Doc - Mary Doria Russell [58]
Wyatt Earp was the most fearless man Dog Kelley had ever met, and Dog had known a fair number of truly brave men in his time, for he had ridden under the Stars and Bars in the late war, and courage was commonplace among his comrades. That said, Wyatt Earp was not quite the most arrogant bastard Dog had ever met, for Sergeant James H. Kelley had also served in the U.S. Cavalry after the war, scouting for General George Armstrong Custer. It was, in fact, a direct result of Custer’s unwavering, unflappable belief that he was something awful damn special in the eyes of God and man that Dog Kelley had inherited his former commander’s pack of coursers and wolfhounds, acquiring a nickname into the bargain.
No doubt about it: George Custer took first prize for arrogance. But give the devil his due, Dog thought, watching Wyatt ride on. That prissy goddam sonofabitch comes in a real close second.
Just then Bob Wright appeared outside his store with a broom. “So,” Bob said to Dog, sweeping up the boardwalk, “Wyatt’s back. That’s good news for the town.”
“Could be,” said Dog.
“Say, Dog! You suppose the town oughta hire Wyatt again?” Bob asked.
Like he hadn’t already decided.
“Maybe so,” said Dog.
“Let’s talk about that at the city council meeting,” Bob said.
Like it was a suggestion.
“Whatever you say, Bob,” Dog replied, but his eyes were on Wyatt, who was halfway down Front Street now.
I’ll take honest arrogance over fake humility any day, Dog thought.
“See you at council,” he said.
Bat Masterson was sitting in front of the Green Front. He was dressed like he was going to a wedding except for a black mourning band around his arm for his brother. Wyatt drew up.
“Hey, Wyatt,” Bat called. “You finally shoot that two-dollar horse?”
“This’s him. You spend all your money on clothes, or just most of it?”
“Appearances count, my friend. Appearances count.”
“I was sorry to hear about Ed. What happened?”
“Drunk shot him.”
“Hell. You get the drunk?”
Bat looked like he was deciding something. Then he said, “Damn right I did.”
“Good.” Wyatt glanced over his shoulder at the Elephant Barn. “When’d that happen?”
“Monday night,” Bat told him, and looked away.
It wasn’t until he found Morgan that Wyatt learned the rest.
The first time a man was killed in Dodge, the corpse just lay around all day until, toward evening, somebody decided to dig a hole in a scrubby little hill northwest of Front Street. The deceased was buried as he’d died: with his boots on and without the dignity of a coffin.
Boot Hill received sixty-two more bodies in the next three years—mostly killings, though smallpox took a few one season. At that rate, it wasn’t long before Dodge outgrew its makeshift cemetery. On top of the crowding, there was the additional problem of where to bury townspeople whose friends and families didn’t want to plant their dearly departed next to some overconfident fool who’d picked a fight with the wrong stranger in a bar. So Bob Wright opened the Prairie Grove Cemetery down by the Union Church. It was prettier than Boot Hill, but you had to pay to get in.
Leave it to Bob, everybody said. Damn if he didn’t find a way to make money off you, even after you was dead.
“It was a real good funeral, Wyatt,” Morgan told him. “Almost as handsome as the one for Ed Masterson. That priest—Alex? He came in from Wichita. The service was real pretty.” Wyatt was staring at the plank with Johnnie’s name and dates. “Wasn’t sure about his birthday … Did I get it right?”
“Near enough, I guess.”
“Alex said you took Johnnie in. After his parents.”
“Owed him that much. Ramsey got off clean.” Wyatt ran a hand over his face. “I shoulda known better’n to let him stay in Dodge. He was doing good in school. I shoulda taken him straight back to St. Francis.”
“Wyatt, I been wondering … Why’d you pick a Catholic school for Johnnie?”
“White school wouldn’t have him.” Wyatt frowned and looked away. “I don’t guess there was any money in his room.”
“Nope. Just his clothes