Robert Parker - Gunman's Rhapsody

“Better send for Warren,” he said. “Be work for all of us.”

Jim shook his head.

“Not my kind of work.”

“Got plenty of Earps for shooting,” Wyatt said. “We need you to manage our affairs.”

“Soon as we get some,” James said.

“We’re building the houses,” Wyatt said. “Some of our mining claims could work. We make some money dealing cards. Virgil’s a deputy marshal, and now I got this tax-collecting job and Virgil’s going to run for city marshal. Morgan got his shotgun work for Wells Fargo. And he and I do some private work for them, too. Things are looking up for the Earp brothers.”

“In a little while,” James said, “they’ll probably be changing the name of this place to Earpstone.”

Wyatt smiled. He was holding his coffee cup in both hands, as if to warm them. When he drank he raised the cup only slightly and sipped by dipping his head down to it, his eyes moving slowly as he looked about him. Always on the lookout, James thought. All the time looking for the main chance.

“Things are looking up,” Wyatt said, “for the Earp brothers.”

He drank again from his coffee cup, his eyes looking out over the rim at the few miners who were bowling at midday, at the rough bar, at the door that opened onto Allen Street, looking at everything there was to see… and more.

“You got no goddamned right rummaging around in my shed,” Frank McLaury said to Virgil Earp.

“Tracked them Army mules to here, Frank.”

Virgil was dismounted, holding a running iron he’d picked up from among the McLaury irons in the shed. Behind him, still mounted, were Wyatt and Morgan. To their right was an Army lieutenant named Hurst and a cavalry squad from Camp Rucker.

“You see any mules, Virgil?”

Behind Frank was his brother Tom and a group of cowhands, most of them armed. His neighbor Frank Patterson stood with Tom, though he showed no weapon.

“They had ‘U S’ on their shoulders, Frank. What’d you change it to? Something with an eight in it? Every damn rustler in Arizona changes an S to an eight.”

“You calling me a rustler, you sonova bitch?”

Virgil shifted the running iron to his left hand. Wyatt kicked his feet free of the stirrups so he could go fast off the horse to his left and keep it between him and the cowboys. To his right he could see Morgan smiling. Morgan loved trouble.

“Frank,” Patterson said to McLaury, “let’s you and me just step over here and talk with the lieutenant.”

“My name’s known all over the goddamned state,” McLaury said. His face was red. His eyes seemed large. He had a mustache and a tricky little goatee that Wyatt thought made him look foolish.

“Sure it is,” Patterson said. “And everybody knows you’re dead honest. No point making a fight over nothing. Let’s talk with the lieutenant.”

“Go ahead, Frank. No need for trouble,” Tom McLaury said. “Talk with the lieutenant.”

With a hand on McLaury’s arm, Patterson moved him away from the Earps, past the cavalry squad, and into the thin shade of a single mesquite tree.

“Hey, Virg,” Morgan said. “I’m betting he run the ‘U S’ into a D eight.”

Virgil smiled slightly and didn’t answer.

“Am I right?” Morgan said to the cowboys. “I mean, what else you going to make it into?”

“Could be an O eight,” Wyatt said.

They were facing west, into the sun, and Wyatt had his hat tipped forward so that the brim shadowed his eyes. He would not have chosen this position. He’d have liked the sun behind him, in their eyes. But you didn’t always get to choose. Especially with Virgil. When Virgil went at something, he went straight at it and didn’t maneuver much.

“Or maybe a ‘Q B,’ ” Morgan said. “You think these cowboys are smart enough to make a ‘U S’ into a ‘Q B’?”

“You boys quiet down,” Virgil said, without taking his eyes off the cowboys. “We’re just after some stolen mules. Don’t need to get these fellas all riled up about whether they’re smart or not.”

Morgan grinned.

“Just passing time, Virg.”

“Well, pass it quiet.”

Morgan grinned again. He sat silently astride his big chestnut horse, lightly rubbing the fingertips of his right hand slowly up and down his shirtfront. Everyone was silent, facing each other in the hot dirt yard of the ranch. One of the Army horses snorted and tossed his head to clear a fly. It made his harness creak, and some of the hardware jangled briefly. Then it was silent again. There was no wind, and the desert smell mingled with the smell of horses.

Lieutenant Hurst rode back from the mesquite tree alone. Patterson and McLaury stayed there watching.

“We won’t be needing you boys anymore,” Hurst said. “Patterson knows where the mules are.”

“And he’ll show you where they are if you send us away and nobody gets arrested,” Virgil said.

Hurst smiled, and shrugged.

“Guess we don’t need evidence,” Virgil said and dropped the running iron he’d been holding.

He swung up into his saddle. Wyatt slipped his feet back into his stirrups.

“No arrests?” Virgil said.

“No,” Hurst said.

“Your mules,” Virgil said and turned his horse and nodded to his brothers.

“My brother ain’t going to forget you called him a rustler,” Tom McLaury said.

Virgil didn’t answer. In fact, he showed no sign that he’d heard McLaury. He nudged his horse forward and led out from the McLaury ranch at a walk. Wyatt turned after him. Morgan was the last to leave, and as he rode past the cavalry squad and their lieutenant, he turned back toward the cowboys and leveled his forefinger at them.

“Bang,” he said.

Then he laughed and kicked his horse into a trot to catch up with his brothers.

On the ride east to Tombstone, the sun was behind them, so that they were continually riding into their own shadows. They stuck to the rutted wagon road. The desert on either side was dense with brittlebush. There was no hurry, and the horses were allowed to shuffle along. They knew they were headed home. They knew when they got there they’d eat. No need to pay them much attention.

“Morg,” Virgil said, “being as how we’re the law, we are kind of supposed to stop trouble, not start it.”

“Oh hell, Virg,” Morgan said, “I was just ragging the cowboys a little. Wyatt was doing it.”

“The thing is,” Virgil said, “some of those cowboys, you rag ’em too much they are going to try and shoot you.”

“Against the three of us? Virg, we’d fan those cowboys before they ever got the hammer back.”

“Probably,” Virgil said.

Virgil’s horse slowed and snorted. The other two skittered sideways, as a snake slid across the road through the dust in front of them.

“Rattler?” Morgan said.

“Bull snake,” Wyatt answered.

The horses settled back into their easy walk.

“ ’Course, there’s no special reason to fan them cowboys,” Virgil said.

“If they pulled on us…”

“No special reason to push them into pulling on us,” Virgil said.

Morgan shrugged. He was riding between Virgil and Wyatt. Like always, Wyatt was watching the horizon, looking at the landscape, surveying the snakeweed and squawberry. Wyatt heard the conversation, Morgan knew. Wyatt heard everything. But he was, as he almost always was, not quite there. Always there was space around Wyatt.

“Killing don’t usually end things,” Virgil said. “Sometimes it just starts things rolling. Sometimes you got to shoot, and when you got to you best be quick about it. But it’s better when you don’t got to.”