The Old Colts

by Swarthout, Glendon

  “Oh God!”

  And the stricken Birdie tore back the bedding and dived in and took his body and socks unto her and mingled her tears and limbs with his.

  “You poor dear man!” she wailed. “You poor dear darling—Bat!”

  Dyjean removed her blouse, skirt, shoes, hose, bloomers, corset, and then, standing with her back to him, unhooked a massive cotton brassiere, hung it over a bedpost, and turned.

  “You have a beautiful body, Dyjean,” Wyatt said.

  “You really think so? Hey, how come you’re not undressed? That’s not fair.”

  He was in longjohns.

  “There’s something I want to say first.”

  “Say away—it’s bed for me.” She pulled down the covers and got in and sank practically out of sight. “Oh-oh, a feather tick. I guess they haven’t got around to fixing this room up yet—you know, modern.”

  He sat on a chair near the bed, his back as straight as the back of the chair.

  “You’re a peculiar one,” she said. “Still waters run deep, huh? When you ought to get down to brass tacks, you want to talk.”

  “You said a minute ago you just about believe I’m Wyatt Earp—which means not quite. In my opinion, girls shouldn’t have sexual intercourse with men they don’t know.”

  Her dander up, Dyjean sat up, covering her charms with bedclothing. “Are you saying I’m loose?”

  “Loose is as loose does.”

  “You’ve got a nerve!”

  “How can I prove who I am?”

  “You don’t have to prove anything!”

  “You saw my gun. I knew considerable about Boot Hill. I’m the age Wyatt Earp would be now.”

  “I know.” Dyjean pointed a finger. “I know—you won’t come to bed because you’re not capable any more!”

  “I assure you I—”

  “Prove it!”

  The man in the chair shook his head. “I will—as soon as you accept me for myself.”

  She sank back into tick and pillow. “Oh Lord—are you stubborn.”

  “I’m a man of principle.”

  “You’re a mule.”

  “Ask me anything about myself you care to.”

  “This is really cuckoo,” Dyjean marveled. “The girl’s in the bed and the guy gets fussy—I never. I sure haven’t run into anything like this before.” She heaved a rustic sigh. “Well, all right, fussbudget. Let’s see. Wyatt Earp’s got a brother Morgan.”

  “Did have. He’s dead.”

  “Just trying to catch you. Where did he die?”

  “Tombstone. Arizona Territory.”

  “How?”

  “He was shot in the back.”

  “Go to the head of the class. See, I know—kids in Kansas grow up with these old stories. Tell me about it—let’s see if you get it right.”

  “Must I?”

  “Why not?”

  “Speaking of it causes me pain.”

  “Sorry—this was your idea, Mister.”

  He sat near her in his longjohns, back as straight as the back of the chair. He spoke slowly, and Dyjean heard in his voice the pride of manhood and the pain which still accrued to his subject. After the carnage at the O.K. Corral in 1881, after a thirty-day trial and a finding by Judge Spicer that Marshal Wyatt Earp, his brothers, Deputy Marshals Virgil and Morgan Earp, and Doc Holliday, defendants, were “fully justified in committing these homicides; that it was a necessary act done in the discharge of official duty”— after all this it was yet apparent that peace was not possible in Tombstone. The so-called “cowboy” faction, aided and abetted by Sheriff Behan, was resolved, rather than letting sleeping dogs lie, to be revenged on the victors. On December 29, nine days after Spicer’s verdict, Virgil Earp was ambushed, his left arm shattered by a bullet. On the night of March 20th next, Morgan Earp was playing billiards in Campbell & Hatch’s parlor on Allen Street. Wyatt sat nearby, on guard. Chalking his cue, Morgan stood with his back to a rear door which opened on an alley. Pistols were fired through the glass panes in the door, plaster cut to bits near Wyatt’s head, and Morgan fell. Wyatt carried his younger brother to a couch in Bob Hatch’s office, and Dr. Goodfellow was called. A forty-five slug had entered the small of Morgan’s back, severing the spine. “We know who did it, don’t we, Wyatt?” Morgan whispered. Wyatt nodded. Morgan closed his eyes. In half an hour he was dead. He was thirty-one years of age.

  Dyjean lay silently, wishing she’d never asked in the first place, but the man in the chair waited for her to play out the terrible string, to ask the last questions. She forced herself.

