Epitaph (48 page)

“I've got velvet curtains on order,” Lottie told them, “and there'll be upholstered chairs in the boxes.”

“Theater on the main floor, gambling in the cellar,” Billy said, but his eyes were on Doc Holliday, for—like a man in a trance—Doc had worked his way around piles of construction materials and now stood still, staring at what they believed was the surprise Josie had promised him.

“It's a J. P. Hale square grand,” Billy said with quiet pride. “Came in that last shipment of goods before the roads closed. Not as splendid as a Chickering—what a pity to lose that beauty in the fire! Still, plenty good enough for the acts we'll have.”

“Wyatt,” Josie said, “bring that chair over for Doc, would you, please? And put it right there?”

Next to the piano, she meant, not in front of it.

That was the next surprise, for it was Josie herself who sat on the piano stool. Hands hovering over the keys, she murmured, “No need to rush.”

In the silence of the half-finished theater, she began to play. Slowly, tenderly. As though a child were sleeping in the next room. Letting each note linger in the heart and in the ear. It was just one piece, perhaps three minutes long, but she played it well. When she finished, no one clapped or even breathed, for they were still inside that sacred place that music can sometimes create.

Finally, Josie herself broke the spell, going to Doc's side, kneeling
before him, reaching up to wipe the tears from his face with her own hands.

“Well, now,” he said, voice fraying. “Ain't you something.”

“Oh, Doc, you wouldn't credit how I practiced! I left out the hardest parts, and it still took weeks and weeks to learn it. ‘Traumerei' is the only thing in the world that I can play.”

“And you are my only pupil,” Doc said when he could speak again, “but I cannot imagine . . . one who might have . . . pleased me more.”

THEY ALL WENT OVER
to the Can Can Café for
dim sum
after that, even Albert, who sat next to Josie with a proprietary air.

They tried a couple of dozen little dishes of strange Chinese foods. The girls made a fuss about how good it was. Morgan and Virgil joshed Quong Kee about bird's nest soup and asked if he'd make cow pie dumplings next, but there wasn't a scrap left on the table by ten o'clock, when church let out.

Al told them he had to get home. That was the signal for the rest of them to leave as well. Morgan tried to pick up the check, but Wyatt told them, “I took care of it already.”

Everyone stared at him, boggled, for Wyatt was the tightest man with a dollar any of them knew.

“What's next?” Virgil asked. “Talking horses? Honest politicians?”

“Nah,” Morgan said. “He's not paying! He just won a bet with Mr. Kee!”

“Hush up, Morgan,” Doc said. “Thank you, Wyatt. You are very kind.”

Virgil needed to get back to the city marshal's office. Morgan was late for work at the Alhambra. Doc said he'd escort Allie and Lou home, if they didn't mind walking at a snail's pace. That left Josie with Wyatt, who walked her back to her hotel over on Sixth but couldn't think of anything to say along the way.

When they got to the door, he just stood there like an idiot on the boardwalk, turning the brim of his hat around and around in his hand.

“Well,” Josie said, “it's been a lovely morning, but . . .”

“That was real nice,” Wyatt said. “What you did for Doc.”

Relieved that he had finally spoken, she smiled happily. “He's been so sick . . . I just wanted to do something special for him. He has such a terrible reputation, but it's like you said—people get the wrong impression. I think he's sweet.”

Wyatt looked away, then made himself say it. “He is lucky to have you. I know he'll treat you good.”

She blinked. “I'm sorry?” Frowning, she squeezed her eyes shut for a moment, then looked at him again. “Wait! You mean—you thought Doc and I . . . ? ” There was a startled laugh. “No! No, no,
no
! I mean, there's nothing wrong with him, but— No! Wyatt, Doc's still in love with Kate.”

It was Wyatt's turn to be startled. “Kate? Oh, hell! Don't tell me he's gonna take her back!”

“Now, see, that's exactly why he didn't say anything to you! He knew you wouldn't approve.”

“Darn right, I don't approve! She drinks and she's bad-tempered, and— Hell, she almost got him hanged! Why in the world would he take her back? That's just plain foolishness.” He stopped. “But then . . . you and him . . . you ain't . . . ? ”

Eyes bright as sunlight on water, she waited, letting him work it out.

“So then, you and me . . . I mean, if you wanted . . . we could—”

She squealed then, like an excited little kid. And leapt into his arms. And planted a kiss on his lips. Right there, in broad daylight. On a public street.

“Oh, Wyatt!” she cried, half-exasperated, half-thrilled. “My God! I thought you'd
never
ask!”

HE HAD KNOWN ONE GOOD WOMAN,
and a fair number of bad ones, but he had never known anyone like Josie. She was not shameless, or indifferent to what he did, or merely tolerant. She was joyful. She was
glad
of him.

