by Matt Braun
“How would you manage that?”
Ringo’s question took them by surprise. Everyone stared at him a moment, then turned back to Ike. He shook his head, smiling lamely.
“I don’t get you, Johnny.”
“It’s simple enough,” Ringo said mildly. “How can you see a man’s face when you shoot him in the back?”
“Aw, quit your funnin’, Johnny.”
“I’m not funnin’,” Ringo said with exaggerated gravity. “Tell you the truth, I think Earp has a point.”
“A point?”
“Yeah, about you boys being bushwhackers. Course, I guess he was feeling charitable and just overlooked the fact that you’re not very good at it.”
Stilwell laughed uneasily. “That’s a helluva thing to say, Johnny.”
“Simple statement of fact,” Ringo remarked. “You boys can’t even backshoot a man proper. Otherwise Virgil Earp wouldn’t be flyin’ on one wing.”
There was a moment of oppressive silence. The men looked everywhere but at Ringo, trading sheepish glances. Then Brocius wormed around in his chair, hunching forward.
“You’re talkin’ out of turn, Johnny.”
“What’s the matter, Bill?” Ringo inquired. “Your ears burning?”
“Watch yourself,” Brocius said stiffly, his lips white. “I don’t let no man call me yellow.”
“Why, Bill, I wasn’t callin’ you a coward. I just said you’d sooner backshoot a man than the other way round.”
“You’re so gawddamn tough,” Brocius challenged him. “Whyn’t you go face’em down your ownself?”
Ringo regarded him without expression. The other men waited, nervously watching the test of wills. Brocius knew he’d gone a step too far. He wondered if he could outdraw the muddy-eyed gunman, and realized he might very well die trying to preserve his leadership of the gang. His pulsebeat quickened, and the palms of his hands suddenly felt sweaty. He sat perfectly still, waiting.
Then, quite casually, Ringo rose to his feet. He walked to the door and opened it. On the verge of stepping outside, he turned and looked back over his shoulder. He fixed Brocius with a gallows grin.
“I think I’ll take a ride into Tombstone.”
Spearing his hat off a wall peg, he laughed and jammed it on his head. The sound of his laughter still filled the room when the door closed.
CHAPTER 10
“I still say it’s damn queer.”
“You’re too antsy.” Holliday wagged his head with a wry smile. “A backshooter pays no attention to the calendar. He’s got all the time in the world.”
“Well, I don’t,” Earp reminded him. “Brocius could hold off till doomsday, and it’d suit me just fine. But he won’t, and we both know it.”
“I think that newspaper article impressed you more than it did him. Anyone called you those names, you’d just naturally feel bound to face him down. Brocius isn’t built that way, and there’s the difference. He’ll swallow his pride and wait for you to drop your guard.”
“I wish to hell Virge was able to travel.”
“He won’t mend any faster with you in an uproar all the time.”
“He damn sure couldn’t mend any slower! We’re like ducks in a shootin’ gallery, and the odds get worse the longer we wait.”
“All depends,” Holliday grunted. “Your number isn’t up till it shows, and every day’s a new toss of the dice.”
Walking along Allen Street, the men fell silent. The earth swam in a bluish dusk, and high in the sky a fiery cloud blazed in the last rays of sunset. Ahead lay the Alhambra, and for all of Holliday’s philosophical tone, there was nothing leisurely about their pace. These days, neither of them trusted the streets after dark.
Yet Holliday wasn’t all that displeased with the situation. The worse the odds became, the more Earp needed him. Peace and tranquility would have weakened, perhaps even eliminated, that need. He much preferred the threat of imminent bloodshed.
Their friendship, from the start, had been one of mutual dependence. Holliday, despite his sullen manner, was not altogether misanthropic. No man ever completely purges himself of the need for human contact. Several years ago, at a low point in his life, he had latched on to Wyatt Earp in the way of a drowning man grasping at flotsam. Earp had accepted him as he was, seemingly unconcerned with his racking cough or his cynical outlook. At the time, Holliday thought it was perhaps his last chance to throw in with someone worthy of his respect. He was of the same opinion even now.
