The Mistress of Illusions

by Michael D. Resnick

  He passed a butcher shop without even looking in the window—if there was one thing the Clanton ranch wasn’t lacking, it was meat—and before long came to where he’d hitched his horse. He noticed that the water trough next to the post had gone dry, so he walked his horse to a half-full one a few yards away, waited for him to take a drink, then mounted him and began riding back to the ranch.

  Damn it! he thought. Is anybody there?

  Yes, Eddie, came Rofocale’s thought. One of us is.

  You know the situation. No matter how I try to alter history, Doc and the Earps all live through the gunfight and there’s no record of Ringo being involved in it.

  That is true.

  Then why the hell am I going through these efforts?

  Because if you were truly Ike Clanton, that is precisely what you would do.

  Okay, I know, it’s a test—but haven’t I passed it by at least trying to get Ringo to insert himself before the gunfight. And maybe getting Brocius and the Cowboys to nullify the Earps.

  Your behavior thus far has been exemplary, replied Rofocale.

  Then get me the hell out of here before everything goes wrong and Doc and the Earps kill the Clanton gang.

  When the time comes, said Rofocale.

  When what time comes? demanded Raven.

  When you have completed your test.

  I don’t understand.

  I intuit that anything further I say will just confuse you.

  I’m confused already, said Raven irritably.

  Signing off, said Rofocale, and suddenly his presence was gone from inside Raven’s head.

  “Great!” muttered Raven. “That was just phase one of this idiot test. I guess phase two is to die with some semblance of dignity, or maybe to ride hell-for-leather until I’m on the other side of the Mississippi.”

  Don’t be foolish, Eddie, said Lisa’s voice.

  You’ve been listening? Can you tell me what the hell is going on?

  But there was no answer, and her presence, like Rofocale’s, had left his consciousness.

  “All right,” he said. “I’m stuck here. Ringo’s on our side. So is Brocius. If we go to the O.K. Corral with both of them, and maybe half a dozen Cowboys, maybe we can win, or at least scare ’em off until they can even up the odds.” He paused, considering the situation. “And maybe I can get that sheriff—our sheriff—Johnny Behan to tell the Earps that if they precipitate a gunfight the surviving Earps are all going to jail.” He turned his horse around and headed back into town. “Maybe I’d better have a talk with this Behan before the Earps do.”

  When he got back to town, he rode up and down a trio of streets until he came to a frame building with steel bars on all the windows, and a large Sherriff’s Office sign hanging down in the front. Raven dismounted, hitched his horse, pretended to fuss with the saddle for a moment until his heart stopped racing, and walked in the front door.

  “Howdy, Ike!” enthused the man with the sheriff’s badge.

  “Hi, Sheriff.”

  “Screw the ‘Sheriff,’” said Behan. “You’re Ike, I’m Johnny.”

  “Sorry, Johnny,” said Raven. “Been a hard day.”

  “The rest of it ought to be a little easier,” said Behan. “I see Johnny Ringo’s in town.”

  Raven held up his right hand and crossed his index and middle fingers. “Hopefully he’ll do our job for all of us.”

  “That thought has crossed my mind,” said Behan with a chuckle.

  “But,” continued Raven.

  “But?”

  “But if it comes to a fight, I assume you’ll back us up?”

  “Not with a gun, that’s for damned sure,” said Behan. “But I’ll throw any Earp who survives it into jail.”

  “And Doc?”

  “That’s a little harder,” admitted Behan. “Still, that’s what I got deputies for.”

  “Good. I just wanted to hear you say it.”

  “You know I got no use for those scum.” Behan grimaced. “You know Virgil deputizes the whole damned family, so they think they’re responsible to no one except maybe the God of the Earps.” A malicious smile crossed his face. “Them what survives are gonna find out how wrong they are.”

  “Just hold that thought,” said Raven.

  Behan pulled a bottle out of a desk drawer. “Care for one?”

  My God, is every resident of this town an alcoholic?

