Doc - Mary Doria Russell [135]
Anyways, it wasn’t Bob Wright who worried Wyatt. It was Bat Masterson. There was something cagey and guarded about Bat these days, like he was hiding something. It seemed unfriendly to run against him, but no question, things had cooled between them lately.
Until recently, Wyatt Earp had believed himself to be a decisive man. He used to think that once he made his mind up, that was that. Except when he told Doc he was thinking maybe he would be a delegate to the Republican convention after all, Doc laughed that wheezy laugh of his, and coughed, and shook his head.
“I declare, Wyatt,” he said, “given three days, you can talk yourself into anything.” Wyatt wasn’t sure if that was good or bad, in Doc’s opinion, but before he could argue the point, Doc said, “Tell me, Wyatt: do you consider yourself an honest man?”
Wyatt blinked. “Yeah, I guess. Sure, maybe. Anyways, what kinda question is that?” Doc could say the damnedest things.
“Ever occur to you to ask yourself why the biggest liquor wholesaler in Kansas is backin’ Prohibition?”
“Henpecked, I guess,” Wyatt said. And now that he was living with Mattie, he understood better how that could happen to a man. Sometimes you went along with things you’d rather not, just to be nice.
“Or Luke, sixteen nine, maybe,” Wyatt added. “Make friends with unrighteous money.” It was a text the preacher turned to when he wanted to explain why he took contributions to the building fund from men who owned saloons and brothels.
Doc sat back in his chair, eyes amused. “Beware of good Samaritans!” he recited. “Walk to the right … Or hide thee by the roadside out of sight … Or greet them with the smile that villains wear.”
That was Doc. Half the time he was the smartest man Wyatt had ever met. The other half, he didn’t make any sense at all. Still, the more Wyatt thought about it, the more he liked the idea of being sheriff, and it began to seem pretty likely he would win. Bat had only taken the office by three votes, last election, and more Republicans had moved into the county since then …
Things were getting noisy again inside the Commie-Q. Having reduced his audience to satisfying, sentimental tears with “Kathleen,” Eddie Foy and the piano player were changing the mood by starting up a square dance. “Circle left! Swing your lady!” Eddie was hollering. “Now allemande right!”
The idea was to get all the Texans to dance with the bar girls so they’d make themselves thirsty and buy more drinks. Wyatt wasn’t interested in a bunch of clumsy boys hopping around with trollops. That’s what saved his life—because if the jokes had started up again, he’d have been listening to Eddie. He might not have turned away from the theater door and wouldn’t have noticed a horseman passing by on Front Street.
The rider reined around and jogged by a second time, like he was looking for someone, and this time Wyatt paid attention. It was a kid. Too stupid to get in out of the rain, is what Wyatt was thinking when the rider turned once more, a block away.
On his third pass, the boy suddenly spurred his horse and came pounding down Front Street at a gallop and with intent. It wasn’t so much that he fired his gun. It was the look on his face that told Wyatt this was more than just random hell-raising.
Before the first muzzle flash, Wyatt had time to think, He means to kill me. His own pistol was drawn before the second flash, and he settled himself to take his shot. Later, Doc would ask why in hell Wyatt hadn’t taken cover. Well, the boy’s horse was just a cow pony, not a cavalry mount. Wyatt knew, without words, that she’d shy or plunge or rear at the noise of the gunshot and that would spoil her rider’s aim.
She made him a difficult target as well. Wyatt fired once in reply, and missed, and cursed, and splashed out into the muddy street to take a left-handed grab at the rider as the horse passed within a yard of him.
By then, the rain was