“Bat Masterson, Plague of the Kansas Outlaw,” answers the crouching artist, eyes fixed on his sketchpad.
“These likenesses convey the spirit of the man, his sense of vitality. A photograph freezes time, character becomes a mask, motion a blur—”
“What about the moving pictures?”
“Overrated.”
Hod catches the eye of Niles Manigault, who discretely motions for him to sit back at the bar. He wonders what they do to keep men like himself, desperate men, from prying the silver dollars out of the woodwork.
“They could have used one of those cameras in San Francisco when your friend Earp handed the fight to Sharkey—”
“The man fouled—”
“Fitz had him all but knocked out.”
“On a punch delivered when the Tom’s knees were on the canvas.”
“A film wouldn’t have lied—”
“Were you there?”
The fat man pushes the skimmer back on his head. “No. But if there had been a camera—”
“I was there. It was the correct decision.”
The artist clears his throat. “Do you think,” he asks softly, “you could assume a gunfighting stance?”
“About to draw or piece in hand?”
“Either one would suit me.”
The Hero of Adobe Walls stands and pulls a short-barreled Colt from inside his jacket. The fat man takes a step backward.
“That isn’t loaded, is it?”
“What fucking use under God’s blue firmament would it do me to carry an unloaded firearm?”
Hod looks down to the end of the bar. A large man has folded his arms on the counter and is dozing upon them. Tabor had the hotel built during the first gush of silver from his holes, had supervised the details in both of the bars. This is a drinking man’s dream of heaven — inlaid panels of ebony and oak, cherrywood on the bartop, enamel spittoons with Chinese designs, gleaming brass and silver metalwork and a dozen cut-glass chandeliers hanging overhead. A bartender in sleeve garters is polishing glasses, feigning indifference to the negotiations.
“They wanted to make a moving picture of the border fight,” says Mas-terson, crouching slightly and pointing the iron held at his hip toward an imaginary foe. “I’m down in El Paso with Tom O’Rourke, sitting on the ten thousand cash prize, when the Rangers run the lot of us — fighters, managers, promoters, fans — out on a rail. So Roy Bean down in Langtry says he can handle it and he builds a little bridge out to a sandbar in the middle of the Pecos. ‘It’s not Texas and it’s not Mexico,’ he says, ‘and is subject only to the laws of Nature.’ The fellow with the camera had paid a bundle to Stuart for the right to photograph, and when Fitzsimmons’s people demand a percentage of his profits, he turns them down cold. As it was, Ruby Robert put Maher away with one of his corkscrew punches in less than a minute of the first round.”
“A disappointing afternoon,” ventures Niles.
“Not for Judge Bean, who had the liquor concession. He sold out his stock to the sporting crowd, then issued an ordinance that not a drop could be consumed in Langtry. It was a memorable train ride.” Masterson turns and points the gun barrel at the fat man. “What’s this I hear of the ‘Otto Floto Circus’?”
The fat man shrugs, embarrassed. “One of Harry’s ideas. The newspaper would promote it.”
“And you could donate one of your old opera capes,” says Masterson, turning away, “to use as a tent.”
The fat man grips his cane with both hands. “If you weren’t armed, Mas-terson—”
“Gentlemen,” interrupts Niles. “We agreed that this would be civil. Have we settled on a referee?”
“It’s Reddy’s hall,” says Otto Floto. “He wants to run the bout.”
“No objection,” says Masterson. He sits back on the stool, looking at the pistol held in his lap. “There was a different filmist in Carson City,” he says. “This one had a special tower built by the ring, with a slot cut out for all three of his cameras, and he made sure to throw some money at both Fitz and Corbett before the battle.”
“Ensuring a prolonged contest,” ventures Niles.
“I was there,” says the fat man.
“As was I.” Masterson’s glare is like a bullet. “Earp and I providing security in case a riot ensued—”
“Like the one Earp started in San Francisco.”
Masterson idly twirls the pistol on his finger. Niles takes a few cautious steps to the side. “Photographed every bloody minute of it. Jim knocking the starch out of Fitz, but the bald-headed little bastard hanging in, and his wife there by the corner — I wouldn’t like to meet her in a prize ring, either—‘Hit him in the slats, Bob!’ she hollers. ‘Hit him in the slats!’ and out he staggers in the fourteenth and does just that, square on the mark, and Jim is done for the day.”
“The film is a sensation,” says Niles. “They set up a special projecting machine called a Veriscope, and—”
“I’ve seen it,” says the gunfighter flatly.
“And your impression?”
“Greatly inferior to my own remembered impressions of the bout,” says Masterson. “Smaller than life.”
“The man has made a fortune.”
“That I do not deny. At the presentation I attended more than half of the spectators were females, and I do not mean those of the lowest stripe. Something is afoot here that I mislike.” He stands and looks at Hod again, then at the sleeping man beyond him. “Do you know what they showed before they put the fight up on the wall? Professor Welton’s Boxing Cats! The noble art, turned into a raree show.” He turns to Floto.
“Your man,” he says, pointing to the sleeper at the bar, “Chief Rain-in-the-Face—”
“He’ll be fine for twelve if I tell him.”
Niles interrupts. “The Blonger brothers specified ten.”
“The Blongers can lick my kiester,” says Masterson. “Do you think he’d put the warpaint on?”
Otto Floto makes a face. “We tried that once. It got on the gloves, in the fighters’ eyes—”
“A headdress perhaps? When he comes in the ring—”
“I think Harry has one at the paper.”
“Little prick probably puts it on when nobody’s looking. And your boy here—”
“Brackenridge,” Hod calls out.
“A name that is neither here nor there,” says Masterson. “Something Irish—”
“I’m not Irish.”
“And Fireman Jim Flynn is a Dago, what of it?”
“He fought before under Young McGinty,” Niles blurts.
Niles promised Hod before that it wouldn’t be McGinty, just in case the warrant has traveled from Alaska, but now only puts a finger to his lips to warn him off.
“Young McGinty versus Chief—?”
“Strong Bear,” says the fat man.
“It’s a match. We advertise a prize of five hundred dollars, and out of that the fighters share—”
“Excuse me,” says Niles, holding up a hand. “If we’re talking business—”
He holds a fiver out to Hod. Masterson and Otto Floto and Niles and even the artist all stare at him as if he shouldn’t be there. Hod takes the five and steps to the back of the room.
“That’s to feed yourself,” calls Niles jovially. “Not for an excursion to Holliday Street.”
He gives the sleeping man a nudge as he passes on the way out the back door. “Lunchtime, buddy.”
They are out on 18th before Hod realizes that the man is Big Ten.
“If you don’t mind,” says the Indian, eyeing the five, “I haven’t eaten in days.”