Authors: David B. Riley
"Miles O'Malley,” I said as forcefully as possible.
The stranger took his last card, then folded his hand without looking at it. “Ah've heard of you.” That surprised me. No one's heard of me. He looked at my badge. “Jonathan T. Livingston, New Orleans, Louisiana."
I released my grip on the man's shoulder. It was an easy way to telegraph if a man was moving for a gun, I'd been told. This guy appeared unarmed. “Outside,” I commanded.
He protested “But suh, ah'm involved in this game right now."
"Not anymore you ain't. Outside,” I repeated. I turned and went to the boardwalk that ran in front of the saloon.
Jonathan T. Livingston arrived a minute later, trying to stow his winnings in his abundant selection of pockets.
"Sheriff, ah can assure you I play an honest game."
"Marshal. I'm acting town marshal. Wednesday the stage comes through. Be on it.” I started back for the Marshal's Office. “And don't go back in that saloon again."
"But suh, ah've broken no laws,” he insisted.
"I don't like to repeat myself, Riverboat,” I warned without looking back. I was very pleased with how I'd handled that. And my coffee was still hot and waiting for me when I got back.
The newspaper had the usual local nonsense and a few surprises. I had just finished reading an article that implied our county sheriff, John Behan, was a horse thief, when I heard steps running in my direction.
"Virgil! Virgil” somebody was screaming. “We got trouble out at the Gantry Place."
"He ain't here,” I replied. I lowered my paper a little and realized Sheriff John Behan was standing over me.
Behan and the Earps were bitter enemies. Behan was allied with the ranchers and rural folk in the county. The Earps worked for a town dominated by mining interests and a few merchants. Neither faction seemed to appreciate the other. Wyatt had run unsuccessfully for Behan's county job in the last election. But there he stood, right in front of me looking filthy with sweat pouring down his face.
"Where's Virgil?” Behan demanded.
"Went to some convention in Phoenix,” I explained. I took a sip of coffee. “He'll be back tomorrow."
"What about Morgan or Wyatt?” he asked.
"Phoenix."
"Who in dickens are you?” Behan asked.
I showed him my badge. “Miles O'Malley. I'm just filling in. Virgil said if folks need anything serious handled, go see Big-nosed Kate Elder over at the saloon."
He shook his head. “That won't do. I need help now, dang it. I need an experienced lawman."
For John Behan to come looking for an Earp for help, that was akin to Robert E. Lee running to General Grant for assistance. This seemed mighty strange. “Don't you have deputies?” I asked.
He hesitated a second, then uttered, “Phoenix."
"Oh ... Well, Marshal Earp said not to do anything outside the town limits. Old Man Gantry is way out of town, as I recall.” I picked my paper back up, even though I'd already read everything in it.
"Please Miles,” Behan begged. “I need help. Something bad's happening out there. Something really bad."
I threw my paper down, stood up, and let out an exaggerated sigh. Truth was, I was plenty curious by that point about what was going on. “No rest for the weary. Let me get my horse.” I headed over to the livery and found Paul already saddled up. Behan was waiting for me in front of the courthouse. “Lead on."
Behan started his horse in the direction out of town. I hurried after him. Behan drove his horse like a madman. We raced along for seven miles, then finally turned off onto the rutted trail that led up to Old Man Gantry's place. Suddenly the horses stopped. Behan tried to get his horse to advance into a mesquite grove, but the horse would not budge. Mine was equally obstinate. We dismounted. “Left Old Man Gantry watching it. It's the darndest thing. Just over this rise."
We found Gantry hunched down behind a rock. His trademark ceramic jug was lying empty on its side. He nearly jumped out of his skin when he heard us approach behind him. “You boys scared the begeebers out of me."
"Still there?” Behan asked.
"Ain't moved nary an inch since ya left. He all you could get?” Gantry asked, apparently disappointed with me.
"Afraid so."
I followed their line of sight to a glowing sphere halfway up the hill. It made no noise and was hovering about fifty feet off the ground. “What in hell is that?” I asked.
"It flies,” Behan said.
"Don't make no sound, neither,” Gantry added. “Not a peep."
"What you reckon we ought to do?” Behan asked.
"You tried talkin’ to it?” I asked.
"Talk to it?” Gantry asked. “What in heavens would we tell it?"
