by John Shirley
Mattie was with him tonight, sitting at his elbow, chatting condescendingly with the saloon girls, pretending not to see the men who winked at her. She got tired of staying home alone in the evening and James’s place was almost respectable, compared to some in Wichita.
Contemplating a pair of Jacks and wondering if they augured well for staying in the hand, Wyatt was thinking too, that as he’d won two hundred dollars tonight, he could afford to take Mattie up to St. Louis, to see a show and do a little shopping. She needed an outing, to get over being so restive.
Someone passing the table jostled his arm and he looked up in mild irritation. Then he stared.
It was that swindler from Deadwood. Swineton, or whatever his name had been. Swinnington, that was it. His yellow suit was getting dingy and frayed—and it appeared he might pop a seam himself as he recognized Wyatt. “Sir I do … I do, ah, apologize, I didn’t mean to interrupt a gentlemanly game of—that is—Oh, say …” He started to turn away—then something seemed to occur to him and he turned back, licked his lips. “Do I understand that you were interested in information about—” He lowered his voice and leant near. “—about that poor girl who died at Bessie Earp’s establishment … If you were to provide a small, ah, gratuity …”
“People who come and offer information for money are prone to making it up,” Wyatt observed, looking hard at Swinnington.
“I see … I … well perhaps not. Actually it might be best …” He swallowed and backed away. “Excuse me.” He turned and headed hastily for the door to the street, with many backward glances at Wyatt.
It seemed to Wyatt that Swinnington was acting guilty—acting like a man of the theater. Still and all, Swinnington had some connection with Burke—asking around Deadwood, Wyatt had confirmed that they’d been seen together. A connection with Burke was a connection with Pierce. What else would this Swinnington know about?
Wyatt turned to Mattie, seeing her smother a yawn. “You’re tired,” he observed. “And this hand doesn’t look promising.” He threw in his cards, surrendered his ante and collected his winnings. Not bad, just under three hundred dollars …
He walked Mattie to the door, almost dragging her by the elbow, hastening to see where Swinnington had gone. The yellow suit was easy to spot, even in a darkness scarcely moderated by the oil lamps—the confidence man was headed toward the bridge over the Arkansas River. He wanted to follow but he had to take Mattie to the hotel …
“Wyatt, Mattie—how are you folks this balmy night?” It was Dave Leahy, strolling down the wooden sidewalk toward them.
“We’re very well, Mr. Leahy,” said Mattie, with the ghost of a curtsey—she liked to play at seeming ladylike on the streets. But if she had a bit too much to drink, or an extra swallow of the pain medicine she sometimes got from the pharmacist, the sewing-circle lady in her tended to disappear.
Wyatt was still watching Swinnington, who was becoming hard to see as he went farther from the street lamps. “Mattie—I’ve got to look into something. It concerns that girl who was killed. There’s a gent I want to talk to.” He turned to Leahy, giving him a meaningful look. “Dave, could you …?”
“I’d be honored to escort the lady home. But Wyatt—you will give me the story, later?”
“I’ll give it to you—then the question will be …” Wyatt left the rest unsaid: The question will be: Will they let you print it?
Leahy compressed his lips, looked at the ground and shrugged.
Mattie took Wyatt’s hand. “Wyatt—don’t leave me now …”
“I’ll be there soon enough, Mattie,” Wyatt said, patting her hand gently.
She made an exasperated noise in her throat and let Leahy take her arm. She spoke loudly, so Wyatt would hear, as they walked away together. “Dear Mr. Leahy—you look very handsome tonight in your coat and tails! Truly very handsome!”
Wyatt hurried after Swinnington. He was thinking he might catch him somewhere alone. He could apply some pressure to discover just what Swinnington knew of Burke and Pierce—and Dandi LeTrouveau.
He was within fifty paces of the bridge when he realized that he’d lost sight of Swinnington. And there was an uproar coming from the Delano side of the river. Gunshots, then whoops and hollers.
Wyatt peered through the darkness, trying to see what was happening on the other side of the bridge. He saw flashes, heard the crack and thump of gunfire, a clatter of hooves.
Out of the corner of his eye Wyatt glimpsed someone hurrying toward him. He tensed, spinning on his heel toward them, starting to draw his pistol—
“Don’t shoot, Wyatt, it’s me!” It was Bat, carrying a shotgun. “I was over at Meagher’s office and I heard shots—he let me borrow the shotgun.”
