Freddie looked at Ike from the his witness' chair. The man stared back at him, disbelief plain on his face, and out of the slant of his eye he saw Holliday look at him thoughtfully.
“Oh yes,” Freddie said. “But Ike is too much the drunken coward to actually carry out his threats. He ran away from the streetfight and left his brother to die in the dust.”
Bullets or nothing, Freddie thought. We shall honor valor or honor shall lie dishonored.
“You son of a bitch,” Ike Clanton said in the Grand Hotel's parlor, after the trial had adjourned for the day. “What did you say those things for?”
“Because they're true,” Freddie said. “Do you think I would lie to protect a worthless dog like you?”
Ike turned red. “You skin that back, you bastard! Skin that back, or I'll settle with you!”
Freddie wiped Ike's spittle from his chin with his handkerchief. “It's Doc Holliday you hate, is it not?” he said. “Why don't you settle with him first?”
“I'm gonna get him! And you, too!”
“Do it now,” Freddie advised, “while you're almost sober. You know where Holliday lives. Perhaps if you work up all your courage you can shoot him in the back.” Freddie reached into his pocket, took hold of Zarathustra, and thumbed back the hammer. Ike's eyes widened at the sound. He made a little whining noise in his throat.
“Don't shoot me!” he blurted.
“You can kill Holliday now,” Freddie said, “or I will shoot you like a dog where you stand. And who will take me to court for such a thing?”
“I'll do it!” Ike said quickly. “I'll kill him! See if I don't!”
“I believe you checked your gun with the desk clerk,” Freddie reminded him.
Freddie followed him to the front desk and kept his hand on the pistol. Ike cast him frantic glances over his shoulder as he was given his gun belt. He made certain his hand was nowhere near the butt of the weapon as he strapped it on—he did not want to give a man with Freddie's murderous reputation a chance to shoot.
Freddie followed Ike out into the street, and glared at him when it looked as if he would step into a saloon for some liquid courage. Ike saw the glare, then began to walk faster down the street. Freddie pursued, boots thumping on the wooden walk. At the end of the long walk, when Fly's boarding house came into sight, Ike was almost running.
Freddie paused then, and began a leisurely stroll to the hotel. Gunfire erupted behind him, but he didn't break stride. He knew Ike Clanton, and he knew John Holliday, and he knew which of the two now lay dead.
*
“The legal case will collapse without a plaintiff,” Freddie said that evening. “The district attorney may file a criminal case, but why would he? He knows the defense would call me as a witness.” He laughed. “And now, after this second killing, Holliday will have to leave town. That is another problem solved.”
Josie stretched luxuriously in Behan's bed. She was wearing a little transparent silken thing that Behan had bought her from out of a French catalogue, and Freddie, lying next to her, let his eyes feast gratefully on the ripeness of her body. She seemed well pleased with his eyes' amorous intentions, and rolled a little in the bed, to and fro, to show herself from different angles.
“You seem very pleased with yourself,” she said.
“I have nothing against Holliday. I like the man. I'm glad he will be out of it.”
“You're the only man alive who likes him. Now that Johnny's killed Wyatt.” A silence hung for a moment in the air, and then Josie rolled over and put her chin on her crossed arms. Her dark eyes regarded him solemnly.
“Yes?” Freddie said, knowing the question that would come.
“There are people who say it was you who shot Wyatt,” she said.
Freddie looked at her. “One of your lovers shot him,” he said. “Does it matter which?”
“Did you kill for me, Freddie?” There was a strange thrill in her voice. “Did you kill Wyatt?”
“If I killed Wyatt,” Freddie said coldly, “it was not for you. I did not do it to make you the heroine of a melodrama.”
She made as if to say something, but she turned her head away, laying her cheek on her hand. Freddie reached out to caress her rich dark hair. “Troy burns for you, my Helen,” he said. “Is it not your triumph?”
“I don't understand you,” she said.
