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Yet more soap-opera-y Western RPS, rife with selective historical innacuracy as always.
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:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
elspethdixon and pixyofthestxy
Ships: The list goes on and on, but only Doc Holliday/Kate Elder appears in this chapter.
Warnings: This installment of Gunslinger contains violence, profanity, drinking, rampant altering of historical details to fit our chosen plot, and angst. It does not contain hot sex. Sorry
Gunslinger: Dodge City
Part Three: And Die in the West.
It was another exciting evening in Dodge. Once again, Wyatt found himself in the Long Branch, nursing a beer and watching Bat and Doc try to ignore each other. Bat was watching the crowd and toying absently with the polished metal knob on the end of his cane, while Doc laid out a game of solitaire. Each of them was determinedly pretending that the other did not exist.
They had been doing this for nearly a week. They had met, glared, and decided not to associate with each other. Which was difficult, since both spent quite a bit of time with Wyatt. It was really sort of funny; the two of them were just alike enough that watching them circle around each other like suspicious stray dogs could be real entertaining.
The two men were nearly the same height, and favored the same sort of fancy, Eastern-style dress—and the same sort of flashy, decorative sidearms. They were practically mirror images as they sat in awkward silence, both in gray coats and brightly colored waistcoats, Bat with his slicked back dark hair and carefully trimmed mustache, and Doc with his ash-blond hair tied back with a black ribbon.
“So,” Wyatt said, finally getting tired of the quiet, “where’s Kate gotten to?” By this point in the evening, the voluptuous Hungarian was usually busy draping herself over Doc.
“We had a disagreement,” Doc said offhandedly. He shrugged, and laid a jack of hearts on top of a queen of clubs. “She’ll come back in a few days; she always does.”
Wyatt’s reply was drowned out by the sound of whooping and hollering from the street, as a pack of—probably drunk—cowhands galloped past. There was a gunshot, and Bat sprang to his feet and clapped his bowler hat back onto his head, clearly intent on charging outside and putting a stop to things. And then a second bullet came through the window.
Bat hit the floor in an instant, along with everybody else in the saloon. Wyatt threw himself out of his chair and dove under the table, fetching up next to Doc. The gambler was propped up on one elbow, one hand pressed to his ribs and the other holding his gun, which seemed to have materialized out of nowhere.
Wyatt cocked an eyebrow at Doc’s Colt. “You know you aren’t supposed to go heeled north of the deadline.”
Doc shook a lock of hair out of his face and started to speak, but was silenced by the sound of another gunshot.
Bat, who was crouched on the floor with one of his guns aimed in the general direction of the window, caught Wyatt’s eye and nodded towards the door.
Wyatt rolled to one side, getting clear of the table, and stood, drawing his own gun as he did so. Bat was already on his feet, both guns out now. The two of them reached the door just in time to see the setting sun glinting off the riders’ tack as they galloped away.
“Right,” Bat said. “We’re going after them.”
“Why?” Doc had come up behind them and was rubbing at his elbow and wincing. His gun was nowhere in sight. “They’re just drunk. Give it a half hour or so and they’ll calm down. Or possibly pass out.”
“Yeah, that’ll be real comforting to all the people they shoot by accident first,” Bat snapped. He reholstered his guns and walked out the door, turning in the direction of the livery.
Wyatt put up his own gun and turned to face Doc, who was still standing behind him, looking annoyed. His hair was coming loose of its tie and his coat hanging open. “It’s our job, Doc.” Wyatt reached out and tugged the front of Doc’s coat closed, hiding his shoulder rig and the gun inside it from view.
When he left the saloon, Doc was still staring after him.
* * *
The cowboys were easy enough to follow; they weren’t even trying to hide their trail. They were riding fast, leaving the ground behind them a churned up mass of hoof prints that stretched down Front Street toward the Arkansas River.
Bat dug his spurs into Lady’s flanks, and the gray mare broke into a canter. He could hear Wyatt’s gelding coming up behind them, hoofbeats echoing off the buildings. The drunk cowhands would almost certainly slow down once they got across the river and into the cattle grazing pasture outside of town—the road ran out there, and even drunk, no cowhand would be stupid enough to risk breaking his mount’s leg in a gopher hole. If he and Wyatt kept this pace up, they were bound to catch up with them.
And then they could disarm the brainless bastards and throw them in jail for disturbing the peace, because Bat would be damned if he let anyone get away with shooting at a law officer in Dodge, even by accident.
By the time the two of them reached the toll bridge, Wyatt’s horse had drawn even with his. As they hit the first of the wooden planks, Wyatt reined in his gelding, pulling the chestnut around to the left so that Bat was forced to either halt Lady or run into him.
“You seen a bunch of men on horses come through here?” Wyatt leaned over in the saddle to address Jake Bower, the toll collector. God only knew why he bothered to ask. This was the only way they could have gone.
“Damned right.” Jake spat a stream of tobacco juice onto the bridge in evident disgust. “Bastards ran right through without paying.”
That was all Bat needed to hear. He nudged Lady forward past Wyatt’s horse and took off, Wyatt on his heels.
“Hey,” Jake yelled after them, “you two owe me fifty cents!”
“We’ll pay you later,” Wyatt yelled back over his shoulder.
Bat didn’t give a damn about Jake’s fifty cents; his attention was already on the grove of cottonwood trees that lined the river’s south bank. Somewhere on the other side of the trees were the idiots they were after, and once he and Wyatt got through the patch of scrub they might be close enough to see them.
Bat pulled back on Lady’s reins as they reached the first of the cottonwoods, slowing her down enough to keep the mare from stumbling over a tree root—or himself from getting knocked out of the saddle by a tree branch. With Lady and Wyatt’s gelding slowed to a trot, Bat could make out the sound of voices up ahead.
