The Mistress of Illusions

by Michael D. Resnick

  19

  He was leaning against the top of a corral, lazily watching the cattle that were enclosed by it. The desert sun beat down on him and he reached an arm up to wipe the sweat off his brow, only to find out that he was wearing what he’d been taught to call a ten-gallon Stetson when he was a kid reading cowboy comics and watching movies about the Wild West—which, he knew, was probably not anywhere near as wild as legend had it.

  Except in Tombstone.

  “Damned hot day, Ike,” said the man standing next to him. They were similarly attired: jeans, shirt, vest, neckerchief, Stetson.

  “That it is,” replied Raven, wondering who he was talking to—and even more important, who he himself was.

  “Your dad says the horses probably won’t arrive before tomorrow,” continued the young man. “Tonight at the earliest. Not much sense hanging around here in the sun.”

  “You got a point,” agreed Raven.

  “So I’ll get Billy and I guess the three of us’ll go into town and get a little something wet to replace all the sweat we’ve lost,” said the man with a smile.

  “I guess so.”

  “Always assuming Holliday’s gotten over his grudge.”

  “Doc Holliday?” asked Raven.

  The man smiled. “You know any other Hollidays who go around killing people?”

  “None,” said Raven nervously. Then: “What’s he mad about?”

  “This time?” said his companion. “Who the hell knows? You know Doc. It doesn’t take much to tick him off.”

  “So I’ve heard.”

  The young man laughed. “So you’ve seen, Ike.”

  Ike? thought Raven. I’m Ike, and I’m in Tombstone, and Doc Holliday doesn’t like me? Good Lord—I’m Ike Clanton!

  A young man approached them on foot. “Morning, all.”

  “It’s past noon,” said Raven’s companion.

  “I was up most of the night with Chiquita over at the Golden Eagle,” said the young man with a grin. “I ain’t an old man like my brothers. This is still my morning.”

  Okay, you’re Billy Clanton. But who’s this other guy?

  “Watch yourself, or this brother may just turn you over his knee and give you the whipping of your life,” said the man.

  Ah! You must be Phineas, the other brother. Glad I read up on all you guys when I was a kid.

  “Let’s ride into town, grab something to drink, and save the whipping for those who deserve it,” said Raven.

  “You just may be in luck,” said Billy. “I saw four of them at the Oriental last night.”

  “That’s a lot,” agreed Phin. “But there’s a fifth.”

  “Virgil was out patrolling the streets,” answered Billy. “We ran into each other near Fremont Street.”

  “Did he give you a hard time?”

  Billy smiled. “He’s an Earp, I’m a Clanton. What do you think?”

  “His day is coming,” said Phin without returning the smile.

  They walked over to the corral, retrieved and saddled their horses, and then began riding. Raven let Phin and Billy show the way, since he had no idea where Tombstone was. They waved to a few farmers who were tending cattle, stopped at a shallow creek to let their mounts get a drink, and then continued, and in another ten minutes Raven could see the dusty, truly unimpressive town in the distance.

  “So where are we going?” he asked.

  “I like the Golden Eagle,” said Billy, “but since Chiquita’s probably asleep, it makes no difference to me.”

  “Nor me,” said Phin. “Hell, I’ll even go to the Oriental if you’re up to it.”

  Billy made a face. “It’s a little early in the day for a shootout.”

  “Oh, come on,” said Phin. “They ain’t gonna want their own bar shot up.”

  “You think Doc Holliday gives a damn?” Billy shot back.

  Phin sighed deeply. “You got a point. You know, Johnny Ringo’s in the area. Maybe we could kinda sorta arrange a meeting betwixt ’em.”

  Raven smiled.

  “What’s so funny, Ike?” demanded Phin.

  “Doc and Ringo,” answered Raven.

  “I repeat, what’s so funny?”

  “The two fastest guns in the West are also the only two with college degrees. They’re probably as likely to sit down and discuss Shakespeare as shoot each other.”

