The Texans were screaming for blood, a quantity of which was already streaming from the head of a limp German fiddler—and if he wasn’t already dead, he would be soon, for the cowboy on top of him was pretty clearly set on opening the fiddler’s throat. “When I tell you to play ‘Yaller Rose,’ ” the kid was yelling, “you by God play ‘Yaller Rose,’ you damn Dutch sonofabitch!”
Wyatt appeared. Calm and workmanlike, he elbowed his way toward the middle of the mob where the German lay. With a spare economy of movement, Wyatt lifted the heavy-hilted knife up and out of the Texan’s raised hand and brought the butt end down sharply on its owner’s head.
The motion was so quick and so effective that things got quiet, and everyone could hear Wyatt say, “You’re under arrest for assault and disorderly conduct,” as though he were remarking on the weather. Kinda hot today. Looks like rain.
He’d reached down to pull the assailant upright and haul him off to jail when one Texan—out of thirty—one approached to object.
Wyatt dropped the unconscious Texan and straightened with a look of contempt so plain and powerful, the drover took a step back.
“Hey!” the drover said, trying for bluster. “Hold it right there, law-dog!”
“Why?” Wyatt asked. “You wanna get your sister to help?”
There were snickers.
Embarrassed, the Texan stammered, “H-hey! Hey! You can’t—”
Wyatt slapped him hard. One cheek, the other.
“Yes,” he said. “I can.”
“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” Eddie whispered, pale under his freckles. “They’ll kill him sure.”
“No,” Doc said softly. “No. They won’t.”
And he had no idea why he was so certain, except … it was as though Wyatt knew something that the other man didn’t. Or maybe he knew something about the other man, who was ashamed of it. Yes! And whatever that something was, both of them were agreed as to its significance.
If there was any doubt about what would happen next, the roar of a shotgun ended it. Morgan Earp’s voice sang out nearby. Within seconds, Charlie Bassett, John Stauber, Chuck Trask, Jack Brown, and Bat Masterson arrived, running. Crouched, shotguns shouldered, they pushed through to Wyatt and wheeled to form a cordon around him, backing the mob away.
“Wanna go get your sister?” Morg laughed as he took his place next to his brother. “Jesus, Wyatt, you sounded just like Pa—”
“Shut up,” Wyatt snapped.
Morgan’s face went slack, and he looked like he’d been backhanded.
What was that about? Doc wondered.
“Sorry,” Wyatt said briefly. “See to the fiddler.”
Morgan knelt at the German’s side. “Still breathing,” he reported. “Stauber, fetch Doc McCarty!”
Drawn by the noise and the excitement, the crowd was getting bigger by the moment, and the buzz of comment became louder when people noticed which Texan Wyatt Earp had just arrested. The kid was sitting on the ground, one leg out straight in front of him, the other crumpled beneath him, a circumstance he’d lament when he sobered up. He looked like any of a thousand beardless boys in town that day, but the spur he’d landed on when Wyatt dumped him was heavy silver. His boots were custom-made, and the hat lying in the dirt nearby was an expensive Stetson.
Word got around fast. Dog Kelley and Bob Wright showed up on Doc McCarty’s heels.
“That’s Billy Driskill,” Bob said. “Wyatt, wait! You can’t—”
Wyatt had the kid by the ear, but he was looking at Dog Kelley. “I told you when I started: I don’t care who it is. He breaks the law, I’m taking him in.”
“Dog,” Bob Wright said, his voice low and urgent, “that’s Jesse Driskill’s nephew. His uncle’s worth millions to the city! You’re the mayor—do something!”
“C’mon, Wyatt,” Dog pleaded. “Be reasonable!”
“You want my badge back?” Wyatt asked.
“You’ll get mine, too,” Morg said over his shoulder.
Stauber and Charlie and all the others looked to Morg, and nodded. One by one, every man on the Dodge City police force told Dog, “Mine, too,” ready to back Wyatt’s play, even though none of them was sure yet what in hell was going on.
Doc McCarty was kneeling on the dirt by then, examining the bleeding fiddler. Dog came closer and asked, “How bad is he?”
“He’s young,” the doctor said. “He’ll live.”
“Well, then,” Dog said, clapping his hands once. “No harm done!”
Wyatt shook his head mulishly. “There’s got to be one law for everybody, Dog.”
“Yeah, but—Wyatt, he’s—”
“No, sir,” Wyatt insisted. “There can’t be one law for rich Texans and another law for broke Texans, and another law for Negroes, and another one for Chinamen, and squaws, and Irishmen, and whores, and another one for everybody else. I can’t parse it that way, Dog! I am not that smart! There’s got to be one law for everybody, or I can’t do this job. You want my badge or not?”
Dog glanced at Morgan, who acknowledged the look with a shrug and a nod and a sigh: Yeah, I know what you’re thinking …
It was boneheaded and contrary, and maybe someday Wyatt would learn the ways of the world and how to go along with things he couldn’t change, but not today. Today he was going to take that rich kid in or get fired for trying.
That was when Bob Wright—conciliatory and earnest—approached Wyatt to have a quiet word with him, except Dog Kelley stepped between them.
“Tell you what, Wyatt,” Dog said quickly. “We’ll take the kid straight to court and let him pay the fine. Everybody wins.”
“Wyatt, if it’s the arrest fee you’re thinking of,” Bob said, reaching into his own pocket, “let’s see if we can’t work something out—”
“Bad move,” Doc murmured to Eddie.
“Bob, no!” Mayor Kelley moaned. “He don’t mean it, Wyatt. Not like that—”
“Morg,” Wyatt called so everyone in the crowd could hear him. “Arrest this man. He is attempting to bribe an officer of the law.”
“Mr. Wright,” Morgan said, “I’m sorry, but I’m taking you in.”
“F’crissakes, Wyatt,” Dog cried. “Morgan, no!”
“You want my badge, Mayor?” Morg asked, fingers on his star.
Dog threw up his hands in defeat. “This will not end well,” he warned the Earps, but there was nothing more he could say. Bob Wright was standing right there, his face as blank as an egg, malice rising off him like a stink.
The boy on the ground was conscious enough now to respond to the pain in his ear when Wyatt tugged at it. Getting to his feet blearily, Billy Driskill let himself be led to jail, right behind the only man in Dodge almost as rich as his Uncle Jesse.
“Go on, now,” Bat Masterson ordered the crowd. “Show’s over. Break it up.”
Slowly the crowd dispersed, leaving Dog Kelley and China Joe standing together on the street.
Jau Dong-Sing crossed his arms over his chest and shook his head, the way any American would. “Wyatt Earp one big damn dumb son a bitch,” he muttered.
“A remark like that is a good way for a Chink to get himself lynched,” Dog warned before he walked away, “but I ain’t gonna tell you that you’re wrong.”
Ringer
Stone-faced and determined to deliver both prisoners to a cell, Wyatt came about halfway to breaking the jaw of a tall, thin, unshaven man standing between him and the jailhouse door. Morg had time to say, “That’s Doc! Don’t hit him!” But something had already made Wyatt pull his fist back. A thoughtfulness, maybe. A look of appraisal that didn’t quite match the man’s coatless shirt and rumpled trousers.
The dentist, too, seemed distracted by events, though sheer force of habit made him say “Afternoon,” to Bob Wright, as though the merchant weren’t being hauled in on a bribery charge.
“It’s after two,” Doc told Wyatt.
Wyatt’s forehead furrowed. “Did I have an appointment today?”
“No! The race! Three o’clock?”
Wyatt glanced at the sun. “Hell. Forgot all about it.”