Worlds That Weren't

“Ike Clanton said he was going to kill Doc Holliday,” Freddie testified. “His brother supported him, and so did the McLaurys. Claiborne and I were trying to talk sense into their stupid heads, but Ike was abusive, so I left in disgust.”

There was stunned silence in the courtroom. Freddie was a witness for the prosecution, but was handing the defense its case on a plate.

The prosecution witnesses had agreed on a story ahead of time, how the Cowboys had been unarmed, and the Earps the aggressors. Now Freddie was blowing the case to smithereens.

Price, the district attorney, was so stunned by Freddie’s testimony that he blurted out what had to be absolutely the wrong question. “You say that Ike was intending to kill Mr. Holliday?”

Freddie looked at Ike from his witness chair. The man stared back at him, disbelief plain on his face, and out of the slant of his eye he saw Holliday look at him thoughtfully.

“Oh, yes,” Freddie said. “But Ike is too much the drunken coward to actually carry out his threats. He ran away from the streetfight and left his brother to die in the dust.”

Bullets or nothing, Freddie thought. We shall honor valor or honor shall lie dishonored.

“You son of a bitch,” Ike Clanton said in the Grand Hotel’s parlor, after the trial had adjourned for the day. “What did you say those things for?”

“Because they’re true,” Freddie said. “Do you think I would lie to protect a worthless dog like you?”

Ike turned red. “You skin that back, you bastard! Skin that back, or I’ll settle with you!”

Freddie wiped Ike’s spittle from his chin with his handkerchief. “It’s Doc Holliday you hate, is it not?” he said. “Why don’t you settle with him first?”

“I’m gonna get him! And you, too!”

“Do it now,” Freddie advised, “while you’re almost sober. You know where Holliday lives. Perhaps if you work up all your courage you can shoot him in the back.” Freddie reached into his pocket, took hold of Zarathustra, and thumbed back the hammer. Ike’s eyes widened at the sound. He made a little whining noise in his throat.

“Don’t shoot me!” he blurted.

“You can kill Holliday now,” Freddie said, “or I will shoot you like a dog where you stand. And who will take me to court for such a thing?”

“I’ll do it!” Ike said quickly. “I’ll kill him! See if I don’t!”

“I believe you checked your gun with the desk clerk,” Freddie reminded him.

Freddie followed him to the front desk and kept his hand on the pistol. Ike cast him frantic glances over his shoulder as he was given his gun belt. He made certain his hand was nowhere near the butt of the weapon as he strapped it on-he did not want to give a man with Freddie’s murderous reputation a chance to shoot.

Freddie followed Ike out into the street and glared at him when it looked as if he would step into a saloon for some liquid courage. Ike saw the glare, then began to walk faster down the street. Freddie pursued, boots thumping on the wooden walk. At the end of the long walk, when Fly’s boarding house came into sight, Ike was almost running.

Freddie paused then, and began a leisurely stroll to the hotel. Gunfire erupted behind him, but he didn’t break stride. He knew Ike Clanton, and he knew John Holliday, and he knew which of the two now lay dead.

“The legal case will collapse without a plaintiff,” Freddie said that evening. “The district attorney may file a criminal case, but why would he? He knows the defense would call me as a witness.” He laughed. “And now, after this second killing, Holliday will have to leave town. That is another problem solved.”

Josie stretched luxuriously in Behan’s bed. She was wearing a little transparent silken thing that Behan had bought her from out of a French catalogue, and Freddie, lying next to her, let his eyes feast gratefully on the ripeness of her body. She seemed well pleased with his eyes’ amorous intentions, and rolled a little in the bed, to and fro, to show herself from different angles.

“You seem very pleased with yourself,” she said.

“I have nothing against Holliday. I like the man. I’m glad he will be out of it.”

“You’re the only man alive who likes him. Now that Johnny’s killed Wyatt.” A silence hung for a moment in the air, and then Josie rolled over and put her chin on her crossed arms. Her dark eyes regarded him solemnly.

“Yes?” Freddie said, knowing the question that would come.

“There are people who say it was you who shot Wyatt,” she said.

Freddie looked at her. “One of your lovers shot him,” he said. “Does it matter which?”

“Did you kill for me, Freddie?” There was a strange thrill in her voice. “Did you kill Wyatt?”

“If I killed Wyatt,” Freddie said coldly, “it was not for you. I did not do it to make you the heroine of a melodrama.”

She made as if to say something, but she turned her head away, laying her cheek on her hand. Freddie reached out to caress her rich dark hair. “Troy burns for you, my Helen,” he said. “Is it not your triumph?”

“I don’t understand you,” she said.