Black Hats by Patrick Culhane Read Free Book Online Page A

congregation.
    Various townspeople informed the Earps of the threats emanating from the O.K. Corral, as the lawmen stood on the sidewalk outside Hafford’s Saloon. Any number offered aid, but Virgil, Wyatt and Morgan were professionals who preferred not to involve civilians in enforcement matters.
    The trio was about to make their way toward the vacant lot when Doc Holliday sauntered up to offer his help.
    “This is our fight, Doc,” Wyatt said. “No call for you to mix in.”
    Doc reeled as if slapped, but his indignation was touched by his usual dark humor. “That’s a hell of a thing for you to say to me, sir!”
    Virgil handed Doc a sawed-off shotgun and said, “Keep that under your coat.”
    Taking it, handing Virgil a spiffy gold-topped cane in return, Doc said, “Well, certainly, Marshal—I would not want to create any undue excitement amongst the citizenry.”
    Virgil, who was not renowned for his sense of humor, only said, “Raise your right hand, Doc.”
    Doc did.
    “Do you swear to—”
    “I do. Shall we get on with the ball?”
    Then the three blue-eyed, dark-blond Earp brothers and the hollow-cheeked, haunted-eyed blonder Doc started up Fourth Street. The Earps were indistinguishable from one another, six-footers with handlebar mustaches and black Stetsons and long black coats and black trousers with black string ties adorning soft white collars. Doc’s hat was a wide-brimmed black but his long coat (worn cape fashion, over his shoulders) was gray, his shirt pastel, his mustache as sweeping as his companions’ but his lips pursed in a whistle. The steps of the Earp brothers had a grave inexorability, but skeletal Doc seemed almost jaunty.
    The fall afternoon—it was going on three p.m.—was crisp and cold, the wind making their coats flap and slap at their legs, and the icy sting on Wyatt’s cheeks only helped keep him alert. Snow dusted the street, making their footsteps crackle; the wooden sidewalks under overhangs were empty, but eyes glittered in store-front windows. Word had spread.
    “Wyatt,” Morgan said softly, the youngest Earp’s eyes moving to and fro, “how do we know how many of these damned Cowboys we’re facing?”
    “We don’t.”
    “God knows how many have ridden in to back Ike’s play. What if they’re on horseback?”
    “Shoot the horses first.”
    Doc eyed Wyatt sidewise, amused. “Horse lover like you, Wyatt? This must be a serious game….”
    The four men turned onto Fremont, and Wyatt slowly scanned the street every which way to Sunday; but the Cowboys could not be seen.

    Then the vacant lot west of Fly’s came into view, as did a brace of the rustlers: Ike Clanton and his young brother Billy, Tom and Frank McLaury, Billy the Kid Claiborne…and Sheriff Johnny Behan.
    Behan, a dapper little daintily mustached man in a derby, was talking animatedly to the Cowboys, decked out in their standard gaudy attire, oversized sombreros, red silk bandanas and gay sashes, fancy-pattern flannel shirts and tightfitting doeskin britches, tucked into forty-dollar half-boots. Ike and Tom wore short cowhide coats, the others vests.
    As the Earps and Holliday approached, Behan noticed them and ran toward his brother lawmen, glancing behind him nervously and throwing his hands up, as if in surrender.
    But when Behan reached them, Virgil and Wyatt and Morgan and Doc just kept walking, and the little sheriff had to tag along like a kid.
    “For God’s sake, Virgil,” Behan said, “don’t go down there—they’ll murder you!”
    Not missing a step, Virgil said, “They’re carrying firearms in town, Johnny. I’m just going down to disarm them.”
    “You don’t have to!” Behan had stopped trying to keep up, and, receding behind them, called,
    “I’ve disarmed them all!”
    Wyatt exchanged glances with Virgil, who moved the pistol in his waistband around to the holster on his left hip and shifted the walking stick to his right hand. This, as Wyatt took it, was meant to