Gunman's Rhapsody

Thirty

They ran into each other having breakfast in the same cafe in Benson. Wyatt had finished some mining business and Johnny Ringo was finished with whatever business Johnny Ringo had. Now, full of coffee and bacon and fried sourdough, they were riding south together toward Tombstone.

The horses were allowed to drink their fill before they left Benson, and now in the hard, dry heat they were allowed to find their own pace. Wyatt was riding the same still-sound blue roan gelding he’d ridden north to Wichita from the buffalo fields. Ringo was on a gray horse with the flared nostrils and smallish head that hinted at Arabian ancestry.

“There’s a lot of bad feelin’ building,” Ringo said. “Curley Bill don’t like how you boys jumped him when Fred White got shot.”

“Don’t know why he would,” Wyatt said.

The road was dry, and the horses kicked up dust with every step. On either side the desert vegetation seemed fossilized in the heat.

“Ike Clanton’s been snarling and spitting like a wet bobcat since Virgil took up for Denny McCann.”

“I think Virgil was takin’ up for the law, John,” Wyatt said.

“Prob’ly,” Ringo said. “But it got Ike a split lip, and he ain’t too good at seeing the differences among things.”

“That’s pretty much Ike’s problem,” Wyatt said.

He edged the blue roan left a bit with his right knee, to keep him from nosing Ringo’s mare.

“Ike’s pretty cinched in with Behan,” Ringo said.

“Uh-huh.”

“And so is Curley Bill,” Ringo said.

“Uh-huh.”

“And Behan’s mad as hell at you.”

“I expect he is,” Wyatt said.

“Hope that girl’s worth it,” Ringo said.

“Miss Marcus,” Wyatt said.

Ringo grinned. He was mostly an easy-tempered man, Wyatt thought. And even when he wasn’t, he kept steady.

“Miss Marcus,” Ringo said.

He was slimmer than Wyatt and not as tall, and he had a kind of gracefulness about him. Like a bullfighter. Wyatt had seen bullfights in Mexico. He hadn’t liked them much, but he’d admired how quick and smooth the matadors were. Johnny Ringo reminded him of a matador. Everything was easy and graceful and much quicker than you thought it would be.

“She’s worth it,” Wyatt said.

The road went uphill, and the horses slowed. Ringo rode easily, relaxed in the saddle, his hands resting quietly on the pommel. He looked as if he could sleep on the horse if he had no one to talk with.

“I ride with Curley Bill,” Ringo said.

“I know.”

“Can’t say I got much use for Ike. Seems to be mostly gut wind and mouth.”

“That’s Ike,” Wyatt said.

“Got nothing against you Earps, either,” Ringo said. “You’re looking out for yourselves like the rest of us.”

“We are,” Wyatt said.

“And none of you is a back shooter.”

“Nope.”

“Which is more than I can say for Ike,” Ringo said.

“I know.”

“But Curley Bill and me…” Ringo thought a moment how he wanted to say it. “We look out for each other.”

“Like me and my brothers,” Wyatt said.

“Just like that,” Ringo said. “So if there’s trouble, and there will be if it’s up to Behan…” Again Ringo paused, turning over what he’d say. “If there’s trouble I got no choice,” he said. “I’m with Bill.”

“Can’t be helped,” Wyatt said.

“No,” Ringo said. “It can’t.”

The sky was cloudless. The horses walked quietly beside each other, heads half down, hooves muffled in the soft, dry dirt of the trail. In the desert heat, sweat evaporated from the riders almost the instant that it formed.

“Wish it could,” Ringo said.

Wyatt said nothing.