The Last Kind Words Saloon: A Novel (15 page)
“It’s just a bluff, Doc . . . no shooting unless we really have to.”
His own weapon, at the moment, was the sorry pistol that had once been Ike Clanton’s. He had got it back from Morgan.
Doc quickly borrowed a serviceable .12 gauge. Morgan and Virg, professional lawmen both, each had Colts.
When they headed up the dusty street, Virgil took the left side, Morgan the right, with Wyatt and Doc in the middle. Two more ore wagons came through and an abundance of dust lingered.
To their surprise, when they got within bluffing distance of the O.K. Corral, neither Clantons nor McLaurys were in sight.
“The damn scamps, where’d they go?” Wyatt asked.
“Probably gave it up and left,” Doc said.
“Maybe they’re smarter than I gave them credit for,” Wyatt said.
Indian Charlie appeared suddenly, causing everyone to jump, but he was merely raking up horse turds from the livery stable.
“This is a damn waste of time,” Wyatt said.
“Now didn’t I predict that very thing?” Doc said. “I told you to leave it be.”
But just as he said it gunfire erupted and Morgan went down.
“No, no . . . I don’t want this,” Virgil said. “I’m the sheriff.”
Then he went down too.
Ike Clanton quickly ran into the photographer’s shop and was not shot. Both McLaurys fired and Wyatt killed them both. Somebody hit young Billy Clanton, who died after a brief agony.
Doc was nicked, Wyatt untouched. A wagon had to be brought to bring Morgan and Virgil to the doctor.
When Wyatt walked in on Jessie she grabbed him and held him tight and kissed him passionately.
“You fool, you could have been killed,” Jessie said, crying.
“Yes, but I wasn’t; let go,” Wyatt said.
by Nellie Courtright
O
NCE
I
GOT BITTEN
by the journalism bug there was nothing to stop me from going wherever the stories took me, which was pretty much all over our Old West as it was waning. I often saw the Goodnights—or at least Charlie; his Mary had died. Sturdy as she seemed, the panhandle of Texas was just no place for a lady—not then. The plow had never touched the range country, not then.
The first time I visited Charlie after Mary’s death we sat out on the porch until late at night, not talking much, just watching the stars come out. I lived in Santa Monica then, a block from the Pacific, which didn’t allow for many stars.
“I’m an old bachelor and it don’t suit me,” Charlie said. “I’d be mighty pleased if you’d marry me.”
I was so surprised I almost fainted—then I remembered that I had kissed him once.
“I’m flattered, Charlie,” I said. “But as far as I know I’m still married to Zenas.”
“How long has he been gone?” he asked.
“About eighteen years,” I said.
Charlie gave a kind of snort.
“You don’t have a husband, you just have an excuse,” he said. “I’ll throw in a hundred head of cattle, to sweeten the offer,” he said.
“Charlie, I’m a city girl,” I said. “I wouldn’t know what to do with myself out here on the baldies.”
“That’s that, then,” he said. “Good night.”
Some years later I heard he married his nurse and I also heard that he got swindled out of most of his land. He might have been a great man, Charlie—I’m glad I kissed him and also glad I didn’t marry him—I saw enough of the prairie during my years in Rita Blanca.
I had long forgotten Wyatt Earp and his violent brothers when he was brought to my attention by a story in a newspaper about a riot that took place in Oakland. There had been a big prizefight and Wyatt Earp had been the referee. Wyatt awarded the fight to a man named Sharkey and the crowd didn’t like the verdict and rioted for a while, though Wyatt himself escaped unharmed.
The piece mentioned that Wyatt lived in San Pedro, just down the beach a ways. I found him in the phone book and called him up and got Jessie—I don’t think she really remembered me but she invited me to drop by anyway. I had a little rolltop convertible then, so I put the top down and went briskly down to San Pedro.
I had barely arrived before I wished I hadn’t. Wyatt and Jessie lived in a dilapidated little bungalow. Their yard was filled with junk: old tires, some buckets, a saddle, tools of various kinds, a wheelbarrow, and the like.
Wyatt was sitting on the porch in an old wicker chair he had found someplace. I don’t think he really recognized me, but Jessie sort of did. She had always been a large woman, but now she had spread, while Wyatt seemed to have shrunk. The famous hero of the O.K. Corral was now a rheumy-eyed old man who spent his days spitting tobacco into a coffee can.
“No point in asking him about the killing,” Jessie said. “Wyatt don’t remember much—there’s days when he barely remembers me.”
