The Young and the Rustless

When Doc and Wyatt entered the marshal’s office, Virgil was already pacing the length of it, continuing an even stride despite the disruption. His footsteps reverberated around Doc, creating a rhythm that threatened to put Doc to sleep. They’d had a hard ride into Tombstone the night before, and Doc had barely been able to rest at their hotel. Wyatt had been up early, of course. Now his older brother didn’t even seem to notice their presence.

“Virg?” Wyatt asked.

Doc stifled a cough. He didn’t want to disturb Virgil’s frantic energy. He glanced at Wyatt but his friend’s gaze was focused on Virgil.

Suddenly stopping an arm’s length before them, Virgil whirled around. “Welcome to Tombstone,” he said.

“What has you troubled?” Wyatt asked.

Virgil frowned and tapped a stack of papers on his desk. “Telegraphs coming in from Texas. There’s a rustling outfit ranging the territory and reports are coming in that they’re on their way to Tombstone with fifty head at least.”

Doc knew of only one family in the area that would be stupid enough to purchase that many stolen cattle. “Is this why you telegraphed Wyatt, sir?” he asked. The telegraph had specifically mentioned Curly Bill’s outfit.

Virgil shook his head. “No, these came in overnight.” The top sheets crinkled as he flexed his fingers. “But I don’t suppose they’re entirely unrelated. Old Man Clanton has a new pasture prepared, like he’s expecting something.”

Wyatt stalked up to the desk and rifled through the pile. His eyes darted rapidly as he read over each sheet. “They must be close by now,” he said.

Doc cocked his head. “What is on your mind, Wyatt?”

Wyatt dropped the sheet he held back to the pile. Righteous need flashed through his eyes, but otherwise his expression remained dour. “We can’t let them make it to Tombstone,” he said. “This is federal business now.”

Sighing, Virgil sat down. “I was afraid you’d say that.” He nodded towards the back of the office, where a closed door undoubtedly led to a jail. “I have a couple free cells waiting for them.”

“We’ll be quick.” Wyatt rejoined Doc by the door. He placed a hand on Doc’s shoulder, a question in the gesture.

Doc patted Wyatt’s fingers. Of course.

“Then we’ll talk about Brocius,” Wyatt said to Virgil. He released Doc’s shoulder and led the way back to the street.

“I suppose you know where we are going?” Doc asked. He undid the knot in the reins that hitched his horse out front.

Wyatt was already mounting his horse, Dick Naylor. “The telegraphs described the direction they’re traveling.” He backed the horse into the street as Doc mounted his own. “Likely they’ll be a ways off the road to stay out of sight.”

Doc spurred his horse to follow Wyatt’s through town. He didn’t ask any more questions—he didn’t need to. Doc trusted Wyatt completely. And even though his body was already weary from traveling, he wasn’t about to let Wyatt go out alone.

They rode in silence to the edge of town and then continued out on the same road they’d come in on the night before. Doc kept his horse half a stride behind Wyatt’s, allowing his friend to guide them forward. A large swath of territory stretched between Tombstone and Texas. The rustlers could have been anywhere along the way. But Doc knew Wyatt wouldn’t settle if he didn’t do something to uphold the law. So he rode on, wishing he’d grabbed a fresh flask full of whiskey before leaving the hotel that morning.

The hot desert sun beat down on them, hovering in the sky at about noon. Wyatt drew to a halt. Doc skidded his horse to a stop a few gallops further along. He glanced back at Wyatt but Wyatt’s attention was directed at the sparse vegetation off the side of the road. Doc followed his gaze. A stray adolescent bull grazed at what little ground covering could be found. It drifted forward, head facing back up the way they’d come.

Wyatt pulled a pair of binoculars from his saddle bag. He looked through them towards the young bull. “That’s the brand.” He returned them to the pouch. “Looks like we passed them,” Wyatt whispered. “They’re closer to Tombstone than I’d hoped.”

Doc watched the bull a moment. “They will only get farther away the more we wait,” he said, urging his horse to turn around.

Wyatt followed suit but instead of racing back up the road, he guided his horse into the bush and charged down the gentle slope. Once he was even with the stray bull, Wyatt turned back towards Tombstone.

“Yah!” Doc spurred his own horse in pursuit of Wyatt. He cast a final look at the bull before leaning over his horse’s neck for less wind resistance.

They raced through the brush until dust churned on the horizon. A few distant shouts drifted towards them, too far away to make out words.