“I am in love with Fate,” Freddie said. “I regret nothing, and neither should you. Everything you do, let it be as if you would—as if you must—do it again ten thousand times.”
She was silent. He reached beneath her masses of hair, took her chin in his fingers, raised her face to his. “Come, my queen,” he said. “Give me ten thousand kisses. And let us not regret a one of them.”
*
Ten thousand kisses! Freddie wrote in his journal. She does not yet understand her power—that she can change the universe, and all the universes yet to be born.
How many times have I killed Earp, in worlds long dead? And how many times must I kill him again? The thought is joy to me. I crave nothing more. Ten thousand bullets, ten thousand kisses. Forever
Amor fati. Love is all.
*
“Sir.” Holliday bowed. Not yet healed, he stood stiffly, and supported his wounded hip with a cane. “The district attorney is of the opinion that Arizona and I must part. I thought I would take my adieu.”
Freddie rose from his wing-backed chair and offered his hand. “I'm sure we'll meet again,” he said.
“Maybe so” He shook the hand, then stood, a frown on his gaunt face. “Freddie—“ he began.
“Yes?”
“Get out of this,” Holliday said. “Take Josie away. Go to California, Nevada, anywhere.”
Freddie laughed. “There's still silver in Tombstone, John.”
“Yes.” He seemed saddened. He hesitated again. “I wanted to thank you, for your words at the trial.”
Freddie made a dismissive gesture. “Ike Clanton wasn't worth the bullets it took to kill him,” he said.
Holliday looked at Freddie gravely. “People might say that of the two of us,” he said.
“I'm sure they would.”
There was another hesitation, another silence. “Freddie,” Holliday said.
“John.” Smiling.
“There is a story that it was you who killed my friend.”
Freddie laughed, though there was a part of his soul that writhed beneath Holliday's gaze. “If I believed all the stories about you—” he began.
“I do not know what to believe,” Holliday said. “And whatever the truth, I am glad I killed that cur Behan. But it is your own friends—your Cowboys—who are spreading this story. They are boasting of it. And if I ever come to believe it is true—or if anything happens to Wyatt's brothers—then God help you.” The words, forced from the consumptive lungs, were surprisingly forceful. “God help all you people.”
Sudden fury flashed through Freddie's veins. “Why do you all place such a value on this Earp! I do not understand you!”
Cold steel glinted in Holliday's eyes. His pale face flushed. “He was worth fifty of you!” he cried. “And a hundred of me!”
“But why?” Freddie demanded.
Holliday began to speak, but something caught in his throat—he shook his head, bowed again, and made his way from the room as blood erupted from his ruined lungs.
*
Who was I to be so upset? Freddie wrote in his journal. It is not as if I do not understand how the world works. Homer wrote of Achilles and Hector battling over Troy, not about philosophers dueling with epigrams. It is people like the Earps who the story-tellers love, and whom they make immortal.
It is only philosophers who love other philosophers—unless of course they hate them.
If I wish to be remembered, I must do as the Earps do. I must be brave, and unimaginative, and die in a foolish way, over nothing.
*
“Why do I smell a dead cat on the line?” Brocius asked. “Fr
eddie, why do I see you at the bottom of all my troubles?”
“Be joyful, Bill,” Freddie said. “You've been found innocent of murder and you have your bond money back—at least for the next hour or two.” He dealt a card face-up to Ringo. “Possible straight,” he observed.
John Ringo contemplated this eventuality without joy. “These words hereafter thy tormentors be,” he said, and poured himself another shot of whisky from the bottle by his elbow.
“I have been solving your problems, not adding to them,” Freddie told Brocius. “I have solved your Wyatt Earp problem. And thanks to me, Doc Holliday has left town.”
Brocius looked at him sharply. “What did you have to do with that?”
“That's between me and Holliday. Pair of queens bets.”
Looking suspiciously at Freddie, Brocius pushed a gold double eagle onto the table. Freddie promptly raised by another double eagle. Ringo folded. Brocius sighed, lazy eyelids drooping.