Then she tried to introduce us—sunken as she was, she had some trace of manners.
“Wyatt, we used to know this lady,” she said. “We knew her in Long Grass. She wrote for the newspaper.”
Wyatt looked at me but I’m not sure he saw me.
“Did you know Doc?” he asked. “Doc died of the TB, up in Colorado.”
“I’m sorry to hear about it—I didn’t know him well.”
By then I was sorry I had come. There was nothing to be had from the Earps, and their sorrow was making me sad. Jessie did tell me that Wyatt had taught Sunday school, at a big church up on Wilshire.
As I was picking my way through the junk in the yard I saw something I had all but forgotten: Warren Earp’s Last Kind Words Saloon sign, lying on top of some tires. There it was in San Pedro, far from Long Grass, where I first saw it.
“Jessie, can I buy this sign? I remember it from Long Grass.”
Jessie seemed puzzled, that anyone would want such a thing.
“Just take it, honey—we got no use for it,” she said. “Warren Earp drug it around all over the place. We never did know what he meant by it.”
“How is Warren?” I asked, to be polite.
Jesse looked at me in surprise, as if I had forgotten something I was supposed to know.
“Dead,” she said. “Dead a long time ago.”
So I took the sign, not quite sure why I wanted it, put it in the back of my convertible, and drove away.
The End
PHOTO CREDITS
Frontispiece: National Archives, “Some of [Aztec’s] Punchers.” Aztec Land & Cattle Company, Holbrook, Ariz. Terr. By Ames, 1877–89. 106-FAA-92B
Long Grass: National Archives, “Government pack mules and packers.” Photograph taken near Mexican border 1883. 111-SC-89096
Denver: Buffalo Bill Center of the West, Cody, Wyoming, U.S.A.; Vincent Mercaldo Collection, P.71.1556
Mobetie: National Archives, “Roundup on the Sherman Ranch,” Genesee, Kans. Cowboy with lasso readied looks beyond the herd on the open range to his fellow cowpunchers waiting on the horizon, ca. 1902. 165-XS-27
Tombstone: Arizona State Library, Archives and Public Records, History and Archives Division, Phoenix, #97-2604
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
L
ARRY
M
C
M
URTRY
is the author of thirty novels, including the Pulitzer Prize–winning
Lonesome Dove
. His other works include three essay collections, five memoirs, and more than forty screenplays, including the coauthorship (with Diana Ossana) of
Brokeback Mountain
, for which he received an Academy Award. He lives in Archer City, Texas.
B
Y
L
ARRY
M
C
M
URTRY
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USTER
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HE
B
ERRYBENDER
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ARRATIVES
H
OLLYWOOD
: A T
HIRD
M
EMOIR
L
ITERARY
L
IFE
: A S
ECOND
M
EMOIR
R
HINO
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ANCH
B
OOKS
: A M
EMOIR
W
HEN THE
L
IGHT
G
OES
T
ELEGRAPH
D
AYS
O
H
W
HAT A
S
LAUGHTER
T
HE
C
OLONEL AND
L
ITTLE
M
ISSIE
L
OOP
G
ROUP
F
OLLY AND
G
LORY
B
Y
S
ORROW
’
S
R
IVER
T
HE
W
ANDERING
H
ILL
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IN
K
ILLER
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ACAGAWEA
’
S
N
ICKNAME
: E
SSAYS ON THE
A
MERICAN
W
EST
P
ARADISE
B
OONE
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L
ICK
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OADS
S
TILL
W
ILD:
S
HORT
F
ICTION OF THE
A
MERICAN
W
EST, 1950 TO THE
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RESENT
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ALTER
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ENJAMIN AT THE
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TRANGERS
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HEYENNE
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, P
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ARRY
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C
M
URTRY AND
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RETTY
B
OY
F
LOYD
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EKE AND
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ED
Copyright © 2014 by Larry McMurtry
All Rights Reserved
First Edition
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The Library of Congress has cataloged the printed edition as follows:
McMurtry, Larry.
The Last Kind Words Saloon : a novel / Larry McMurtry. — First edition.
pages ; cm
ISBN 978-0-87140-786-3 (hardcover)
1. Earp, Wyatt, 1848-1929—Fiction. 2. Holliday, John Henry,
1851-1887—Fiction. 3. Western stories. I. Title.
PS3563.A319L367 2014
813’.54—dc23
2014002279
ISBN 978-0-87140-787-0 (e-book)
Liveright Publishing Corporation
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