“Woah!” Wyatt slowed Dick, reigning him around to climb back towards the road. “We have to get in front of them.”

Doc followed. “They are lower than the road,” he pointed out. “We will have to ride down the other side to loop around. How is Dick? He has to be faster than fifty—forty-nine—head.”

Wyatt’s shoulders tensed and his lips dipped even lower. The determination shining in his narrowed eyes was all Doc needed. He spurred his horse forward and off the other edge of the road. A quick tug on the reins, and he was charging towards Tombstone, well out of sight from the rustlers. Dick galloped at his flank, Wyatt kicking in time with each stride. Faster and faster each horse pushed. Doc’s horse gasped for breath through her nostrils. Doc held his own, afraid that the dust cloud they pushed through would cause a coughing fit. He strained to hear over their own thundering hoofbeats for any indication that they had successfully passed the rustlers.

More shouts rose above the din. Doc estimated that they rode alongside the rustlers now. He pushed his horse harder. She groaned in protest but ran faster anyway. Beside him, Wyatt kept pace though his head was turned towards the road. A few more moments and Wyatt gave a wordless signal. They turned as one, dashing back to the road and streaming down the other side. At the bottom of the slope, Doc whipped his horse around to face the rustlers head on.

Whinnying loudly, his horse reared, front hoofs paddling in the air. Weakness coursed through Doc’s legs. He couldn’t hold on.

“Doc!” Wyatt shouted as he hit the ground.

Sharp pain flared through his left hip. He gasped. His horse’s hooves landed near to his side. She flicked her tail and sauntered away.

“Who goes there?” a man shouted.

Doc scrambled to his feet as Wyatt, still perched on Dick, drew his buntline.

“United States Deputy Marshal, Wyatt Earp!” Any concern he had for Doc was masked by his professional demeanor.

The frontmost rustlers halted their horses, but the booming of cattle charging continued behind them.

“Those are stolen cattle you’re driving,” Wyatt shouted.

The two rustlers exchanged a glance. One inclined his head. Doc saw the twitch in his hand a moment before the man went for his gun. They drew at the same time but Doc was faster. The air rang with the sound of his shot. The rustler yelped in pain as the bullet dislodged the gun from his hand.

Then the cattle were upon them. Wyatt’s horse reared, but he stayed on, guiding it out of the way. Doc started running. Foolishly. Cattle rushed past him on either side. He slipped and fell to the cracked ground.

Cattle thundered by. Most careened around him where he crouched on the ground, arms making a barrier over his head. More shouts rang over them. The rest of the rustlers had caught up. Wyatt repeated his command, voice unwavering.

The last of the cattle pelted over Doc. He straightened as two of the rustlers went for their guns. Doc had lost his own in the panic. He scanned the ground for it, hoping that it had survived the beating like him. Before he could find it, gunshots barked rapidly. Doc jolted, searching desperately for Wyatt in the settling dust. Two rustlers slide sideways off their horses, crimson blooming from shoulder wounds. A third held his hands up in surrender, while the fourth—the one Doc had shot—clutched his hand to his chest.

“Is that all of you?” Wyatt leveled his buntline at the third rustler, who had yet to be shot.

“Si, señor,” the rustler said.

Wyatt swung his head around to eye Doc. “Are you alright, Doc?”

“Peachy,” Doc replied. He returned to sweeping the ground for his gun.

“Good,” Wyatt said. Doc heard him holster his guns and dismount. “We’re not far from Tombstone now.” He pulled a length of rope from his saddle. “I’ll send a doctor to the jail to see to your wounds.”

Doc glanced up as Wyatt began binding the prisoners. Deciding that he had it handled, Doc wandered farther away, thinking his gun might have gone flying. Metal glinted in the sun a few paces off. That had to be it. Doc was distantly aware of pounding hoof beats as he ambled up to it; the throw from his horse had spiked pain through his old hip injury. It was probably just that vicious horse wandering back over. The metal on the ground was indeed his gun. He bent to retrieve it.

“Doc!” Wyatt shouted at the same time a rustler called, “Look out!”

Doc jerked to his full height, broken gun clutched in one fist. That one stray bull charged right towards him. Doc had no time to get out of the way. With a cry sounding much like delight, the young bull rammed Doc’s torso and continued by. He crumpled to the ground, coughing violently from the impact.

What Doc wouldn’t give for a whiskey right then.