“Yee-haw!” someone whooped, “Damn, that was fun.”
“Did you see how they went for the floor?”
Galloping straight up on them would be just begging to get shot at. Bat had been shot before, and had no intention of repeating the experience. He drew one of his guns, holding it out of sight behind Lady’s neck, and nudged her out of the trees at a walk.
“Drop your weapons,” he called out. “We’re taking you boys in for disturbing the peace.”
The cowboys—there were four of them, all still mounted—spun around, as startled as if Bat and Wyatt had sprung up out of the earth. One of them, a man in a dark slouch hat, pulled his horse’s head around to face them and reached for his gun.
“Don’t be stupid,” Wyatt yelled. He had his own gun out, held low at his side. “Just come along quietly; there doesn’t need to be any trouble.”
“Aw, come on,” Slouch Hat said. “We were just havin’ fun. We didn’t mean nothing by it.” He lifted his hand away from his gun belt and held it up, offering them a good-natured grin.
“Well, your fun’s over now.” Bat nudged Lady forward another step. He was still holding Lady’s reins with his left hand, so he used the barrel of his Colt to gesture to the cowhands and then toward the ground. “Take your gunbelts off and put them on the ground.”
“Hell with that,” shouted one of the men, either dumber or drunker than Slouch Hat. He lifted a gun Bat hadn’t seen him draw and fired, the bullet going a good foot over Wyatt’s head.
Bat dropped Lady’s reins and pulled his other gun, thumbing the hammer back as brought both guns up to bear on the shooter. He pulled both triggers at the same time and the man yelped and dropped flat against his horse’s neck, dropping his gun.
Slouch Hat kicked his feet out of the stirrups and flung himself off his horse, hugging the dirt to make as small a target as possible. “Ted, you goddamned idiot!”
One of the other men had a gun out now, too, and was firing randomly in the direction of Bat and Wyatt, all of his bullets going wide—but not by all that much.
If Wyatt were hit—if he were hit—whichever one was left standing would be overwhelmed by sheer force of numbers, and then they would both be in real trouble. Wyatt could end up bleeding to death in the dust, just like Ed had, blood soaking into the dry ground like water. It had taken Ed forty minutes to die.
“Wyatt, get down!” Bat shouted. He himself was ducked low behind Lady’s neck, wishing fervently that they were still back in the cottonwoods where there was at least some kind of cover. Lady’s ears were pulled back against her head, and she was shying sideways every time a gun went off, clearly not happy with all the noise and smoke. If they didn’t end this soon, she was going to bolt.
Wyatt did not get down but instead took aim at the man shooting at them and fired, just as Bat let off another round from his right-hand Colt. The man dropped his gun, clutched at his chest, and slid slowly off his horse.
The one cowhand still holding a pistol dropped it like a hot poker, raising his hands up palm out. “Don’t shoot me!”
Slouch Hat rose to his knees and crawled over to the fallen man, grabbing him by a shoulder and rolling him onto his back. “George? Shit, they shot George!”
Wyatt was staring down at his gun, brows drawn together and jaw set. His gelding was still standing there placidly, looking perfectly at ease. Knowing Wyatt’s horse, it was probably too dumb to realize that it ought to have been spooked.
Bat shook his head to try and clear the ringing in his ears and swung down from Lady’s back, guns still trained on the men in front of him. “Take your gunbelts off and throw them over here,” he ordered. “We’re all going back to town. The doctor can take a look at your friend there.”
“While the rest of you wait in jail,” Wyatt said. He slid his gun back into its holster and dismounted, walking slowly towards the suddenly dispirited little group to collect the gunbelt Slouch Hat had tossed onto the dirt.
“The rest of ya do as he says,” Slouch Hat said. He was still kneeling by his friend, holding something—probably a bandana—to the other man’s chest.
Ted—still on his horse—and the other cowhand obeyed, unbuckling their gunbelts and tossing them forward onto the ground. Wyatt picked them up and draped them over his arm, then turned back to Bat.
“You can probably put those away now,” he said, nodding toward Bat’s guns. Bat reholstered his left-hand gun and strode over to the wounded cowhand, his other gun still held firmly in his right hand.
The wounded man was lying flat on his back, a dark stain spreading across the left side of his chest. Slouch Hat was trying to stem the bleeding with his bandana and meeting with little success. Judging by the wet, bubbling sound of the man’s breathing, the bullet had hit him in the lung, which meant there was nothing that anyone could do for him.
“Get him up on a horse,” Bat ordered. The fourth cowhand dismounted and bent to help Slouch Hat lift their companion up, taking his feet while Slouch Hat held his shoulders. Ted stayed on his horse, looking dazed.
“Somebody’s going to have to get up there behind him,” Wyatt said. “He looks pretty bad.” He stared at the ground as he spoke, one hand rubbing at the back of his neck. “What’s his name? Your friend, there.”
No one answered for a moment, the cowhands too concerned with hoisting the injured man up onto Slouch Hat’s horse to respond. Slouch Hat had climbed back onto his horse and was pulling his friend up to sit in front of him, aided by the fourth cowhand. Standing, he was nearly as tall as Wyatt, and he handed the wounded man up easily. Slouch Hat wrapped one arm around his waist and picked up the horse’s reins with the other before finally turning to Wyatt. “Hoy,” he said. “His name’s George Hoy.”
“George Hoy,” Wyatt repeated quietly. Wyatt, Bat realized, had never shot a man before. He didn’t look as if he were happy about having done so. If Wyatt actually had shot him, that was. It could just as easily be Bat’s bullet inside his lung.
It wasn’t as though they’d had a choice about shooting him; the man had clearly been willing to kill them, and in those situations, being squeamish about shooting back got you dead.