“I’ll take the 12-gauge, Bat, if that’s all right—will you get Virgil for me? You know where his place is, down the street …”
“Are you sure? Maybe we should get Smith!”
The clatter of hooves became a raggedly rolling drumbeat as the horses struck the wood of the bridge.
“He isn’t in town. Sounds like the drovers are hurrahing the town. I can’t let them get over the bridge. We got to keep them bottled up. Just go! When you get back, come through that alley there by the blacksmith!”
Bat nodded, tossed him the shotgun and hurried off on his errand.
Wyatt started toward the bridge. But some inward voice told him he was being foolish. He suspected, now, that Swinnington had been sent to lure him here. And he was a bigger fool to put himself in the line of fire when he was no more than a Special Deputy. He didn’t have the legal authority—unless you counted citizen’s arrest.
That would have to be sufficient. Because now he saw that the riders, coming off the bridge with their guns cracking, firing at street lamps and windows, were bent on hurrahing the town—there would be wreckage, probably someone shot from a stray bullet. Hurrahing was something Wyatt could not bear. And he made out Abel “Shanghai” Pierce riding a big horse in the lead.
They were coming right at Wyatt, some of them pointing at him—he heard someone shouting, “There’s that Earp!”
He needed to think about tactics. He stepped back, hurried to the shadowy-draped corner of the blacksmith’s workshop, and set the shotgun down, leaning it against the wall.
Another flurry of gunshots came. Window glass shattered somewhere and a woman screamed. Hooves thudded the street.
Drawing his pistol, Wyatt stepped back around the corner of the building, still in shadow—and found himself facing Shanghai Pierce who was just climbing down from his horse about forty feet away. With him were George Hoy, Grigsby, Dudley, Creighton, Mannen Clements, and three cowboys whose names he didn’t know, including the one who’d tried to play piano at Ida May’s—the amateur pianist looked less affable now. No sign of Swinnington.
Not seeing Wyatt yet, Pierce seemed to be headed to a closed and locked grocery store. A sign in the window advertised whiskey by the bottle. “We’ll get us some drinks to take with us,” Pierce was saying, flipping his pistol and raising his arm preparatory to smashing the window with his gun butt. “We’ll let this town know it’s been annexed to Texas!”
“Mr. Pierce!” Wyatt shouted, drawing his Colt. “Do not break that window!” He leveled his gun at Pierce.
Pierce froze, arm still cocked—then he let the gun droop by his side and turned toward Wyatt. “Here you are, Earp, sooner’d I’d hoped.” He smiled crookedly.
Wyatt heard another horse and turned to see Burke riding into view, coming up behind the others. George Hoy, Creighton, Clements, and Grigsby were already pointing their pistols at Wyatt.
Wyatt kept his gun on Pierce—and he backed up, toward the narrow alley by the blacksmith’s workshop.
“Look at that!” Hoy chuckled. “He’s fixing to run!”
Wyatt did make haste, then—into the alley. He holstered his pistol and swept up the shotgun. Bat and James Earp and Deputy Potts were in the alley, as he’d hoped, coming toward him.
Bat had come across James before Virgil—and Meagher had sent the chunky, nervous deputy Potts. They were all armed.
Wyatt put a finger to his lips, pointed back down the alley, then gestured for them to circle the blacksmith’s low wooden building. They hurried back through the alley …
“Earp! You hiding back there?” It was Burke, trotting his horse up close to the alley’s mouth.
Wyatt stepped out into sight, leveling the shotgun at Burke’s chest and thumbing the hammers back. “Just went for my artillery, Johann.”
Burke hesitated, knowing that if he fired a shot, Wyatt would pull the trigger as he fell—the shotgun wouldn’t miss at this range.
Wyatt saw Pierce move closer—bringing his pistol into play. Clements cocked his gun …
“What’s your orders, Mr. Pierce?” Hoy asked. “Seems to me this here is real opportunity …”
Pierce hesitated. Then his eyes hardened. Wyatt tightened his finger on the shotgun triggers, deciding that he would take Burke down with him …
“Mr. Pierce!” Bat shouted, stepping out into the street, behind Pierce. James, Potts, and Bat spread out behind the cowboys, guns in hand.