  “What did you do?”

  “Went after them.”

  “I know. And got them.”

  “Yes. It took a while.”

  “Who were they?”

  “Indian Charlie. Curly Bill. Frank—”

  “Stilwell,” she finished for him. “In the railroad yard in Tucson.”

  “Yes.” Then the man in the chair asked a question. “Are you satisfied, young lady?”

  “Satisfied!” She began to cry. “I’m ashamed!”

  “Don’t be. That’s all over, long ago. I don’t speak of it often— only when I have to.”

  “I’m a bitch, a contrary bitch!” she sobbed. “How can I make it up to you?”

  Now he was silent. Then she saw him standing by the bed in the altogether, a fine figure of a man for his age, and he was smiling down at her.

  “There’s one way,” he said, gently.

  “Oh, yes!” Dyjean threw back the covers. “You boohoo-hop in here this minute, Wyatt Earp!”

  “Aaaaah, yes.” Bat relaxed, arms under his head, while Birdie slipped out of bed, brought him a Spud and matches and ashtray, and lit the cig for him.

  “How will you think of me in the morning?” she asked, snuggling in again beside him.

  “Fondly, my dear.” He inhaled and exhaled a stream of self-congratulatory smoke. “Aaaaah, yes. Solid comfort.”

  “It’s still hard,” she sighed.

  “No it isn’t.”

  She giggled. “I mean, to believe. Who I’m actually in bed with.”

  “Sweetpea,” said Bat, “you’re a lucky girl.”

  “Lucky?”

  “Are you ever. You’ve slept with Bat Masterson. You’ve rolled in the hay with history.”

  She thought about that.

  The sounds of a catfight near the hotel intruded through the open window.

  “My God!” gasped Birdie.

  “What?”

  “I just realized!”

  “What?”

  “Then that means—Dyjean must be in bed with the real Wyatt Earp!”

  “Nobody but.”

  “I wonder if she knows!”

  And on this contingency, an inspired Birdie flew the coop again, dragged a chair across the room to the door between 110 and 112, and stepped up on the chair to face the open transom.

  “Gee, that was heavenly,” sighed Dyjean.

  “Indeed it was,” Wyatt agreed. “If I do say so myself.”

  “What I don’t get is, how’d you two happen to ask us out—me and Birdie?”

  “Easy,” replied the gallant Wyatt. “We thought you were the best—looking girls in town.”

  She lay close to him, arms about his neck. “The trouble is,” she said, “I can’t tell anybody I slept with the real Wyatt Earp. And even if I could—which I wouldn’t— nobody’d believe me.”

  “Someday you can.”

  “When?”

  “When you’re a very old lady. You can tell your grandchildren, anybody, anything. That’s one of the nice things about growing old.”

  “Well, maybe.”

  “Sure you can.” She thought about it.

  The sounds of a catfight near the hotel intruded through the open window.

  “Hey!” she said.

  “Straw.”

  “Birdie’s in bed with the real Bat Masterson!”

  “Go to the head of the class.”

&n
bsp; “What if she doesn’t know!”

  And on this contingency, an inspired Dyjean jumped out of bed, dragged a chair across the room to the door between 110 and 112, and stepped up on the chair to the open transom.

  Face to face, in excited whispers, cousin conferred with cousin through the transom.

  In bed in 112, Bat stubbed his Spud, admired for a moment the splendor of Birdie’s bare, moonlit ass up on the chair, and then, worn out after a long day of casing banks, cranking cars, riddling oilcans, drinking blue booze, and putting the blocks to a farmer’s daughter, drifted off.

  In bed in 110, Wyatt yawned, stretched, admired for a moment the amplitude of Dyjean’s bare, moonlit ass mounted, as it were, on a pedestal, and fatigued after a long day trying to get Bat out of the bank, risking his neck in a horseless carriage, plinking practice, imbibing blue whiskey, reading ridiculous epitaphs, and indulging in amorous dalliance, drifted off.

  Bat was roused by someone getting into bed with him. “Hello, Mr. Masterson,” said she.

  It was Miss Dyjean Fedder.

