Gunslinger: Chapter 4
All right. Chapter four is up, and ought to be properly coded as well. Either way, you can also find the entire thing, with graphics, atelspethdixon's journal.
Sleep now. For real this time.
DISCLAIMER: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by… no, wait, scratch that. This story is partially based on actual historical figures and events, and partially based on our own hours of twisted fantasies produced by seeing Tombstone one too many times. No money is being made and no offense is intended.
Posted By: elspethdixon and pixyofthestyx
Ships: Doc/Kate, Bat/Mollie (past tense), Doc/Wyatt vibes (yea!), fledgling Morgan/Louisa. The list goes on and on.
Warnings: This instalment of Gunslinger contains profanity, drinking, violence, historical inaccuracy, lots of Bible quotes, and extensive mocking of Methodists (we blame Henry Fielding). It does not contain hot sex. Sorry.
Gunslinger: Dodge City
Part Four: The First Stone, part I.
“She obeyed not the voice; she received not correction!” the preacher holding court across the street from the Long Branch railed. “She trusted not in the Lord; she drew not near to her God!”
Morgan did his best to ignore the man, and kept walking. He wasn’t the only one; North Front Street was busy with mid-day traffic. The earliest of the cattle drives were starting to trickle through Dodge, and the streets were just beginning to fill with longhorns, wagons, and men on horseback. Come May, the town would be over-run by cows and manure. And cowhands, of course, most of whom would probably try to shoot Wyatt. It seemed to be becoming a popular pastime.
“The just Lord is in the midst thereof; he will not do iniquity! Every morning doth he bring his judgment to light! He faileth not; but the unjust know no shame!” The sound of the preacher’s ranting followed Morgan into the jail, cutting off only when he closed the door behind him. It was replaced by the sound of the Conklins’ ranting.
“We citizens of Dodge are deeply concerned,” Dolores Conklin was saying, one hand pressed to her ample bosom.
“Deeply concerned,” Edgar Conklin chimed in.
“-by the constant shootings and pervasive spread of lawlessness in our town,” Mrs. Conklin continued, as if her husband had not spoken at all. She didn’t seem to notice Morgan standing by the door either.
“Well, ma’am, I wouldn’t really describe two shootings in two months as ‘constant shootings,’” Bat said. He was standing with his hands on the back of his chair, chair and desk forming a protective barrier between himself and Mrs. Conklin. Bat claimed that he wasn’t intimidated by her, but Morgan was pretty sure that that was a lie.
“I’m sure you wouldn’t,” she said, drawing herself up straighter. Somehow, she managed to look down her nose at Bat despite being slightly shorter than he was. “Four people are dead, Mister Masterson. Four people whose deaths you failed to prevent. Whose deaths you may have actually caused.”
Bat was gripping the back of the chair so tightly his knuckles had gone white. He drew breath to speak, but Mrs. Conklin overrode him. “When your brother, God rest his soul, was sheriff, we never had this sort of-”
“Bat!” Morgan said brightly. “Mr. Conklin, Ma’am, good morning.” He tried to sound cheerful, as if he were actually pleased to see the two of them in the jail. “Is there anything we can help you with?”
“I rather doubt it.” Mrs. Conklin turned back to Bat. “You and that overgrown thug from Wichita are paid to keep the peace, not to shoot people in the street.”
Morgan found himself wishing that Wyatt were there to hear himself described as an “overgrown thug.” And to deal with the Conklins, so that he wouldn’t have to. He spoke up again, cutting off whatever Bat had been intending to say. “They didn’t have much of a choice about that, ma’am.”
“One always has a choice, young man,” she said. Mrs. Conklin’s pale, close-set eyes bored into Morgan, as if he were a wayward child and she a disapproving aunt. “And one generally has the option of not shooting people.”
“Well, Morgan,” Bat pushed the chair in under the desk and came forward to clap Morgan on the shoulder, “it looks like you’ve got things under control now. I’ll just go find Wyatt and see if he needs any help with anything.” And then Bat, like the ungrateful, freeloading traitor that he was, collected his hat and cane and scuttled out the door, abandoning Morgan to his fate.
“I feel-and Mr. Conklin agrees with me, don’t you, Edgar?-that much of this city’s unwholesome atmosphere can be blamed on its saloons and dancehalls.” Mrs. Conklin took a step forward, twitching her skirts to one side to avoid brushing against Bat’s desk. She stabbed one gloved finger at Morgan’s chest. “Do you have any idea how many drinking and gambling establishments there are in this town?”
Morgan, in fact, had a very good idea, since all of them were required to get a permit from the mayor’s office-well, all of the ones Mayor Kelly didn’t actually own. “Well, north of the deadline, you’ve got-” he started.
“And every single one of these deplorable incidents has been connected to one of them!” she said triumphantly. “The violence in this town is out of control. Mr. Conklin and I are frankly terrified to leave our home after dark. Drunken trailhands with guns, lawmen who solve every disturbance by shooting and clubbing people, gamblers practicing every kind of debauchery… As a resident of this town I demand that you do something!”
“What exactly would you like me to, ma’am?” Morgan asked. He fought the impulse to take a step back, away from that accusing finger. He was not going to cower behind the desk like Bat. Wyatt and Virgil wouldn’t cower.
“Close down the saloons, of course,” Mrs. Conklin said promptly.
“Or at least impose some sort of curfew,” Mr. Conklin added. “All drinking establishments closed down after midnight, perhaps.”
“We can’t do that, sir,” Morgan said. “There’s no law against running a saloon, and this,” he gestured at his badge, “only gives me the right to enforce the laws, not make them.”
“The young man has a point, there, Mrs. Conklin,” Mr. Conklin said. He smoothed the somber black lapels of his coat, then extended an arm to his wife. “Perhaps we should take this up with Mayor Kelly.”
Mrs. Conklin was not to be so easily dissuaded. “There must be something you can do,” she insisted. “Or are you as powerless to uphold common morality and hold your fellow peacekeepers accountable as you are to make people control their dogs?”
“I told you, ma’am,” Morgan said, humiliatingly aware of how defensive he sounded, “there’s also no law against keeping dogs. I can’t just arrest people for bothering you; they actually have to do something illegal.”
“Well, if gunning people down in the street is not illegal-”
“There a Wyatt Earp here?”
All three of them turned to face the doorway, where a big, broad-shouldered man in a tan duster stood silhouetted.
“Excuse me, ma’am, sir.” Morgan turned away from the Conklins, suppressing the desire to sigh with relief, and faced the newcomer. “I’m sorry, sir, he’s not here right now.”
The man frowned, clearly annoyed. “Well, if he ain’t here, where can I find him?”
Morgan shrugged. “I don’t know.” If it were evening, Wyatt would probably have been in the Long Branch. If it were the middle of the night, he’d have been back in the boarding house, asleep. However, at midday, he might be anywhere. It was a nice day, all warm April sunlight without the pounding heat that would come later in the summer, so it could be that Wyatt wasn’t even in town at all, but out riding somewhere. “You’ll have to come back later. Or you could ask Marshal Masterson, if you need to find him now. He might know. Bowler hat, cane, a little shorter than me,” Morgan waved a hand in the air to demonstrate Bat’s height. “You can’t miss him.”
“We’ll leave you to go about your business, deputy,” Mr. Conklin said, offering an arm to his wife once again.
Mrs. Conklin laid a hand on her husband’s elbow and said, “Perhaps you’ll be able to help this,” she paused for a moment, eying the man in the duster with palpable disapproval, “gentleman with his problem.” She swept out of the room, somehow managing to avoid brushing against the stranger, in spite of the width of her skirts and the narrowness of the doorway.
“So, this Masterson will know where he is?” the stranger asked. He was still leaning in the doorway-he hadn’t bothered to step aside to let the Conklins pass-and his duster fell open just enough for Morgan to see a large Bowie knife hanging from his belt.
“Maybe,” Morgan said. “Or I could give him a message for you, next time I see him. What was it you wanted?”
“I didn’t say.” The man smiled. It wasn’t a friendly smile. “Let’s just say I want to have a little talk with him.”
“About what?” Morgan asked. He got the impression that this ‘little talk’ wouldn’t be all that healthful for Wyatt. Or for the stranger, for that matter.
“He’ll know when I find him.” The man left, the door swinging shut behind him, leaving Morgan alone.
Morgan stared after him for a moment, then shrugged and sat down behind the desk, pulling out the first in a stack of written complaints-well, the second; the first was from the Conklins. Charlie Pike at the Lady Gay wanted to make sure that the Dodge City Peacekeeping Commission knew that the owner of the saloon across the street had never purchased a liquor license.
Whatever the man had wanted, Wyatt could take care of himself.
* * *
Damn Dolores Conklin anyway. What did she know about it?
Bat stalked down the street, ignoring the ache in his hip. He wasn’t going to limp where that harridan might see; she’d only take it as further evidence that he wasn’t fit to be a lawman. And then find some way to blame Mollie’s death on him, too.
‘Really, Mister Masterson, when a man pulls a gun on you in a saloon and fires straight through the woman on your lap in order to kill you, it’s clearly your fault for being in a saloon in the first place!’ And then she’d sniff, and stare at him down her nose, and add, ‘Mr. Conklin thinks so, too, don’t you, Edgar?’
The worst thing about her was that she was so utterly convinced she was right that, after a while, a man found himself agreeing with her, whether he wanted to or not.