Somehow, Bat didn’t think that would make Wyatt feel any better.
* * *
George Hoy died at four a.m. At least, it was four a.m. according to Wyatt’s pocket watch, which had a worn out spring and was usually a few minutes off. In any case, he was dead before the sun came up.
His friends, under Bat and Wyatt’s supervision, had carried him into the hotel nearest to the jail to await the doctor—the man in the slouch hat, a William Davies, had paid the hotel fee out of his own pocket—but there had been nothing anyone could do. Wyatt’s bullet had gone straight through his lung, and he had died coughing up blood. And it must have been Wyatt’s bullet, because at that distance, and in that poor light, Bat’s bullets had probably gone wide. Bat might be quicker on the draw, but Wyatt’s longer-barreled gun had better aim and a better range.
According to Davies, Hoy had been twenty three. Younger than Morgan. And now they’d either be burying him on Boot Hill or sending his body back to Texas in a box, all because he’d been drunk and stupid enough to get himself into a pointless gunfight with Wyatt and Bat.
“Thanks for the back up out there, Wyatt.” Bat was slouching in his favorite chair behind the desk, feet up, watching as Wyatt paced back and forth in front of the empty cells. It was late morning, and all of the surviving prisoners had sobered up and been released, their guns now safely locked in the cabinet that stood against the jail’s south wall.
“I know it was your first real gunfight,” Bat continued. He gave the top of his cane, slightly scratched from its impact with the Long Branch’s floor, a swipe with his handkerchief. “You did a good job.”
There was something slightly disconcerting about being commended like that by someone closer to his little brother’s age than his own. Still, Bat had been involved in more shootings than Wyatt, and ought to know what he was talking about. Hell, he’d fought Apache when he was seventeen, out in Adobe Wells.
“Yeah,” Wyatt said. “So good a job that that kid’s dead.” He stopped pacing, coming to a halt against the jail’s wall, and turned to look at Bat.
“I’d rather bury him than have them be burying me. Or you,” Bat added. He looked up, meeting Wyatt’s gaze. “I’m not real fond of funerals.”
No, Wyatt realized, he probably wasn’t. Not after burying both a lover and a brother. The bullet that had left Bat with that limp had gone straight through his woman before hitting him. Bat never talked about it, but Wyatt got the feeling she had died in his arms. And Ed… The rest of the peace keeping force had gotten there just in time to see Ed collapse. Bat had put a bullet into his remaining attacker and kept on shooting even after the man went down. Wyatt had had to pry the gun out of his hands.
It was no wonder that Bat didn’t seem all that shaken by Hoy’s death.
“No,” Wyatt said. “Neither am I.”
“You’re not what?” Morgan strode through the jail’s door with the buoyant step of a man who had gotten a full night’s sleep. Just seeing him made Wyatt feel even more tired than before.
“Morning, Morgan.” Wyatt nodded hello, abandoning the conversation with Bat.
Bat himself was climbing stiffly to his feet, favoring his bad leg ever-so-slightly. “Hello, Morgan. Wyatt, why don’t you take off and get some sleep. I’ll fill Morgan in on how things stand. And then I’m going to bed, and God help the person who wakes me up before dinnertime.”
“Yeah, Wyatt, go home,” Morgan said. “You’ve earned it.” He grinned, and clapped Wyatt on the shoulder as Wyatt walked out the door.
“So,” Morgan’s voice followed him out into the street, “how’s that cowhand the two of you shot?”
Wyatt’s eyes were gritty with lack of sleep, but somehow the thought of bed wasn’t that appealing. Though it wasn’t his responsibility at the moment, he started making a slow circuit of the town, watching as people went about their business, shopping and talking. By daylight, Dodge was completely different from the town it became after dark. The Conklins’ store was open and bustling, for once doing almost as much business as Rath’s General Outfitters across the street. The blacksmith near the train depot was shoeing a horse, over the horse’s foot-stomping, head-tossing protests.
South of the tracks, the streets were nearly empty; few people were interested in saloons and dancehalls during the day. Wyatt was nearly level with the Grand Hotel before he saw or heard any signs of life.
When he heard the first gun shot, he nearly jumped out of his skin. Gun in hand, Wyatt dashed for the empty lot behind the hotel. He really, really didn’t want to have to shoot anybody else today.
Except this time it wasn’t a bunch of Texans trying to kill each other. It was Doc Holliday, slaughtering a line of empty whiskey bottles. He was in his shirtsleeves, still wearing the same blue vest he had had on the previous evening. Apparently, Wyatt and Bat weren’t the only people who hadn’t been to bed last night.
For a man who’d likely gone without sleep, his aim was damn good. He was fast, too, thumbing the hammer back and pulling the trigger in almost the same motion. In mere seconds, every whiskey bottle had been reduced to a pile of broken glass.
When the last bottle was dead, Doc holstered his gun and turned around, grinning. “Hello, Wyatt. I trust your bit of heroics last night was successful?” Now that Wyatt had gotten a better look at him, it was even more obvious that he hadn’t slept last night. His hair fell into his face and around the crumpled collar of his shirt in a disheveled tangle. The bright morning sunlight brought out gold glints in it, and lightened his eyes from smoky grey to a pale, clear blue. It also revealed the bloodless pallor of his skin and the bruised-looking smudges under those blue eyes in a way that the softer light of the Long Branch’s lamps never did.
“Depends on how you define success,” Wyatt said. He reholstered his gun—there was clearly no need for it here—and walked over to stand next to Doc. “Lot of broken glass there, Doc. Guess that reputation of yours isn’t just talk.”
