Worlds That Weren't

Ike Clanton had been very busy since Freddie had seen him last. He had wandered over Tombstone for two days, uttering threats against Doc Holliday to anyone who would listen. When he appeared in public with a pistol and rifle, Virgil Earp slapped him over the head with a revolver, confiscated his weapons, and tossed him in jail. Ike paid the twenty-five-dollar fine and returned to the streets, where he went boasting of his deadly intentions, now including the Earps in his threats. After Ike’s brief trial, Wyatt Earp had encountered Ike’s friend Tom McLaury on the street and pistol-whipped him. Now Tom was bent on vengeance, as well. They had been seen in Spangenburg’s gun shop, and had gathered a number of their friends. The Earps and Holliday were armed and ready. Vigilantes were arming all over Tombstone, ready for blood. Behan had promised to stave off disaster by disarming the Cowboys, and he wanted help.

“This is absurd,” Freddie muttered. The clear October light sent daggers into his brain. “They are behaving like fools.”

“They’re down at the corral,” Behan said. “It’s legal for them to carry arms there, but if they step outside I’ll-” He blanched. “I’ll have to do something.”

The first tendrils of the euphoria that followed his migraines began to enfold Freddie’s brain. “Very well,” he said. “I’ll come.”

The lethargy of the drugs warred within Freddie’s mind with growing elation as Behan led Freddie down Allen Street, then through the front entrance of the O.K. Corral, a narrow livery stable that ran like an alley between Allen and Fremont Streets. The Clantons were not in the corral, and Behan was almost frantic as he led Freddie out the back entrance onto Fremont, where Freddie saw the Cowboys standing in the vacant lot between Camillus Fly’s boarding house, where Holliday lodged with his Kate, and another house owned by a man named Harwood.

There were five of them, Freddie saw. Ike and his brother Billy, Tom and Frank McLaury, and their young friend Billy Claiborne, who like almost every young Billy in the West was known as “Billy the Kid,” after another, more famous outlaw who was dead and could not dispute the title. Tom McLaury led a horse by the reins. The group stood in the vacant lot in the midst of a disagreement. When he saw Freddie walking toward him, Billy Claiborne looked relieved.

“Freddie!” he said. “Thank God! You help me talk some sense into these men!”

Ike looked at Freddie with a broad grin. “We’re going to kill Doc Holliday!” he said cheerfully. “We’re going to wait for him to come home, then blow his head off!”

Freddie glanced up at Fly’s boarding house, with its little photographic studio out back, then returned his gaze to Ike. He tried to concentrate against the chorus of euphoric angels that sang in his mind. “Doc won’t be coming back till late,” he said. “You might as well go home.”

Ike shook his head vigorously. “No,” he said. “I’m gonna kill Doc Holliday!”

“Ike,” Freddie pointed out, “you don’t even have a gun.”

Ike turned red. “It’s only because that son of a bitch Spangenburg wouldn’t sell me one!”

“You can’t kill Holliday without a gun,” Freddie said. “You might as well come back to the hotel with me.” He reached out to take Ike’s arm.

“Now wait a minute, Freddie,” said Ike’s brother Billy. “ I’ve got a gun.” He pulled back his coat to show his revolver. “And I think killing Holliday is a sound enough idea. It’ll hurt the Earps. And no one ’round here likes Doc-nobody’s going to care if he gets killed.”

“Holiday and half the town know you’re standing here ready to kill him,” Freddie said. “He’s heeled and so are the Earps. Your ambush is going to fail.”

“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell them!” Billy Claiborne added, and then moaned, “Oh, Lord, they’ll make a blue fist of it!”

“Hell,” said Tom McLaury. The side of his head was swollen where Wyatt Earp had clouted him. “We’ve got to fight the Earps sooner or later. Might as well do it now.”

“I agree you should fight,” Freddie said. “But this is not the time or the place.”

“This place is good as any other!” Tom said. “That bastard Earp hit me for no reason, and I’m going to put a bullet in him.”

“I’m with my brother on this,” said Frank McLaury.

“Nobody can stand up to us!” Ike said. “With us five and Freddie here, the Earps had better start praying.”

Exasperation overwhelmed the exaltation that sang in Freddie’s skull. With the ferocious clarity that was an aspect of his euphoria, he could see exactly what would happen. The Earps were professional lawmen-they did not chew their own tobacco, as Brocius would say-and when they came they would be ready. They might come with a crowd of vigilantes. The Cowboys, half unarmed, would stand wondering what to do, would have no leader, would wait too long to reach a decision, and then they would be cut down.