Bat had told Morgan that he was going out to look for Wyatt, but since Wyatt was probably either in the Long Branch or out riding by the river, he didn’t plan on looking very hard. He would check the Long Branch, and if Wyatt wasn’t there, well, at least it was a place he was pretty sure that the Conklins wouldn’t enter.
Front Street was usually pretty quiet around noon, but today there was a small cluster of people gathered across the street from the Long Branch, listening to a big man in a somber black coat that reminded Bat of an undertaker’s. “Neither thieves, nor covetous, nor drunkards, nor revilers, nor extortioners, shall inherit the kingdom of God,” he was saying. “The Lord makes his word clear on this, and therefore it is our responsibility to search our conscience for any sign of vice and repent. God is ever ready with forgiveness, but not for those who continue to wallow in sin.”
The Conklins, Bat thought, ought to be introduced to the man.
Wyatt wasn’t in the Long Branch, but Holliday was. The gambler was huddled over a whisky bottle at the table nearest the door, back against the wall so that he could watch the room in the mirror behind the bar. Bat bought himself a drink at the bar and joined him, sitting beside him so that he could watch the mirror as well. From there, he could see pretty much the entire room-and keep an eye on the door.
Holliday looked bad, even for Holliday. His eyes looked bruised, and his face, covered in a sheen of sweat, was even more colorless than usual. “What do you want, Masterson?” he asked, voice even quieter and more hoarse than it usually was. He turned aside to cough, muffling it behind a handkerchief.
There was something deeply wrong with Holliday, and considering that he still had the same cough he’d ridden in with, Bat was pretty sure he knew what that something was. This morning, he had the tired, drawn look of a man in pain-the sort of dull, constant pain Bat remembered from the days after he’d been shot down in Texas. It made Holliday slightly less annoying. “Nothing,” Bat said. “I was just looking for Wyatt.”
“Yes, aren’t we all.” Holliday said. He coughed again, and downed a shot of whisky, then poured himself another one, letting it sit on the table with one hand wrapped loosely around the glass, not drinking. For once, he wasn’t playing with that damn deck of cards. “He’s out playing hooky. He came by earlier to ascertain that everything in here was harmonious, then went out for a ride. I declined to accompany him.” His accent was heavier than usual, and he stumbled slightly over the long words.
Wyatt was out riding. While Bat had been trapped inside the jail with Dolores Conklin blaming him for everything from Ed’s death to original sin, Wyatt had been out enjoying the spring air.
“Starting a little early, aren’t you, Holliday?” Bat asked, indicating the other man’s full glass and the level of whisky in the bottle.
“Bad night.”
“Where’s…” Bat paused for a second, searching for the name. Holliday’s woman, the one with the breasts, what was she called? “Ah, Kate. Where’s Kate?”
“Asleep.”
Fine. If Holliday didn’t want to talk to him, he didn’t need to talk to Holliday. So much for being polite.
The shooting two weeks ago had been in no way Bat’s fault. It hadn’t really been Wyatt’s fault either. All of the blame lay squarely with Hoy and his friends, for being stupid enough to start firing at them. And yet the Conklins weren’t the only people complaining, just the loudest. And the most persistent.
What did people expect them to do, stand there and get shot?
Bat stared at his full shot glass. It didn’t offer any enlightenment.
“Sometimes I hate this job.”
Holliday said nothing. He, too, was staring at his whisky glass.
“You do the best you can, and people are still full of advice about how you could have done things better. Even Wyatt; he’s been avoiding everybody ever since that kid died.” Bat sighed.
“He doesn’t avoid me.”
Bat ignored Holliday’s comment. “He feels guilty about it, which is pointless, since you can’t change what’s happened.”
“Wyatt doesn’t like killing people,” Holliday said. He smiled, then slumped further over the table, arms resting on the scarred wood, and leaned his chin on his forearm, eyes still fixed on his glass. “He’s all shiny and good like that.”
Bat looked at Holliday for a long moment, unsure whether he was serious or not. “Yeah,” he said finally. “Shiny.” He rolled the edge of his glass around in a slow circle, watching the way the liquid inside moved. “Here’s hoping it doesn’t get him shot.” He lifted his glass, then set the it back down without drinking. Bat had discovered that he didn’t really want his whisky. It was cool outdoors, but the air inside the Long Branch was warm and still. Actually, beer or lemonade would have been better. Or water. “A man can tell when you’re not willing to shoot back,” he said. That had been Ed’s downfall, really. He hadn’t had it in him to shoot a man, and when he had been corned by those cowhands, he’d tried to talk them down. And then the bastards had shot him.
“Not wanting to’s not the same as not bein’ able to.” Holliday straightened slightly and coughed again, a short, broken-off sound, then slumped forward again. “Are you plannin’ on drinking that, or are you just going to sit here and sulk?”
“I think I’m just going to sit here and sulk,” Bat told him. One of the men at the next table over got up to get another drink, and Bat watched him in the mirror until he sat down again. Next to him, Holliday was doing the same thing.
Neither of them said anything for a minute, Bat thinking about Ed, and his own failure to back him up-he’d started running when he heard the first shot, but by the time he had gotten there, it had been too late-and Holliday thinking about whatever it was Holliday thought about. When the door opened, both of them looked up simultaneously.
Three-Fingers Jack Danver skulked inside, wearing a distinctly hunted look underneath his bushy, greying beard. The preacher from across the street was right on his heels.
“Do not fall into the trap of liquor, brother,” he was saying, one powerful hand stretching towards Three-Fingers Jack’s shoulder.
Three-Fingers ducked out of reach. “I ain’t yer brother, and you can keep yer paws off me.” He backed away until he reached the bar, then turned to the bartender. “I’ll have a beer.” He paid for the drink, turned to find a table, and caught sight of Bat.
“Good afternoon, Marshal,” he said. He set his beer back down and unbuckled his gunbelt, setting it down atop the bar, then nodded at Bat.
The preacher was watching from the doorway, a look of disappointed disgust on his face. He shook his head sadly. “Demon drink has him in its clutches.”
Suddenly, Bat’s whisky looked much more appealing. He picked the glass up and drained it. When he set it down again, Holliday smirked and nudged the whisky bottle over to him.
“Satanic whisky, marshal?”
All right, the man was amusing once in a while, he’d give Wyatt that much. Bat picked up the bottle and poured himself another shot. The preacher continued to speak.
“Wine is a mocker,” he quoted. “Strong drink is raging, and whosoever is deceived thereby is not wise.”
Holliday sat up straighter and saluted the man with his shot glass. “Let us eat and drink, for tomorrow we shall die,” he said. He tossed back his whisky and slumped against the back of the chair, smirking.
It was a tactical mistake. The preacher turned toward him like a hound catching a scent-or an obnoxious busybody finding a new victim. “Be not deceived,” he said. “Evil communications corrupt.” He strode toward the table, looming over Holliday and Bat. “Awake to righteousness, and sin not, for you have not the knowledge of God. I speak this to your shame.”
If Holliday had had the sense to keep quiet, the man would probably have given up and left them alone, but being Holliday, he just had to keep on talking. “Look, Masterson,” he said brightly, “he can quote the Bible.”
“Do not mock the word of God, son,” the preacher said gently. He leaned forward, grey-green eyes intent on Holliday’s face. “You have turned down a dark path, but you must realize that you are only hurting yourself.”
Holliday’s eyes narrowed with palpable loathing. “I could change that, if you don’t-” He broke off, wrapping an arm around his ribs as a violent bout of coughing doubled him over. He leaned against the table, head down, gasping for air, while Bat and the preacher stared at one another, unsure of what to do.
God, Holliday sounded like he was going to die. Bat hesitated, wondering if he should pound the other man on the back or something. Before he could attempt it, Holliday’s coughing fit quieted.
Holliday stayed motionless for a moment, eyes closed, wheezing. He reached with unnerving accuracy for the whisky bottle, then opened his eyes and pulled it towards him, pouring himself a shot with shaking hands. Whisky sloshed over the side of the glass and spilled onto the table. “Tell me, father,” he said, voice hoarse, “if I abstain from sin and am real good, do you think God will heal me?” He pulled a handkerchief out of his vest pocket and coughed once more, spitting something dark into it, then picked up the shot glass and drained it.
The preacher blinked, clearly searching for something to say. Bat didn’t volunteer anything.
“God can heal your soul,” the preacher said after a moment, “and that means more than physical health.”
Holliday glared, and looked for a moment as if he were seriously considering reaching for the gun under his coat that he and Bat were both pretending wasn’t there. Bat groaned inwardly. If Holliday actually drew on the man, Bat would have to arrest him, and that would be bloody and painful for everyone involved. ‘Sorry, Wyatt,’ he could hear himself explaining, ‘I truly regret knocking him unconscious, but I couldn’t let him gun a preacher down right in front of me, no matter how much he deserved it.’ Actually, maybe it wouldn’t be that painful.
Fortunately, Holliday chose to counter-attack with words. “My soul,” he said softly, “isn’t going to hemorrhage and drown in its own blood.”
“Despair is the greatest sin of all, son.” The preacher laid one hand on Holliday’s shoulder, in a gesture that was probably intended to be comforting.
Holliday said nothing; he simply looked at the hand, then looked up at the preacher.
The preacher quickly removed his hand.
“If I were you,” Bat suggested, “I would leave.”
The preacher glanced around the bar and seemed to notice for the first time that both the bartender and Chalk Beeson, the proprietor, who’d been sitting behind the bar doing accounts, were glaring daggers at him. Chalk did not like temperance workers; they were bad for business.