When he finished, he thought their first time was real fine. He would never know that she was thinking, Well, that was dreary.

She was, by then, an accomplished actress who liked men in general and found them endearingly fragile. So she waited, letting him drowse a while before she rose on one elbow and gazed down at him with a face full of challenge and fun.

“I suppose you think you're done?” she asked, brows high.

She brought his hands to places he had never touched. She made him slow down and then commanded, “Now!” and rose to meet him. When she cried out, he froze, thinking he had hurt her. Sweating, breathless, she lay back a few moments later and
laughed
: a throaty, deep, satisfied laugh.

Seeing his confusion, she smiled. “You didn't know a woman could feel that, too?”

Dumbfounded, he shook his head.

Eyes warm, she kissed him again. “Don't worry, Wyatt. I know enough for both of us.”

THE CHURCH BELLS WOKE THEM
early the next morning. That was a surprise, too, for it was Monday.

The tolling was slow, not the rapid clanging of a fire alarm or the stately announcement of worship services.

Wyatt got up and went to the window to see what was going on. Behind him, still in bed, Josie said, “Don't move! My God, I could look at you for hours.”

Startled by the remark, he turned, covering himself with his hands.

She giggled. “I had no idea men could blush all the way down!”

Then it struck them both: The slow tolling of bells was funereal.

“Hell,” Wyatt said. “Garfield musta died.”

The gunfire began a moment later. He reached for his clothes, and Josie groaned, “No! Don't go!”

“Virg might need me,” he said, bracing for the kind of argument he used to have with Mattie.
Your brothers always come first. I'm always
last.
But that was another surprise, for Josie sat up, small breasts bare to the morning light, her eyes serious.

“You're right,” she said. “Go.
Go
! I'll be here when you get back.”

DOWN ON THE STREETS,
there were crowds of people. “The president's dead,” he heard someone say, and that's what he'd expected, but it was still a shock to hear the words and his heart sank.

Joining the throng that was headed to the Western Union office, he witnessed for himself the way the town—and the nation—was divided. Republicans were struck dumb by the news: half in grief for Garfield, half in dread of what a Chester Alan Arthur presidency would mean to the nation. Democrats adjourned to the saloons to celebrate the death of an abolitionist who'd meant to oppose the reestablishment of white rights across the old Confederacy.

Wyatt found Doc Holliday in the crowd near the Western Union office.

“I would not have voted for the man,” Doc admitted, “but this—” He lifted a fine-boned hand toward the street, where small groups of Cow Boys were now tearing down Allen on horseback, shooting at the sky and racing beyond the city limits before the police could do anything about the ruckus. “
This
is indecent.”

T
HE SEPTEMBER 21 MEETING IN MEXICO CITY BEGAN
with condolences, of course. His Excellency Ignacio Mariscál, head of the Secretariat of Foreign Affairs, conveyed his government's heartfelt sympathies to the bereaved citizens of the United States, which were gracefully accepted by His Excellency Philip Morgan, minister plenipotentiary of the United States legation to the Republic of Mexico. These pro forma courtesies were followed by murmurs of genuine personal regret upon the passing of James Garfield. Mental notes were made to wait a few days before any private assessment of the new president's character—or lack of it—were exchanged.

Then they came to grips.

“Despite these grievous circumstances,” Sr. Mariscál said briskly, “our ships of state cannot be allowed to drift. As you well know, the conditions on the Arizona border are now and have been—for many months—outrageous. Cattle raids. Drunken predation on
peones.
Rape, sir, of our women. Our gray-haired elders beaten. And now the Cow Boys have murdered sixteen Mexican nationals on U.S. soil. Civilians, sir. Honest merchants, robbed of over three thousand dollars and killed by criminals who are known to your officials but who are permitted to roam free.”

“Your Excellency, I agree fully that the border situation is regrettable, but since President Garfield was shot in June—”

“I understand that there has been a constitutional crisis since the
attack on your president, but please! Do not dare to offer excuses. Conditions on the border are more than regrettable, sir. They are dangerous—very dangerous!—but when my government protests, nothing is done. Worse than nothing, for insult is added to our injuries when members of these very outlaw gangs are deputized by the sheriff of Cochise County.”

Philip Morgan, who had not been invited to sit down, shifted uneasily on his feet, one of which still ached from a wound he had sustained thirty-some years ago, not far from this office. “Sheriff Behan's decisions in this matter are lamentable, but he is within his legal rights to deputize anyone he deems suitable. My understanding is that none of the men he employs has been convicted of any crime—”

“Only because their fellow outlaws provide alibis for them in court!”

“Nevertheless, according to the rule of law—”

“The rule of law in Arizona is utterly corrupt. Do you dispute this?”

The American remained silent.

“No. I thought not. And so: I am instructed by my government to demand
again
that the United States deploy troops on our mutual border to control these murdering thieves—”