“Marshal Dake in Prescott don’t mind if his deputy has a job on the side,” said John Holliday.
“I should complain. I should write a letter to the newspaper. Or perhaps to the appropriate cabinet secretary.”
“If you think it would do any good. But I think the U.S. government likes Virge right where he is.”
Holliday sat with Freddie in the plush drawing room of the Grand Hotel, where Holliday had come for a visit. Their wing chairs were pulled up to the broad front window. Freddie turned his gaze from the bright October sunshine to look at Holliday. “I do not understand you,” he said. “I do not understand why you are friends with these Earps.”
“They’re good men,” Holliday said simply.
“But you are not, John,” Freddie said.
A smile crinkled the corners of Holliday’s gaunt eyes. “True,” he said.
“You are a Southerner, and a gentleman, and a Democrat,” Freddie said. “The Earps are Yankees, not gentle, and Republicans. I fail to understand your sympathy for them.”
Holliday shrugged, reached into his pocket for a cigar. “I saved Wyatt from a mob of Texans once, in Dodge City,” he said. “Since then I’ve taken an interest in him.”
“But why?” Freddie asked. “Why did you save his life?”
Holliday struck a match and puffed his cigar into life, then drew the smoke into his ravaged lungs. He coughed once, sharply, then said, “It seemed a life worth saving.”
Freddie gave a snort of derision.
“What I don’t understand,” said Holliday, “is why you dislike him. He’s an extraordinary man. And your two greatest friends admire him.”
“You and who else?”
“Your Sadie,” John Holliday said. “She is with Wyatt Earp this moment, across the street in the Cosmopolitan Hotel.”
Freddie stared at him, and then his gaze jerked involuntarily to the window again, to the bare facade of the Cosmopolitan, built swiftly and of naked lumber, devoid of paint. “But,” he said, “but-Earp is married-” He was aware of how ridiculous he sounded even as he stammered out the words.
“Oh,” Holliday said casually, “I don’t believe Wyatt and Mattie ever officially tied the knot-not that it signifies.” He looked at Freddie and rolled the cigar in his fingers. “I thought you should hear it from me,” he said, “rather than through the grapevine telegraph.”
Freddie stared across the street and felt flaming madness beating at his brain. He considered storming across the street, kicking down the door, firing his Zarathustra, his pistol, again and again until it clicked on an empty chamber, until the walls were spattered with crimson and the room was filled with the stinging, purifying incense of powder smoke.
But no. He was not an animal, to act in blind fury. He would take revenge-if revenge were to be taken-as a human being. Coldly. With foresight. And with due regard for the consequences.
And for Freddie to fight for a woman. Was that not the most stupid piece of melodrama in the world? Would not any decent dramatist in the world reject this plot as hackneyed?
He looked at Holliday, let a grin break across his face. “For a moment I was almost jealous!” he laughed.
“You’re not?”
“Jealousy-pfah!” Freddie laughed again. “Sadie-Josie-she is free.”
Holliday nodded. “That’s one word for it.”
“She is trying to get your Mr. Earp murdered. Or myself. Or the whole world.”
“Gonna kill him!” said a voice. Freddie turned to see Ike Clanton, red-eyed and swaying with drink, dragging his spurs across the parlor carpet. Ike was in town on business and staying at the hotel. “Come join me, Freddie!” he said. “We’ll kill him together!”
“Kill who, Ike?” Freddie asked.
“I’m gonna kill Doc Holliday!” Ike said.
“Here is Doc Holliday, right here,” said Freddie.
Ike turned, swayed back on his boot heels, and saw Holliday sitting in the wing chair and unconcernedly smoking his cigar. Ike grinned, touched the brim of his sombrero. “Hiya, Doc!” he said cheerfully.
Holliday nodded politely. “Hello, Ike.”
Ike grinned for a moment more, then remembered his errand and turned to Freddie. “So will you help me kill Doc Holliday, Freddie?”
“Doc’s my friend, Ike,” Freddie said.
Ike took a moment to process this declaration. “I forgot,” he said, and then he reached out to clumsily pat Freddie’s shoulder. “That’s all right, then,” he said with evident concern. “I regret I must kill your friend. Adios.” He turned and swayed from the room.
Holliday watched Ike’s exit without concern. “Why is Ike trying to kick a fight with me?” he said.
“God alone knows.”
Holliday dismissed Ike Clanton with a contemptuous curl of his lip. He turned to Freddie. “Shall we find a game of cards?”
Freddie rose. “Why not? Let me get my hat.”
Holliday took him to Earp country, to the Oriental Saloon. Freddie could not concentrate on the game-Wyatt Earp’s faro table was in plain sight, Earp’s empty chair all too visible; and visions of Josie and Earp kept burning in his mind, a writhing of white limbs in a hotel bed, scenes from his own private inferno-and Holliday calmly and professionally took Freddie’s every penny, leaving him with nothing but his coat, his hat, and his gun.
“You don’t own me.” Freddie wrote in his notebook. She almost spat the words at me. It is her cri d’esprit, her defiance to the world, her great maxim.
“I own nothing,” I replied calmly. “Nothing at all.” Close enough to the truth. I must find someone to lend me a stake so that I can win money and pay the week’s lodging.
I argued my points with great precision, and she answered with fury. Her anger left me untouched-she accused me of jealousy, of all ridiculous things! It is easy to remain calm in the face of arrows that fly so wide of the mark. I asked her only to choose a man worthy of her. Behan is nothing, and Earp an earnest fool. Worthy in his own way, no doubt, but not of such as she.
Ah, well. Let her go. She is qualified to ruin her life in her own way, no doubt. I will keep my room at the Grand-unless poverty drives me into the street-and she will return when she understands her mistake.
I must remember my pocketbook, and earn some money. And I must certainly stay clear of John Holliday, at least at the card table.
I think I sense a migraine about to begin.
“Freddie?” It was Sheriff Behan who stood in the door of the Grand Hotel’s parlor, his derby hat in his hand and a worried look on his face. “Freddie, can you come with me and talk to your friends?”
Freddie felt fragile after his migraine. Drugs still slithered their cold way through his veins. He looked at Behan and scowled. “What is it, Johnny?” he said. “Go away. I am not well.”
“There’s going to be a fight between the Earps and the Clantons and McLaurys. Your friends are going to get killed unless we do something.”
“You’re the sheriff,” Freddie said, unable to resist digging in the spur. “Put the Clantons in jail.”
“My God, Freddie!” Behan almost shouted. “I can’t arrest the Clantons!”
“Not as long as they’re letting you have this nice salary, I suppose.” Freddie shook his head, then rose from his wing chair. “Very well. Tell me what is going on.”
Ike Clanton had been very busy since Freddie had seen him last. He had wandered over Tombstone for two days, uttering threats against Doc Holliday to anyone who would listen. When he appeared in public with a pistol and rifle, Virgil Earp slapped him over the head with a revolver, confiscated his weapons, and tossed him in jail. Ike paid the twenty-five-dollar fine and returned to the streets, where he went boasting of his deadly intentions, now including the Earps in his threats. After Ike’s brief trial, Wyatt Earp had encountered Ike’s friend Tom McLaury on the street and pistol-whipped him. Now Tom was bent on vengeance, as well. They had been seen in Spangenburg’s gun shop, and had gathered a number of their friends. The Earps and Holliday were armed and ready. Vigilantes were arming all over Tombstone, ready for blood. Behan had promised to stave off disaster by disarming the Cowboys, and he wanted help.