The preacher sighed, shoulders slumping for a moment, and then he straightened up, addressing the room at large. “I will be preaching in the Methodist church this Sunday, for those of you who wish to come and hear.”
“I’m Presbyterian,” Holliday announced. The preacher, who had learned his lesson, ignored him.
“My mother always said that Methodists were untrustworthy,” Bat said. Quietly, so that preacher, now on his way out the door, wouldn’t hear.
“And subject to strange enthusiasms,” Holliday added. “Mine said the same thing. And my father always said that only white trash and slaves were Methodists.”
“Sounds like a charming fellow.”
Holliday, who was slumped over the table again, glared at him half-heartedly. “Just for the record, if I wasn’t tired, I’d shoot you.”
“Right,” Bat said. He looked down at his drink again, spinning it in a slow circle and watching the whisky inside swirl. He probably ought to go back to the jail. It probably wasn’t the best of ideas to leave Morgan in there all by himself; he was still inexperienced. Actually, Morgan was probably a year or so older than he was, but compared to Bat, he was a green kid.
It had been a good half hour since Bat had left. The Conklins were probably gone now.
Holliday sighed. “When is Wyatt comin’ back?”
“Damned if I know,” Bat said. “Damn Wyatt anyway, out riding and enjoying himself while I was stuck in the jail with that woman.” And then, reflected in the mirror, he saw Wyatt walking through the door. “Oh, hello, Wyatt,” he added.
“Last time I looked,” Wyatt said dryly, “this wasn’t exactly the jail.”
“Wyatt.” Holliday straightened up a touch, smiling. “You’re back.”
“Doc.” Wyatt clapped a hand on Holliday’s shoulder, then pulled out a chair and sat down next to him. He picked up Holliday’s empty glass and poured himself a shot from the Holliday’s whisky bottle. Amazingly, Holliday didn’t object.
“My apologies for this morning, Wyatt,” he said instead. “I was unconscionably rude.”
Wyatt shook his head, grinning. “Don’t worry about it. I didn’t really expect you’d want me to drag you out for a ride.” He turned away from Holliday to address Bat. “Didn’t expect to see you two sharing a drink.”
“I was in the jail,” Bat explained, “but Mrs. Conklin chased me out.”
“Dreadful woman,” Holliday said. He turned to Wyatt, adding, “I tried to purchase some handkerchiefs at her store yesterday, and she glared at me as if I were planning to use them for something nefarious. What sort of nefariousness,” he stumbled slightly over the word-if it was a word; Bat wasn’t sure-“could you carry out with a handkerchief? Unless you used it to gag someone, or-“
“Doc,” Wyatt interjected firmly.
Holliday shut up.
Wyatt gave him a searching look, and frowned, eyebrows drawing together. “Damn, you look like hell.” He leaned over and laid the palm of one hand against Holliday’s forehead, successfully evading Holliday’s attempt to swat it away. “And you’re burning up. Why the hell aren’t you in bed?”
“Kate kicked me out so she could get some sleep.” Seeing the look of irritation on Wyatt’s face, he added, somewhat defensively, “She deserved it. She didn’t get any sleep last night.”
“All right.” Wyatt held up a hand. “We’ve established that I don’t need to know any details.”
“Trust me,” Holliday said, “last night was not fun for anyone involved.”
Bat pushed his shot glass away and stood up. His hip had stiffened up while he sat, and standing made it ache dully. “I should get back to the jail. I left Morgan to deal with the Conklins by himself.”
“Virgil told me that you hide behind the desk when they come in,” Wyatt said. He grinned. “I always thought he was joking.”
“I don’t hide behind my desk,” Bat protested. “I make a strategic retreat until Virgil makes her go away.”
“She’s got a point, you know, Bat,” Wyatt said. “We could probably have handled that shoot out differently.”
And there Wyatt went again. “Don’t start,” Bat told him. “I’ve already heard it all from Dolores Conklin. She threw in all of the ways I could have handled two months ago differently, too, just for variety.”
“Yeah, well, I didn’t say she had a point about everything.”
“Christ, Wyatt, if it bothers you that much, I’ll shoot them for you next time,” Holliday drawled. He reclaimed his whisky glass from Wyatt and took a sip. When he set it down again, Wyatt took it back.
“I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that,” Bat said. “Unless somebody actually gets shot, and then I’m going to remember it nice and clear.” He collected his cane from where it leaned against the table. “Wyatt. Holliday.”
“I’ll follow you in a minute or so,” Wyatt said. “Hey, Doc, if you’re still here when I get off shift this evening, I’ll walk you home.”
“If he can still walk at that point,” Bat couldn’t resist saying.
Holliday glared at him-if he’d been ten years younger, he probably would have stuck his tongue out-and then started coughing again. Wyatt passed him the shot glass, which Holliday took, drained, and handed back.
“Oh, for God’s sake, Wyatt, get your own glass,” Bat told him. As he walked out of the saloon, he could hear the two of them talking behind him.
“That’s it, Doc, you’re going back to bed.”
“I beg to differ. I will go home when I feel like it.”
“Come on, you’re never going to get any better just sitting here…”
Either Wyatt didn’t know what Holliday was sick with, or his powers of denial were truly amazing.
Bat stepped through the door and nearly ran into a large man standing on the steps. “Sorry about that,” he began, taking a step back.
“You Masterson?” the man interrupted. He straightened his tan duster, but not before Bat caught a brief glimpse of something that looked an awful lot like a gunbelt.
Bat took in the man’s hulking silhouette and the sullen expression on his clean-shaven face, and debated the merits of saying ‘no.’ “Yes, I’m Masterson. You got business with me?”
“The kid at the jail said you’d know where Wyatt Earp was.”
“You got business with him?”
“That’s between him and me,” the man said. He took a step closer, looming over Bat in an obvious attempt to be intimidating. It might have been more successful if Bat didn’t work with three men who were all six feet or taller. “You just tell me where I can find him.”
“You could try the Lady Gay,” Bat offered. He carefully did not look at the door behind him. “He said something about heading over there earlier. It’s on South Front Street,” he added. “On the other side of town.”
The man left without saying another word. He didn’t thank Bat for the information, either.
Bat watched him go, then headed for the jail, giving the preacher-still there across the street-a wide berth.
* * *
Walking Doc home, Wyatt reflected, was probably the most excitement he was going to see today. Which was probably a good thing. As boring as spending an afternoon with Morgan checking people’s liquor licenses was, it beat shooting people, and if any trouble had occurred to break the monotony, it would only have given the Conklins another reason to bother Bat. For some reason Wyatt had never been able to pin down, Dolores Conklin absolutely hated Bat. Maybe it was the bowler hat.
More likely, it was his habit of tipping said bowler hat at every attractive woman he walked past. You’d think getting shot over a woman would have taught him better.
As often as Doc was sick, you’d think he would learn better than to hang around in saloons and sulk when he ought to be in bed. But no, he was Doc, and therefore constitutionally incapable of listening to reason, and had apparently felt compelled to wait around in the saloon in order to apologize for a rude comment Wyatt hadn’t even really registered-strange, when Doc generally didn’t care whom he insulted. His willingness to say anything to anybody was one of the things Wyatt liked about him.
By the time they had gotten halfway to the Great Western Hotel, Doc had been leaning heavily on Wyatt, stumbling over his own feet like a man half-asleep. Wyatt had a feeling that it had had less to do with however much alcohol Doc had consumed, and more to do with the fever he could feel radiating off the other man’s skin.
Kate had taken one look at him, sworn, and hauled him inside the hotel room, ranting like a harpy all the while. “Where were you all day? Do you think you can just wander off and ignore me?” Somehow, amidst the flurry of complaints-surprisingly selfish complaints, Wyatt had thought, given the circumstances-Doc had ended up stripped of coat and boots and shoved into bed, two glasses filled with water and whisky waiting ready on the nightstand. He was asleep the instant he lay down. Then Kate had thrown Wyatt out of the room, giving him the distinct impression that she felt the whole thing was somehow his fault.
Which it damn well wasn’t. He wasn’t responsible for every stupid thing that Doc did, no matter what everybody else seemed to think.
If he didn’t shake whatever this was off in a few days, Wyatt was going to insist that he see a doctor.
“Anything wrong, Wyatt?” Morgan asked.
Wyatt shook his head, then added, “Not really. Is that the last of these things?” He held up the last sheet of paper from Bat’s desk, a notice informing the city’s peacekeeping force that part of one of the town’s boardwalks was damaged, and it was the city’s duty-i.e., the peacekeeping commission’s duty-to repair it.
“Yeah,” Morgan said. He stood up, stretching. “I guess that means one of us can go home.”
His movement toward the door was forestalled by Chalk Beeson entering through it. The normally good-natured Beeson was livid with indignation, the ends of his carefully curled and waxed mustache bristling.
“Marshal,” he announced forcefully, “I want that man out of my saloon!”
“What, Doc?” Wyatt asked.
“Holliday?” Beeson looked momentarily confused. “No, he’s fine. He brings in customers. Folks come to play cards with him and then buy drinks to drown their sorrows when they lose. It’s that damned bible-thumper! He’s driving my customers away. And he insulted Miss Hand.” Beeson stepped to one side and gestured dramatically at the doorway, where Dora Hand and another woman stood, looking vaguely uncertain. “And Miss Louisa!”
Wyatt stood automatically, instantly feeling oversized and clumsy compared to the two petite women in the doorway.