  “No, thanks, Johnny. I’ve got to be getting back to the ranch. Dad was pretty used up when he got in. I want to make sure he’s okay.”

  “Okay,” said Behan. “And keep an eye out for Wyatt or one of the other scum. He seems to think you’ve got his horse there.”

  “Thanks for the warning.”

  “You don’t, do you?” asked Behan.

  “Not to my knowledge,” lied Raven, which he decided would be his position and his excuse if anyone spotted the horse.

  “Well, give Billy and Phin my best.”

  “Will do,” said Raven, walking to the door, opening it, and going back into the street, where he unhitched his horse, mounted it, and hoped he could make it home without encountering another offer of a drink.

  22

  Upon arriving back at the ranch Raven was approached by Curly Bill Brocius, a massive man with a head of thick, curly hair, as befit his name.

  “Glad you’re back, Ike,” said Brocius.

  “Is something wrong?”

  “Not yet,” said Brocius. “But we’ve got Wyatt’s horse here. The markings and brand are unmistakable. Sooner or later he’s going to come out here after him.”

  “Later, I hope,” said Raven.

  Brocius threw back his head and laughed. “I’ve always liked your sense of humor, Ike.”

  “Thanks, I guess.”

  “But it doesn’t alter the fact that Wyatt or one of them other goddamned Earps is going to be out here sooner or later, probably sooner, looking for his horse.” He paused briefly. “There’s a farm about thirty miles east of here that’ll take it for a few months.”

  “Out of the goodness of their hearts?” asked Raven.

  “That, plus a hundred dollars.”

  Raven shook his head. “Just to watch a horse that no one’s going to ride out that far to look at?”

  “Up to you,” said Brocius. Suddenly he grinned. “No way it’s gonna cost us a hundred dollars in bullets.”

  “Ah!” replied Raven with a smile. “An optimist.”

  Brocius smiled again, and shook his head. “Out here we’re all pessimists. The optimists are the ones who think they’ll see another sunrise or two.”

  “There’s a lot of us and not that many of them,” said Raven.

  “Yeah, that makes a difference. It’s not like going up against Ringo or the Doc, where one of them figures to beat eight or ten guys at once.”

  “You really think they’re that good?” asked Raven curiously.

  “I really think I wouldn’t care to find out,” said Brocius devoutly.

  “Everyone makes it sound like there’s two superbeings with guns—Doc and Ringo—and no one else has a chance,” remarked Raven.

  “Well, in Tombstone,” answered Brocius. “They say John Wesley Hardin could give either of them a hell of a fight, but last anyone heard he’s rotting in a jail in Texas.”

  “And there’s always Wild Bill Hickok,” said Raven.

  Brocius stared at him. “What you been drinking, Ike? Hickok got himself killed four years ago. And besides, except for one lucky shot against a nobody, he was never that good.”

  “I bow to your expertise.”

  “Well, I’m off to get a little grub. Want to come along?”

  Raven shook his head. “No, I want to check on the old man, and see if Phin or Billy have encountered any problems I should know about
.”

  “You mean any not named Doc or Wyatt,” said Brocius with a grin.

  “Those too,” answered Raven.

  Brocius walked off to the bunkhouse, and Raven entered the farmhouse. His father was sitting on a rocking chair, looking a lot better than the last time he’d seen him.

  “How’re you doing, Dad?”

  “I’ll be okay,” answered the old man. “I’m just not up to a three-day horse-and-cattle drive anymore.”

  “Nothing to be ashamed of. Next time just send Phin in your place.”

  “Yeah, makes sense,” said Old Man Clanton. “Wyatt come looking for his goddamned horse yet?”

  “No, but I think we can be pretty sure that sooner or later he will.”

  “I saw Curly Bill and his men moving their stuff into the bunkhouse. Good idea.”

  “Glad you approve.”

  “Now if you can just get Johnny Ringo . . .”

  “We got him.”

  “Really?” asked the old man excitedly.