In exchange, he gladly allowed Earp to trade on his reputation as a mankiller. His presence alone, particularly here in Tombstone, served to enforce Earp’s will on others. While one was cunning and ambitious, the other was a perfect assassin, ever eager to pull the trigger. Still, though they worked well together, they were alike only in their willingness to resort to violence. In all other things they were quite dissimilar.
Holliday was a Southerner, a man of breeding and education. Incurable tuberculosis had brought him West, seeking a drier climate. Even on the frontier, however, there was small demand for a dentist who coughed blood. Circumstance, and physical frailty, had led him into the life of an itinerant gambler. An ungovernable temper, coupled with that same physical frailty, had transformed him into a mankiller. In the truest sense, the Colt sixgun was for him the equalizer. He killed men simply because it was his sole means of defending himself. Then, too, he enjoyed the sport of wagering life against life. It gave a certain tang to an otherwise bleak existence.
By contrast, Wyatt Earp was a Yankee whose family had joined the westward migration. An uneducated farm boy, he had become a drifter with a yearning to better himself. His upward climb had taken him from buffalo hunter to sometimes peace officer to bunco artist and mining entrepreneur. He was coarse, by no means a gentleman, but he possessed a quick mind and a near infallible insight into the weaknesses of others. He killed men not for sport or some perverted sense of contest. He killed to protect what he’d gained, and the things he yet coveted.
Holliday understood all that. In fact, he understood Earp better than Earp understood himself. Tonight, he knew full well that Earp was torn between the urge to run—thereby removing his brothers from danger—and the need to revive his political fortunes in Cochise County. Holliday, whose loyalty was unswerving, would follow either way. Given a choice, however, he would have preferred to die fighting on the streets of Tombstone rather than succumb to the ultimate ravages of lung consumption. Having killed more than a score of men, he thought it would be the supreme irony if he ended up dying in bed. By no means a brave man, he was simply a fatalist who no longer feared death. For him, the hourglass was already down to a few grains of sand.
Nearing the Alhambra, he decided there was nothing to be gained in pressing the matter further. Earp was playing for time, clearly on the defensive. He wouldn’t fight unless it was forced on him, and even that prospect left him badly troubled. Weighed in the balance, the safety of his brothers had assumed greater value than personal ambition. It seemed likely he would quit and run the moment Virge was able to travel. Whether he would return to fight another day was open to speculation. With Earp, anything was possible.
From downstreet, Holliday saw Jack Johnson approaching the Alhambra. He still considered the man a smalltime grifter, but he was accommodating and always good for a few laughs. Which was more than could be said for most of the cardsharks who frequented Tombstone’s gaming parlors. Johnson flipped them a salute and halted, waiting outside the front door.
“Holliday!”
The shout stopped Holliday in his tracks. He turned and saw Johnny Ringo emerge from a doorway across the street. The streetlamps were already lit and Ringo’s features were plainly visible. The corners of his mouth were twisted in a wolfish smile.
“I got a bone to pick with you, Holliday.”
“Yeah?” Holliday said tonelessly. “What’s that?”
“You’re a double-dipped son-of-a-bitch, and a card cheat to boot.”
/> Holliday’s face went chalky. He was aware of Earp at his side, but his concentration was focused on Ringo. All in a flash, he weighed his chances and knew he couldn’t beat the younger gunman in a fair fight. He still wasn’t afraid to die, but he was reluctant to have it happen right now. A bigger fight was brewing, and he desperately wanted to stick around until then. Besides which, he told himself, Earp still had need of his gun. To go out now would be like leaving a friend in the lurch.
He spread his hands in a bland gesture. “Ringo, I’m not lookin’ for trouble. Suppose we let it lay till another time?”
Ringo threw back his head and laughed. In the lamplight, he displayed a mouthful of teeth as square as sugar cubes. His hand hung loosely by the sixgun holstered on his hip.
“Trouble’s found you, whether you’re lookin’ for it or not. I’m here to punch your ticket, Holliday!”
Starbuck remained motionless beside the door. He saw an evil light in Ringo’s eyes, a steady, confident gaze that was at once striking and cold. Word had it that Ringo was the deadliest gunman in Arizona, and he could easily understand why. What he failed to understand was why Holliday would crawfish. To his knowledge, the gambler had never declined a challenge.