“Really, Chalk,” Miss Hand said, coming into the room to lay a placating hand on the saloon-owner’s arm, “you needn’t make such a fuss about all this. It isn’t as if I haven’t heard that sort of thing before.” She smiled at Beeson, and raised a hand to pat at her strawberry blonde hair. “It’s a hazard of the profession.” She turned her smile on Wyatt
“There was still no call for it.” Beeson beckoned to Miss Louisa. “Miss Louisa, tell the marshal what that man called you.”
Louisa, a tiny blonde who was hardly more than a girl, stepped into the room. She adjusted her shawl, which dripped with pale blue fringe the same color as her dress, and said, “Well, let me see, he called us ‘painted Jezebels,’ and fallen women, and Lord knows what. Right in the saloon, in front of Mr. Beeson and Miss Hand’s guest and everyone.” She delicately did not identify who Miss Hand’s “guest” had been.
“I believe the word ‘harlot’ figured in his remarks as well,” Miss Hand said.
“Was this the same preacher who was out in front of your place this morning?” Morgan asked. He stepped away from the side of the desk to look down at Louisa with an expression that bordered on awe.
“Yes,” Beeson said, in tones of greatest indignation. “He won’t go away. Marshal Masterson threw him out once already, but he just keeps coming back. Like a bad penny.”
“He’s been out there preaching all day?” Morgan sounded deeply impressed. He was still staring at Louisa. “And he hasn’t gone hoarse yet?”
“His voice was certainly in fine condition a few minutes ago,” Miss Hand said. “I’ve been called much worse, and by louder men, but Louisa shouldn’t have to hear that sort of thing, and Chalk certainly shouldn’t have to put up with it in his establishment.”
“I’ll be damned if I will,” Beeson said. “Sorry, ladies. I want one of you to come and escort him right out of the Long Branch. I’d throw him out myself but, well,” he shrugged, “he’s a preacher. I can’t see myself brawling with a preacher.”
Louisa was now staring up at Morgan through her eyelashes. They were very long, and much darker than her hair.
Wyatt sighed. “I’ll go deal with it.”
“You must get to do so many interesting things as a lawman,” he heard Louisa say as he followed Beeson out of the jail.
“Well, some days are more interesting than others...”
The Long Branch was significantly less crowded than usual for this time of the evening. It could have been due to the usual patrons’ desire to spend the lovely spring evening outdoors, but most likely it was because of the large man in a dark, somber suit who stood in front of the bar lecturing on the many benefits of temperance.
“The pervasive effects of alcohol have been the downfall of many an otherwise good man. Even now, many a wife waits at home with her children, wondering if her husband is going to come home safely, hoping he has not spent all of the family’s money on drink-”
“Excuse me, sir?” Wyatt interrupted.
The man broke off and turned to face him, looking irritated. “Yes, brother?” He was almost as tall as Wyatt, big enough to look him straight in the eye, and built like an ox, yet somehow, the staid black suit he wore didn’t look out of place. There was a sprinkle of grey in his red-brown hair, and his eyes were a peculiar pale green color.
“Mister Beeson has made a complaint against you,” Wyatt said. “I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to leave the saloon, Mister…” he paused, waiting for the man to supply a name.
“Reverend Jonah Dobson,” the man said. He frowned. “There is such a thing as freedom of religion in this fine country, deputy.”
“Marshal, actually. Marshal Earp.”
“Marshal,” Dobson corrected himself. “It is both my right and my duty to spread God’s word.”
“Yes, well, not in Mr. Beeson’s saloon,” Wyatt told him. “It’s his right to decide who he wants in here, and he says you’re costing him business. If you don’t agree to leave, I might have to take you in for causing a disturbance, and neither of us wants that.”
Dobson sighed. “I can see that my arguments shall do little good here.” He donned his hat and turned for the door. “At least you have enough respect not to insult me.”
Wyatt smiled in spite of himself. He’d heard Doc’s somewhat rambling account of Dobson’s previous attempt to proselytize in the Long Branch-“Damn religion anyway. First my cousin writes to say she wants to be a nun, then this sonuvabitch comes and pesters me while I’m trying to drink.” He had dropped his voice to a ridiculously low and solemn pitch, adding, “You have set your feet on the pathway of Satan, young man! You are doomed! Doomed!”-and had no doubt that whatever he’d said to Dobson in reply had been less than polite. Actually, it had probably been downright rude. “At least you’re not trying to take a swing at me for kicking you out of the saloon,” he returned.
“Violence,” Dobson said primly, sounding eerily like Dolores Conklin for a moment, “is never the answer. However, I have nearly lost all hope of trying to convince most of the people of this fair city of that fact. Is it all right if I continue to try and convince them outside?” he added snidely.
“Go ahead,” Wyatt said. “As long as you don’t bother Mr. Beeson’s patrons or go around insulting ladies.”
“I have seen no ladies thus far,” Dobson said.
Wyatt thought of Dora Hand, singing hymns in the Episcopal church on Sunday with as much faith as any of the “respectable” ladies of Dodge, and resisted the urge to push Dobson bodily out of the Long Branch’s door. He settled for following close on his heels, crowding him out into the street.
The two of them nearly ran into a man in a tan duster who was climbing up the saloon’s steps.
“Sorry, preacher,” the man said.
“Are you sure you really wish to go in there?” Dobson asked.
“I do if Masterson’s still in there.” The man ran a hand over his clean-shaven chin, and spit a mouthful of tobacco juice onto the ground at the foot of the steps. It missed Wyatt’s boot by about an inch. “I asked after Wyatt Earp and the little bastard sent me on a wild goose chase.”
“Well, you’re in luck, then,” Dobson informed him. “Marshal Earp is right here.” He waved a hand at Wyatt. “Maybe he’ll be more receptive to your arguments, whatever they may be, than he was to mine.” And with that, he turned and strode away, the narrow tails of his black coat flapping.
The man in the tan duster smiled at Wyatt. It wasn’t a nice smile. “So,” he said. “You’re the man who killed my friend Hoy.”
George Hoy. He’d known that shooting the poor kid had been a bad decision from the moment he’d pulled the trigger. “Yes,” Wyatt said, “I guess I’m the man you’re looking for.”
“Well, Mister Earp, I’m Clay Allison. Hoy was a friend of mine, and I don’t take kindly to people shooting my friends.”
Clay Allison. The name sounded familiar. And then Wyatt remembered Bat talking about “a crazy, hot-blooded bastard called Allison,” who had reportedly killed two marshals down in New Mexico a few years back, and pulled a gun on a dentist who had pulled out the wrong tooth-not Doc, who wouldn’t have made that sort of mistake to start with, and definitely wouldn’t have let a patient draw on him and walk away.
This was not good. Someday, Wyatt decided, he was going to die in front of the Long Branch, considering how many people kept confronting him here. It might even be today. Under his duster, Allison was wearing a gunbelt with a pair of heavy pistols hanging from it, in direct defiance of Dodge’s no-guns-North-of-the-deadline law.
“I don’t take kindly to people shooting at me,” Wyatt said. He pulled the side of his coat back to expose his Colt.
And then Bat came strolling up the street. “Hey, Wyatt, Morgan said that-” He stopped, looked from Wyatt to Allison, and said, “Wait just a minute. I’ll be right back.”
Allison watched Bat dart into the saloon, and grinned, drawing one of his guns. “Looks like your dandified little friend’s run off on you.”
“Dandified?” asked Bat. He stepped back through the Long Branch’s door, the shotgun from under the bar cradled pointedly in his right arm.
Wyatt rested a hand atop the hilt of his own gun, and smiled at Allison. “I’m real sorry about your friend, Mister Allison,” he said. Which was true, as far as it went. “His death was an unfortunate accident.”
“Try and fire those guns at one of us,” Bat added, “and yours won’t be.” He patted the shotgun’s barrel.
“So,” Wyatt continued, “You might want to put that gun away and head on out of town. Then we can all forget this entire thing ever happened.”
Allison looked from Bat’s shotgun to Wyatt’s holstered Colt and nodded slightly. “Yeah,” he said. “An unfortunate accident. Real shame. I think I’ll just be going now.” He turned and hurried away down the street, not running, but definitely walking more quickly than normal.
Wyatt and Bat were silent for a long moment, watching him.
“Well,” Bat finally said, “that was anticlimactic.”
* * *
Notes: Clay Allison was a real western “celebrity,” a gunslinger famous for his quick temper and for shooting at least two lawmen. He really did have a run in with Wyatt in Dodge, which, according to an interview with Wyatt in the San Francisco Examiner, went pretty much like it did here. Dora Hand is also real, and was the inspiration for the character of Miss Kitty, on the seemingly unending tv show Gunsmoke. Since we were unable to locate a photograph of Miss Hand, we decided to make her look like the red-headed Kitty in homage.
Jonah Dobson and Dolores Conklin aren’t real, though Dobson owes his last name to a certain contemporary religious leader (Spongebob is gay, we tell you! Gay and evil!!!!!). His speeches are (stereotyped) imitations of both nineteenth and early twentieth century temperance workers. Doc and Bat’s nasty comments on Methodism are based on common nineteenth century suspicions about Evangelical religion.
For the curious, the Bible verses cited in this chapter are, in order: Zephaniah 3:2, Zephaniah 3:5, 1 Corinthians 6:10, Proverbs 20:1, Isaiah 22:13 (quoted by Doc), and 1 Corinthians 15:33-34.
Sacrifice two turtles unto thy God! Or two pigeons. Whichever.
