The Old Colts (18 page)

“We still do.”

Birdie sat down on the side of the bed and stared at him as he put the gun away and took off holster and tie and shirt.

“My God,” she whispered.

“My God what?”

“What if you really are Bat Masterson?”

“No light,” whispered Dyjean.

“Fine with me,” whispered Wyatt.

“Where are they?”

“Next room. 112.”

“Might they walk in on us through that door?”

“It’s locked.”

“What about a key?”

“None I know of.”

Dyjean took off her blouse and skirt. Wyatt took off his coat and hung it carefully in the closet. “Why, that must be from the Civil War!”

“What?”

“That gun! Let’s see it.” He took it out. “Goodness gracious.”

“I told you who I am.”

Dyjean sat down on the side of the bed and stared at him as he put the gun away and took off holster and tie and shirt.

“Wyatt Earp,” she whispered.

“Now do you believe me?”

“Just about.”

Birdie unbuttoned her high-button shoes and unrolled her hose. Bat grunted out of his shoes, slung his trousers on top of his coat, and divested himself of his BVD’s. Birdie stood, dropped her bloomers, and unhooked her corset.

“How come you leave on your socks?” she whispered.

“Feet get cold nights,” he whispered.

Bat piled into bed and sank practically out of sight. “I haven’t slept on a feather tick since I was a pup.”

“They’ve put mattresses in most rooms, but I guess they haven’t got around to this one yet.”

Birdie unhooked a massive cotton brassiere and hung it over a bedpost.

“What a pair!” complimented Bat.

“Thanks.”

He slid over and plumped up a pillow for her. “Come on in, Buttercup—the water’s fine.”

“I will in a minute.” Birdie sat down on the edge of the bed beside him in the buff. “You’ve about made a believer out of me—that gun and how much you know about Boot Hill and all. Just one more thing, Mister. I like to know who I’m sleeping with. I’m gonna give you a quiz. Who was Molly Brennan?”

“Oh my God,” groaned Bat. “That’s a long story—I can’t wait!”

“You’ll have to,” said an adamant Birdie, stretching out sideways and hanging her pair over him like Golden Delicious on a big warm bough. “I know who she was and what happened. Let’s see if you do.”

After some debate Bat began, rushing his narrative and skipping some of the more sordid details. In the summer of ‘75, when he was a young buck of twenty-one, just after he’d scouted the Staked Plains for Colonel Miles and assisted in the rescue of the Germain sisters from Stone Calf’s band of Cheyenne, he’d been resting up between adventures in Sweetwater, Texas. There he’d fallen in love with a blue-eyed, black-haired beauty named Molly Brennan, a saloon girl with a heart of silver who fell, fortunately, like a ton of bricks for him. Her boss, the saloon keeper, had given them a key to the place so they could cavort in the vineyards of love after hours, and this they did to their mutual benefit. Molly had, unfortunately, another flame, the infamous Sergeant King of the Fourth Cavalry, a brawler and a gunner and with the ladies as slippery as a greased pig. He was in a vile mood that summer to boot. Earlier on, in Wichita, he had dared to draw on the new marshal, Wyatt Earp. Wyatt, the man in the next room, had walked to King, yanked the iron from his hand, slapped his face, taken him by the scruff of the neck, and escorted him to city court. Meanwhile, back in Sweetwater some weeks later, Bat and Molly had late one night laid themselves out on the saloon’s chuck-a-luck layout with amorous intent when, in a tantrum of jealous rage, the Sergeant broke down the front door, apprised himself of the situation, and immediately slapped leather.

Bat broke off.

“Well?”

“It’s not easy.”

Birdie sat up so suddenly and in such frustration that her fruit almost fell. “Go on, damn you!”

“Well, first time he fired, Molly threw herself in front of me. Took the bullet in her stomach. The second shot got me, smashed my pelvis. But as I was going down, I drew and put one through his heart.”

“That’s right, you did—go on!”

Bat hid his face in the pillow. “You shouldn’t do this to me, Birdie, even after all these years,” he muffled. “I crawled to Molly. I held her in my arms. She hadn’t long. She told me she loved me. Always would, even after death,” he croaked. “Then—then—then she breathed her last on my lips.”

“Oh God!”

And the stricken Birdie tore back the bedding and dived in and took his body and socks unto her and mingled her tears and limbs with his.

“You poor dear man!” she wailed. “You poor dear darling—Bat!”

Dyjean removed her blouse, skirt, shoes, hose, bloomers, corset, and then, standing with her back to him, unhooked a massive cotton brassiere, hung it over a bedpost, and turned.

