Worlds That Weren't

Ringo seemed in good cheer. Freddie half expected him to give the Crispin’s Day speech from Henry V, but Ringo contented himself with nodding, clicking to his horse, and leading the beast between the tall rocks, down the hill toward the dying fires of the Earps’ camp. Freddie pulled his bandanna over his nose, less to conceal his identity than to avoid eating Ringo’s dust, then followed Ringo’s horse down into the gloom.

The horsemen cleared the rocks, then broke into a canter. They covered half the distance to the Earp outfit’s camp before the first shot rang out; then Ringo gave a whoop and the Cowboys answered, the high-pitched yells ringing over the dusty ground.

Freddie was too busy staying atop his horse to add to the clamor. His teeth rattled with every hoofbeat. He wanted a calm place to stand.

Other, better horsemen, half-seen in the predawn light, passed him as he rode. A flurry of shots crackled out. Freddie clutched Zarathustra tighter. Startled men on foot dodged out of his way.

Abruptly the horse stumbled-Freddie tried to check it but somehow made things worse-and then there was a staggering blow to his shoulder as he was flung to the ground. He rolled, and in great surprise at his own agility rose with his pistol still in his hand. A figure loomed up-with dust coating his spectacles Freddie could not make it out-but he shot it anyway, twice, and it groaned and fell.

The yells of the Cowboys were receding southward amid a great boil of dust. Freddie ran after. Bullets made whirring noises about his head.

Then out of the dust came a horse. Freddie half raised his pistol, but recognized Ringo before he pulled the trigger. “Take my hand, Freddie,” Ringo said with a great grin, “and we’re free.” But then one of the whizzing bullets came to a stop with a horrible smack, and Ringo toppled from the horse. Freddie stared in sudden shock at his friend’s brains laid out at his feet-Ringo was beyond all noble gestures now, that was clear, there was nothing to be done for him-Freddie reached for the saddle horn. The beast was frightened and began to run before Freddie could mount; Freddie ran alongside, trying to get a foot in the stirrup, and then the horse put on a burst of terrified speed and left Freddie behind.

Rage and frustration boomed in his heart. He swiped at his spectacles to get a better view, then ran back toward the sound of shooting. A man ran across his field of vision and Zarathustra boomed. The man kept running.

Freddie neared a bush and ducked behind it, polished his spectacles quickly on his bandanna, and stuck them back on his face. The added clarity was not great. The Earps’ camp was in a great turmoil in the dust and the half-light, and people were shouting and shooting and running about without any apparent purpose.

Fools! Freddie wanted to shriek. You do not even know how to live, let alone how to die!

He approached the nearest man at a walk, put Zarathustra to the stranger’s breast, and pulled the trigger. When the man fell, Freddie took the other’s gun in his left hand, then stalked on. He fired a shot at a startled stranger, who ran.

“Stop, Freddie!” came a shout. “Throw up your hands!”

It was Holliday’s voice. Freddie froze in his tracks, panting for breath in the cold morning air. Holliday was somewhere to his right-a shift of stance and Freddie could fire-but Holliday would kill him before that, he knew.

Troy is burning, he thought. You have killed as a human being. Now die as one. Freely, and at the right moment.

“Throw up your hands!” Holliday called again, and then from the effort of the shout gave a little cough.

Wild exhilaration flooded through Freddie’s veins-Holliday’s cough had surely spoiled his aim. Freddie swung right as he thumbed the hammer back on each of the two revolvers. And, for the last time, Zarathustra spoke.

The Earp posse caught up with Josie a few hours later as she rode her solitary way to Tombstone. John Holliday shivered atop his horse, trembling as if the morning chill had not yet left his bones. He touched his hat to her, but she ignored him, just kept her plug walking south.

“This was Freddie’s, ma’am,” Holliday said in his polite Southern way, and held out a book bound between cardboard covers, Freddie’s journal. “You figure in his thoughts,” Holliday said. “You may wish to have it.”

Coldly, without a word, she took the worn volume from his hand. Holliday kicked his horse and the posse rode on, moving swiftly past her into the bright morning.

Josie tried not to look at the bodies that tossed and dangled over the saddles.

What have I found to cherish in this detestable land? Josie read when she returned to Tombstone. Comrades, and valor, and the woman of my heart. Who came to me because she was free! And for whom- because she is free — Troy will burn, and men will spill their lives into the dust. Every free woman may kill a world.