Hail Gloon, Corruptor of the Flesh!!!!!
Sleep now. For real this time.
DISCLAIMER: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by… no, wait, scratch that. This story is partially based on actual historical figures and events, and partially based on our own hours of twisted fantasies produced by seeing Tombstone one too many times. No money is being made and no offense is intended.
Posted By: elspethdixon and pixyofthestyx
Ships: Doc/Kate, Bat/Mollie (past tense), Doc/Wyatt vibes (yea!), fledgling Morgan/Louisa. The list goes on and on.
Warnings: This instalment of Gunslinger contains profanity, drinking, violence, historical inaccuracy, lots of Bible quotes, and extensive mocking of Methodists (we blame Henry Fielding). It does not contain hot sex. Sorry.
Gunslinger: Dodge City
Part Four: The First Stone, part I.
“She obeyed not the voice; she received not correction!” the preacher holding court across the street from the Long Branch railed. “She trusted not in the Lord; she drew not near to her God!”
Morgan did his best to ignore the man, and kept walking. He wasn’t the only one; North Front Street was busy with mid-day traffic. The earliest of the cattle drives were starting to trickle through Dodge, and the streets were just beginning to fill with longhorns, wagons, and men on horseback. Come May, the town would be over-run by cows and manure. And cowhands, of course, most of whom would probably try to shoot Wyatt. It seemed to be becoming a popular pastime.
“The just Lord is in the midst thereof; he will not do iniquity! Every morning doth he bring his judgment to light! He faileth not; but the unjust know no shame!” The sound of the preacher’s ranting followed Morgan into the jail, cutting off only when he closed the door behind him. It was replaced by the sound of the Conklins’ ranting.
“We citizens of Dodge are deeply concerned,” Dolores Conklin was saying, one hand pressed to her ample bosom.
“Deeply concerned,” Edgar Conklin chimed in.
“-by the constant shootings and pervasive spread of lawlessness in our town,” Mrs. Conklin continued, as if her husband had not spoken at all. She didn’t seem to notice Morgan standing by the door either.
“Well, ma’am, I wouldn’t really describe two shootings in two months as ‘constant shootings,’” Bat said. He was standing with his hands on the back of his chair, chair and desk forming a protective barrier between himself and Mrs. Conklin. Bat claimed that he wasn’t intimidated by her, but Morgan was pretty sure that that was a lie.
“I’m sure you wouldn’t,” she said, drawing herself up straighter. Somehow, she managed to look down her nose at Bat despite being slightly shorter than he was. “Four people are dead, Mister Masterson. Four people whose deaths you failed to prevent. Whose deaths you may have actually caused.”
Bat was gripping the back of the chair so tightly his knuckles had gone white. He drew breath to speak, but Mrs. Conklin overrode him. “When your brother, God rest his soul, was sheriff, we never had this sort of-”
“Bat!” Morgan said brightly. “Mr. Conklin, Ma’am, good morning.” He tried to sound cheerful, as if he were actually pleased to see the two of them in the jail. “Is there anything we can help you with?”
“I rather doubt it.” Mrs. Conklin turned back to Bat. “You and that overgrown thug from Wichita are paid to keep the peace, not to shoot people in the street.”
Morgan found himself wishing that Wyatt were there to hear himself described as an “overgrown thug.” And to deal with the Conklins, so that he wouldn’t have to. He spoke up again, cutting off whatever Bat had been intending to say. “They didn’t have much of a choice about that, ma’am.”
“One always has a choice, young man,” she said. Mrs. Conklin’s pale, close-set eyes bored into Morgan, as if he were a wayward child and she a disapproving aunt. “And one generally has the option of not shooting people.”
“Well, Morgan,” Bat pushed the chair in under the desk and came forward to clap Morgan on the shoulder, “it looks like you’ve got things under control now. I’ll just go find Wyatt and see if he needs any help with anything.” And then Bat, like the ungrateful, freeloading traitor that he was, collected his hat and cane and scuttled out the door, abandoning Morgan to his fate.
“I feel-and Mr. Conklin agrees with me, don’t you, Edgar?-that much of this city’s unwholesome atmosphere can be blamed on its saloons and dancehalls.” Mrs. Conklin took a step forward, twitching her skirts to one side to avoid brushing against Bat’s desk. She stabbed one gloved finger at Morgan’s chest. “Do you have any idea how many drinking and gambling establishments there are in this town?”
Morgan, in fact, had a very good idea, since all of them were required to get a permit from the mayor’s office-well, all of the ones Mayor Kelly didn’t actually own. “Well, north of the deadline, you’ve got-” he started.
“And every single one of these deplorable incidents has been connected to one of them!” she said triumphantly. “The violence in this town is out of control. Mr. Conklin and I are frankly terrified to leave our home after dark. Drunken trailhands with guns, lawmen who solve every disturbance by shooting and clubbing people, gamblers practicing every kind of debauchery… As a resident of this town I demand that you do something!”
“What exactly would you like me to, ma’am?” Morgan asked. He fought the impulse to take a step back, away from that accusing finger. He was not going to cower behind the desk like Bat. Wyatt and Virgil wouldn’t cower.
“Close down the saloons, of course,” Mrs. Conklin said promptly.
“Or at least impose some sort of curfew,” Mr. Conklin added. “All drinking establishments closed down after midnight, perhaps.”
“We can’t do that, sir,” Morgan said. “There’s no law against running a saloon, and this,” he gestured at his badge, “only gives me the right to enforce the laws, not make them.”
“The young man has a point, there, Mrs. Conklin,” Mr. Conklin said. He smoothed the somber black lapels of his coat, then extended an arm to his wife. “Perhaps we should take this up with Mayor Kelly.”
Mrs. Conklin was not to be so easily dissuaded. “There must be something you can do,” she insisted. “Or are you as powerless to uphold common morality and hold your fellow peacekeepers accountable as you are to make people control their dogs?”
“I told you, ma’am,” Morgan said, humiliatingly aware of how defensive he sounded, “there’s also no law against keeping dogs. I can’t just arrest people for bothering you; they actually have to do something illegal.”
“Well, if gunning people down in the street is not illegal-”
“There a Wyatt Earp here?”
All three of them turned to face the doorway, where a big, broad-shouldered man in a tan duster stood silhouetted.
“Excuse me, ma’am, sir.” Morgan turned away from the Conklins, suppressing the desire to sigh with relief, and faced the newcomer. “I’m sorry, sir, he’s not here right now.”
The man frowned, clearly annoyed. “Well, if he ain’t here, where can I find him?”
Morgan shrugged. “I don’t know.” If it were evening, Wyatt would probably have been in the Long Branch. If it were the middle of the night, he’d have been back in the boarding house, asleep. However, at midday, he might be anywhere. It was a nice day, all warm April sunlight without the pounding heat that would come later in the summer, so it could be that Wyatt wasn’t even in town at all, but out riding somewhere. “You’ll have to come back later. Or you could ask Marshal Masterson, if you need to find him now. He might know. Bowler hat, cane, a little shorter than me,” Morgan waved a hand in the air to demonstrate Bat’s height. “You can’t miss him.”
“We’ll leave you to go about your business, deputy,” Mr. Conklin said, offering an arm to his wife once again.
Mrs. Conklin laid a hand on her husband’s elbow and said, “Perhaps you’ll be able to help this,” she paused for a moment, eying the man in the duster with palpable disapproval, “gentleman with his problem.” She swept out of the room, somehow managing to avoid brushing against the stranger, in spite of the width of her skirts and the narrowness of the doorway.
“So, this Masterson will know where he is?” the stranger asked. He was still leaning in the doorway-he hadn’t bothered to step aside to let the Conklins pass-and his duster fell open just enough for Morgan to see a large Bowie knife hanging from his belt.
“Maybe,” Morgan said. “Or I could give him a message for you, next time I see him. What was it you wanted?”
“I didn’t say.” The man smiled. It wasn’t a friendly smile. “Let’s just say I want to have a little talk with him.”
“About what?” Morgan asked. He got the impression that this ‘little talk’ wouldn’t be all that healthful for Wyatt. Or for the stranger, for that matter.
“He’ll know when I find him.” The man left, the door swinging shut behind him, leaving Morgan alone.
Morgan stared after him for a moment, then shrugged and sat down behind the desk, pulling out the first in a stack of written complaints-well, the second; the first was from the Conklins. Charlie Pike at the Lady Gay wanted to make sure that the Dodge City Peacekeeping Commission knew that the owner of the saloon across the street had never purchased a liquor license.
Whatever the man had wanted, Wyatt could take care of himself.
* * *
Damn Dolores Conklin anyway. What did she know about it?
Bat stalked down the street, ignoring the ache in his hip. He wasn’t going to limp where that harridan might see; she’d only take it as further evidence that he wasn’t fit to be a lawman. And then find some way to blame Mollie’s death on him, too.
‘Really, Mister Masterson, when a man pulls a gun on you in a saloon and fires straight through the woman on your lap in order to kill you, it’s clearly your fault for being in a saloon in the first place!’ And then she’d sniff, and stare at him down her nose, and add, ‘Mr. Conklin thinks so, too, don’t you, Edgar?’
The worst thing about her was that she was so utterly convinced she was right that, after a while, a man found himself agreeing with her, whether he wanted to or not.
Bat had told Morgan that he was going out to look for Wyatt, but since Wyatt was probably either in the Long Branch or out riding by the river, he didn’t plan on looking very hard. He would check the Long Branch, and if Wyatt wasn’t there, well, at least it was a place he was pretty sure that the Conklins wouldn’t enter.
