Bloody Season Read Free

Montgomery’s O.K. Corral. A pistol scabbard flapped on his right hip. All the men were coated except Tom McLaury, who wore a vest over a dark blue shirt with the tail out. Winchester butts stuck up above both horses’ saddles.
    “Maybe they’re leaving,” said Virgil. Morgan snorted.
    Wyatt said, “Here comes the law in Cochise County.”
    Johnny Behan paused in front of the Alhambra to touch his hat and say something to one of the women from the Bird Cage Theater coming out through the batwings, then continued on to the Earps’s corner. He was trim and looked taller than he was in a flat-brimmed sombrero and light topcoat and dark trousers, a fresh shine on his boots with designs on the toes. His slim moustaches were newly clipped and as he drew near, Doc caught a scent of lavender water and pomade.
    “Marshal, the talk in Barron’s is you’re prodding these boys into a fight.” He was looking up at Virgil, Doc noted, with the quick brown eyes that made nuns and virgins drip.
    Virgil said, “They are the ones making the fight talk. Why don’t you come with us and disarm them. They just went into Benson’s corral.”
    Behan glanced in that direction, touched one of his moustaches to make sure he hadn’t left it on the hardwood floor in Barron’s barbershop and bath, looked across Allen in the direction of the Occidental Hotel. He was proud of his Roman-coin profile. “I won’t do that. If they see any of you Earps they will fight sure.”
    Doc said, “If you like we will cover you while you run home and change drawers.”
    Virgil said quickly, “I mean to disarm them, with or without your help. If it comes to a fight it will be on them to start it.”
    “They won’t fight with me,” Behan said, glaring at Doc, whose gray gaze had no humor in it. “I will go down alone and see if I can disarm them.”
    Virgil stroked his throat with his free hand. “All I want them to do is lay off their arms while they’re in town.”
    The sheriff nodded. During the conversation he and Wyatt had not exchanged so much as a glance.
    Doc and Morgan were standing in the intersection of Fourth and Allen. Behan started around them and stopped in front of a bearded man in miner’s overalls crusted with silver clay, who had come up Allen Street from the direction of the corral. They spoke for a few seconds, then Behan walked away up Fourth toward Fremont. The bearded man mounted the boardwalk and addressed Virgil, who was leaning in Hafford’s doorway with the muzzles of his shotgun resting on the sill.
    “Marshal, these men mean trouble. They are all down there on Fremont Street, all armed, and I think you had better go and disarm them.” His coastal British accent was as thick as a core sample.
    “What a Cornish Jack thinks you could stick up an ant’s ass,” said Wyatt.
    “Who’s there?” Virgil asked.
    “Tom and Frank McLaury and two of the Clantons. That Billy the Kid was there too and another man I don’t know. He’s drunk as a lord.”
    “Ringo?”
    “No, I know Ringo and this was not him.”
    “Wes Fuller, I bet,” said Wyatt.
    “All armed, you say?” Virgil pressed.
    “Well, Billy Clanton and Frank McLaury. I can’t say about the rest.”
    Morgan had moved in close to the boardwalk. “They have horses. Hadn’t we better get mounted ourselves in case they want to make a running fight of it?”
    Wyatt said, “No, if they want to make a running fight we can kill their horses.”
    The miner had gone back the way he had come, walking with his knees bent and his toes pointed out. Virgil stretched, bones cracking, and stepped out of the doorway balancing the shotgun. “Well, I guess we had better go do it.”
    Virgil and Wyatt stepped into the street and started along Fourth toward Fremont, trailing the third Earp. Doc fell into step beside Morgan. Wyatt stopped and turned. The wind uncovered the star on his vest engraved SPECIAL POLICE.
    “Doc, this is our fight. There is no call for you to mix