“I’m gonna get him! And you, too!”
“Do it now,” Freddie advised, “while you’re almost sober. You know where Holliday lives. Perhaps if you work up all your courage you can shoot him in the back.” Freddie reached into his pocket, took hold of Zarathustra, and thumbed back the hammer. Ike’s eyes widened at the sound. He made a little whining noise in his throat.
“Don’t shoot me!” he blurted.
“You can kill Holliday now,” Freddie said, “or I will shoot you like a dog where you stand. And who will take me to court for such a thing?”
“I’ll do it!” Ike said quickly. “I’ll kill him! See if I don’t!”
“I believe you checked your gun with the desk clerk,” Freddie reminded him.
Freddie followed him to the front desk and kept his hand on the pistol. Ike cast him frantic glances over his shoulder as he was given his gun belt. He made certain his hand was nowhere near the butt of the weapon as he strapped it on-he did not want to give a man with Freddie’s murderous reputation a chance to shoot.
Freddie followed Ike out into the street and glared at him when it looked as if he would step into a saloon for some liquid courage. Ike saw the glare, then began to walk faster down the street. Freddie pursued, boots thumping on the wooden walk. At the end of the long walk, when Fly’s boarding house came into sight, Ike was almost running.
Freddie paused then, and began a leisurely stroll to the hotel. Gunfire erupted behind him, but he didn’t break stride. He knew Ike Clanton, and he knew John Holliday, and he knew which of the two now lay dead.
“The legal case will collapse without a plaintiff,” Freddie said that evening. “The district attorney may file a criminal case, but why would he? He knows the defense would call me as a witness.” He laughed. “And now, after this second killing, Holliday will have to leave town. That is another problem solved.”
Josie stretched luxuriously in Behan’s bed. She was wearing a little transparent silken thing that Behan had bought her from out of a French catalogue, and Freddie, lying next to her, let his eyes feast gratefully on the ripeness of her body. She seemed well pleased with his eyes’ amorous intentions, and rolled a little in the bed, to and fro, to show herself from different angles.
“You seem very pleased with yourself,” she said.
“I have nothing against Holliday. I like the man. I’m glad he will be out of it.”
“You’re the only man alive who likes him. Now that Johnny’s killed Wyatt.” A silence hung for a moment in the air, and then Josie rolled over and put her chin on her crossed arms. Her dark eyes regarded him solemnly.
“Yes?” Freddie said, knowing the question that would come.
“There are people who say it was you who shot Wyatt,” she said.
Freddie looked at her. “One of your lovers shot him,” he said. “Does it matter which?”
“Did you kill for me, Freddie?” There was a strange thrill in her voice. “Did you kill Wyatt?”
“If I killed Wyatt,” Freddie said coldly, “it was not for you. I did not do it to make you the heroine of a melodrama.”
She made as if to say something, but she turned her head away, laying her cheek on her hand. Freddie reached out to caress her rich dark hair. “Troy burns for you, my Helen,” he said. “Is it not your triumph?”
“I don’t understand you,” she said.
“I am in love with Fate,” Freddie said. “I regret nothing, and neither should you. Everything you do, let it be as if you would-as if you must — do it again ten thousand times.”
She was silent. He reached beneath her masses of hair, took her chin in his fingers, raised her face to his. “Come, my queen,” he said. “Give me ten thousand kisses. And let us not regret a one of them.”
Ten thousand kisses! Freddie wrote in his journal. She does not yet understand her power-that she can change the universe, and all the universes yet to be born.
How many times have I killed Earp, in worlds long dead? And how many times must I kill him again? The thought is joy to me. I crave nothing more. Ten thousand bullets, ten thousand kisses. Forever.
Amor fati. Love is all.
“Sir.” Holliday bowed. Not yet healed, he stood stiffly, and supported his wounded hip with a cane. “The district attorney is of the opinion that Arizona and I must part. I thought I would take my adieu.”
Freddie rose from his wing-backed chair and offered his hand. “I’m sure we’ll meet again,” he said.
“Maybe so.” He shook the hand, then stood, a frown on his gaunt face. “Freddie-,” he began.
“Yes?”
“Get out of this,” Holliday said. “Take Josie away. Go to California, Nevada, anywhere.”
Freddie laughed. “There’s still silver in Tombstone, John.”
“Yes.” He seemed saddened. He hesitated again. “I wanted to thank you, for your words at the trial.”
Freddie made a dismissive gesture. “Ike Clanton wasn’t worth the bullets it took to kill him,” he said.
Holliday looked at Freddie gravely. “People might say that of the two of us,” he said.
“I’m sure they would.”
There was another hesitation, another silence. “Freddie,” Holliday said.
“John.” Smiling.
“There is a story that it was you who killed my friend.”
Freddie laughed, though there was a part of his soul that writhed beneath Holliday’s gaze. “If I believed all the stories about you — ,” he began.
“I do not know what to believe,” Holliday said. “And whatever the truth, I am glad I killed that cur Behan. But it is your own friends-your Cowboys-who are spreading this story. They are boasting of it. And if I ever come to believe it is true-or if anything happens to Wyatt’s brothers-then God help you.” The words, forced from the consumptive lungs, were surprisingly forceful. “God help all you people.”
Sudden fury flashed through Freddie’s veins. “Why do you all place such a value on this Earp! I do not understand you!”
Cold steel glinted in Holliday’s eyes. His pale face flushed. “He was worth fifty of you!” he cried. “And a hundred of me!”
“But why?” Freddie demanded.
Holliday began to speak, but something caught in his throat-he shook his head, bowed again, and hastened from the room as blood erupted from his ruined lungs.
Why was I so upset? Freddie wrote in his journal. It is not as if I do not understand how the world works. Homer wrote of Achilles and Hector battling over Troy, not about philosophers dueling with epigrams. It is people like the Earps whom the storytellers love, and whom they make immortal.
It is only philosophers who love other philosophers-unless of course they hate them.
If I wish to be remembered, I must do as the Earps do. I must be brave, and unimaginative, and die in a foolish way, over nothing.
“Why do I smell a dead cat on the line?” Brocius asked. “Freddie, why do I see you at the bottom of all my troubles?”
“Be joyful, Bill,” Freddie said. “You’ve been found innocent of murder and you have your bond money back-at least for the next hour or two.” He dealt a card faceup to Ringo. “Possible straight,” he observed.
John Ringo contemplated this eventuality without joy. “These words hereafter thy tormentors be,” he said, and poured himself another shot of whiskey from the bottle by his elbow.
“I have been solving your problems, not adding to them,” Freddie told Brocius. “I have solved your Wyatt Earp problem. And thanks to me, Doc Holliday has left town.”
Brocius looked at him sharply. “What did you have to do with that?”
“That’s between me and Holliday. Pair of queens bets.”
Looking suspiciously at Freddie, Brocius pushed a gold double eagle onto the table. Freddie promptly raised by another double eagle. Ringo folded. Brocius sighed, lazy eyelids drooping.
“What’s the next problem you’re going to solve?” Brocius asked.
“Other than this hand? It’s up to you. After this last killing, your Mr. Fellehy the Laundryman will never be appointed sheriff in Behan’s place. They’ll want a tough lawman who will work with Virgil Earp to clean up Cochise County. Are you going to call, Bill?”