Front Street was usually pretty quiet around noon, but today there was a small cluster of people gathered across the street from the Long Branch, listening to a big man in a somber black coat that reminded Bat of an undertaker’s. “Neither thieves, nor covetous, nor drunkards, nor revilers, nor extortioners, shall inherit the kingdom of God,” he was saying. “The Lord makes his word clear on this, and therefore it is our responsibility to search our conscience for any sign of vice and repent. God is ever ready with forgiveness, but not for those who continue to wallow in sin.”
The Conklins, Bat thought, ought to be introduced to the man.
Wyatt wasn’t in the Long Branch, but Holliday was. The gambler was huddled over a whisky bottle at the table nearest the door, back against the wall so that he could watch the room in the mirror behind the bar. Bat bought himself a drink at the bar and joined him, sitting beside him so that he could watch the mirror as well. From there, he could see pretty much the entire room-and keep an eye on the door.
Holliday looked bad, even for Holliday. His eyes looked bruised, and his face, covered in a sheen of sweat, was even more colorless than usual. “What do you want, Masterson?” he asked, voice even quieter and more hoarse than it usually was. He turned aside to cough, muffling it behind a handkerchief.
There was something deeply wrong with Holliday, and considering that he still had the same cough he’d ridden in with, Bat was pretty sure he knew what that something was. This morning, he had the tired, drawn look of a man in pain-the sort of dull, constant pain Bat remembered from the days after he’d been shot down in Texas. It made Holliday slightly less annoying. “Nothing,” Bat said. “I was just looking for Wyatt.”
“Yes, aren’t we all.” Holliday said. He coughed again, and downed a shot of whisky, then poured himself another one, letting it sit on the table with one hand wrapped loosely around the glass, not drinking. For once, he wasn’t playing with that damn deck of cards. “He’s out playing hooky. He came by earlier to ascertain that everything in here was harmonious, then went out for a ride. I declined to accompany him.” His accent was heavier than usual, and he stumbled slightly over the long words.
Wyatt was out riding. While Bat had been trapped inside the jail with Dolores Conklin blaming him for everything from Ed’s death to original sin, Wyatt had been out enjoying the spring air.
“Starting a little early, aren’t you, Holliday?” Bat asked, indicating the other man’s full glass and the level of whisky in the bottle.
“Bad night.”
“Where’s…” Bat paused for a second, searching for the name. Holliday’s woman, the one with the breasts, what was she called? “Ah, Kate. Where’s Kate?”
“Asleep.”
Fine. If Holliday didn’t want to talk to him, he didn’t need to talk to Holliday. So much for being polite.
The shooting two weeks ago had been in no way Bat’s fault. It hadn’t really been Wyatt’s fault either. All of the blame lay squarely with Hoy and his friends, for being stupid enough to start firing at them. And yet the Conklins weren’t the only people complaining, just the loudest. And the most persistent.
What did people expect them to do, stand there and get shot?
Bat stared at his full shot glass. It didn’t offer any enlightenment.
“Sometimes I hate this job.”
Holliday said nothing. He, too, was staring at his whisky glass.
“You do the best you can, and people are still full of advice about how you could have done things better. Even Wyatt; he’s been avoiding everybody ever since that kid died.” Bat sighed.
“He doesn’t avoid me.”
Bat ignored Holliday’s comment. “He feels guilty about it, which is pointless, since you can’t change what’s happened.”
“Wyatt doesn’t like killing people,” Holliday said. He smiled, then slumped further over the table, arms resting on the scarred wood, and leaned his chin on his forearm, eyes still fixed on his glass. “He’s all shiny and good like that.”
Bat looked at Holliday for a long moment, unsure whether he was serious or not. “Yeah,” he said finally. “Shiny.” He rolled the edge of his glass around in a slow circle, watching the way the liquid inside moved. “Here’s hoping it doesn’t get him shot.” He lifted his glass, then set the it back down without drinking. Bat had discovered that he didn’t really want his whisky. It was cool outdoors, but the air inside the Long Branch was warm and still. Actually, beer or lemonade would have been better. Or water. “A man can tell when you’re not willing to shoot back,” he said. That had been Ed’s downfall, really. He hadn’t had it in him to shoot a man, and when he had been corned by those cowhands, he’d tried to talk them down. And then the bastards had shot him.
“Not wanting to’s not the same as not bein’ able to.” Holliday straightened slightly and coughed again, a short, broken-off sound, then slumped forward again. “Are you plannin’ on drinking that, or are you just going to sit here and sulk?”
“I think I’m just going to sit here and sulk,” Bat told him. One of the men at the next table over got up to get another drink, and Bat watched him in the mirror until he sat down again. Next to him, Holliday was doing the same thing.
Neither of them said anything for a minute, Bat thinking about Ed, and his own failure to back him up-he’d started running when he heard the first shot, but by the time he had gotten there, it had been too late-and Holliday thinking about whatever it was Holliday thought about. When the door opened, both of them looked up simultaneously.
Three-Fingers Jack Danver skulked inside, wearing a distinctly hunted look underneath his bushy, greying beard. The preacher from across the street was right on his heels.
“Do not fall into the trap of liquor, brother,” he was saying, one powerful hand stretching towards Three-Fingers Jack’s shoulder.
Three-Fingers ducked out of reach. “I ain’t yer brother, and you can keep yer paws off me.” He backed away until he reached the bar, then turned to the bartender. “I’ll have a beer.” He paid for the drink, turned to find a table, and caught sight of Bat.
“Good afternoon, Marshal,” he said. He set his beer back down and unbuckled his gunbelt, setting it down atop the bar, then nodded at Bat.
The preacher was watching from the doorway, a look of disappointed disgust on his face. He shook his head sadly. “Demon drink has him in its clutches.”
Suddenly, Bat’s whisky looked much more appealing. He picked the glass up and drained it. When he set it down again, Holliday smirked and nudged the whisky bottle over to him.
“Satanic whisky, marshal?”
All right, the man was amusing once in a while, he’d give Wyatt that much. Bat picked up the bottle and poured himself another shot. The preacher continued to speak.
“Wine is a mocker,” he quoted. “Strong drink is raging, and whosoever is deceived thereby is not wise.”
Holliday sat up straighter and saluted the man with his shot glass. “Let us eat and drink, for tomorrow we shall die,” he said. He tossed back his whisky and slumped against the back of the chair, smirking.
It was a tactical mistake. The preacher turned toward him like a hound catching a scent-or an obnoxious busybody finding a new victim. “Be not deceived,” he said. “Evil communications corrupt.” He strode toward the table, looming over Holliday and Bat. “Awake to righteousness, and sin not, for you have not the knowledge of God. I speak this to your shame.”
If Holliday had had the sense to keep quiet, the man would probably have given up and left them alone, but being Holliday, he just had to keep on talking. “Look, Masterson,” he said brightly, “he can quote the Bible.”
“Do not mock the word of God, son,” the preacher said gently. He leaned forward, grey-green eyes intent on Holliday’s face. “You have turned down a dark path, but you must realize that you are only hurting yourself.”
Holliday’s eyes narrowed with palpable loathing. “I could change that, if you don’t-” He broke off, wrapping an arm around his ribs as a violent bout of coughing doubled him over. He leaned against the table, head down, gasping for air, while Bat and the preacher stared at one another, unsure of what to do.
God, Holliday sounded like he was going to die. Bat hesitated, wondering if he should pound the other man on the back or something. Before he could attempt it, Holliday’s coughing fit quieted.
Holliday stayed motionless for a moment, eyes closed, wheezing. He reached with unnerving accuracy for the whisky bottle, then opened his eyes and pulled it towards him, pouring himself a shot with shaking hands. Whisky sloshed over the side of the glass and spilled onto the table. “Tell me, father,” he said, voice hoarse, “if I abstain from sin and am real good, do you think God will heal me?” He pulled a handkerchief out of his vest pocket and coughed once more, spitting something dark into it, then picked up the shot glass and drained it.
The preacher blinked, clearly searching for something to say. Bat didn’t volunteer anything.
“God can heal your soul,” the preacher said after a moment, “and that means more than physical health.”
Holliday glared, and looked for a moment as if he were seriously considering reaching for the gun under his coat that he and Bat were both pretending wasn’t there. Bat groaned inwardly. If Holliday actually drew on the man, Bat would have to arrest him, and that would be bloody and painful for everyone involved. ‘Sorry, Wyatt,’ he could hear himself explaining, ‘I truly regret knocking him unconscious, but I couldn’t let him gun a preacher down right in front of me, no matter how much he deserved it.’ Actually, maybe it wouldn’t be that painful.
Fortunately, Holliday chose to counter-attack with words. “My soul,” he said softly, “isn’t going to hemorrhage and drown in its own blood.”
“Despair is the greatest sin of all, son.” The preacher laid one hand on Holliday’s shoulder, in a gesture that was probably intended to be comforting.
Holliday said nothing; he simply looked at the hand, then looked up at the preacher.
The preacher quickly removed his hand.
“If I were you,” Bat suggested, “I would leave.”
The preacher glanced around the bar and seemed to notice for the first time that both the bartender and Chalk Beeson, the proprietor, who’d been sitting behind the bar doing accounts, were glaring daggers at him. Chalk did not like temperance workers; they were bad for business.
