Doc - Mary Doria Russell [111]
“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.”
“Let me ride for you.”
“In the race, you mean?” Wyatt had never seen Doc Holliday ride anything. “You sure?”
“Would I make the offer if I were not capable?” Doc cried. “What does a man have to do to be taken at his word in this town? Do I have to shoot someone? Because I am makin’ a list! Yes, damn you, I am sure!”
“Well, I ain’t,” the Driskill kid mumbled, swaying a bit but watching Doc, who was coughing now. “You don’ look too good, mister.”
“Shut up. Nobody asked you,” Wyatt said, still gripping the kid’s ear. But he was inclined to agree with the boy, and Doc must have seen that.
“I can do this, Wyatt,” the dentist insisted. “It’s a short race.”
“Dick don’t know you, Doc. He’s not an easy horse—”
“Let me try! He won’t finish better if you keep him in the stall,” Doc pointed out. “And he’ll be carryin’ less than he’s used to.”
“Tha’s an a’vantage,” young Driskill agreed. Like anybody gave a shit.
“All right,” Wyatt told Doc finally, not because he thought it was a good idea but because he couldn’t make himself say no to what he saw in the skinny Georgian’s shining eyes. “If you can get him saddled, give it a try.”
Doc nodded and set off for the stable.
“Watch out!” Wyatt called. “He bites!”
Without looking back, Doc raised a hand in acknowledgment.
“Don’t hit him for it!” Wyatt yelled.
Doc turned and stared, motionless, while the crowd moved around him.
“Hell,” Wyatt sighed. He already regretted what he’d just said and expected to be told off for it. “What kinda blankety-blank idiot do you take me for?” Doc would ask him. “Are you sayin’ I’m a mean, stupid, s.o.b. who’d hit a horse for bein’ nervy?”
Instead, what Wyatt saw was the long, slow emergence of something that began in John Henry Holliday’s eyes and lifted the high, flat planes of his cheeks just before his mouth dropped open into the biggest, happiest smile Wyatt had ever seen on that boy’s face.
“I knew you’d say that!” Doc hollered back joyously and, coughing, he disappeared into the crowd.
There are many reasons a horse will bite. In the wild, stallions bite during contests for a harem. Boss mares do so to enforce discipline within a herd. Sometimes it’s just in a horse’s nature to be mouthy, the way a retrieving dog is born with the urge to carry things around. Even a good-tempered saddle horse might snap when startled by an abrupt or careless motion. Mend your ways, such a horse is warning, and a human had best pay heed. It’s not good judgment to pick a fight with something that can tear the muscles clean off your bones.
“Watch how he holds his head,” young Robert Holliday