Gunman's Rhapsody

Twenty-one

Propped against his saddle, Holliday wrote by firelight in a small notebook.

“You writing about our thrilling adventures, Doc?” Wyatt said. “Sell it to one of those magazines in New York City.”

“I’m writing a letter to my cousin,” Holliday said.

“You got a cousin can read?” Morgan said.

“This one can,” Holliday said. “She’s a nun.”

“Goddamn,” Morgan said. “A nun? You a papist, Doc?”

“She is,” Holliday said. “And I don’t want to hear anything about it.”

Morgan shrugged. There was a thin rasp in Holliday’s voice that Morgan recognized. Doc sure did have a hair trigger.

“You telling her about us heroic lawmen?”

Doc snorted.

“I’m telling her that I’ll mail this tomorrow because I’m hauling my sore ass back into Tombstone,” he said, “instead of chasing around in these mountains like a goddamned fool.”

“Quitting, Doc?” Virgil said.

“You’re goddamned right I am,” Doc said. “We ain’t going to catch Billy Leonard or anybody else riding around these mountains. I’m going back and wait for them to show up.”

“He’s right,” Masterson said. “I’m a little saddle sore myself.”

“You’re getting soft, Bat,” Wyatt said.

“I’m getting smart,” Masterson said. “We’re just in the foothills and we’re low on food. You want to wander around out here, until you run out altogether, God bless you. I’m going to get a bath and a hot meal and maybe a whore.”

“We’ll resupply at Joe Hill’s ranch,” Virgil said.

“Resupply my ass,” Holliday said. “Hill’s in with the rustlers as much as Len Redfield.”

“Sure,” Wyatt said. “But he’ll sell us food.”

“I’m going back with Doc,” Masterson said and rolled over in his blankets, with his back to the fire.

“Free country,” Virgil said.

One by one, the posse dropped off to sleep, leaving only Holliday still sitting up by the fire writing in his notebook. The next morning, he and Masterson saddled up right after breakfast and rode their tired horses at an easy pace west toward Tombstone.

Two days later, Johnny Behan, with Billy Breakenridge and Buckskin Frank Leslie to track, caught up with the Earp posse in the valley of the San Simon River near the New Mexico border.

“King busted out,” Breakenridge told them, laughing, while Behan was ahead with Leslie looking for sign. “Henry Jones was drawing up a bill of sale for King’s horse to John Dunbar, and King went out the back door, mounted up and rode away.”

“Who had him?” Virgil asked.

“Harry Woods,” Breakenridge said. “Standing right there.”

“Amazing that Harry didn’t see him go,” Virgil said.

“Amazing,” Breakenridge said.

“Amazing that a horse happened to be saddled out back,” Virgil said.

“Amazing.”

“We’ll be out awhile,” Virgil said. “Somebody ought to go back and look for King.”

He looked at Breakenridge.

“Billy?”

Breakenridge shook his head.

“I’m with Johnny,” he said.

“Why not Johnny?” Morgan said. “He’s the damn sheriff.”

Virgil smiled and shook his head without saying anything.

“Johnny won’t go,” Wyatt said.

“It should be you, Wyatt,” Virgil said. “You’re the best of us anyway.”

Wyatt nodded.

“How long you planning to be out?”

Virgil shrugged.

“A week if we’re lucky, maybe more. See what Johnny says.”

“He’s talking ’bout a week,” Breakenridge said.

“Luther’s got a two-day start on me, three at least by the time I get to Tombstone.”

“What I don’t want,” Virgil said, “is for Luther to be swaggering around town making us look like a bunch of goddamned jackasses.”

Wyatt nodded.

“If he’s around town,” Wyatt said, “I’ll make sure he don’t swagger.”

He and Virgil grinned at each other. Then Wyatt turned his horse and rode slowly away, toward Tombstone, thinking about Josie Marcus. There was nothing new in that. He thought about Josie Marcus most of the time.

“A week,” he said to the chestnut gelding he was riding. The horse’s ears moved slightly. “A goddamned week.”