“Nonsense. I assure you, anything bad you may have heard about me was purely fictional.” Doc was still grinning with an almost obscene cheerfulness. It should have been irritating. Somehow, it wasn’t. “The good parts, on the other hand…” He coughed, one arm wrapped around his ribs and a handkerchief held to his mouth. The coughing fit lasted only a few moments, and then he brushed his hair out of his face and folded both arms across his chest. There was a red mark high on his neck that was just fading into a bruise, which, put together with the messy hair, probably explained the good mood. “Kate came back last night,” he added conversationally.
“Yeah,” Wyatt said. “I can see that.”
Doc raised a hand to his neck, then looked down. If it had been anyone else, Wyatt would have sworn he was blushing, but this was Doc, and Wyatt wasn’t sure he even knew the meaning of the word shame. “So, is Masterson satisfied now that all of the bad, bad men have been brought to justice?”
“Yes.” Wyatt spoke abruptly, hoping that Doc would take the hint and drop the subject. He looked away, watching the sun glint off the broken shards of Doc’s whiskey bottles. It was actually sort of pretty. Beyond them, in the next lot, a new building was going up, its frame standing skeletal and bare against the blue of the sky.
“Ah,” Doc said. “I had heard one of them was dead. I’d assumed Masterson shot him.”
The building next-door looked like it was going to be two stories. The beams that would support the second floor were already in place, the wood raw and new. Once it was finished, the walls would weather to grey, unless the owners decided to paint it.
“Does it ever get any easier?” Wyatt asked.
“Does what get easier?”
“Killing a man.”
Doc stretched a hand out as if to touch Wyatt, then pulled it back. He extracted a silver flask from his vest pocket and held it out to Wyatt. “Killing is easy, Wyatt. You just point your gun at a man and pull the trigger. The hard part is doing it before he can shoot you.”
Wyatt accepted the flask and took a sip. It was whiskey, and not cheap whiskey, either. He screwed the cap back on and handed it back to Doc.
Doc removed the cap again and drank deeply, coughing once as he lowered the flask. He studied it for a moment before capping it and putting it away. “Or if you’re drunk. That makes it harder to aim.”
“This isn’t something to joke about, Doc,” Wyatt said, frowning. Shooting a man wasn’t something one ought to make light of.
“I beg to differ. One should try never to take death seriously.” Doc looked up at Wyatt, head canted slightly to one side. “You look terrible,” he added after a moment. “Go home and sleep. You’ll feel better about it tomorrow.”
Wyatt was pretty sure that he wouldn’t, but sleep was starting to sound like a good idea. His neck and shoulders were beginning to ache with exhaustion. He rolled his shoulders back, feeling one of them pop. “Yeah, maybe you’re right. You ought to think about getting some sleep, too.”
Doc’s eyes narrowed in irritation. “I don’t—” He broke off mid-sentence, interrupted by another coughing fit. Doc pulled his handkerchief back out of his pocket and held it to his mouth, doubling over with the force of the spasms. The coughs were harsh and rattling, coming from deep inside his chest.
Wyatt took Doc by the elbow and pulled him upright again. Doc sagged against him, still coughing, and for a moment, Wyatt found himself supporting most of the other man’s weight. He was surprised by the intensity of the concern he felt.
Doc’s coughing trailed to a halt, and he leaned against Wyatt, breathing in hoarse gasps.
“You all right, there, Doc?” Wyatt heard himself asking. It was a stupid question. Of course Doc wasn’t all right. People who were all right didn’t breath like that.
“Fine,” Doc said, his voice a hoarse whisper. He pulled away from Wyatt and straightened his shoulders, wincing. He glanced down at the crumpled handkerchief in his hand and his face went blank for a moment before he looked back up at Wyatt. “Perhaps I will go to bed.” He crushed the handkerchief into a ball and shoved it into his pocket, turning toward the hotel.
Wyatt followed him to the building’s porch, slowing his steps to match Doc’s. “You thought about seeing a doctor?” he asked.
“I have seen several doctors,” Doc told him. “They all said the same thing.”
“That being?”
“ ‘Go West, young man,’” Doc quoted. “Apparently the air out here is more conducive to health.” He produced his flask again and took a small sip, then shrugged. “I suppose we’ll see.”
“Go to bed, Doc. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Doc touched two fingers to an imaginary hat. “Good night, sweet prince,” he said, giving Wyatt a mocking little bow, “and flights of angels see you to your rest.” He climbed the hotel steps and went back inside, to where Kate was presumably waiting for him.
Wyatt went home and went to bed. Maybe it would look better in the morning.
* * *
Historical Notes: “Cowboys” was actually an insult, implying that one did unsavoury things with cows—the customary term was “cowhand.” Also, the toll for Dodge City’s toll bridge really was 25 cents a person.
George Hoy was a real person; a cowhand from Texas who was the only person Wyatt killed in the line of duty while in Dodge. If, that is, it was actually Wyatt’s bullet that struck him—it could have been Bat Masterson, since both of them were shooting at him at the time. The circumstances of his death were similar to the ones depicted here: he and several friends fired shots into a saloon (actually the Lady Gay, not the Long Branch, but we wanted it to be a saloon North of the deadline), and Wyatt and Bat's brother Jim Masterson (not the one who was murdered) pursued them. The chase scene isn’t quite as exciting in the history books. Also, Jim isn't in this story, because we decided to have Morgan and Virgil there instead.
Texans. At this point, it probably seems like we’re intentionally demonizing them. I swear we’re not trying to. It’s just that every time we look up the history of a particular shooting, there’s some guy from Texas involved. Apparently, Texans and Kansans were less than fond of one another.
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 pixyofthestxyShips: The list goes on and on, but only Doc Holliday/Kate Elder appears in this chapter.