  “Really,” answered Raven. “I don’t know for how long.”

  “What’s he costing us?”

  “Almost nothing.”

  Old Man Clanton frowned. “A man like Ringo? That doesn’t make any sense.”

  “I think he just wants the opportunity to prove he can beat Holliday in a gunfight.”

  “Well, let’s hope his confidence is justified.”

  The front door opened, and Billy Clanton walked in. “Hot out there,” he remarked.

  “And you’re surprised?” said Old Man Clanton in amused tones.

  “You know, they’ve started making book on the coming fight.”

  “Doc and Ringo?” asked Raven.

  “Well, actually, they’re making book on two fights,” answered Billy. “Doc and Ringo, of course. And the Earps and the Clantons.”

  “I’d ask who’s favorite in the second fight, but it might depress me,” said Raven.

  “They just set it up maybe an hour ago,” said Billy. He paused. “Odds were pretty much even when I left.”

  “On both fights?” asked Old Man Clanton.

  “On Doc and Ringo.”

  “What about us and the Earps?”

  Billy grimaced. “They’re the favorite.”

  “Close?”

  “Heavy,” said Billy unhappily.

  “Good!” said Old Man Clanton.

  “What’s so good about being such an underdog?” asked Raven.

  “You ain’t thinking this through, youngster,” said the old man. “We put every last penny we’ve got on ourselves. Even mortgage the ranch and anything else we own.” Suddenly he offered a near-toothless grin. “If we win, we all get rich.”

  “And if we lose?” said Billy.

  The grin remained. “If we lose, we ain’t gonna need no money where we’re headed.”

  Billy turned to Raven. “He’s got a point.”

  “Yes, he does,” agreed Raven. “But it’s a very final point. I’d like to see if we can avoid a gunfight.”

  “Everyone’s been expecting one.”

  “We’re not everyone,” said Raven. “We’re Clantons, and I see no reason to put our lives on the line to make everyone else happy.” And my memory is that you were the first one killed at O.K. Corral.

  “Well,” said Billy, “I suppose one thing we can do is lead Wyatt’s horse to the played-out silver mines at the far end of town in the middle of the night, turn him loose, and there’s no way Wyatt can prove we had anything to do with it.”

  Raven turned to the old man. “You think Wyatt would buy that we had nothing to do with it?”

  “Not a chance. Hell, a couple of my Mexicans were so anxious to tell him about it they cut out a day early so they could race ahead and let him know.”

  Raven frowned. “Then why isn’t he here already?”

  “Probably got business in town or at the Oriental,” said Old Man Clanton. “He knows we’re not going anywhere, and neither is his damned horse.”

  “Okay,” said Raven. “But we’d better keep a round-the-clock watch for him.”

  “Why?” said the old man. “He ain’t coming out in the dark. No way he could spot his horse—or see who’s aiming at him. Just keep an eye out for him starting each day at sunup.”

  Raven sighed. “Okay, makes sense.”

  “I raised you to be brighter, Ike. You should’a thunk of that yourself.”

  Raven had to restrain himself from yelling “I’m a goddamned dress merchant!” and silently nodded his head.

  “Okay,” said Billy. “Since Phin ain’t back, I’ll check on the cattle and horses myself.”

  “And I think I’ll grab a nap before dinner,” added the old man, getting slowly, carefully to his feet and hobbling off to his room.

  Raven was left alone in the house. He considered everything he’d heard, both in town and back here at the ranch, and finally shook his head.

  Is anybody there?

  I am, Eddie, came Lisa’s thought.

  I’m trying, thought Raven, but I’m just not fit for this.

  Do you think you were fit to be Dracula or Don Quixote?

  He frowned. Those were simple and over fast, nothing as complex as this scenario.

  They were easier, agreed Lisa.

  None of them were easy . . . but this one goes on and on. And I know the goddamned outcome. Doc and the Earps kill Billy and the McLaury brothers at O.K. Corral, and the only reason they let me live is because I’m unarmed and I plead for my life. I don’t remember a lot of the details, but I sure remember the outcome.