“You have a beautiful body, Dyjean,” Wyatt said.

“You really think so? Hey, how come you’re not undressed? That’s not fair.”

He was in longjohns.

“There’s something I want to say first.”

“Say away—it’s bed for me.” She pulled down the covers and got in and sank practically out of sight. “Oh-oh, a feather tick. I guess they haven’t got around to fixing this room up yet—you know, modern.”

He sat on a chair near the bed, his back as straight as the back of the chair.

“You’re a peculiar one,” she said. “Still waters run deep, huh? When you ought to get down to brass tacks, you want to talk.”

“You said a minute ago you just about believe I’m Wyatt Earp—which means not quite. In my opinion, girls shouldn’t have sexual intercourse with men they don’t know.”

Her dander up, Dyjean sat up, covering her charms with bedclothing. “Are you saying I’m loose?”

“Loose is as loose does.”

“You’ve got a nerve!”

“How can I prove who I am?”

“You don’t have to prove anything!”

“You saw my gun. I knew considerable about Boot Hill. I’m the age Wyatt Earp would be now.”

“I know.” Dyjean pointed a finger. “I know—you won’t come to bed because you’re not capable any more!”

“I assure you I—”

“Prove it!”

The man in the chair shook his head. “I will—as soon as you accept me for myself.”

She sank back into tick and pillow. “Oh Lord—are you stubborn.”

“I’m a man of principle.”

“You’re a mule.”

“Ask me anything about myself you care to.”

“This is really cuckoo,” Dyjean marveled. “The girl’s in the bed and the guy gets fussy—I never. I sure haven’t run into anything like this before.” She heaved a rustic sigh. “Well, all right, fussbudget. Let’s see. Wyatt Earp’s got a brother Morgan.”

“Did have. He’s dead.”

“Just trying to catch you. Where did he die?”

“Tombstone. Arizona Territory.”

“How?”

“He was shot in the back.”

“Go to the head of the class. See, I know—kids in Kansas grow up with these old stories. Tell me about it—let’s see if you get it right.”

“Must I?”

“Why not?”

“Speaking of it causes me pain.”

“Sorry—this was your idea, Mister.”

He sat near her in his longjohns, back as straight as the back of the chair. He spoke slowly, and Dyjean heard in his voice the pride of manhood and the pain which still accrued to his subject. After the carnage at the O.K. Corral in 1881, after a thirty-day trial and a finding by Judge Spicer that Marshal Wyatt Earp, his brothers, Deputy Marshals Virgil and Morgan Earp, and Doc Holliday, defendants, were “fully justified in committing these homicides; that it was a necessary act done in the discharge of official duty”— after all this it was yet apparent that peace was not possible in Tombstone. The so-called “cowboy” faction, aided and abetted by Sheriff Behan, was resolved, rather than letting sleeping dogs lie, to be revenged on the victors. On December 29, nine days after Spicer’s verdict, Virgil Earp was ambushed, his left arm shattered by a bullet. On the night of March 20th next, Morgan Earp was playing billiards in Campbell & Hatch’s parlor on Allen Street. Wyatt sat nearby, on guard. Chalking his cue, Morgan stood with his back to a rear door which opened on an alley. Pistols were fired through the glass panes in the door, plaster cut to bits near Wyatt’s head, and Morgan fell. Wyatt carried his younger brother to a couch in Bob Hatch’s office, and Dr. Goodfellow was called. A forty-five slug had entered the small of Morgan’s back, severing the spine. “We know who did it, don’t we, Wyatt?” Morgan whispered. Wyatt nodded. Morgan closed his eyes. In half an hour he was dead. He was thirty-one years of age.

Dyjean lay silently, wishing she’d never asked in the first place, but the man in the chair waited for her to play out the terrible string, to ask the last questions. She forced herself.

“What did you do?”

“Went after them.”

“I know. And got them.”

“Yes. It took a while.”

“Who were they?”

“Indian Charlie. Curly Bill. Frank—”

“Stilwell,” she finished for him. “In the railroad yard in Tucson.”

“Yes.” Then the man in the chair asked a question. “Are you satisfied, young lady?”

“Satisfied!” She began to cry. “I’m ashamed!”

“Don’t be. That’s all over, long ago. I don’t speak of it often— only when I have to.”

“I’m a bitch, a contrary bitch!” she sobbed. “How can I make it up to you?”

Now he was silent. Then she saw him standing by the bed in the altogether, a fine figure of a man for his age, and he was smiling down at her.