Warnings: This installment of Gunslinger contains violence, profanity, drinking, rampant altering of historical details to fit our chosen plot, and angst. It does not contain hot sex. Sorry
Part Three: And Die in the West.
It was another exciting evening in Dodge. Once again, Wyatt found himself in the Long Branch, nursing a beer and watching Bat and Doc try to ignore each other. Bat was watching the crowd and toying absently with the polished metal knob on the end of his cane, while Doc laid out a game of solitaire. Each of them was determinedly pretending that the other did not exist.
They had been doing this for nearly a week. They had met, glared, and decided not to associate with each other. Which was difficult, since both spent quite a bit of time with Wyatt. It was really sort of funny; the two of them were just alike enough that watching them circle around each other like suspicious stray dogs could be real entertaining.
The two men were nearly the same height, and favored the same sort of fancy, Eastern-style dress—and the same sort of flashy, decorative sidearms. They were practically mirror images as they sat in awkward silence, both in gray coats and brightly colored waistcoats, Bat with his slicked back dark hair and carefully trimmed mustache, and Doc with his ash-blond hair tied back with a black ribbon.
“So,” Wyatt said, finally getting tired of the quiet, “where’s Kate gotten to?” By this point in the evening, the voluptuous Hungarian was usually busy draping herself over Doc.
“We had a disagreement,” Doc said offhandedly. He shrugged, and laid a jack of hearts on top of a queen of clubs. “She’ll come back in a few days; she always does.”
Wyatt’s reply was drowned out by the sound of whooping and hollering from the street, as a pack of—probably drunk—cowhands galloped past. There was a gunshot, and Bat sprang to his feet and clapped his bowler hat back onto his head, clearly intent on charging outside and putting a stop to things. And then a second bullet came through the window.
Bat hit the floor in an instant, along with everybody else in the saloon. Wyatt threw himself out of his chair and dove under the table, fetching up next to Doc. The gambler was propped up on one elbow, one hand pressed to his ribs and the other holding his gun, which seemed to have materialized out of nowhere.
Wyatt cocked an eyebrow at Doc’s Colt. “You know you aren’t supposed to go heeled north of the deadline.”
Doc shook a lock of hair out of his face and started to speak, but was silenced by the sound of another gunshot.
Bat, who was crouched on the floor with one of his guns aimed in the general direction of the window, caught Wyatt’s eye and nodded towards the door.
Wyatt rolled to one side, getting clear of the table, and stood, drawing his own gun as he did so. Bat was already on his feet, both guns out now. The two of them reached the door just in time to see the setting sun glinting off the riders’ tack as they galloped away.
“Right,” Bat said. “We’re going after them.”
“Why?” Doc had come up behind them and was rubbing at his elbow and wincing. His gun was nowhere in sight. “They’re just drunk. Give it a half hour or so and they’ll calm down. Or possibly pass out.”
“Yeah, that’ll be real comforting to all the people they shoot by accident first,” Bat snapped. He reholstered his guns and walked out the door, turning in the direction of the livery.
Wyatt put up his own gun and turned to face Doc, who was still standing behind him, looking annoyed. His hair was coming loose of its tie and his coat hanging open. “It’s our job, Doc.” Wyatt reached out and tugged the front of Doc’s coat closed, hiding his shoulder rig and the gun inside it from view.
When he left the saloon, Doc was still staring after him.
The cowboys were easy enough to follow; they weren’t even trying to hide their trail. They were riding fast, leaving the ground behind them a churned up mass of hoof prints that stretched down Front Street toward the Arkansas River.
Bat dug his spurs into Lady’s flanks, and the gray mare broke into a canter. He could hear Wyatt’s gelding coming up behind them, hoofbeats echoing off the buildings. The drunk cowhands would almost certainly slow down once they got across the river and into the cattle grazing pasture outside of town—the road ran out there, and even drunk, no cowhand would be stupid enough to risk breaking his mount’s leg in a gopher hole. If he and Wyatt kept this pace up, they were bound to catch up with them.
And then they could disarm the brainless bastards and throw them in jail for disturbing the peace, because Bat would be damned if he let anyone get away with shooting at a law officer in Dodge, even by accident.
By the time the two of them reached the toll bridge, Wyatt’s horse had drawn even with his. As they hit the first of the wooden planks, Wyatt reined in his gelding, pulling the chestnut around to the left so that Bat was forced to either halt Lady or run into him.
“You seen a bunch of men on horses come through here?” Wyatt leaned over in the saddle to address Jake Bower, the toll collector. God only knew why he bothered to ask. This was the only way they could have gone.
“Damned right.” Jake spat a stream of tobacco juice onto the bridge in evident disgust. “Bastards ran right through without paying.”
That was all Bat needed to hear. He nudged Lady forward past Wyatt’s horse and took off, Wyatt on his heels.
“Hey,” Jake yelled after them, “you two owe me fifty cents!”
“We’ll pay you later,” Wyatt yelled back over his shoulder.
Bat didn’t give a damn about Jake’s fifty cents; his attention was already on the grove of cottonwood trees that lined the river’s south bank. Somewhere on the other side of the trees were the idiots they were after, and once he and Wyatt got through the patch of scrub they might be close enough to see them.
Bat pulled back on Lady’s reins as they reached the first of the cottonwoods, slowing her down enough to keep the mare from stumbling over a tree root—or himself from getting knocked out of the saddle by a tree branch. With Lady and Wyatt’s gelding slowed to a trot, Bat could make out the sound of voices up ahead.
“Yee-haw!” someone whooped, “Damn, that was fun.”
“Did you see how they went for the floor?”
