Recorder’s Court was across the street in one of Dick Gird’s block of buildings. Ike sat on one of the benches holding a handkerchief against the oozing cut on his head.
“I’m going to go find Judge Wallace,” Virgil said.
Morgan leaned against the wall holding Ike’s weapons. Wyatt sat on the bench next to Ike, turned so he could face him. The courtroom was crowded, and everyone in it stared at them.
“I’ll get even for this,” Ike said. “I had something to shoot with, I’d fight you all right now.”
Morgan smiled and held out a Henry Rifle, muzzle down. Ike stared at it. People around them in the courtroom scattered into the street.
“I’ll tell you what, Ike,” Morgan said. “I’ll pay your damn fine if you’ll fight us.”
Ike didn’t move.
“You thieving sonova bitch,” Wyatt said. “You’ve been threatening our lives, and you know it. I could shoot you right here and be justified.”
“Fight is my racket,” Ike said. “All I want is four feet of ground.”
Morgan continued to hold out the rifle. Ike continued not to take it.
“Okay, how about a six-gun too,” Morgan said and offered Ike the Colt he’d taken from him earlier.
Ike didn’t move. One of Behan’s deputies, a squat muscular man whom Wyatt didn’t know, stepped in front of Ike.
“No fuss now,” the deputy said, “I don’t want any fuss.”
Judge Wallace entered the room in back and walked toward the front. There was a big cast-iron stove near the bench. The judge took off his overcoat and hung it on a hook behind his bench. Then he sat down and looked at Clanton and the Earps. The onlookers, who had scattered when the rifle was offered, trailed back in behind the judge. The people close to the stove took off their coats. It was too hot to wear them on the side that faced the stove, though it was cold without a coat on the side away from the stove. The people farther from the stove kept their coats on.
“Nor do I want a fuss,” he said. “What are the charges?”
“Apprehended Ike Clanton carried a concealed weapon on Fremont Street,” Virgil said.
“Rather vigorously, I would say,” Judge Wallace said, looking at Ike’s bleeding head. “How do you plead?”
“Guilty, I guess… Your Honor.”
Judge Wallace nodded.
“Twenty-five dollars.”
Ike took money from his pocket and walked toward the judge with it. Wallace shook his head.
“Not me,” he said, “give it to Mr. Campbell.”
Ike looked embarrassed and veered to the clerk and handed him the money. The clerk wrote out a receipt and gave it to Ike.
“Next case,” Judge Wallace said.
“Where you want to pick up your hardware, Ike?” Virgil said.
“Anyplace you won’t be hitting my fucking head with your six-gun,” Ike said and walked out of the room.
Virgil looked at Morgan and shrugged.
“Drop them off with the bartender,” Virgil said, “over at the Grand.”
Morgan left. Virgil stood with Wyatt in the courtroom, where the spectators still jostled one another and the cast-iron stove reeked unevenly of heat.
“This ain’t gonna go away,” Virgil said.
“No it ain’t.”
“Ike’s a gasbag,” Virgil said.
“It ain’t just Ike,” Wyatt said. “The McLaurys are wound up too, and you know that it’s Behan did the winding.”
“Which means probably that Brocius will be in,” Virgil said.
“And Johnny Ringo.”
“Too bad,” Virgil said.
“Yes, I like him too.”
“Maybe I should settle this with Behan,” Wyatt said.
“Behan won’t fight you,” Virgil said. “He’s got Ike and the cowboys to do that.”
Wyatt didn’t say anything.
“Besides which, he’s the goddamned sheriff,” Virgil said.
Still, Wyatt was silent, watching the business of the courtroom slowly proceed.
“Maybe,” Wyatt said, “we ought to get to it instead of waiting around for one of them to back-shoot us.”
“I’m the city marshal, Wyatt.”
“I’m not,” Wyatt said.
“You shoot somebody down in the street,” Virgil said, “I’m going to have trouble covering that.”
“My guess is, they ain’t going to give us a choice.”
“If they don’t,” Virgil said, “they don’t. We’ll play the cards that turn up.”