Robert Parker - Gunman's Rhapsody

“Sierra Bonita,” Wyatt said to Warren as they rode down the slow slope toward the main house. “Henry was a general in the war, came out here from back east after, found the best water around, and built a ranch on it.”

“We going to be welcome?” Warren said.

“Henry’s very hospitable,” Wyatt said. He smiled. “And the cowboys been hitting his stock pretty hard.”

“I’ll be glad to get off this animal,” Warren said. “Maybe sleep in a bed.”

“Maybe have something but fried pork and biscuits for supper,” Doc said.

The horses had been watered and fed and washed down and turned out to graze by two of Hooker’s stable hands. The men had washed and changed clothes and sat on the wide front porch in the encroaching April night to drink before dinner.

“I’ll have a little whiskey myself, Henry,” Wyatt said. Doc hooted.

“Watch out for this,” he said. “Earp’s having a drink. Be hell to pay for this.”

Wyatt smiled and sipped at the whiskey. He still didn’t like it, but he took pleasure in the warm spread of it through his chest and stomach.

Hooker sat with them and his foreman, Billy Whelan.

“Understand Behan’s chasing you boys,” Hooker said.

“Carefully,” Wyatt said, “so’s he won’t actually catch us.”

“I hear that Ringo’s with him, and Pony Diehl, and Curley Bill.”

“Curley Bill’s not with him,” Wyatt said.

Hooker looked at Wyatt thoughtfully for a moment.

“Well,” he said, “whoever’s with him, one of my drovers says they’re coming along this way. Expect they’ll show up here around midday tomorrow, looking for a meal.”

“There won’t be any trouble, Henry,” Wyatt said. “I’ll have my people out of here ’fore then.”

“If you want trouble we’ll back you,” Hooker said. “I got fifty tough hands that can shoot.”

“Behan won’t fight,” Wyatt said.

Doc poured himself another drink and gestured at Wyatt with the bottle. Wyatt shook his head. Doc laughed and put the bottle back on the table.

“Ringo will fight,” Doc said.

“There’s no reason to get Mr. Hooker’s ranch shot up and maybe some of his hands hurt,” Wyatt said.

“We could end it right here, Wyatt,” Doc said. “Behan, Ringo, Pony Diehl, Ike Clanton, here altogether. We could finish the goddamned thing.”

“No.”

“You already got Brocius, why not clean the rest of it up.”

Again Hooker looked at Wyatt without saying anything.

“No.”

“You won’t fight Behan, will you?” Doc said. “Because he used to be with Josie. You can’t, can you?”

Wyatt turned his gaze on Doc for a long moment and Doc went quiet.

“In the morning,” Wyatt said, “I want all of you up on the top of that hill.” He pointed at the hill on the opposite side of the valley. “You can see in all directions, and if somebody wants to rush you, there’s no cover from them on the hillside.”

“What are you going to do?” Warren said.

“I’m going to stay here and see what Behan wants.”

“He wants your fucking ass,” Doc said. “You stay, I stay.”

“No,” Wyatt said.

“Who’s going to cover your back?”

“We can arrange for that,” Hooker said.

“At least lemme stay,” Warren said. “I’m your brother.”

“That’s the plan,” Wyatt said. “What’s for supper?”

“Boiled beef tongue,” Hooker said. “And some dry corn dumplings, and stewed gooseberries.”

Doc finished the drink in one long swallow.

“Hell,” Doc said, “I was hoping for fried pork and biscuits.”

Behan and twelve men rode in at eleven the next morning. Three hours after, Wyatt’s people were on the top of Hooker’s bluff a half mile to the west. The horses were lathered, the men looked worn down. Men and animals were gray with dust. From the corner of the main building where he stood, Wyatt could see John Ringo behind Behan, and Pony Diehl, who Wyatt thought he might have seen in the bushes at the water hole. Ike Clanton hovered at the rear fringe of the horsemen. Hooker came out to meet them.

“Morning, John,” Hooker said.

“We’re tracking the Earps,” Behan said. “Somebody said they was here.”

Wyatt, wearing a Colt revolver, stepped around the corner of the hacienda and leaned against it. Behan glanced at him and looked quickly back at Hooker. Ringo saw him, and they looked at each other.

“There were a couple of Earps here, had dinner with me,” Hooker said.

Billy Whelan, carrying a Winchester, stood a little behind Hooker and to his right. The horses in Behan’s posse smelled water and were restlessly tossing their heads and shifting their feet.

“You were eating with murderers, then,” Behan said, “and thieves.”

“I’ve known Wyatt and Virgil a long time. They are men I’m proud to eat with.”

“Would you say that if he wasn’t here?” Behan said.

“I’d say it anytime somebody asked,” Hooker said. “Look at what you’re riding with, back shooters and cattle thieves.”

Behan shook his head as if to deny the charge. He looked around the area, careful not to let his glance linger on Wyatt.

Wyatt still looked at Ringo. Ringo still looked back.

“Where’s the rest of them, Henry?” Behan said. “They under cover someplace?”

“They left here this morning, right after breakfast.”

“You sonova bitch,” Ike Clanton shouted. “You know where they are.”

Billy Whelan levered a round up into the chamber of his Winchester. The sound cut through the hot morning like a bell. Some others of Hooker’s hands drifted into the yard and stood loosely scattered on all sides of the posse. Ringo paid them no attention. He looked silently at Wyatt, and Wyatt looked silently back.

“You can’t ride into a gentleman’s yard and call him a sonova bitch. You want trouble, let’s get to it. Right now.”

“No,” Behan said and made a damping gesture. “No, no. We ain’t here for trouble. We need to rest our horses,” Behan said, “and get something to eat.”

Wyatt and Ringo continued to look at each other.

“I’ll sit at table with you, John,” Hooker said. “But I won’t eat with this rabble you brought with you. We’ll set up a table for them in the yard.”

As the Behan posse dismounted, Ringo edged his horse closer to Wyatt.

“You kill Curley Bill,” Ringo said.

“I did,” Wyatt said.

“Always knew it would turn out like this,” Ringo said. “Now I’m going to have to kill you.”

“If you can,” Wyatt said.

In Denver at the foot of 17th Street in Union Station at track 7, Wyatt leaned with his arms folded against the marble wall and waited for Josie Marcus to arrive. She got off the train with her flowery suitcase, wearing a silk dress from San Francisco, her face a little flushed with excitement.

My God!

He took her bag with his left hand and opened his arms, and she seemed to jump into them, pressing herself against him.

My God!

He carried her suitcase in his right hand and held her hand with his left as they walked up 16th Street toward Larimer, to his hotel at the intersection. Josie talked. About the dress she was wearing and the train ride from San Francisco and the way the troubles in Tombstone were being written up in the San Francisco papers. Wyatt listened without exactly hearing what she said. He was listening to her voice, the way he might listen to music, and what he felt, as he heard the voice, made the content irrelevant. At the Broadwell Hotel, they had tea sent up to the room. They drank the tea as Wyatt listened to the music of her voice. Then the music modulated slightly.