  “Cute notion,” said Billy. “But I say we hire Ringo to work the herds anyway.”

  “Ringo doesn’t work herds,” said Phin.

  “To protect the herds,” amended Billy. “And more to the point, to help protect the herd owners.”

  “The current herd owners,” noted Phin with a smile.

  “You know, you can be a real pain,” said Billy.

  “Take it easy,” said Raven. “There’s enough brothers to be mad at without including our own.”

  Billy was silent for a moment, then shrugged. “I’m sorry, Phin.”

  “Me, too, Billy,” said Phin. “Let’s remember who the bad guys are.”

  They rode in silence until they entered the town, rode another fifty yards, and stopped at a tavern.

  “This is a new one,” said Billy. “They were building it last week. I don’t think it’s even got a name yet.”

  Raven frowned. “Is it open?”

  As the words left his mouth, two cowboys walked out through the swinging doors, strolled over to the nearest hitching post, untied their horses, mounted them, and rode off.

  “I guess that answers your question,” said Billy with a smile.

  “Nice to know we’re not the only ones who drink before noon,” said Phin.

  Raven took a quick look at where his wristwatch had been, found nothing but an empty wrist, then on a hunch checked his vest’s pocket, pulled out a watch, and confirmed that it was 11:30 in the morning.

  “Okay,” said Phin, dismounting. “Let’s see what this joint’s got.”

  “Same as all the others, I would imagine,” said Raven.

  “We also need to see if they’ve got a faro table, or maybe even a pool table.”

  “A pool table?” scoffed Phin. “Out here in Tombstone? You’ve got to be kidding. Or dreaming.”

  They walked in through the swinging doors.

  “Shit!” whispered Billy.

  “What is it?” asked Raven.

  “They don’t have any gaming tables,” said Billy softly. “But”—he stared at a lone man at a table along the far wall—“they’ve got a dentist.”

  Raven didn’t have to be told Billy was referring to Doc Holliday. He may or may not have been the only dentist in town, but he was the only one who could elicit that kind of reaction.

  Raven stared at the man, who was thin to the point of emaciation. One hundred twenty pounds, thought Raven. One thirty, max. And he’s close to six feet tall. Yeah, he’s tubercular, all right.

  Holliday wore a thick mustache, was dressed in a black frock coat and black pants, and Raven could see that he had a knife suspended on a very thin string around his neck—so thin that even someone as weak as he appeared to be could pull and break the string with almost no effort. He had a pistol in a holster, and for all Raven knew he had another one in his coat. Appearances, he knew, could be deceiving, but it looked like it had been a long time since Holliday had smiled.

  The three Clantons walked up to the bar. Billy and Phin ordered whiskey, and Raven asked for a beer. After they’d been served, they choose the table that was farthest from Holliday.

  “Been meaning to have a little chat with you,” said Holliday in a thick Southern accent, never raising his voice.

  They stared at him without answering.

  “Wyatt was wondering when you plan to return the horse you stole from him,” continued Holliday. “I told him that if I saw you before he did, I’d
ask.”

  “We’re not horse thieves,” said Billy.

  You lie well, brother, thought Raven. I think I’ll let you do most of the talking for us. I could never say that with a straight face.

  “Yeah, I know, you’re pure as the driven snow,” said Holliday, “not that I expect any of you bumpkins to know what snow is. But Wyatt was especially fond of that horse, and he wants it back. Or have you already sold it to the Mexicans?”

  “I told you . . .” began Billy.

  “I know what you told me,” said Holliday, never raising his voice. “Now let me tell you something.”

  “What?”

  “I don’t like being lied to.”

  “What do you think you’re gonna do about it?” said Billy belligerently.

  “Shut up, Billy!” whispered Raven.

  “Funny you should ask,” said Holliday, turning on his chair to face them.

  “We don’t have the horse,” said Raven. “But I give you my word that if it turns up, we’ll let you and Wyatt know right away and bring it to him.”