Abruptly, Earp turned and strode several paces down the boardwalk. His move effectively flanked Ringo, and brought everything to a standstill. When he spoke, his jaws were clenched so tight his lips barely moved.
“Ringo, I’d advise you to let it drop.”
“Stay out of this!” Ringo shouted, biting off the words. “It’s between Holliday and me!”
Earp’s face was blank, as though cast in metal. “No dice! You’ll have to take both of us.”
“How about it, Holliday?” Ringo taunted. “You gonna let him fight your fight for you?”
“Why fight?” Holliday stalled. “I’ve got nothing personal against you. Our quarrel’s with your back-shooter friends.”
“Horseshit!” Ringo yelled in a loud hectoring voice. “We’ve got a score to settle and I’m callin’ you out.”
“Water over the dam,” Holliday temporized. “Why don’t I buy you a drink and let’s talk about it?”
“C’mon!” Ringo said defiantly. “I always heard Doc Holliday couldn’t be beat. Let’s see you prove it!”
“No,” Holliday slowly shook his head. “I aim to walk into the Alhambra and have that drink. You’re welcome to join me.”
“You four-flushin’ bastard! Stand and fight!”
Starbuck saw a golden opportunity materializing before his eyes. Ringo would get Holliday, and Earp would get Ringo. One down on each side and then the killing would start in earnest. He waited, savoring the moment.
“Don’t anybody move!”
Sheriff Behan and a deputy advanced along the boardwalk, guns drawn. So intent had Starbuck been on the deadly tableau before him that he hadn’t seen them approaching. He cursed softly under his breath, all of his expectations suddenly spoiled. Then a random thought popped into his mind. Behan had attempted to intercede in the OK Corral shootout. Yet, despite his best efforts, three men had died that day. Perhaps tonight’s opportunity wasn’t lost after all.
“Drop your gunbelt!” Behan ordered. “Do it right now!”
Ringo turned his head just far enough to rivet the sheriff with a look. “Take a walk, Behan! This here’s a private argument.”
“Not tonight,” Behan said, flicking a glance at Earp. “This time, I’m the only one wearin’ a badge. You boys unload that hardware—pronto!”
Earp and Holliday were strangely silent. Watching them, Starbuck realized they would comply without protest. His hopes took another dive, then surged as his gaze shuttled to Ringo. The younger gunman’s features were knotted in a brutish grimace.
“You’re outta line!” he barked. “There’s no law against us settlin’ a personal dispute.”
“Maybe not,” Behan rejoined. “But there’s a town ordinance against carryin’ firearms. You just violated it and you’re under arrest.”
Holliday and Earp looked at him like he was crazy. Even his own deputy appeared somewhat uncertain. Starbuck mentally crossed his fingers, still hoping.
“You’re loco!” Ringo howled. “Everybody in this goddamn town packs a gun!”
“Tell it to the judge,” Behan said bluntly. “You broke the law and that’s that.”
“Go to hell!” Ringo sputtered. “I don’t hand over my gun to nobody!”
“I’ll only warn you once more that you’re under arrest.”
“Stick it up your ass and sit on it!”
Behan motioned to his deputy. “Cover him! If he moves, shoot him dead.”
The deputy brought his pistol to eye level, thumbing the hammer to full-cock. His arm was steady, and he centered the sights on Ringo’s shirtpocket. Behan’s cool stare bored into the fiery-tempered pistolero.
“Stubborn will get you killed! Drop that gunbelt and be mighty damn quick about it.”
A taut silence fell between them. All up and down the street, miners and townspeople who had stopped to watch the affair swiftly scattered into nearby doorways. Ringo stood immobile, his eyes shifting from Behan to the snout of the deputy’s pistol. At last, with a muttered curse, he unbuckled his gunbelt and let it fall to the ground.
Behan turned to Holliday. He held out a square, stubby-fingered hand. “I’ll take your gun.”
Holliday brushed his coat aside and unholstered an ivory-handled Colt. Extending it butt first, he jerked his chin at Earp. “Wyatt had no part in this. It was just me and Ringo.”