“What's the next problem you're going to solve?” Brocius asked.
“Other than this hand? It's up to you. After this last killing, your Mr. Fellehy the Laundryman will never be appointed sheriff in Behan's place. They'll want a tough lawman who will work with Virgil Earp to clean up Cochise County. Are you going to call, Bill?”
“I'm thinking.”
“The solution to your problem—this problem—is to remove Virgil Earp from all calculations.”
Ringo gave a laugh. “You'll just get two more Earps in his place!” he said. “That's what happened last time.”
Brocius frowned. “Entities are not multiplied beyond what is necessary.”
Freddie was impressed. “Very good, Bill. I am teaching you, I see.”
Brocius narrowed his eyes and looked at Freddie. “Are you going to solve this problem for me, Freddie?”
“Yes. I think you should fold.”
Brocius pushed out a double eagle “Call. I meant the other problem.”
Freddie dealt the next round of cards. “I think I have solved enough problems for you,” he said slowly. “I am becoming far too prominent a member of your company for my health. I think you should arrange the solution on your own, and I will make a point of being in another place, in front of twenty unimpeachable witnesses.”
Brocius looked at the table and scratched his chin. “You just dealt yourself an ace.”
“And that makes a pair. And the pair of aces bets fifty.” Freddie pushed the money out to the center of the table.
Brocius looked at his hole card, then threw it down.
“Reckon I fold,” he said.
*
“Oh, they have bungled it!” Freddie stormed. “They have shot the wrong Earp!”
He paced madly in Behan's parlor, while Josie watched from her chair. “The assassin was to shoot Virgil!” Freddie said. “He mistook his man and shot Morgan instead—and he didn't even kill him!”
“Who did the shooting?” Josie said.
“I don't know. Some fool.” Freddie paused in his pacing to furiously polish his spectacles. “And I will be blamed. This was supposed to occur when I was in the saloon, playing cards in front of witnesses. Instead it occurred when I was in bed with you.”
She looked at him in surprise. “Ain't I a witness, Freddie?” she said in her mocking New York voice.
Freddie laughed bitterly. “They might calculate that you are prejudiced in my favor.”
“They would be right.” She rose, took Freddie's hands. “Perhaps you should leave Tombstone.”
“And go where?” He put his arms around her. The scent of her French perfume drifted delicately through his senses.
“There are plenty of mining towns in the West,” she said. “Plenty of places to play poker. And almost all have theaters, and will need someone to play the ingenue.”
He looked at her. “My friends are here, Josie. And it is here that you are queen.”
“Amor fati,” she murmured. He felt her shoulders fall slightly in acknowledgment of the defeat, and then she straightened. “I had better learn to shoot, then,” she said. “Will you teach me?”
“I will. But I'm not a very good shot—my eyesight, you know.”
“But you're a—“ She hesitated.
“A killer? A gunman?” He smiled. “Certainly. But all my fights took place at a range of less than five meters—one was in a small room, three meters square. But still—yes—why not? It can do us no harm to be seen practicing.”
“What is the best way to become a gunman?” Josie said.
“Not to care if you die,” Freddie said promptly. “You must not fear death. I was deadly because I knew I was dying. John Holliday is dangerous for the same reason—he knows he must in any case die soon, so why not now? And John Ringo—he does not value his own life, clearly.”
She tilted her head, looked at him carefully. “But you weren't dying at all. You may live as long as any of us. Does that make a fight more dangerous for you?”
Freddie considered this notion in some surprise. He wondered if he now truly had reasons to live, and whether the chief one was now in his arms.
“I am at least experienced in a fight,” he said. “I'll keep my head, and kill or die as a man. It is important, in any case, to die at the right time.”
Small comfort: he felt her tremble. Treasure this while you may, he thought; and know that you have treasured it before, and will again.
