Gunman's Rhapsody

“Come in here, talk loud, make trouble. Whiskey is whiskey,” Joyce said. “Cards are cards. Lot of other places to get them in this town. Man makes trouble here, people will go where there’s no one making trouble.”

“And you want me to deal with Tyler.”

“Yes.”

“And you’ll give me a quarter interest.”

“Better you get a quarter than Tyler gets it all,” Joyce said.

“I expect that would be better,” Wyatt said. “On the other hand, you could probably get Doc Holliday to shoot him for nothing.”

Joyce shook his head.

“I know he’s a friend of yours, Wyatt, but Doc’s crazy.”

“And you think I’m not,” Wyatt said.

“Not like Doc.”

Wyatt smiled.

“No,” he said. “Not like Doc.”

“You game?” Joyce said.

“Our politics are pretty different,” Wyatt said.

“This ain’t a political deal,” Joyce said.

“Suppose it isn’t,” Wyatt said. “I’ll talk with my brother.”

“I need a quick answer,” Joyce said. “I’m already having trouble with Tyler.”

“Let you know tomorrow.”

“I guess I can hang on until then,” Joyce said.

Wyatt shifted in his chair.

“I’ll take that coffee now,” he said.

Joyce spoke to the barman, and he brought a cup. Wyatt held it with both hands resting on the table.

“Saw Johnny Behan with a new woman,” Wyatt said.

“Yes. He brought her back from Denver.”

“I think I saw her last year in a show came through here,” Wyatt said. He wasn’t looking at Joyce. He was looking disinterestedly around the room, which in the early afternoon was nearly empty.

“Could be,” Joyce said. “She’s supposed to be some kind of actress.”

“Name was Josie something,” Wyatt said.

“Marcus,” Joyce said. “Josephine Marcus. Jewish. Johnny introduced me to her.”

“Nice-looking woman,” Wyatt said.

Eight

All of the Earps were there, around a table in Hatch’s Saloon. Two cowboys were drinking beer and playing pool behind them, while several of their friends drank beer and watched. The bar was lined nearly solid with a mix of cowboys, miners, and townsmen. At a table near the front four bullwhackers played cards while they waited for their wagons to be loaded. Some whores, dressed for work, were having late breakfast at another table. They looked kind of tired in the daylight, Wyatt thought.

“Be a nice foot in the door at the Oriental,” James said. “Frank Joyce is an up-and-comer.”

“You know Tyler?” Virgil said.

Wyatt nodded.

“You know his reputation?”

“Gunhand.”

Virgil nodded slowly.

“Wyatt’s a pretty fair gunhand himself,” Morgan said.

“ Tyler won’t back off,” Virgil said. “You go against him, you have to mean it.”

“I always mean it,” Wyatt said.

“Quarter interest in a place like the Oriental is worth something,” James said.

“And we can handle Tyler,” Morgan said.

“I think ‘we’ ain’t getting the quarter interest,” Virgil said.

“Oh hell, Virg. You know if one of us is in, all of us are in,” Morgan said.

As he had at the McLaury ranch, Morgan brushed his gunhand up and down his shirtfront, as if drying the tips of his fingers. Trouble’s like a carnival for Morgan, Wyatt thought.

“All of us ain’t always going to be around,” Virgil said. “You ready to go against Tyler alone, Wyatt?”

“Yes.”

“He’s a back shooter,” Virgil said.

“I’ll try to keep him in front of me,” Wyatt said.

“I say he takes the offer,” Jim said.

“Me too,” Morgan said.

“You want to do it, Wyatt?”

“Might as well.”

“Well, then I guess you will. No reason to go against Tyler alone, though, if you don’t have to. He starts trouble, send for me and Morgan.”

Wyatt nodded. His hands rested motionless on the tabletop. His eyes moving, as they always were, taking in the room: whores, pool players, drinkers, cardplayers, the sound of glassware, the clink of pool, the smell of whiskey, the economical, practiced movements of the bartender. He liked the rhythm of saloon life very much.

“You do it, Wyatt,” James said. “It’s why you got brothers.”

Wyatt smiled slowly, almost as if his mind were somewhere else and had just refocused.

“Yes,” he said. “I know.”

Nine

John Behan’s white frame house on Third Street had a slant-roofed piazza across the front. There were two straight chairs to the right of the front door. Behan opened the door.

“Wyatt,” he said. “Thanks for coming.”

Wyatt nodded and stepped into the house. The front room was papered in beige with a European landscape the featured motif. Josie Marcus stood behind Behan, and when he saw her, Wyatt took off his hat.

“This is my fiancée, Wyatt, Miss Josephine Marcus.”

“Nice to meet you,” Wyatt said. “I remember seeing you in Pinafore on Wheels a while back.”

“Well, how nice of you to remember,” she said. “It wasn’t a very big part.”

Wyatt didn’t say anything. She was aware that his gaze rested on her, and she felt its weight. She noticed at once how tall he was, taller than Johnny, who was regarded as tall, with a hard look of muscle to him, harder than Johnny, and much quieter. Johnny was a talker. This one was not. This one was quiet to his soul, she thought. And, perhaps, quite dangerous.

“Sit down, my friend,” Behan said. “Josie, maybe you could make us some coffee.”