Galloping straight up on them would be just begging to get shot at. Bat had been shot before, and had no intention of repeating the experience. He drew one of his guns, holding it out of sight behind Lady’s neck, and nudged her out of the trees at a walk.
“Drop your weapons,” he called out. “We’re taking you boys in for disturbing the peace.”
The cowboys—there were four of them, all still mounted—spun around, as startled as if Bat and Wyatt had sprung up out of the earth. One of them, a man in a dark slouch hat, pulled his horse’s head around to face them and reached for his gun.
“Don’t be stupid,” Wyatt yelled. He had his own gun out, held low at his side. “Just come along quietly; there doesn’t need to be any trouble.”
“Aw, come on,” Slouch Hat said. “We were just havin’ fun. We didn’t mean nothing by it.” He lifted his hand away from his gun belt and held it up, offering them a good-natured grin.
“Well, your fun’s over now.” Bat nudged Lady forward another step. He was still holding Lady’s reins with his left hand, so he used the barrel of his Colt to gesture to the cowhands and then toward the ground. “Take your gunbelts off and put them on the ground.”
“Hell with that,” shouted one of the men, either dumber or drunker than Slouch Hat. He lifted a gun Bat hadn’t seen him draw and fired, the bullet going a good foot over Wyatt’s head.
Bat dropped Lady’s reins and pulled his other gun, thumbing the hammer back as brought both guns up to bear on the shooter. He pulled both triggers at the same time and the man yelped and dropped flat against his horse’s neck, dropping his gun.
Slouch Hat kicked his feet out of the stirrups and flung himself off his horse, hugging the dirt to make as small a target as possible. “Ted, you goddamned idiot!”
One of the other men had a gun out now, too, and was firing randomly in the direction of Bat and Wyatt, all of his bullets going wide—but not by all that much.
If Wyatt were hit—if he were hit—whichever one was left standing would be overwhelmed by sheer force of numbers, and then they would both be in real trouble. Wyatt could end up bleeding to death in the dust, just like Ed had, blood soaking into the dry ground like water. It had taken Ed forty minutes to die.
“Wyatt, get down!” Bat shouted. He himself was ducked low behind Lady’s neck, wishing fervently that they were still back in the cottonwoods where there was at least some kind of cover. Lady’s ears were pulled back against her head, and she was shying sideways every time a gun went off, clearly not happy with all the noise and smoke. If they didn’t end this soon, she was going to bolt.
Wyatt did not get down but instead took aim at the man shooting at them and fired, just as Bat let off another round from his right-hand Colt. The man dropped his gun, clutched at his chest, and slid slowly off his horse.
The one cowhand still holding a pistol dropped it like a hot poker, raising his hands up palm out. “Don’t shoot me!”
Slouch Hat rose to his knees and crawled over to the fallen man, grabbing him by a shoulder and rolling him onto his back. “George? Shit, they shot George!”
Wyatt was staring down at his gun, brows drawn together and jaw set. His gelding was still standing there placidly, looking perfectly at ease. Knowing Wyatt’s horse, it was probably too dumb to realize that it ought to have been spooked.
Bat shook his head to try and clear the ringing in his ears and swung down from Lady’s back, guns still trained on the men in front of him. “Take your gunbelts off and throw them over here,” he ordered. “We’re all going back to town. The doctor can take a look at your friend there.”
“While the rest of you wait in jail,” Wyatt said. He slid his gun back into its holster and dismounted, walking slowly towards the suddenly dispirited little group to collect the gunbelt Slouch Hat had tossed onto the dirt.
“The rest of ya do as he says,” Slouch Hat said. He was still kneeling by his friend, holding something—probably a bandana—to the other man’s chest.
Ted—still on his horse—and the other cowhand obeyed, unbuckling their gunbelts and tossing them forward onto the ground. Wyatt picked them up and draped them over his arm, then turned back to Bat.
“You can probably put those away now,” he said, nodding toward Bat’s guns. Bat reholstered his left-hand gun and strode over to the wounded cowhand, his other gun still held firmly in his right hand.
The wounded man was lying flat on his back, a dark stain spreading across the left side of his chest. Slouch Hat was trying to stem the bleeding with his bandana and meeting with little success. Judging by the wet, bubbling sound of the man’s breathing, the bullet had hit him in the lung, which meant there was nothing that anyone could do for him.
“Get him up on a horse,” Bat ordered. The fourth cowhand dismounted and bent to help Slouch Hat lift their companion up, taking his feet while Slouch Hat held his shoulders. Ted stayed on his horse, looking dazed.
“Somebody’s going to have to get up there behind him,” Wyatt said. “He looks pretty bad.” He stared at the ground as he spoke, one hand rubbing at the back of his neck. “What’s his name? Your friend, there.”
No one answered for a moment, the cowhands too concerned with hoisting the injured man up onto Slouch Hat’s horse to respond. Slouch Hat had climbed back onto his horse and was pulling his friend up to sit in front of him, aided by the fourth cowhand. Standing, he was nearly as tall as Wyatt, and he handed the wounded man up easily. Slouch Hat wrapped one arm around his waist and picked up the horse’s reins with the other before finally turning to Wyatt. “Hoy,” he said. “His name’s George Hoy.”
“George Hoy,” Wyatt repeated quietly. Wyatt, Bat realized, had never shot a man before. He didn’t look as if he were happy about having done so. If Wyatt actually had shot him, that was. It could just as easily be Bat’s bullet inside his lung.
It wasn’t as though they’d had a choice about shooting him; the man had clearly been willing to kill them, and in those situations, being squeamish about shooting back got you dead.
Somehow, Bat didn’t think that would make Wyatt feel any better.
George Hoy died at four a.m. At least, it was four a.m. according to Wyatt’s pocket watch, which had a worn out spring and was usually a few minutes off. In any case, he was dead before the sun came up.