*
In the event it was not Freddie who died first. Three days after James Earp was appointed sheriff, Curly Bill Brocius was found dead on the road between Tombstone and Charleston. Two friends lay with him, all riddled with bullets. The only Earp not a suspect was Morgan, with a near-mortal wound in his spine, who had been carried into the county jail, where he was guarded by a half-dozen of the Earp's newly deputized supporters.
The other three Earp brothers, and a number of their friends, were not to be found in town. For several days the sound of volleys boomed off the blue Dragoon Mountains, echoed over the dry hills. Apparently they were not all fired in anger: most were signals from the Earps to their friends, who were bringing them supplies. But still three Cowboys were found dead, shot near their homes; and the Clanton spread was burned. A day later John Ringo rode into town on a lathered horse, claiming he'd been chased by a half-dozen gunmen.
“And Holliday's with them,” Ringo said. “I saw the bastard, big as life.”
Freddie's heart sank. “I was afraid of that.”
“His hip's still bothering him, and Virgil's leg. Otherwise they would have caught me.” He blew dust from his mustache and looked at Freddie. “We need a posse of our own, friend.”
“So we do.”
They called out their friends, but a surprising number had made themselves scarce. Freddie and Ringo assembled a dozen riders, all that remained of Brocius' mighty outlaw army, and hoped to pick up more as they rode.
Josie surprised everyone by showing up in riding clothes at the O.K. Corral, her new pistol hanging from her belt. “I will go, of course,” she said.
Freddie's heart sang in praise of her bravery, but he touched his hat and said, “I believe that Helen should remain on Ilium's topless towers, where it is safe.”
She looked at him, and he saw the jaw muscles tauten. “Those towers burned,” she said. “And I don't want to survive another lover.”
Freddie's heart flooded over. He kissed her, and knew he would kiss her thus time and again, for infinity.
“Come then!” he said. “We shall meet our fate together!”
“Let slip the dogs of war,” Ringo commented wryly, and they rode out of town into a chill dawn.
They followed a pillar of smoke, a mining claim that belonged to one of the Cowboys. No one had been killed because no one was home, but the diggings had been thoroughly burned. From the mine they followed the trail north. After two days of riding they were disappointed to discover that the trail led to the Sierra Bonita, the largest ranch in the district. Ringo and his frie
nds had been running off Sierra Bonita's cattle for years. The place was built like a fort against Apache raids, and if the Earps and their friends were inside, then they were as safe as if they were holed up in Gibraltar.
“Hic funis nihil attraxit,” Ringo muttered, this line has taken no fish. Freddie hoped he didn't smell Brocius' dead cat on the line.
The posse retreated from the Sierra Bonita to consider their options, but these narrowed considerably when they saw a cloud of dust on the northern horizon, a cloud that grew ever closer.
“Looks like we've been out-posse'd,” Ringo said. “Their horses are fresh—we can't outrun them.”
“What do we do?” Freddie gasped. Two days in the saddle, even riding moderately, had exhausted him—unlike Josie, who seemed to thrive once cast in the role of Bandit Queen.
Ringo seemed almost gay. “They have tied us to the stake, we cannot fly.” Freddie could have wished Ringo had not chosen Macbeth. “I think we'd better find a place to fort up,” Ringo said.
Their Dunsinane was a rocky hill barren of life but for cactus and scrub. They hid the horses behind rocks and dug themselves in. Within an hour the larger outfit had found them: the Earps had been reinforced by two dozen riders from the Sierra Bonita, and it looked like a small army that posted itself about the hill and sealed off every exit. The pursuers did not come within gunshot: they knew all they had to do was wait for the Cowboys' water to run out.
Ringo's crew had a smaller store of water than their enemies probably suspected, and one night on the hill would surely exhaust it. “We shall have to fight,” Freddie said.
“Yes.”
“Few of those people have any experience in a combat. Holliday and Virgil Earp are the only two I know of. The rest will get too excited and throw away their fire, and that will give us our chance.”
The Last Ride of German Freddie Page 5