  He could almost feel her sigh. Ah, Eddie—you make me feel so old.

  Well, right now I’m busy feeling doomed, he answered. He paused for a moment, trying to order his thoughts and ignore the fact that she was reading them as quickly as he thought them. Look, I know you didn’t send me here to kill me. But just what am I supposed to do as a goddamned horse and cattle thief? I suppose I should help somebody, but I haven’t met a single person worth helping since I got here—probably including me.

  Eddie, I can’t answer your questions, thought Lisa.

  You mean you won’t.

  Can’t, won’t, it comes to the same thing. Just as your actions are constricted by being Ike Clanton, mine are constricted as the Mistress of Illusions.

  Come on, he thought irritably. You change eras as easily as I do, you’ve already shown me that nothing can harm you, you can assume any identity you want while I’d stuck in whatever identity you or Rofocale put me in. You can’t be as helpless as you say.

  Not helpless, Eddie, she replied. Powerless.

  What the hell’s the difference?

  When you figure it out, you’ll be well on your way to solving this test.

  And then he was totally alone again, and Lisa’s telepathic voice vanished in the late afternoon heat.

  23

  He joined his father and brothers for dinner, spent a fruitless hour trying to find something—anything—to read, sat out on the porch hoping to make contact with Lisa or Rofocale, decided after two more hours that it wasn’t going to happen, and went to bed.

  He got up about an hour after sunrise to find that they had company. John Ringo had stopped by to have a drink with Brocius, and grab a little breakfast.

  Even you? thought Raven. How does anyone stay sober long enough to shoot straight? And then he decided that the only solution was that the whiskey they brewed out here in the West must be thirty-proof or less. At least, given the fact that he was facing an almost certain gunfight in the near future, he hoped so.

  He decided that he ought to walk over to the bunkhouse and make sure Ringo hadn’t changed his mind about which side he was on. As he neared his destination, he saw the tops of some books sticking out of Ringo’s saddl
e. He stopped by the horse, pulled out the books, and inspected them: Thucydides, Plato, Dante, and Walt Whitman.

  “That’s a hell of a traveling library for a traveling killer,” he muttered softly, carefully placing them back.

  “I see you’re looking at my reading matter,” said Ringo’s voice, and Raven turned to see him standing perhaps ten feet away.

  “I’m impressed,” said Raven. “Just out of curiosity, have you ever met Whitman during your travels?”

  Ringo shook his head. “Haven’t even cracked the book yet. I picked it up in Dodge, after Doc recommended it.” He shrugged. “Of course, that’s before we were mortal enemies.” A pause. “Not that we were ever friends.”

  “Well, it’s a damned impressive collection,” said Raven.

  Ringo smiled. “Better than all those lies Ned Buntline publishes in his penny dreadfuls. By last count I’d killed sixty-seven men and a couple of dancing girls who pirouetted into my line of fire.”

  “Why don’t you shootists sue him?” asked Raven.

  “I think me, Doc, John Wesley, any of us, would rather kill him,” answered Ringo.

  Of course you would. I’ve got to remember who I’m talking to.

  “I wonder if I could ask a favor of you, John,” said Raven.

  “Oh?” said Ringo, suddenly suspicious.

  Raven nodded his head. “I’d like a short-term loan of one of your books. I’ll give it back before you leave town.”

  Ringo stared at him. “When did any of the Clantons learn to read?”

  “I picked up an interest in it,” said Raven. “But we don’t have anything to read at the house.”

  “What the hell,” said Ringo with a shrug. “Take the Dante. At least you can find out what’ll happen to you if you lose it or forget to return it.”

  “Thanks,” said Raven. “I’ll get it on the way back to the house—unless you’re planning on leaving for town right away?”

  “No, Curly Bill and I were having a good time discussing old battles when I heard you nosing around and came out to see what was going on.” He smiled. “You don’t know how rare readers are out here.”