Wyatt stared at his brother. In his life it was probably the longest uninterrupted set of sentences Virgil had ever spoken. He spoke softly, without heat, almost as if he were thinking aloud. Allie came in as he finished.
“You need anything else, Virgil?” she said.
“No,” Virgil said.
He put his right arm around her waist.
“I got everything I need,” Virgil said.
Forty-eight
“How about a little whiskey,” Morgan said. “And some pool.”
“How about a lot of whiskey and some pool,” McMasters said.
“Sounds even better,” Morgan said, and they turned in at Campbell and Hatch’s Saloon. In the back where the pool tables were, McMasters and Tipton concentrated on whiskey. Wyatt drank coffee and watched while Morgan, his drink sitting on the edge of the table, played his second game with Robert Hatch, who owned the place. Some of the other drinkers had gathered to watch. The back door had a four-pane glass window. The bottom two were painted over, the top two clear. The wind rattled the door and the rain spattered hard against the glass, showing in thick, short streams as it ran down the clear glass. But the window was tight. The stove was working full out. George Berry, standing near it, had steam coming off of his wet mackinaw. The room was warm.
Hatch left the six ball teetering at the edge of the far corner pocket. Morgan smiled.
“Tough shot, Bob,” Morgan said. “What a shame.”
He leaned over the table behind the cue ball, sighting the shot.
“Six in the corner,” he said.
One of the windowpanes exploded and Morgan sprawled across the table. Near the stove Berry staggered as the same bullet took him in the thigh. Morgan gasped. Wyatt had his Colt half out when a second shot drove into the wall above his head. Wyatt lunged to the pool table beside Morgan and threw himself partly over him. The Colt was all the way out now, and he stared into the wet wind that surged in through the shattered glass. McMasters yanked the door open, and he and Hatch rushed out into the rain.
“Get Goodfellow,” Wyatt yelled. “Goddammit, get Goodfellow.”
By the time Goodfellow got there, Morgan had been moved to the couch in Hatch’s card room. Goodfellow knelt beside him and looked. He put a hand on Morgan’s shoulder and stood up. Goodfellow didn’t say anything. Wyatt didn’t ask anything. They both knew what there was to know. Another doctor arrived to examine George Berry’s leg. Slowed by its passage through Morgan, the bullet had barely lodged in Berry’s thigh. The doctor took it out with an extractor and bandaged the wound. Wyatt crouched beside his brother; Morgan was breathing badly. He didn’t try to talk. He knew what Wyatt knew. They had both seen too many men shot dead to be fooled this time. Virgil and Allie came in. James and Bessie arrived. Wyatt stayed with his head next to Morgan’s. Once Morgan whispered to him. Wyatt nodded and whispered back and then everyone was quiet.
“Are my legs out straight?” Morgan said softly.
“Yes.”
No one said anything else. Allie and Bessie cried softly.
And Morgan died.
CHRONICLE
FOR VIOLATING THE NEUTRALITY LAWS
* * *
* * *
A LEGACY FOR A COLORED WOMAN
* * *
CARRIED AWAY BY ANGELS
* * *
BASE BALL GROUNDS,
* * *
GLOBE THEATER-EXTRA
* * *
“It was him killed Morgan, him and Will McLaury,” Doc said. “I don’t know they pulled the trigger, but they done it, either way.”
With the rain coming hard and the wind pushing at him, he walked up Allen Street armed with a Colt.45 on his hip and a Smith amp; Wesson hammerless.32 in a shoulder rig. Every door he came to he opened. If a door was locked he would kick it in, and curse the people whom he often rousted out of bed. In the saloons even the nastiest or drunkest of the patrons had nothing to say to him. His eyes were bottomless, his face was ashen. His clothing was soaked and his face was wet. Occasionally he stopped to pull at the whiskey bottle. When it was empty he threw it against the side of a saloon and watched it shatter. Then he went into the gaslight and reeking stove heat and took a nearly full bottle off the bar and drank some and scanned the room.
“Johnny Behan,” he shouted. “Behan, you back-shooting son of a bitch.”
Behan was not in the room. No one said anything. Doc rushed out, his Colt hanging loosely in his right hand, his left with a new bottle of whiskey. He didn’t pay for the whiskey. No one asked him to. He continued up Allen past Sixth Street and started kicking in doors in the cribs where the whores were. Behan wasn’t there. Neither was Will McLaury. Doc turned toward Toughnut Street where the miners lived. Again he banged on doors and pushed in past whoever answered. All night he rambled through Tombstone in the harsh rain with his gun in his hand, drinking, looking for Behan. Near dawn he stood in the middle of Fremont Street in front of the San Jose Rooming House and turned his face up to the downpour and screamed, “Behan,” at the black sky. Then he stumbled back down Fremont to Fourth Street and up Fourth into the face of the storm toward the Cosmopolitan Hotel. In the lobby he tossed the partly drunk whiskey bottle onto the lobby floor. The remaining whiskey spilled silently onto the carpet as Doc climbed the stairs to his room and went in and fell facedown on his bed, where he lay motionless, the Colt in his hand, his clothes soaked with rainwater, and cried.
Fifty
“It’s Stilwell,” Virgil said. “Everybody in town knows it was him. It was pretty surely him I saw heading toward the waterworks the night they shot me.”
Wyatt wrote down Stilwell’s name.
“Which means it was Behan,” Wyatt said.
“Stilwell’s his deputy.”
Wyatt wrote
“And Pete Spence and Indian Charlie.”
“That’s the talk.”
Wyatt wrote those names.
“McLaury was gone for two days when they shot Morgan,” Wyatt said. “He’s out of it.”
“Ike?” Virgil said.
“Nobody thinks so,” Virgil said.
Wyatt wrote down his name.
“Put him down anyway, in case I come across him.”
“Nobody be mad at you for shooting Ike,” Virgil said. “Sooner or later you’re going to have to deal with Curley Bill and Ringo.”
“I know.”
“People been coming to see me all night,” Virgil said. “There’s talk they were in on it.”
“Nothing much happens with the cowboys that Bill and Ringo don’t want to happen. Behan don’t do much that they don’t want done.”
“I know.”
“And they’re tight with Stilwell. You bring him down, they’re going to be looking for you.”
“They’ll be able to find me,” Wyatt said.
“Stay away from Behan,” Virgil said. “What with you romancing his woman, it’ll look like you murdered him to get her.”
Wyatt didn’t say anything. His face was expressionless.
“Besides which, he’s still the sheriff,” Virgil said. “Even Crawley can’t smooth it over if you shoot the sheriff.”
Wyatt nodded.
“I won’t drag her into this,” Wyatt said. “I kill anybody, it won’t be over Josie.”
Virgil nodded as if to himself. He rubbed his good hand over his jaw as though to see if he needed a shave.
“You know, and I know, that this is about Josie,” Virgil said. “You may have to kill Behan. If you’re too certain you won’t, he may get to kill you.”
“I won’t have to kill him,” Wyatt said. “Behan’s got no spine for coming at me alone.”
“He ain’t alone,” Virgil said.
“He will be,” Wyatt said.
Virgil stared for a time at his brother.
“You’re going to kill them all,” Virgil said.
“All I can find,” Wyatt said.
“Legal?” Virgil said.
“No. I am not a lawman now. I’m Morgan Earp’s brother.”
“And mine,” Virgil said softly.