“Look here, you damned yahoos!” James shouted, pointing his pistol, his voice gravelly with thousands of nights in smoky bar rooms.
“The law’s here now!” Potts shouted, but more tentatively. “The fun’s over, fellas!”
Shanghai Pierce and his men turned to take in James Earp, Bat Masterson, and Deputy Potts, spreading out behind them—Bat was aiming his Winchester at Pierce himself. Pierce saw that he and his bunch were outflanked. “Now that’s a helluva sneaky tactic, damn you …”
Wyatt allowed himself a small smile. He had used classic military tactics, retreating a short distance to draw an enemy after him, so that he could move into a position of strength while his reinforcements outflanked his enemy. It was another thing Newton had told him about. “Burke—put that gun away.”
Burke licked his lips. He looked over his shoulder at James, who was pointing his pistol at Burke’s back. Then he holstered the gun. “All right, boys. But I’m not spending the night in jail. The accommodations aren’t up to my standards.” He turned and galloped away.
Bat swung his Winchester after Burke—he seemed to be thinking about shooting the gunfighter off his horse.
Wyatt called out, “Bat—he’s got away. Let’s just take these others in …”
Wyatt heard cheering and turned to see a group of assorted local citizens, some in their nightgowns, across the street, watching.
“The hell you’re taking me to jail!” Pierce snorted.
Wyatt turned back to Pierce, stepping close—Pierce’s gun was now pointed at the boardwalk.
“I’ll say it twice!” Pierce declared. “I’ll be damned if you’ll arrest me, boy! You haven’t got the authority.”
“You can call it a citizen’s arrest if you want,” Wyatt said softly. “Or you can say I’m backing up Potts there. But you’re going to jail. You shot holes in every damn wall and window this side of Wichita. Now give me your gun.” He raised the shotgun.
“Go to the devil! You won’t shoot me with that shotgun for disturbing the peace!”
“No, I won’t shoot you.” Wyatt eased the shotgun’s hammers off cock. “But Mr. Pierce …” Wyatt met Pierce’s eyes, and he spoke simply, clearly, and with conviction, straight from the center of his being, as he slapped the shotgun barrel down hard into the palm of his left hand. “… you give me that gun, or I’ll bust your arm in two.”
For a long moment, Pierce searched Wyatt’s face.
Then he handed over his gun.
* * *
At nine o’clock the next morning, while Pierce’s new attorney was paying the cattle baron’s fine—contemptuously tossing fifty dollars onto the court clerk’s table—Wyatt was tossing Henry McCarty’s grip up to John Slaughter. Henry stood silently next to the stagecoach’s open door.
Slaughter was working full-time for Wells Fargo now and he’d be driving the stagecoach from Wichita to points West and South.
“You could work for us anytime, you know that, don’t you, Wyatt?” Slaughter asked, as he stowed the grip in the rack behind him.
“If I’m in the mood to have my hair parted by a bullet, I’ll sign up,” Wyatt said.
“By God, I think Wyatt just made a joke,” said Bat, walking up to them. “That’s the second one this year!”
“I heard him make one once, about giving me to the Sioux,” Henry mumbled.
“Sounds like Wyatt’s light-hearted humor,” Bat said.
Wyatt and Henry looked at one another, neither speaking. Henry was wearing a catalog suit that Mattie had picked out for him, with knee breeches and tweed cap, and he didn’t seem comfortable in the outfit.
“Henry,” Wyatt said, at last, “You have a hundred-forty dollars now—and besides that I’ve given you money for the telegraph, so if there’s any real problem with Mr. Antrim, you’re to tell me. And … write me. Let me know how it is for you, in New Mexico.”
Henry shrugged. “Maybe I will,” Henry said. He bit his lip. He seemed morose—but there was another feeling showing in his eyes too.
Wyatt cleared his throat. “I uh …”
Henry shook his head decisively, and climbed up into the stagecoach. “I’ll find my way, okay.”
“You think about what I told you,” Wyatt said. “You remember. Some trails only run downhill.”
And wondering if he were doing the right thing, Wyatt closed the door on the stagecoach.
Henry turned away from him, as if refusing to say goodbye—then suddenly he turned back and thrust his hand through the window.