The preacher sighed, shoulders slumping for a moment, and then he straightened up, addressing the room at large. “I will be preaching in the Methodist church this Sunday, for those of you who wish to come and hear.”
“I’m Presbyterian,” Holliday announced. The preacher, who had learned his lesson, ignored him.
“My mother always said that Methodists were untrustworthy,” Bat said. Quietly, so that preacher, now on his way out the door, wouldn’t hear.
“And subject to strange enthusiasms,” Holliday added. “Mine said the same thing. And my father always said that only white trash and slaves were Methodists.”
“Sounds like a charming fellow.”
Holliday, who was slumped over the table again, glared at him half-heartedly. “Just for the record, if I wasn’t tired, I’d shoot you.”
“Right,” Bat said. He looked down at his drink again, spinning it in a slow circle and watching the whisky inside swirl. He probably ought to go back to the jail. It probably wasn’t the best of ideas to leave Morgan in there all by himself; he was still inexperienced. Actually, Morgan was probably a year or so older than he was, but compared to Bat, he was a green kid.
It had been a good half hour since Bat had left. The Conklins were probably gone now.
Holliday sighed. “When is Wyatt comin’ back?”
“Damned if I know,” Bat said. “Damn Wyatt anyway, out riding and enjoying himself while I was stuck in the jail with that woman.” And then, reflected in the mirror, he saw Wyatt walking through the door. “Oh, hello, Wyatt,” he added.
“Last time I looked,” Wyatt said dryly, “this wasn’t exactly the jail.”
“Wyatt.” Holliday straightened up a touch, smiling. “You’re back.”
“Doc.” Wyatt clapped a hand on Holliday’s shoulder, then pulled out a chair and sat down next to him. He picked up Holliday’s empty glass and poured himself a shot from the Holliday’s whisky bottle. Amazingly, Holliday didn’t object.
“My apologies for this morning, Wyatt,” he said instead. “I was unconscionably rude.”
Wyatt shook his head, grinning. “Don’t worry about it. I didn’t really expect you’d want me to drag you out for a ride.” He turned away from Holliday to address Bat. “Didn’t expect to see you two sharing a drink.”
“I was in the jail,” Bat explained, “but Mrs. Conklin chased me out.”
“Dreadful woman,” Holliday said. He turned to Wyatt, adding, “I tried to purchase some handkerchiefs at her store yesterday, and she glared at me as if I were planning to use them for something nefarious. What sort of nefariousness,” he stumbled slightly over the word-if it was a word; Bat wasn’t sure-“could you carry out with a handkerchief? Unless you used it to gag someone, or-“
“Doc,” Wyatt interjected firmly.
Holliday shut up.
Wyatt gave him a searching look, and frowned, eyebrows drawing together. “Damn, you look like hell.” He leaned over and laid the palm of one hand against Holliday’s forehead, successfully evading Holliday’s attempt to swat it away. “And you’re burning up. Why the hell aren’t you in bed?”
“Kate kicked me out so she could get some sleep.” Seeing the look of irritation on Wyatt’s face, he added, somewhat defensively, “She deserved it. She didn’t get any sleep last night.”
“All right.” Wyatt held up a hand. “We’ve established that I don’t need to know any details.”
“Trust me,” Holliday said, “last night was not fun for anyone involved.”
Bat pushed his shot glass away and stood up. His hip had stiffened up while he sat, and standing made it ache dully. “I should get back to the jail. I left Morgan to deal with the Conklins by himself.”
“Virgil told me that you hide behind the desk when they come in,” Wyatt said. He grinned. “I always thought he was joking.”
“I don’t hide behind my desk,” Bat protested. “I make a strategic retreat until Virgil makes her go away.”
“She’s got a point, you know, Bat,” Wyatt said. “We could probably have handled that shoot out differently.”
And there Wyatt went again. “Don’t start,” Bat told him. “I’ve already heard it all from Dolores Conklin. She threw in all of the ways I could have handled two months ago differently, too, just for variety.”
“Yeah, well, I didn’t say she had a point about everything.”
“Christ, Wyatt, if it bothers you that much, I’ll shoot them for you next time,” Holliday drawled. He reclaimed his whisky glass from Wyatt and took a sip. When he set it down again, Wyatt took it back.
“I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that,” Bat said. “Unless somebody actually gets shot, and then I’m going to remember it nice and clear.” He collected his cane from where it leaned against the table. “Wyatt. Holliday.”
“I’ll follow you in a minute or so,” Wyatt said. “Hey, Doc, if you’re still here when I get off shift this evening, I’ll walk you home.”
“If he can still walk at that point,” Bat couldn’t resist saying.
Holliday glared at him-if he’d been ten years younger, he probably would have stuck his tongue out-and then started coughing again. Wyatt passed him the shot glass, which Holliday took, drained, and handed back.
“Oh, for God’s sake, Wyatt, get your own glass,” Bat told him. As he walked out of the saloon, he could hear the two of them talking behind him.
“That’s it, Doc, you’re going back to bed.”
“I beg to differ. I will go home when I feel like it.”
“Come on, you’re never going to get any better just sitting here…”
Either Wyatt didn’t know what Holliday was sick with, or his powers of denial were truly amazing.
Bat stepped through the door and nearly ran into a large man standing on the steps. “Sorry about that,” he began, taking a step back.
“You Masterson?” the man interrupted. He straightened his tan duster, but not before Bat caught a brief glimpse of something that looked an awful lot like a gunbelt.
Bat took in the man’s hulking silhouette and the sullen expression on his clean-shaven face, and debated the merits of saying ‘no.’ “Yes, I’m Masterson. You got business with me?”
“The kid at the jail said you’d know where Wyatt Earp was.”
“You got business with him?”
“That’s between him and me,” the man said. He took a step closer, looming over Bat in an obvious attempt to be intimidating. It might have been more successful if Bat didn’t work with three men who were all six feet or taller. “You just tell me where I can find him.”
“You could try the Lady Gay,” Bat offered. He carefully did not look at the door behind him. “He said something about heading over there earlier. It’s on South Front Street,” he added. “On the other side of town.”
The man left without saying another word. He didn’t thank Bat for the information, either.
Bat watched him go, then headed for the jail, giving the preacher-still there across the street-a wide berth.
* * *
Walking Doc home, Wyatt reflected, was probably the most excitement he was going to see today. Which was probably a good thing. As boring as spending an afternoon with Morgan checking people’s liquor licenses was, it beat shooting people, and if any trouble had occurred to break the monotony, it would only have given the Conklins another reason to bother Bat. For some reason Wyatt had never been able to pin down, Dolores Conklin absolutely hated Bat. Maybe it was the bowler hat.
More likely, it was his habit of tipping said bowler hat at every attractive woman he walked past. You’d think getting shot over a woman would have taught him better.
As often as Doc was sick, you’d think he would learn better than to hang around in saloons and sulk when he ought to be in bed. But no, he was Doc, and therefore constitutionally incapable of listening to reason, and had apparently felt compelled to wait around in the saloon in order to apologize for a rude comment Wyatt hadn’t even really registered-strange, when Doc generally didn’t care whom he insulted. His willingness to say anything to anybody was one of the things Wyatt liked about him.
By the time they had gotten halfway to the Great Western Hotel, Doc had been leaning heavily on Wyatt, stumbling over his own feet like a man half-asleep. Wyatt had a feeling that it had had less to do with however much alcohol Doc had consumed, and more to do with the fever he could feel radiating off the other man’s skin.
Kate had taken one look at him, sworn, and hauled him inside the hotel room, ranting like a harpy all the while. “Where were you all day? Do you think you can just wander off and ignore me?” Somehow, amidst the flurry of complaints-surprisingly selfish complaints, Wyatt had thought, given the circumstances-Doc had ended up stripped of coat and boots and shoved into bed, two glasses filled with water and whisky waiting ready on the nightstand. He was asleep the instant he lay down. Then Kate had thrown Wyatt out of the room, giving him the distinct impression that she felt the whole thing was somehow his fault.
Which it damn well wasn’t. He wasn’t responsible for every stupid thing that Doc did, no matter what everybody else seemed to think.
If he didn’t shake whatever this was off in a few days, Wyatt was going to insist that he see a doctor.
“Anything wrong, Wyatt?” Morgan asked.
Wyatt shook his head, then added, “Not really. Is that the last of these things?” He held up the last sheet of paper from Bat’s desk, a notice informing the city’s peacekeeping force that part of one of the town’s boardwalks was damaged, and it was the city’s duty-i.e., the peacekeeping commission’s duty-to repair it.
“Yeah,” Morgan said. He stood up, stretching. “I guess that means one of us can go home.”
His movement toward the door was forestalled by Chalk Beeson entering through it. The normally good-natured Beeson was livid with indignation, the ends of his carefully curled and waxed mustache bristling.
“Marshal,” he announced forcefully, “I want that man out of my saloon!”
“What, Doc?” Wyatt asked.
“Holliday?” Beeson looked momentarily confused. “No, he’s fine. He brings in customers. Folks come to play cards with him and then buy drinks to drown their sorrows when they lose. It’s that damned bible-thumper! He’s driving my customers away. And he insulted Miss Hand.” Beeson stepped to one side and gestured dramatically at the doorway, where Dora Hand and another woman stood, looking vaguely uncertain. “And Miss Louisa!”
Wyatt stood automatically, instantly feeling oversized and clumsy compared to the two petite women in the doorway.
