doc had a shotgun across his saddle.

There was a Mexican cutting and stacking wood.

“You speak English?” Wyatt said.

The Mexican shook his head. He was frightened. Wyatt turned to McMasters.

“Ask him where Cruz is, and Spence.”

McMasters spoke to the Mexican man. He answered, pointing toward the northern slope of the valley.

“Says Spence is in Tombstone with Behan. Says Indian Charlie’s over that hill rounding up some strays.”

Wyatt turned the aging roan horse and rode toward the hill without a word. The rest of the men followed, catching up to him, and spreading out on either side of him. They went up the hillside and over it. There were other hills beyond it. A teamster named Judah was driving stock across their path. With him was a Mexican named Acosta.

“You know where Pete Spence is?” Wyatt said.

His voice was flat and easy, as if he didn’t really care where Spence was.

“I thought he was in Tombstone.”

“You a friend of his?” Wyatt said.

Judah showed no sign that he thought the question a dangerous one to answer.

“Known Spence a long time,” Judah said.

“You seen Indian Charlie around?”

“Cruz? Over there someplace,” Judah said. “Looking for a couple mules that went roaming.”

Wyatt nodded, clucked softly to the roan and rode toward the next hill. The other riders stayed with him, spread out on either side. Judah and Acosta both watched them as they went.

“Trouble,” Judah said.

Acosta nodded.

As Wyatt and the other riders topped the next hill, Indian Charlie was on the downslope hazing two mules ahead of him. When he saw Wyatt he turned and ran.

“Knock him down, Sherm,” Wyatt said. “Don’t kill him.”

McMasters reined the horse still, levered a round up in the Winchester, aimed carefully and shot Cruz in the right leg. The sound made the two mules scatter, one of them kicking his back heels. The impact of the bullet sent Cruz sprawling face forward, and when they came up to him he was lying on his back with the blood slowly staining his trouser leg.

“Talk to him, Sherm. Tell him we know he killed Morgan. Ask him who else done it.”

McMasters slid the Winchester back into the saddle scabbard and spoke to Cruz. Cruz answered at length, moving his hands, his dark eyes wide and eager, and full of fear. The rest of the posse sat silently, letting their horses crop the grass. They weren’t up very high, but the air in the mountains seemed cooler to Wyatt, fresher, as if it had more movement behind it than the air around Tombstone, like the difference between standing water and running water. Wyatt sat motionless in the saddle, while Cruz talked to McMasters.

“He never killed anybody,” McMasters said. “That’s what he says. Says he just went along to make sure they got the right man. Spence didn’t know you. This guy says he knew both you and Morgan. Says him, Spence and Stilwell, and somebody named Swilling, met Curley Bill, and Ringo, back of the courthouse; they heard that you’d gone to bed, and Morg was at Hatch’s. So they decided to kill Morg and they went up there. Then some guy named Fries comes up and says that you hadn’t gone to bed, that you were in Hatch’s too. But Curley Bill, and Stilwell, and Swilling went into the alley back of Hatch’s, and he says he heard shooting and everybody come running out.”

McMasters paused, as if he had forgotten. He spoke to Cruz in Spanish. Cruz replied.

“They all went to Frank Patterson’s ranch to fix up an alibi, and Stilwell says he shot Morgan, Curley Bill and Swilling say they shot too, but missed, and Stilwell says that made two Earps he’d shot.”

“Virgil,” Wyatt said with no inflection.

Cruz spoke again. When he was through, McMasters didn’t speak.

“What’d he say?” Wyatt asked.

“Says he got nothing against you or your brothers. He didn’t want to do you no harm.”

“So why did he?” Wyatt said.

Again McMasters didn’t say anything.

“Ask him that,” Wyatt said.

His voice was as hard and flat and brittle as a piece of slate.

McMasters shrugged, and spoke again to Cruz. Cruz answered. When he translated, McMasters’s face was blank and his voice was without inflection.

“Says they give him a twenty-five-dollar watch.”

“Twenty-five dollars,” Wyatt said.

McMasters nodded. The other riders didn’t speak or move. They could hear the wind moving softly among the trees into the timber stand. Doc’s horse, snuffling in the grass, inhaled something and snorted it out. Otherwise, the silence seemed impenetrable.

“For Morgan Earp,” Wyatt said.

“Wyatt,” Doc said.

The gun was in Wyatt’s hand almost as if it had always been there. Cruz saw the movement and put his arm up as if it could protect him. Wyatt shot Cruz in the head, and as Cruz fell backward, he shot him twice more. Cruz lay on his back, his arm thrown across his face. The horses had heard gunfire before. They stood stolidly as the explosions echoed across the empty mountain valley, rolling past Judah and Acosta a half mile away, looking down from the next hilltop.

“Dick Wright says Behan’s got a posse out for us. Says there’s a warrant out of Tombstone for you killing Stilwell.”

“Dick bring the money?” Wyatt said.

“Yes,” Warren said. “Right when he said he would.”

“Crawley Dake’s money?” Doc asked.

“Didn’t say,” Warren answered.

“It’d be Crawley ’s,” Wyatt said. “Federal funds.”

“Well, you’re in it now,” Doc said as they made camp near the water hole at Iron Springs, twelve miles north of Tombstone. The night was clear and the stars were high and uninterested in the velvety blackness. The silence was vast, though, Wyatt thought, in fact, when people talk about silence they really mean human sound. They don’t notice the sounds that were there before they came. That will be there after they’re gone. Night birds. Coyotes. The scurry of small animals in the brush. A breeze stirring the scrub growth. The crackle of the fire seemed to drown all that out unless you listened. Texas Jack was cooking salt pork in a heavy black-iron fry pan. Doc had the bottle out, and it moved from man to man, skipping Wyatt.

“Go easy on that stuff, Warren,” Wyatt said as his brother took the bottle. Warren drank some whiskey and passed the bottle to Turkey Creek Jack.

“Not easy,” Warren said, “your brother being a parson.”

“Not easy being your brother,” Wyatt said and smiled.

Doc was drunk. He was probably always a little drunk. But when he was more than a little drunk, Wyatt knew it because his stubbornness increased.

“You done it to yourself, Wyatt,” Doc said. “You come over to my side, you can’t go back.”

He took out the Colt.45 he had used to shoot Florentine Cruz, and flipped the cylinder open.

“I’m going where I got to go, Doc. Things don’t give me much choice.”