His friends, under Bat and Wyatt’s supervision, had carried him into the hotel nearest to the jail to await the doctor—the man in the slouch hat, a William Davies, had paid the hotel fee out of his own pocket—but there had been nothing anyone could do. Wyatt’s bullet had gone straight through his lung, and he had died coughing up blood. And it must have been Wyatt’s bullet, because at that distance, and in that poor light, Bat’s bullets had probably gone wide. Bat might be quicker on the draw, but Wyatt’s longer-barreled gun had better aim and a better range.
According to Davies, Hoy had been twenty three. Younger than Morgan. And now they’d either be burying him on Boot Hill or sending his body back to Texas in a box, all because he’d been drunk and stupid enough to get himself into a pointless gunfight with Wyatt and Bat.
“Thanks for the back up out there, Wyatt.” Bat was slouching in his favorite chair behind the desk, feet up, watching as Wyatt paced back and forth in front of the empty cells. It was late morning, and all of the surviving prisoners had sobered up and been released, their guns now safely locked in the cabinet that stood against the jail’s south wall.
“I know it was your first real gunfight,” Bat continued. He gave the top of his cane, slightly scratched from its impact with the Long Branch’s floor, a swipe with his handkerchief. “You did a good job.”
There was something slightly disconcerting about being commended like that by someone closer to his little brother’s age than his own. Still, Bat had been involved in more shootings than Wyatt, and ought to know what he was talking about. Hell, he’d fought Apache when he was seventeen, out in Adobe Wells.
“Yeah,” Wyatt said. “So good a job that that kid’s dead.” He stopped pacing, coming to a halt against the jail’s wall, and turned to look at Bat.
 |
Bat pulled off his hat and ran a hand through his dark hair, then rolled his neck in a slow circle. Like Wyatt, he had been up all night. Somehow, though, Bat still managed to look immaculate, or least significantly closer to immaculate than Wyatt was feeling at the moment. The button at his collar was undone, but his coat and shirt were still miraculously unwrinkled, despite the previous evening’s events. Bat always looked immaculate. |
| Bat Masterson |
“I’d rather bury him than have them be burying me. Or you,” Bat added. He looked up, meeting Wyatt’s gaze. “I’m not real fond of funerals.”
No, Wyatt realized, he probably wasn’t. Not after burying both a lover and a brother. The bullet that had left Bat with that limp had gone straight through his woman before hitting him. Bat never talked about it, but Wyatt got the feeling she had died in his arms. And Ed… The rest of the peace keeping force had gotten there just in time to see Ed collapse. Bat had put a bullet into his remaining attacker and kept on shooting even after the man went down. Wyatt had had to pry the gun out of his hands.
It was no wonder that Bat didn’t seem all that shaken by Hoy’s death.
“No,” Wyatt said. “Neither am I.”
“You’re not what?” Morgan strode through the jail’s door with the buoyant step of a man who had gotten a full night’s sleep. Just seeing him made Wyatt feel even more tired than before.
“Morning, Morgan.” Wyatt nodded hello, abandoning the conversation with Bat.
Bat himself was climbing stiffly to his feet, favoring his bad leg ever-so-slightly. “Hello, Morgan. Wyatt, why don’t you take off and get some sleep. I’ll fill Morgan in on how things stand. And then I’m going to bed, and God help the person who wakes me up before dinnertime.”
“Yeah, Wyatt, go home,” Morgan said. “You’ve earned it.” He grinned, and clapped Wyatt on the shoulder as Wyatt walked out the door.
“So,” Morgan’s voice followed him out into the street, “how’s that cowhand the two of you shot?”
Wyatt’s eyes were gritty with lack of sleep, but somehow the thought of bed wasn’t that appealing. Though it wasn’t his responsibility at the moment, he started making a slow circuit of the town, watching as people went about their business, shopping and talking. By daylight, Dodge was completely different from the town it became after dark. The Conklins’ store was open and bustling, for once doing almost as much business as Rath’s General Outfitters across the street. The blacksmith near the train depot was shoeing a horse, over the horse’s foot-stomping, head-tossing protests.
South of the tracks, the streets were nearly empty; few people were interested in saloons and dancehalls during the day. Wyatt was nearly level with the Grand Hotel before he saw or heard any signs of life.
When he heard the first gun shot, he nearly jumped out of his skin. Gun in hand, Wyatt dashed for the empty lot behind the hotel. He really, really didn’t want to have to shoot anybody else today.
Except this time it wasn’t a bunch of Texans trying to kill each other. It was Doc Holliday, slaughtering a line of empty whiskey bottles. He was in his shirtsleeves, still wearing the same blue vest he had had on the previous evening. Apparently, Wyatt and Bat weren’t the only people who hadn’t been to bed last night.
For a man who’d likely gone without sleep, his aim was damn good. He was fast, too, thumbing the hammer back and pulling the trigger in almost the same motion. In mere seconds, every whiskey bottle had been reduced to a pile of broken glass.
When the last bottle was dead, Doc holstered his gun and turned around, grinning. “Hello, Wyatt. I trust your bit of heroics last night was successful?” Now that Wyatt had gotten a better look at him, it was even more obvious that he hadn’t slept last night. His hair fell into his face and around the crumpled collar of his shirt in a disheveled tangle. The bright morning sunlight brought out gold glints in it, and lightened his eyes from smoky grey to a pale, clear blue. It also revealed the bloodless pallor of his skin and the bruised-looking smudges under those blue eyes in a way that the softer light of the Long Branch’s lamps never did.
“Depends on how you define success,” Wyatt said. He reholstered his gun—there was clearly no need for it here—and walked over to stand next to Doc. “Lot of broken glass there, Doc. Guess that reputation of yours isn’t just talk.”