  “Well, well,” said he. “What a pleasant surprise. But I don’t think—“

  “Ssssh,” said she, cleaving to him. “Me and Birdie talked it over—we’ll never have a chance like this again. So we snuck through the hall and switched rooms and beds. Now someday the both of us can brag we slept with the real Bat Masterson and the real Wyatt Earp—you know, when we’re old. Won’t that be something?”

  “Oh,” said Bat.

  “You know, when we’re old.”

  “But my dear young lady—”

  “Really something!”

  “I’ve had a hell of a hard day. At my age, what do you expect? I’ve already treated your cousin to a terrific—”

  “Why, Mr. Masterson,” said she, “I thought you carried a six-shooter!”

  Wyatt was roused by someone getting into bed with him.

  “Hello, Mr. Earp,” said she. It was Miss Birdie Fedder.

  “Howdy, ma’am,” said he. “Well, well. How did this come about?”

  She tied him down with a strong arm and an eager leg. “Well, I told Dyjean. Bat told me how lucky I was—you know, sleeping with him.”

  “He did, did he?”

  “History and all that. So I told Dyjean, we better make hay while the sun shines—then we’ll both have been to bed with the real Bat Masterson and the real Wyatt Earp. So there she is and here I am!”

  “I see.”

  “You don’t turn down second helpings, do you?”

  “I didn’t used to.”

  “Psssssssst!”

  It was a man in dire straits at the transom over the door between the rooms.

  “Will you excuse me, young lady?” asked Wyatt.

  “Sure, Mr. Earp,” said Birdie. “Just don’t leave me up the creek.”

  Wyatt climbed out of bed, moved to the door, and stepped up on the chair.

  Standing on the chairs, their voices low, their bare, moonlit, legendary asses displayed to the admiring maidens as though in a museum, the two gentlemen chewed the rag through the transom.

  “Who the hell’s idea was this!” Bat demanded.

  “You and your history,” Wyatt reminded.

  “We shouldn’t take advantage of these girls.”

  “A kind heart never helps at poker.”

  “Goddammit!”

  “Aren’t you up to it?”

  “Damn right I am! But I’m saddle-sore!” Bat hissed. “And we’ve got a big day tomorrow!”

  “You know what they say in New York.”

  “New York?”

  “‘It’s a great life if you don’t weaken.’”

  At five minutes before ten o’clock in the morning of 5th May they park the Ford Touring Sedan at the curb on Railroad Avenue a few feet from the corner. Both are crabby as bears with sore paws this morning after, and a difference of opinion flares. Mr. Earp orders his driver to leave the engine running. Mr. Masterson objects that a car parked with the engine running is sure to attract notice. Mr. Earp counters that he, Mr. Masterson, based on his performance yesterday, has as much chance as a snowball in hell of starting the car fast enough for a successful getaway. Mr. Masterson declares that he is the driver, he will make all decisions relative to the car, and his decision is to cut the engine. Mr. Earp reminds him that he, Mr. Earp, is calling the play, and the term “play” as used in the West is all-inclusive—therefore the engine will be left running. Mr. Masterson asks if he, Mr. Earp, would care to have an ebony eye. Mr. Earp replies that if he, Mr. Masterson, cannot recall his, Mr. Earp’s, prowess with his fists from their early buffalo-hunt days he, Mr. Earp, will be only too glad to escort him on a trip down Memory Lane. Mr. Earp then turns and strides around the corner. After a minute of meditation Mr. Masterson follows, allowing the Ford’s four cylinders to continue functioning.

  “Not sure I’m up to this,” Bat grumbles.

  “You better be.”

  “What a night!”

  They wait across the street from the Drovers Bank of Dodge City, its white glazed brick facade sparkling in the morning sun.

  “Well,” says Bat, “you tried ‘em both. Which one wins the Bible?”

  “Bible?”

  “In bed, I mean. Birdie or Dyjean?”

  “We’ve got work to do.”

  This morning three men and a woman wait at the doors for the bank to open.

  “Slip your gun,” Wyatt mutters. “Make sure it draws easy.”

  Reaching under jackets, they slip guns out of and back into holsters.

  “You take the left side, the tellers,” Wyatt orders. “I’ll handle the right—and get Beanstone out of his office. Masks on as soon as we get through the doors.”

  “I say a toss-up.”

  “What?”