“He’s armed,” Behan said deliberately. “That makes him an accessory.”
“You’ve had your fun,” Holliday warned him. “Don’t get greedy.”
Behan studied Earp a moment, debating with himself. Then he shrugged and glanced at Starbuck. “What about you, Johnson? Got any bright remarks tonight?”
“Nope.” Starbuck squared himself up, grinning. “It’s just like Doc told you, Sheriff. Wyatt and me was innocent bystanders.”
“Careful, Johnson, or people will start callin’ you the alibi-man.”
Starbuck laughed. “Sticks and stones, Sheriff. No way to stop folks from talking.”
“You still keep damn poor company.”
Behan moved back a step, ordering Holliday and Ringo to precede him. Their eyes met in a hostile exchange, then they fell in alongside one another and marched off toward the jail. The deputy collected Ringo’s gunbelt and hurried after Behan. A moment later, the little procession disappeared around the corner.
Starbuck looked sad. “Damn shame! Ringo’s the one that started it, not Doc.”
“C’mon,” Earp grumbled. “I need a drink.”
Starbuck followed him into the Alhambra. There was an empty space at the end of the counter, and Earp told the barkeep to leave the bottle. He knocked back a quick shot, then poured himself another round. Starbuck sipped, allowing the silence to build. His somber expression was genuine, without need of pretense. He was deeply resentful that the gunfight had been thwarted, bollixing what seemed a rare stroke of fortune. Yet he was alert to Earp’s downcast mood. He thought to himself that something might still be salvaged from the night.
At last, with a violent oath, Earp slammed his glass on the bar. “Goddamn Harry Woods anyway!”
“Who?”
“Harry Woods,” Earp said sharply. “That sawed-off little runt that prints the Nugget.”
“Ooh yeah,” Starbuck nodded wisely. “The one that ran that story.”
“Story?” Earp rasped. “It was a death warrant! That’s what brought Ringo out of his hole.”
“Ringo?” Starbuck suddenly played dumb. “What’s he got to do with anything?”
“Hell, he’s one of the Brocius gang.”
“So I’ve heard. But he came after Doc, not you.”
“Yeah, so?” Earp conceded glumly. “What’re you drivin’ at?”
“Well, you said it was Woods’ story that caused it. From
where I stood, it sounded like Ringo’s got something personal against Doc.”
“Bad blood between ’em,” Earp said vaguely. “Goes back a long ways.”
Starbuck looked at him, unable to guess what might be going through his mind. He knew Earp was lying, and could only speculate as to the truth. An expression of idle curiosity on his face, he decided to probe a bit further.
“Must’ve been something mighty fierce. Took a real set of balls for him to brace both of you that way.”
Earp was evasive. “I seem to recollect they had words over cards.”
“Doc and Ringo?”
“You act surprised.”
“I am,” Starbuck deadpanned. “Doc generally plays poker with a better class of people.”
“When we first got here there wasn’t any better class of people. Doc used to ride over to Charleston when things got slow. That’s where he met Ringo.”
“Charleston?”
“Few miles west of here,” Earp said woodenly. “It’s a hangout for cowmen mostly. Doc could always find himself a pick-up game over there.”
“Is that where your trouble with Brocius started?”
Earp stared down at his glass, tightlipped. “What makes you ask?”
“You said there was bad blood between Doc and Ringo. I just naturally figured that would get Brocius into the act.”
“I suppose it did,” Earp said without conviction. “I wish to hell he’d never met any of that crowd.”
Watching him, Starbuck decided not to press too far too fast. Yet, even as they talked, the germ of an idea had taken root in his mind. It was an offshoot of his newspaper gambit, but he realized instantly that it had even greater potential. Somehow he had to bring the Earps and the Brocius gang together in a head-on clash. Not the hit and run tactics of bushwhackers and backshooters. An occasional assassination, even an incident such as tonight’s confrontation, simply wasn’t enough. It had to be total war, no quarter asked and none given. A bloodbath.
Starbuck took a chance. “I wonder if Brocius put Ringo up to making a play for Doc?”
“What gave you that idea?”