"I ain't sure, exactly.” I moved out into the open and found myself leading the other two toward the mysterious object. The need to stop seemed strongest at about thirty yards. I waved at the sphere, which had to be forty feet thick at the center. “Hello!” Nothing happened.
"Maybe it don't understand English. Maybe it knows Spanish, like the Mexicans,” Behan suggested from a safe distance behind me.
"Buenos Dias,” I yelled. A hatch opened on the side of the object and the entire vehicle gently set down on the ground. “You're right, it does know Spanish,” I agreed.
"I'll be.” Behan scratched his head and tried to peer inside.
"Somethin's in there. It's coming out.” Sure enough, something waddled out.
It looked like a little green man—and didn't. It had two antennae sticking out of its head, stood only around three feet tall, and had the overall greenish color of mildew. Its large eyes were black as coal and appeared to have no eyelids.
"Buenos Dias. Mi casa es su casa,” I recited. And that was nearly the extent of my Spanish vocabulary.
"What's that mean?” Gantry asked.
"Don't know. Heard it over at the cantina a few times.” I waved at the odd creature.
It took a step closer and waved back.
"It's the devil himself, I say!” Old Man Gantry took a step toward it.
"It's even got horns on it."
"Those ain't horns,” I argued. “Donde es you casa?” I asked it.
"Gantry get back here,” Behan warned.
Gantry drew his Civil War six-shooter from his baggy overalls. Before he could aim it, the creature extended its tiny arm and a metal disk appeared in its three-fingered hand. There was a brilliant blue flash and Old Man Gantry suddenly had a six-inch hole bored all the way through his chest.
Before Gantry hit the ground, I smiled an exaggerated grin and waved. “We friendly. What's Spanish for friend, Behan?"
"How in hell should I know? Don't move. You may tick it off,” Behan warned.
The green guy fiddled with a small device on his belt that hadn't been there before. “
Equi oc Toquit.
You are non-hostile?” He pointed at Gantry.
"He was hostile."
"Sure, we're non-hostile, whatever that means,” I agreed. “We friendly."
"I am from planet Kalos, far away."
"Like Mars or something?” Behan asked.
"Much farther. You are in charge?” the green guy asked.
"I'm Miles O'Malley, Town of Tombstone.” Although I regretted it immediately, I extended my hand as one would to a visiting dignitary.
"Welcome."
The creature nodded. “Ah handshake. We do this."
Behan showed no inclination toward shaking hands or getting any closer. “It killed Old Man Gantry,” he whispered.
"Gantry drew on him,” I pointed out. “He had no call doing that."
Behan wiped his forehead. “Never thought of it like that."
I pointed toward the trail. “Horsey. We ride back to town?"
"No horsey. We fly to the human settlement.” The creature pointed back at the glowing vessel.
"I was afraid you were going to say that.” I noticed I was now alone.
Behan was racing down the hill toward where the horses were. “Well, Sheriff Jackass is afraid of your, uh, whatever it is."
"Space vehicle. Follow please."
I did as instructed. “What's your handle?"
"Equi oc Toquit."
"Elbert?” The hatch closed up, and I tried to suppress a sudden sense of dread. Elbert climbed up on a stool, touched a few spots on a smooth console, then the hatch opened up again.
There had been no sensation of movement, but we were now parked behind a pile of hay off of Fremont Street, just in back of the O.K. Corral. The alien waddled along behind me as I led my new friend down the street. Everyone was staring. “I could use a cold one,” I muttered.
"Cold one?” Elbert asked.
I tried to explain. “Beer. A drink."
"Sounds good idea, yes,” my green friend decided.
The saloon went from noisy chatter to complete silence. Kate was still at the exact same location, near the edge of the bar. The barkeeper dropped a glass mug on the floor. No one seemed to notice.
"Two beers,” I ordered.
We sat at the first table, near the window. When Kate approached I explained, “This here's Elbert. He's from another planet. He's got some space vee-hickle parked down the street. Shot Old Man Gantry in a fair fight. Where's our beers?"
Clem, the stable hand seated at the next table, promptly extended a hand. “Pleased to meet ya, Elbert.” After shaking hands, Clem adjusted his suspenders and walked out the front door and turned for the boarding house. He roomed next door to me.
No one else in the room seemed quite so neighborly. “It's got horns sticking out of its head,” someone said.
"He's the devil,” some old guy announced. “Earps are in league with Satan."
