Doc - Mary Doria Russell [154]
Letting Wyatt think that over, Bat pulled his coat off the saddle and turned away from his horse before shaking the wrinkles out.
“You lock those boys up,” Bat continued informatively, “you’re just giving them time to brood on insult and grievance.” He shrugged into the forest green broadcloth, jerking the sleeves of his shirt down so the gold cuff links showed. “Know how many homicides we’ve had in Dodge, Wyatt? Just the past couple years, say.”
Eyes narrow, Wyatt shook his head slightly.
“Forty-five,” Bat told him, “give or take. A few were knifed, but most of them were gunned down. Ambushed in alleys. Killed on their way out of town. Shot in the back, mostly. Maybe seven had any kinda chance at all.”
“You saying that’s my fault?” Wyatt asked, not buying it.
“No, Wyatt, what I’m saying is, there’s no harm done and quite a bit of good comes of telling idiots, ‘You can settle this fair and square, but we have to take it out of town.’ ” Holding up his fingers, Bat began to count. “One: it saves wear and tear on the saloons. Two: I frisk the bastards for weapons before they square off. Three: when the fight’s over, it’s done with. I see to that! Nobody walks away humiliated, nobody wants revenge, nobody gets shot in the back a few hours later.” He waited a moment before he raised a fourth finger. “Everyone goes home in the morning.”
Wyatt blinked, and Bat immediately pressed his advantage.
“Is there money to be made? Hell, yes! A lot of it. And why not? My fights ain’t legal, but they’re by-God honest, and I earn what I get.”
Wyatt looked away.
“How was Topeka?” Bat asked, for that lay between them still.
“They want me to run against you.”
“I figured. You gonna?”
Wyatt lifted his chin toward where the ring had been. “How does it work?” he asked, like he was just curious. “Are these your fights, Bat? Or are you just getting some of the gate? Because I’m guessing that Bob Wright’s the promoter, and you’re bought. If I’m wrong, then this is the only game in Ford County Bob don’t have a piece of.”
There was a time when Bat Masterson had idolized Wyatt Earp. They had slept side by side. They’d worked to exhaustion in sleet and snow and killing cold, hunting buffalo. They’d doctored broken fingers and sewn up gashes, and loaned money and borrowed it, and backed each other up in brawls. But goddam if the man didn’t think he was the gold standard.
Tired of being judged, Bat snapped, “I don’t owe you an accounting, Wyatt. You want to run against me? Run! But there’s a lot you don’t know.”
Like: how elections really worked. Like: who was on his side, and who was playing him for a fool, and why. Like: how Wyatt scared folks without even knowing it because he was cold and intolerant and wouldn’t bend.
“You vote for Prohibition?” Bat asked, jerking his head toward Topeka.
“Didn’t pass.”
“Well, thank God for that!” Bat planted meaty fists on hip bones that were already acquiring prosperity’s padding. “You know what I can’t figure? Why in hell would you trust a hypocrite like George Hoover and not me? What makes you think he’s your friend and I’m not?”
For the first time, Wyatt looked surprised. “Friendship’s got nothing to do with it, Bat!” he protested. “All I’m saying is, I never saw liquor do anybody any good, but I’ve seen it ruin a lot of men and—”
“Jesus, Wyatt! You can be so goddam thick! Prostitution’s against the law, too. So—what? Do you think Prohibition’ll stop anybody drinking? You make something against the law, people just want it more! You been to Topeka! Do you have any idea—?”
No. He probably didn’t. Wyatt wouldn’t have looked for a “club” where you had to pay a membership fee for the privilege of buying overpriced rotgut. He had no notion how much money there was in illegal liquor.
Bat took a deep breath, closed his eyes a moment, and held up a hand. “All right,” he said firmly. “Just do yourself this one favor before you go trying to make the whole damn state dry. Go ask your fine new dentist