“Really, Chalk,” Miss Hand said, coming into the room to lay a placating hand on the saloon-owner’s arm, “you needn’t make such a fuss about all this. It isn’t as if I haven’t heard that sort of thing before.” She smiled at Beeson, and raised a hand to pat at her strawberry blonde hair. “It’s a hazard of the profession.” She turned her smile on Wyatt
“There was still no call for it.” Beeson beckoned to Miss Louisa. “Miss Louisa, tell the marshal what that man called you.”
Louisa, a tiny blonde who was hardly more than a girl, stepped into the room. She adjusted her shawl, which dripped with pale blue fringe the same color as her dress, and said, “Well, let me see, he called us ‘painted Jezebels,’ and fallen women, and Lord knows what. Right in the saloon, in front of Mr. Beeson and Miss Hand’s guest and everyone.” She delicately did not identify who Miss Hand’s “guest” had been.
“I believe the word ‘harlot’ figured in his remarks as well,” Miss Hand said.
“Was this the same preacher who was out in front of your place this morning?” Morgan asked. He stepped away from the side of the desk to look down at Louisa with an expression that bordered on awe.
“Yes,” Beeson said, in tones of greatest indignation. “He won’t go away. Marshal Masterson threw him out once already, but he just keeps coming back. Like a bad penny.”
“He’s been out there preaching all day?” Morgan sounded deeply impressed. He was still staring at Louisa. “And he hasn’t gone hoarse yet?”
“His voice was certainly in fine condition a few minutes ago,” Miss Hand said. “I’ve been called much worse, and by louder men, but Louisa shouldn’t have to hear that sort of thing, and Chalk certainly shouldn’t have to put up with it in his establishment.”
“I’ll be damned if I will,” Beeson said. “Sorry, ladies. I want one of you to come and escort him right out of the Long Branch. I’d throw him out myself but, well,” he shrugged, “he’s a preacher. I can’t see myself brawling with a preacher.”
Louisa was now staring up at Morgan through her eyelashes. They were very long, and much darker than her hair.
Wyatt sighed. “I’ll go deal with it.”
“You must get to do so many interesting things as a lawman,” he heard Louisa say as he followed Beeson out of the jail.
“Well, some days are more interesting than others...”
The Long Branch was significantly less crowded than usual for this time of the evening. It could have been due to the usual patrons’ desire to spend the lovely spring evening outdoors, but most likely it was because of the large man in a dark, somber suit who stood in front of the bar lecturing on the many benefits of temperance.
“The pervasive effects of alcohol have been the downfall of many an otherwise good man. Even now, many a wife waits at home with her children, wondering if her husband is going to come home safely, hoping he has not spent all of the family’s money on drink-”
“Excuse me, sir?” Wyatt interrupted.
The man broke off and turned to face him, looking irritated. “Yes, brother?” He was almost as tall as Wyatt, big enough to look him straight in the eye, and built like an ox, yet somehow, the staid black suit he wore didn’t look out of place. There was a sprinkle of grey in his red-brown hair, and his eyes were a peculiar pale green color.
“Mister Beeson has made a complaint against you,” Wyatt said. “I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to leave the saloon, Mister…” he paused, waiting for the man to supply a name.
“Reverend Jonah Dobson,” the man said. He frowned. “There is such a thing as freedom of religion in this fine country, deputy.”
“Marshal, actually. Marshal Earp.”
“Marshal,” Dobson corrected himself. “It is both my right and my duty to spread God’s word.”
“Yes, well, not in Mr. Beeson’s saloon,” Wyatt told him. “It’s his right to decide who he wants in here, and he says you’re costing him business. If you don’t agree to leave, I might have to take you in for causing a disturbance, and neither of us wants that.”
Dobson sighed. “I can see that my arguments shall do little good here.” He donned his hat and turned for the door. “At least you have enough respect not to insult me.”
Wyatt smiled in spite of himself. He’d heard Doc’s somewhat rambling account of Dobson’s previous attempt to proselytize in the Long Branch-“Damn religion anyway. First my cousin writes to say she wants to be a nun, then this sonuvabitch comes and pesters me while I’m trying to drink.” He had dropped his voice to a ridiculously low and solemn pitch, adding, “You have set your feet on the pathway of Satan, young man! You are doomed! Doomed!”-and had no doubt that whatever he’d said to Dobson in reply had been less than polite. Actually, it had probably been downright rude. “At least you’re not trying to take a swing at me for kicking you out of the saloon,” he returned.
“Violence,” Dobson said primly, sounding eerily like Dolores Conklin for a moment, “is never the answer. However, I have nearly lost all hope of trying to convince most of the people of this fair city of that fact. Is it all right if I continue to try and convince them outside?” he added snidely.
“Go ahead,” Wyatt said. “As long as you don’t bother Mr. Beeson’s patrons or go around insulting ladies.”
“I have seen no ladies thus far,” Dobson said.
Wyatt thought of Dora Hand, singing hymns in the Episcopal church on Sunday with as much faith as any of the “respectable” ladies of Dodge, and resisted the urge to push Dobson bodily out of the Long Branch’s door. He settled for following close on his heels, crowding him out into the street.
The two of them nearly ran into a man in a tan duster who was climbing up the saloon’s steps.
“Sorry, preacher,” the man said.
“Are you sure you really wish to go in there?” Dobson asked.
“I do if Masterson’s still in there.” The man ran a hand over his clean-shaven chin, and spit a mouthful of tobacco juice onto the ground at the foot of the steps. It missed Wyatt’s boot by about an inch. “I asked after Wyatt Earp and the little bastard sent me on a wild goose chase.”
“Well, you’re in luck, then,” Dobson informed him. “Marshal Earp is right here.” He waved a hand at Wyatt. “Maybe he’ll be more receptive to your arguments, whatever they may be, than he was to mine.” And with that, he turned and strode away, the narrow tails of his black coat flapping.
The man in the tan duster smiled at Wyatt. It wasn’t a nice smile. “So,” he said. “You’re the man who killed my friend Hoy.”
George Hoy. He’d known that shooting the poor kid had been a bad decision from the moment he’d pulled the trigger. “Yes,” Wyatt said, “I guess I’m the man you’re looking for.”
“Well, Mister Earp, I’m Clay Allison. Hoy was a friend of mine, and I don’t take kindly to people shooting my friends.”
Clay Allison. The name sounded familiar. And then Wyatt remembered Bat talking about “a crazy, hot-blooded bastard called Allison,” who had reportedly killed two marshals down in New Mexico a few years back, and pulled a gun on a dentist who had pulled out the wrong tooth-not Doc, who wouldn’t have made that sort of mistake to start with, and definitely wouldn’t have let a patient draw on him and walk away.
This was not good. Someday, Wyatt decided, he was going to die in front of the Long Branch, considering how many people kept confronting him here. It might even be today. Under his duster, Allison was wearing a gunbelt with a pair of heavy pistols hanging from it, in direct defiance of Dodge’s no-guns-North-of-the-deadline law.
“I don’t take kindly to people shooting at me,” Wyatt said. He pulled the side of his coat back to expose his Colt.
And then Bat came strolling up the street. “Hey, Wyatt, Morgan said that-” He stopped, looked from Wyatt to Allison, and said, “Wait just a minute. I’ll be right back.”
Allison watched Bat dart into the saloon, and grinned, drawing one of his guns. “Looks like your dandified little friend’s run off on you.”
“Dandified?” asked Bat. He stepped back through the Long Branch’s door, the shotgun from under the bar cradled pointedly in his right arm.
Wyatt rested a hand atop the hilt of his own gun, and smiled at Allison. “I’m real sorry about your friend, Mister Allison,” he said. Which was true, as far as it went. “His death was an unfortunate accident.”
“Try and fire those guns at one of us,” Bat added, “and yours won’t be.” He patted the shotgun’s barrel.
“So,” Wyatt continued, “You might want to put that gun away and head on out of town. Then we can all forget this entire thing ever happened.”
Allison looked from Bat’s shotgun to Wyatt’s holstered Colt and nodded slightly. “Yeah,” he said. “An unfortunate accident. Real shame. I think I’ll just be going now.” He turned and hurried away down the street, not running, but definitely walking more quickly than normal.
Wyatt and Bat were silent for a long moment, watching him.
“Well,” Bat finally said, “that was anticlimactic.”
* * *
Notes: Clay Allison was a real western “celebrity,” a gunslinger famous for his quick temper and for shooting at least two lawmen. He really did have a run in with Wyatt in Dodge, which, according to an interview with Wyatt in the San Francisco Examiner, went pretty much like it did here. Dora Hand is also real, and was the inspiration for the character of Miss Kitty, on the seemingly unending tv show Gunsmoke. Since we were unable to locate a photograph of Miss Hand, we decided to make her look like the red-headed Kitty in homage.
Jonah Dobson and Dolores Conklin aren’t real, though Dobson owes his last name to a certain contemporary religious leader (Spongebob is gay, we tell you! Gay and evil!!!!!). His speeches are (stereotyped) imitations of both nineteenth and early twentieth century temperance workers. Doc and Bat’s nasty comments on Methodism are based on common nineteenth century suspicions about Evangelical religion.
For the curious, the Bible verses cited in this chapter are, in order: Zephaniah 3:2, Zephaniah 3:5, 1 Corinthians 6:10, Proverbs 20:1, Isaiah 22:13 (quoted by Doc), and 1 Corinthians 15:33-34.
Sacrifice two turtles unto thy God! Or two pigeons. Whichever.
Hail Gloon, Corruptor of the Flesh!!!!!