  Holliday stared at him coldly for a long moment. “I hope you mean it,” he said at last, turning back to his drink.

  “Damn it, Ike!” snapped Billy. “You made it look like I was backing down.”

  “Trust me,” said Raven. “You don’t want to go one-on-one with Doc Holliday. With one of the Earps, perhaps—but not him.”

  “He’s drunk as a skunk!” growled Billy. “I could have taken him.”

  “He was just as drunk the last ten or twenty or fifty men he killed,” said Raven. “He probably hasn’t drawn a sober breath since he came West after the Civil War.”

  “That’s curious,” said Phin.

  “What is?” asked Raven.

  “Everyone I know, including you, just calls it the war. Or, once in a long while, the War Between the States. I ain’t never heard it called the Civil War before.”

  Shit! thought Raven. I’ve got to be more careful. “I just saw it called that in some magazine.”

  “Since when you do you read magazines?”

  Great! It took me ten whole seconds to screw up again. “In some shop in town,” said Raven. “I don’t remember which.”

  “Well,” said Billy, “as long as we’re in town, I think I’ll visit one of the floozies over at Dora’s.”

  “Diddlin’ Dora’s,” said Phin with a smile. “She sure calls a spade a spade.”

  “Five years from now no one will remember it,” said Billy, getting to his feet. “Hell, the mines are almost played out already. Twenty years from now no one will even know a town called Tombstone ever existed.”

  If you only knew, thought Raven as Billy walked out into the street.

  Phin poured them each another drink. They downed it and sat in silence for a few minutes. Then Holliday got up and began walking toward the door, but first he stopped at their table.

  “If you want that young man to ever celebrate another birthday, you’d better teach him some manners,” he said.

  “He’s just a kid,” said Raven.

  “If he lives a few more years he’ll be a Clanton man,” said Holliday. “And that’s not necessarily an improvement.”

  Raven was still searching his brain for a non-aggressive, non-obsequious reply when Holliday walked out of the saloon and began heading down the wooden sidewalk.

  “Sooner or later we’re going to have to face him and all those damned Earps,” said Phin.

  Raven was about to deny it when he realized that of course such a showdown would happen, and it would be exactly the thing that stopped Tombstone from being another forgotten mining town.

  “I know,” said Raven with a sigh. “But at least we’ll pick the time and place.”

  “And the conditions,” added Phin. “Never forget the conditions.” Suddenly he chuckled. “Hell, if we could keep Doc off the booze for forty-eight hours I bet he couldn’t even see you from twenty feet away, let alone put a bullet into you.”

  “Great,” said Raven. “That would leave only five Earps for us to face.”

  “Three,” replied Phin. “James and Warren aren’t around much.”

  “That makes everything okay,” said Raven. “We’d just have to face the three deadliest of the clan.”

  “Three of us, three of them,” said Phin. “What could be fairer?”

  This is Wyatt Earp and his brothers you’re talking about, thought Raven. I admire your notion of a fair fight.

  “Well, where are we going now?” asked Phin.

  Raven shrugged. “I don’t know. I just felt it was too early to keep drinking, and the farther we get from Holliday the better I’ll like it.”

  “Well, there’s a place a block to the left that makes pretty good eggs, and the sausage is at least edible. You interested?”

  “Not really.”

  “I didn’t think so,” said Phin. “Well, I could do with a little food. I’ll run into you later, or see you back at the ranch. Don’t forget we’ve got a herd coming in from across the border.”

  “I won’t forget,” said Raven.

  Phin walked a few steps to the corner, then turned to his left, and Raven decided to spend a little time exploring Tombstone as he was stuck here until (he assumed) he killed the enemy or they killed him.

  He passed a leather goods shop, an impressive store that sold everything from saddles to buggy whips to holsters, then came to a barber shop that seemed to specialize not in haircuts but in shaves.

  He looked in through the window for a minute, then turned back and headed down the sidewalk—and stopped dead in his tracks.