I wasn't aware I was now an Earp. I guess it was guilt by association. “Where's our beers?"
Kate made no effort to fetch them. “He ain't human,” she finally said.
"Course he ain't human, woman. I done told you he's from some other planet.” I stood. “Hell, you speak Spanish, let's go where we can get some decent service.” I led Elbert outside and down the street. At the edge of town we reached a tent-like building. “This here's the Mexican cantina. They'll serve us.” I opened the flap. “Two beers.” I held up two fingers.
"Dos."
A twelve-year-old Mexican girl promptly placed two beers on the table.
Only the day before, I later learned, her uncle had said the Earps would come in there some day with El Diablo himself. She seemed to having never pictured the devil as green, but would from that day forth.
I took a swig, then watched Elbert do the same. “You like?"
"Good drink.” Elbert let out a loud belch, then downed the entire glass.
"Great.” Looking back, I noticed a familiar sight. A card game was in progress. “Order another round, I'll be right back.” I went over to the poker game. Three Mexican farmhands were playing with Jonathan T. Livingston.
"Howdy Sheriff,” Livingston greeted without looking up from his cards.
"Marshal. Thought I told you no saloons."
"You said no Oriental Saloon. This hea is a notha establishment, entirely,” he pointed out.
Before I could figure out what to do, Elbert was standing next to him.
"Is it customary to replace the card with another one concealed underneath the table? Most peculiar game."
The three men who spoke no English drew down on the riverboat gambler from New Orleans.
It took a few seconds longer for me to grasp the situation. “Hold on boys,” I warned.
Livingston's face turned a deep shade of crimson. He grabbed one of his gloves off his belt and smacked Elbert across the head. “No one acuzes Jonathan T. Livingston of bein’ a cheat. Suh, ah do not care if you are indeed the devil himself, ah demand satisfaction."
"Irrational? Sexual attraction?” Elbert asked.
"Elbert, I don't think you quite understand,” I explained. “He wishes to fight you. Have a shootout."
"Weah ah come from, gentlemen—” he paused and looked over Elbert for a moment, “and ah use tha term loosely—fight a duel, not a bahbaric shootout."
I nodded approval. “Like they do back east. Okay with you, Elbert?"
"Acceptable,” he agreed.
"Let's do it.” I led the group toward the door. Our exit was blocked as Sheriff John Behan stood in the way. He sort of flinched at the sight of Elbert. “Was wondering what happened to you,” I said.
Elbert pointed at Behan. “This is the one that ran away."
"I didn't run away. I get sick when I'm closed up.” Then he returned to the situation at hand. “What's
that
doing in the cantina?” Behan asked.
"Elbert here's gonna shoot it out with Riverboat, like they do back east, duel style. Heck, I'm actually glad you're here. You ought to count ‘em off. I don't like Riverboat too much. You'd be fairer."
"Fairer? I don't like this here Elbert. Gives me the creepies, all green and all,” Behan protested.
"Sheriff Jackass is acceptable,” Elbert announced.
The Mexicans, who didn't speak English, all roared. Behan's face grew three shades redder. “Sheriff Jackass?"
"I'll explain later,” I offered.
Behan calmed down a little. “Well, let's get on with it."
"Suh?” Livingston pointed to the lack of a gun belt.
"Oh.” Behan unbuckled his and handed it to the gambler. “Use mine."
I looked over at Elbert. “What about you?"
Elbert waved his hand. A familiar metal disk appeared.
"I don't know about this,” Behan cautioned. “He already killed Old Man Gantry."
"Suh, I have no fear of any devil weapons, foe ah have truth an righteousness on ma side,” Livingston declared. Then he stepped out to the middle of the street, cocked the pistol and held it tight against his chest. “Ahm ready."
I showed Elbert how to take a position with his back against Livingston. Then everyone cleared the street. I gestured to Behan.
"Ready. Now I'll call off ten paces, then you boys turn and fire."
Behan adjusted his hat and cleared his throat. “One ... two ... three ... four ... five ... six ... seven ... eight ... nine,” he swallowed, “ten."
Elbert showed incredible reflexes. He spun around much faster than his larger opponent, quickly raised his disk, then a blue flash left a six-inch hole where Livingston's chest had been. The gambler's pistol discharged on the way down, knocking out a window at the hotel. There was a moment of silence, then people rushed out into the street.