He and Wyatt shook hands, for the last time. “Thanks,” Henry said, his voice choked with emotion. “Whatever happens—I thank you.”
He let go of Wyatt’s hand and sat back in the coach, staring straight ahead. Slaughter waved to Wyatt and gave the reins a snap. The horses whinnied, and the coach rolled away, sending up plumes of dust from the wheels.
Bat and Wyatt looked after the coach, watching it all the way down the street. Then they went to find some breakfast.
“I wonder what’ll become of him,” Bat said, at last.
Wyatt shook his head sadly.
And in fact, he never would know what happened to Henry McCarty, because he hadn’t known him by the other names that Henry adopted later. One of those names was William Bonney.
But most people would know him by his nickname.
Billy the Kid.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
“They call it the Atchison, Topeka, and Santa Fe … but it don’t go to Santa Fe,” Pierce grumbled, “Maybe some day. I’ve got to get off the train in Medicine Lodge …”
Pierce was in his seat, Burke standing in the aisle, in the first class passenger car of the 6 p.m. train to Points South. They could hear the engine snorting as the boiler got up steam; the smokestack was beginning to gush ash and some of it spiraled in through the open window. But the train hadn’t budged an inch yet.
“Shut that window up there, for me, Johann, would you? The goddamn train … Getting ash on my suit …”
Burke went to close the window, and returned, thinking that Pierce’s grumbling about the train was cover for what was really eating at him. “I’m sorry you spent the night in jail, Mr. Pierce,” said Burke, in a low voice, leaning near him, “but I tried to tell you the man has no respect for you.”
Pierce looked around the car before answering. The only other passenger in first class was a fleshy man with oiled back hair, already snoring, at the back of the wood-and-silver trimmed lounge car. “I’ll tell you what, Johann—Wyatt Earp humiliated me in front of the whole town …”
Burke nodded. “Adding insult, City Council voted unanimously, this afternoon, to offer him a job as Assistant Town Marshal. Smith doesn’t like it, of course, but he’s stuck with him.”
“So I heard. Your damn fault Earp got that job, Johann. That hurra
hing was your idea. I had this town sewn up. The whole mess is your fault. Including me getting arrested. Uncle Fergus, he …” His voice trailed off.
“No sir, wasn’t my fault. I blame Earp—he didn’t have to arrest you. No real harm was done. He could’ve just taken the guns for the night, sent you to your hotel. Let you pay a fine. But the bastard just had to humiliate you. How far will he go? Hell, the real question is, what’s to be done about it?”
Pierce thought for a moment, watching the smoke blackening the window. “It don’t matter whose fault it was. Not now. He shamed me. And he’s too damned nosy. It’s a matter of pride as well as prudence … I’ll give you seven hundred dollars.”
“What about the boy? That McCarty runt.”
“Happens I heard Earp sent him to New Mexico. Never mind, Earp’s your target.”
Burke tapped the butt of his gun with his forefinger. “We understand what the money is for, Mr. Pierce? We’re clear on that?”
Pierce nodded grimly. “It’s to take care of a son of a bitch who made me look like a fool in front of my men. And it’s to make definite-sure he isn’t around to stick his nose into anything he shouldn’t be sticking it into. That clear enough?”
“Yes sir. I’ll need expenses out front …”
The train shrilled its whistle as Pierce took out a checkbook and a pen. “Here’s a bank draft for half. Take it to the Wichita Bank of Commerce. They’ll honor it without blinking. When it’s all done, and done completely, telegraph me like this: Wolf will no longer trouble herd. You understand, Burke? Say nothing else in the telegram.”
The train gave a wrench, not quite rolling but seeming to strain at the bit; the whistle shrieked again, and the billow of gray black smoke eclipsed the windows completely so that the train car darkened as if the sun had set.
Burke smiled. “I understand you perfectly well, Mr. Pierce.” He touched his hat, and hurried to get off the train. He had a wolf to hunt.
* * *
Wyatt, Mattie, and Bat were walking down the sunny street in search of coffee. Wyatt yawned—he’d been up till four in the morning. He waved through the open door at Marshal Meagher as they passed his office. Seeing Wyatt, Meagher got up from his desk, gesturing for them to hold on.