“Nonsense. I assure you, anything bad you may have heard about me was purely fictional.” Doc was still grinning with an almost obscene cheerfulness. It should have been irritating. Somehow, it wasn’t. “The good parts, on the other hand…” He coughed, one arm wrapped around his ribs and a handkerchief held to his mouth. The coughing fit lasted only a few moments, and then he brushed his hair out of his face and folded both arms across his chest. There was a red mark high on his neck that was just fading into a bruise, which, put together with the messy hair, probably explained the good mood. “Kate came back last night,” he added conversationally.
“Yeah,” Wyatt said. “I can see that.”
Doc raised a hand to his neck, then looked down. If it had been anyone else, Wyatt would have sworn he was blushing, but this was Doc, and Wyatt wasn’t sure he even knew the meaning of the word shame. “So, is Masterson satisfied now that all of the bad, bad men have been brought to justice?”
“Yes.” Wyatt spoke abruptly, hoping that Doc would take the hint and drop the subject. He looked away, watching the sun glint off the broken shards of Doc’s whiskey bottles. It was actually sort of pretty. Beyond them, in the next lot, a new building was going up, its frame standing skeletal and bare against the blue of the sky.
“Ah,” Doc said. “I had heard one of them was dead. I’d assumed Masterson shot him.”
The building next-door looked like it was going to be two stories. The beams that would support the second floor were already in place, the wood raw and new. Once it was finished, the walls would weather to grey, unless the owners decided to paint it.
“Does it ever get any easier?” Wyatt asked.
“Does what get easier?”
“Killing a man.”
Doc stretched a hand out as if to touch Wyatt, then pulled it back. He extracted a silver flask from his vest pocket and held it out to Wyatt. “Killing is easy, Wyatt. You just point your gun at a man and pull the trigger. The hard part is doing it before he can shoot you.”
Wyatt accepted the flask and took a sip. It was whiskey, and not cheap whiskey, either. He screwed the cap back on and handed it back to Doc.
Doc removed the cap again and drank deeply, coughing once as he lowered the flask. He studied it for a moment before capping it and putting it away. “Or if you’re drunk. That makes it harder to aim.”
“This isn’t something to joke about, Doc,” Wyatt said, frowning. Shooting a man wasn’t something one ought to make light of.
“I beg to differ. One should try never to take death seriously.” Doc looked up at Wyatt, head canted slightly to one side. “You look terrible,” he added after a moment. “Go home and sleep. You’ll feel better about it tomorrow.”
Wyatt was pretty sure that he wouldn’t, but sleep was starting to sound like a good idea. His neck and shoulders were beginning to ache with exhaustion. He rolled his shoulders back, feeling one of them pop. “Yeah, maybe you’re right. You ought to think about getting some sleep, too.”
Doc’s eyes narrowed in irritation. “I don’t—” He broke off mid-sentence, interrupted by another coughing fit. Doc pulled his handkerchief back out of his pocket and held it to his mouth, doubling over with the force of the spasms. The coughs were harsh and rattling, coming from deep inside his chest.
Wyatt took Doc by the elbow and pulled him upright again. Doc sagged against him, still coughing, and for a moment, Wyatt found himself supporting most of the other man’s weight. He was surprised by the intensity of the concern he felt.
Doc’s coughing trailed to a halt, and he leaned against Wyatt, breathing in hoarse gasps.
“You all right, there, Doc?” Wyatt heard himself asking. It was a stupid question. Of course Doc wasn’t all right. People who were all right didn’t breath like that.
“Fine,” Doc said, his voice a hoarse whisper. He pulled away from Wyatt and straightened his shoulders, wincing. He glanced down at the crumpled handkerchief in his hand and his face went blank for a moment before he looked back up at Wyatt. “Perhaps I will go to bed.” He crushed the handkerchief into a ball and shoved it into his pocket, turning toward the hotel.
Wyatt followed him to the building’s porch, slowing his steps to match Doc’s. “You thought about seeing a doctor?” he asked.
“I have seen several doctors,” Doc told him. “They all said the same thing.”
“That being?”
“ ‘Go West, young man,’” Doc quoted. “Apparently the air out here is more conducive to health.” He produced his flask again and took a small sip, then shrugged. “I suppose we’ll see.”
“Go to bed, Doc. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Doc touched two fingers to an imaginary hat. “Good night, sweet prince,” he said, giving Wyatt a mocking little bow, “and flights of angels see you to your rest.” He climbed the hotel steps and went back inside, to where Kate was presumably waiting for him.
Wyatt went home and went to bed. Maybe it would look better in the morning.
Historical Notes: “Cowboys” was actually an insult, implying that one did unsavoury things with cows—the customary term was “cowhand.” Also, the toll for Dodge City’s toll bridge really was 25 cents a person.
George Hoy was a real person; a cowhand from Texas who was the only person Wyatt killed in the line of duty while in Dodge. If, that is, it was actually Wyatt’s bullet that struck him—it could have been Bat Masterson, since both of them were shooting at him at the time. The circumstances of his death were similar to the ones depicted here: he and several friends fired shots into a saloon (actually the Lady Gay, not the Long Branch, but we wanted it to be a saloon North of the deadline), and Wyatt and Bat's brother Jim Masterson (not the one who was murdered) pursued them. The chase scene isn’t quite as exciting in the history books. Also, Jim isn't in this story, because we decided to have Morgan and Virgil there instead.
Texans. At this point, it probably seems like we’re intentionally demonizing them. I swear we’re not trying to. It’s just that every time we look up the history of a particular shooting, there’s some guy from Texas involved. Apparently, Texans and Kansans were less than fond of one another.