  “Birdie and Dyjean. Sweet patooties, both of ‘em.” They’d bought bandannas at a drygoods store, tying them round their necks under jackets, ready to raise. “Last chance to change our minds,” says Bat.

  “Your mind.”

  Bat angles his derby up and down, this way and that. “I’m in. We drew aces last night—never leave the game when the cards are coming, I say.”

  “No shooting unless we have to.”

  “Okeh.”

  “But if you have to, hit something.”

  “Okeh.”

  Tempus fidgets. The local yokels before the bank doors bustle a bit. The doors are unlocked. The yokels yank them open.

  “Let’s go,” says Wyatt.

  “Leave a light in the window, Mother, I’ll be home late tonight!”

  They cross the street.

  They climb the steps, open the doors.

  They enter the bank. People moving, people standing, people sitting, people looking. They reach under jackets to raise bandannas.

  At this instant there occurs the one thing, the one event, the one coincidence that no one sane of mind in the world would have expected or predicted or believed could possibly occur.

  Behind them, a gun goes off.

  Plaster showers from the ceiling.

  Behind them, simultaneously, a shout— “Everybody on the floor! This is a holdup!”

  Incredibly confounded, W.B. Masterson and W.B.S. Earp fall in slow motion to the floor.

  “Goddammit, we said on the floor! That means you and you—and you! On the floor and you move and we’ll blow your goddam heads off!”

  A gun goes off again.

  Faint cries, from women and from men.

  On his side, facing W.B.S. Earp, lies W.B. Masterson. The expression on his phiz is indescribable.

  On his side, facing W.B. Masterson, lies W.B.S. Earp. The expression on his phiz is indescribable.

  The Drovers Bank of Dodge City is being robbed this morning, this minute, by someone else.

  The sound of shoes, running. Voices. Of a woman sobbing hysterically. Drawers being hauled open. A metal box dropped. Something, a wastebasket perhaps, overturned. Voices hollow in the vault
.

  W.B. and W.B.S. turtle heads. There are two men, maybe three. Bareheaded. One is bald. Denim workshirts and pants, and across their mugs, narrow strips of black leather with holes for eyes. Professionals. They carry handguns, small-caliber and snub-nosed.

  A shout—“All right! You-all stay on the floor and don’t move for five minutes—five minutes or you’ll be goddam sorry you did!”

  A gunshot for an exclamation mark.

  Plaster showers.

  The front doors bang.

  Three ticks of a clock.

  Lungs let loose.

  Men shout.

  Women shriek.

  Furniture crashes.

  An alarm bell rings.

  Amid the commotion W.B. Masterson and W.B.S. Earp rise and make rapidly for the doors.

  “We’ll get ‘em!” yells W.B. Masterson.

  They tear out of the bank just in time.

  Around the corner a dark green Studebaker Touring Sedan, its top down, two men in front, two men in the rear, lurches out of sight, evidently headed east.

  They leg it across the street and round the corner toward the faithful Ford.

  “‘We’ll get ‘em!’” pants a furious Wyatt. “What in hell did you say that for!”

  “Damifino!” pants a bewildered Bat. “Habit!”

  “I know why I said it!”

  “Yeah?”

  “We gotta get ‘em! They got our money!”

  They roar and rattle, shake and shimmy down the narrow macadam road running east from Dodge, the same road they had taken yesterday for driving and target practice, hats jammed down over ears, Bat bent over the wheel in imitation of Barney Oldfield, Wyatt on the edge of the seat holding on to the windshield frame. Spark and throttle levers are advanced to the utmost. The needle of the Stewart speedometer stands at forty mph, full speed. The red line of the Boyce Moto-Meter on the radiator has risen to “High Efficiency.”

  Gradually, however, the prey draws away. The 1916 Studebaker has been endowed this model year with a new four-cylinder, 3 7/8 bore x 5-in, stroke engine which, according to newspaper advertisements, endows the car with “Brute Power.” Horsepower has been upped to forty— double the brute power of the Model T—and top speed to sixty mph. And so the Studie draws away, half a mile away, three-quarters of a mile away.

  Then a lucky break. It must slow to a crawl behind a lumbering Mogul tractor, cannot pass on the right because the shoulder is too narrow, nor on the left because a farmer with a wagonload of agriculture bars the passing lane.