“There’s one way,” he said, gently.

“Oh, yes!” Dyjean threw back the covers. “You boohoo-hop in here this minute, Wyatt Earp!”

“Aaaaah, yes.” Bat relaxed, arms under his head, while Birdie slipped out of bed, brought him a Spud and matches and ashtray, and lit the cig for him.

“How will you think of me in the morning?” she asked, snuggling in again beside him.

“Fondly, my dear.” He inhaled and exhaled a stream of self-congratulatory smoke. “Aaaaah, yes. Solid comfort.”

“It’s still hard,” she sighed.

“No it isn’t.”

She giggled. “I mean, to believe. Who I’m actually in bed with.”

“Sweetpea,” said Bat, “you’re a lucky girl.”

“Lucky?”

“Are you ever. You’ve slept with Bat Masterson. You’ve rolled in the hay with history.”

She thought about that.

The sounds of a catfight near the hotel intruded through the open window.

“My God!” gasped Birdie.

“What?”

“I just realized!”

“What?”

“Then that means—Dyjean must be in bed with the real Wyatt Earp!”

“Nobody but.”

“I wonder if she knows!”

And on this contingency, an inspired Birdie flew the coop again, dragged a chair across the room to the door between 110 and 112, and stepped up on the chair to face the open transom.

“Gee, that was heavenly,” sighed Dyjean.

“Indeed it was,” Wyatt agreed. “If I do say so myself.”

“What I don’t get is, how’d you two happen to ask us out—me and Birdie?”

“Easy,” replied the gallant Wyatt. “We thought you were the best—looking girls in town.”

She lay close to him, arms about his neck. “The trouble is,” she said, “I can’t tell anybody I slept with the real Wyatt Earp. And even if I could—which I wouldn’t— nobody’d believe me.”

“Someday you can.”

“When?”

“When you’re a very old lady. You can tell your grandchildren, anybody, anything. That’s one of the nice things about growing old.”

“Well, maybe.”

“Sure you can.” She thought about it.

The sounds of a catfight near the hotel intruded through the open window.

“Hey!” she said.

“Straw.”

“Birdie’s in bed with the real Bat Masterson!”

“Go to the head of the class.”

“What if she doesn’t know!”

And on this contingency, an inspired Dyjean jumped out of bed, dragged a chair across the room to the door between 110 and 112, and stepped up on the chair to the open transom.

Face to face, in excited whispers, cousin conferred with cousin through the transom.

In bed in 112, Bat stubbed his Spud, admired for a moment the splendor of Birdie’s bare, moonlit ass up on the chair, and then, worn out after a long day of casing banks, cranking cars, riddling oilcans, drinking blue booze, and putting the blocks to a farmer’s daughter, drifted off.

In bed in 110, Wyatt yawned, stretched, admired for a moment the amplitude of Dyjean’s bare, moonlit ass mounted, as it were, on a pedestal, and fatigued after a long day trying to get Bat out of the bank, risking his neck in a horseless carriage, plinking practice, imbibing blue whiskey, reading ridiculous epitaphs, and indulging in amorous dalliance, drifted off.

Bat was roused by someone getting into bed with him. “Hello, Mr. Masterson,” said she.

It was Miss Dyjean Fedder.

“Well, well,” said he. “What a pleasant surprise. But I don’t think—“

“Ssssh,” said she, cleaving to him. “Me and Birdie talked it over—we’ll never have a chance like this again. So we snuck through the hall and switched rooms and beds. Now someday the both of us can brag we slept with the real Bat Masterson and the real Wyatt Earp—you know, when we’re old. Won’t that be something?”

“Oh,” said Bat.

“You know, when we’re old.”

“But my dear young lady—”

“Really something!”

“I’ve had a hell of a hard day. At my age, what do you expect? I’ve already treated your cousin to a terrific—”

“Why, Mr. Masterson,” said she, “I thought you carried a six-shooter!”

Wyatt was roused by someone getting into bed with him.

“Hello, Mr. Earp,” said she. It was Miss Birdie Fedder.

“Howdy, ma’am,” said he. “Well, well. How did this come about?”

She tied him down with a strong arm and an eager leg. “Well, I told Dyjean. Bat told me how lucky I was—you know, sleeping with him.”

“He did, did he?”

“History and all that. So I told Dyjean, we better make hay while the sun shines—then we’ll both have been to bed with the real Bat Masterson and the real Wyatt Earp. So there she is and here I am!”

“I see.”

“You don’t turn down second helpings, do you?”