To the Marshal's Surprise

The jail door clattered closed behind Doc as he followed Wyatt into the dusky streets. They surveyed the surroundings then ambled up the street toward a nearby saloon. The hammering of Doc’s heartbeat began to ease as the adrenaline seeped out of his limbs. Exhaustion tugged heavily on his eyelids. He was grateful for it. Sleep would welcome itself in as soon as he lay down.

“That was quite some fine shooting, sir,” Doc said, breaking the comfortable silence that had come over them.

“Thanks.” Wyatt patted the long-nosed barrel at his hip. A wistful expression crossed his face. “You know, I met a showman once called Ned Buntline. He asked me to perform in his wild west show.”

Doc cracked a grin. The great Marshal Wyatt Earp as an actor in a traveling show? “Sounds as if you missed out on your true calling.”

Wyatt bumped against Doc’s arm playfully. “Wouldn’t I have made just the greatest star there ever was?” He chuckled—a rare sound—and guided Doc to the shade of an awning to allow a horse cart to rattle by. “Look out Buffalo Bill and Texas Jack, Wyatt Earp is coming to get you!”

Doc laughed too. They moved back into the street and turned the corner. That had to be before he’d met Doc, or Doc would’ve been liable to encourage the dour marshal to at least give it a try. Everyone needed to make a fool of themselves sometimes. At the very least, it might’ve made Wyatt smile more. His smile was as rare as a rainstorm in the blistering desert. Doc had to soak up every ounce he could when it was available. So he grasped the lasso Wyatt was wrangling with. “Well, what happened?” Doc asked.

“I told him no,” Wyatt said, chuckles evaporating as quick as a puddle in Tombstone.

“What then?” Doc pushed. He wouldn’t have brought it up if the story ended there. Wyatt did not like wasting words.

“Oh, there was this brawl over cards nearby,” Wyatt said. He tipped his chin back as though studying the setting sun. The saloon was just ahead, but he made no indication that he was stopping there.

As much as Doc wanted a drink, he didn’t try to push. He followed Wyatt further up the street. A couple of horses were hitched in front of the general store, their riders bent close together a few paces off. Though Wyatt didn’t move his head, Doc knew that his gaze was concentrated on them.

“I excused myself from Mister Buntline’s company to break it up,” Wyatt continued, slowing his pace.

“Why, of course,” Doc said. “Real danger is that much more alluring than the illusion of danger on stage.”

The two cowhands separated. One disappeared into the general store and the other unhitched his horse. He turned his horse around and galloped past Doc and Wyatt, kicking up a cloud of dust. Dirt flooded Doc’s next inhale. He coughed violently and doubled over. Wyatt stopped to place a hand on his back through the fit.

“I am fine,” Doc wheezed, straightening.

“I’ll grab you some water,” Wyatt said. He hurried to the general store and ducked inside.

Doc moved out of the street, careful not to tread behind the remaining horse. He’d already been rammed by a bull; he didn’t need to add “kicked by a horse” to his repertoire of injuries from the day. Another fit of coughing pulsed through him before Wyatt returned with a canteen.

“Here.” Wyatt handed the container to him.

“Thank you, sir.” Doc accepted the canteen and took several long gulps. A cough still tickled the back of his throat when he’d finished, but he could ignore this one. “Now, what did Mister Buntline do next?” He motioned for the saloon. He needed to rest.

Wyatt nodded and led the way across the street. “Nothing,” he said. “At least not right off.” He held the door open for Doc.

“What a gentleman,” Doc said.

Wyatt didn’t seem to hear him as he approached the bar. “My friend will have a whiskey. I’ll take a cold milk.” He turned to Doc. “Are you hungry?”

“Just the whiskey.” Doc leaned on the bar next to him.

The bar tender nodded and turned away to fill their order.

“A few days later, one of my deputies woke me at home,” Wyatt said, resuming his tale. “It wasn’t even six in the morning yet, but he was frantic, so I went with him.”

The barkeep trailed back over with Doc’s whiskey and Wyatt’s milk. Doc drained his glass with one swallow. “Dear sir, might I have the bottle?” he called. His throat burned from the one glass but warmth spread through his body. A few more would dull the urge to cough. At least, Doc hoped it would. Each year, he seemed to need more and more whiskey to quell his pain.

The bartender nodded and returned with the bottle.

Wyatt sipped his milk while Doc refilled his glass. “He wouldn’t say a thing to me but to insist I come down to the office,” Wyatt said.

“It must have been quite urgent,” Doc said, swallowing more whiskey.

“Well….” Wyatt stared into his glass. “You know, I think I’ll have a steak too. Excuse me?”

The bartender nodded and wandered off.

“My other deputy was already there. He looked like he’d been pulling his hair out in worry,” Wyatt said. He nursed his milk for a few moments. “On the table they’d laid out this plain brown box. It had no sender but indicated that it was for Marshal Earp. Neither knew where it had come from. They thought it must’ve been a trap. Well, I asked how they got it. They described a well-dressed gentleman who’d come by the night before, after I’d left. He asked to see me, and they told him to come back in the morning. Before he left, the man set the package on the table.”

Wyatt paused as the bar tender delivered his steak. He took a few bites and nodded in appreciation.

“Apparently they spent the balance of the night debating what to do about it,” Wyatt said.

Doc poured another glass of whiskey. “I am going to guess the debate ended with the decision to wake you early,” he said.

“Yes,” Wyatt said. “When they described the gentleman to me, I had an inkling of who it had been. I horrified both deputies by opening the box, but, to be fair, I was a little grouchy. Inside the box was this.” Wyatt removed the long barreled gun and placed it on the bar between them. It looked like a colt revolver with a barrel twice the standard length. “It had a card attached to it. Ned Buntline gave it to me as a special gift as one final effort to convince me to join his show.”

“You kept the gun but refused the show,” Doc commented. “How unkind of you.”

“I call it my Buntline special.” Wyatt tapped the grip with his index finger. “I had my deputies take Mister Buntline my condolences along with appreciation for the gift. Can’t say I’ve heard from him since.”

Doc set his glass down and grabbed the Buntline special. It was heavier than his own gun, but the longer barrel was more like a shotgun. He held it over the bar, aiming at a row of glass bottles behind the counter. Perhaps it’d help him improve his aim? He passed the gun back to Wyatt and straightened off the bar.

“Thank you for sharing, kind sir,” Doc said. “Now, if you don’t mind, I am exhausted from our adventure this afternoon. It is time for me to retire for the evening.”

“Good night, Doc,” Wyatt replied through a bite of steak. Doc clapped his shoulder before ambling out of the saloon, whiskey bottle still clutched in one fist.