  “Lisa?” he said, half certain, half curious.

  She turned to face him, and held a finger to her lips. “Call me Kate,” she said in her familiar voice.

  “I was afraid I wasn’t going to see you on this . . . excursion,” said Raven. “I can’t tell you how relieved I am.”

  “I was just coming to meet you,” she said. “I got word that you were at that just-opened tavern.” Suddenly she frowned. “You should be more careful. Doc was on his way there this morning.”

  “How did you know that?”

  “He told me.”

  “You know him?” asked Raven.

  Suddenly her features changed. She added abut thirty pounds, her hair was done up in a bun, her cheeks were fuller, her lips thicker, and her nose larger.

  “Omygod!” exclaimed Raven. “You’re Big Nose Kate!”

  “For the time being.”

  “Doc’s lover,” he said disapprovingly.

  “He’s too drunk and too sick to perform that particular function,” she replied. “But I share his room with him, and that way I find out what his plans are.”

  “He hasn’t harmed you?” persisted Raven.

  “Eddie, he hasn’t so much as touched me.”

  “You couldn’t have been some other woman in Tombstone?”

  “None that would be privy to information that might prove useful to you—who’s coming for you, where they plan to meet you, and when.”

  “Okay,” he said, trying to relax. “I don’t have a calendar, and even if I did I don’t know what day the Gunfight at the O.K. Corral takes place. Can you enlighten me?”

  “When I have to,” said Lisa. “But for the time being, our job is to avoid a shoot-out between the two sides.” She looked over his shoulder. “We’ll talk at dinnertime. Have someone tell you where the Fatted Calf is. Be there at five in the afternoon.”

  “Why can’t we talk now?” he asked, frowning.

  “Because Doc is headed this way, and I don’t want him to think we’ve been flirting.”

  “We haven’t been.”

  “You know and I know it, but Doc will never believe it. Please go!”

  He began walking away, and p
aused just long enough to see her waving a handkerchief at Doc and calling him over to her.

  Then he turned a corner, and was half surprised that Holliday wasn’t right on his tail.

  20

  Raven rode back to the ranch alone, his mind working furiously.

  Sooner or later there have to be some confrontations, hopefully long before the O.K. Corral. I feel like Eddie Raven, but in this world I’m Ike Clanton, with a reputation for being a mean, tough outlaw. So theoretically no one should be able to push me around, and from what little I’ve read about this era, Ike wasn’t afraid of Doc or the Earps.

  Just a minute! I’m remembering more. The Clantons weren’t a gang of three—or four, including Old Man Clanton, who I haven’t even seen yet. They had a staff of full-time cattle and horse herders—well, cattle and horse thieves, actually—and part-time gunslingers, who were known as the Cowboys. And they had allies. I know about Johnny Ringo, but there was also Curly Bill Brocius, a hell of a formidable man himself. And there’s Sheriff Johnny Behan, who had his own reasons for hating the Earps and the publicity they accrued as lawmen, and should be on our side if it comes down to a confrontation.

  The more he remembered, the better he felt. When he began riding back to the ranch, he felt overwhelmed, as if the entire territory was opposed to the Clantons—but now that he had begun remembering his history, he realized that the Clantons had far more allies than the Earps.

  “Which makes sense,” he muttered. “Who the hell supports an ill-tempered, hard-drinking sheriff and his even worse-tempered brothers? It’s the Earps and Holliday against the whole damned county, and now that I know what’s coming, maybe I can survive it and put history right.”

  Or at least get home in one piece, he added mentally.

  He reached the ranch in another forty minutes, just in time to have his way blocked by sixty or seventy unbranded horses.

  “Hi, Ike!” called an old man who was mounted on one of the only branded horses in the bunch. “Give us a hand with this batch!”

  Doing what?

  “Ride along the left, stop any of ’em from bolting toward town,” said the old man as if reading Raven’s mind. He turned to the four men who were accompanying him. “Herd ’em into the north pasture.”