Black Hats by Patrick Culhane Page B
Authors: Patrick Culhane
Tags: Fiction, Historical fiction, General, Suspense, Historical, Mystery & Detective, Crime, Private Investigators, Detective and Mystery Stories, Mystery Fiction, New York (N.Y.), Los Angeles (Calif.), organized crime, Adventure fiction, Gangsters - New York (State) - New York, Mafia - New York (State) - New York, Private Investigators - New York (State) - New York, Earp; Wyatt, Capone; Al
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making blurry cameos in a stygian trainyard floating with smoke and steam. A cloud-smeared moon added little illumination, but once again he saw the metallic wink off rifle (or shotgun) barrels down on the flat-car, where two men lay prone waiting in ambush.
Wyatt began to run, his boots crunching on cinders, and this alerted the dry-gulchers, who, seeing him and his gun coming, a dark-flapping-coated apparition hurtling toward them, leapt off the flatcar so fast, they left their shotguns behind.
Ike Clanton was in the lead and he disappeared between flat-cars, but Stilwell stumbled, and when Wyatt reached him, the oval-faced Cowboy, his sombrero lost in the chase, gazed up and a terror seized him that had nothing to do with the shotgun barrels.
“Morg?” Stilwell asked. “Morg?”
The bastard thought Wyatt was the ghost of the man he’d murdered!
“No,” Wyatt said. “And you won’t be seeing him where you’re headed.”
Stilwell bolted to his feet and his wild-eyed face was inches away when he grabbed Wyatt’s shotgun by its barrels—desperately trying to wrest the weapon away instead of jerking the holstered sixgun at his side…
…and Wyatt let go with both barrels, so close to the Cowboy, the roar was muffled and the man’s shirt caught fire.
Stilwell rose off the ground a little, just a little jump, and tumbled backward into a formless pile, flames around the wound crackling and then dying themselves.
Suddenly Doc was at Wyatt’s side and the gambler’s nickel-plated revolver barked four times, downward, hitting the dead man in selected places.
Wyatt gave his friend a curious look and Doc shrugged. His smile was awful.
“Can’t let you have all the fun,” Doc said. “Much less credit.”
They looked for Ike, but the yellow cur had as usual skedaddled, and soon the train was on its way, Wyatt and Doc walking along either side of the car. Before the train pulled from the station, Wyatt looked up at the mournful face of Virgil in his window and raised a forefinger, and mouthed, “One for Morg.”
More would follow.
The lookout, Indian Charlie, Wyatt gave a fairer chance than Morgan had received—an uno dos tres before sending one two three bullets into the bastard who’d taken twenty-five dollars to make sure Morg’s killer, Stilwell, wasn’t interrupted.
And of course Curly Bill, at the Iron Springs shoot-out, with assorted other Cowboys also cashing in. Finally Johnny Ringo, whom he and Doc had taken out, though few knew how they’d managed it, the law calling it suicide.
Wyatt shut the curtain on the steam-drifting depot and lay back in the berth. Not by nature a reflective man, he could not at first fathom this rush of memories; finally he guessed it was Kate Elder showing up and springing a Doc Holliday, Jr., on him, and the prospect of seeing Bat Masterson, and a ride through Arizona where, like Frank Stilwell in that Tucson trainyard, a man could expect to see a ghost or two.
Then he was asleep again.
The rest of the trip brought occasional memories—such as when the Limited passed Trinidad, New Mexico, where Bat had been sheriff, and Wyatt had to ask him to go fetch Doc in Denver on a phony extradition so the Tombstone murder charges didn’t catch up with him.
And also Dodge City, Kansas, which had put Wyatt on the map, and maybe vice versa.
But, mostly, he dozed in his seat between big, wonderful meals, and played poker half the night with men of means who were just delighted to lighten their wallets for the chance to sit down at cards with a real American hero like Wyatt Earp.
Who was he to contradict the sons of bitches?
Four
A SEVERAL-HOUR STOP IN CHICAGO—WHERE HE had come into LaSalle Street Station but had to walk over to Dearborn Station to catch the 20th Century—meant Wyatt Earp did not reach New York City till late afternoon Friday.
Alligator valise in hand, he made his way from the platform into the elegant cavernous echoing concourse with polished
Wyatt began to run, his boots crunching on cinders, and this alerted the dry-gulchers, who, seeing him and his gun coming, a dark-flapping-coated apparition hurtling toward them, leapt off the flatcar so fast, they left their shotguns behind.
Ike Clanton was in the lead and he disappeared between flat-cars, but Stilwell stumbled, and when Wyatt reached him, the oval-faced Cowboy, his sombrero lost in the chase, gazed up and a terror seized him that had nothing to do with the shotgun barrels.
“Morg?” Stilwell asked. “Morg?”
The bastard thought Wyatt was the ghost of the man he’d murdered!
“No,” Wyatt said. “And you won’t be seeing him where you’re headed.”
Stilwell bolted to his feet and his wild-eyed face was inches away when he grabbed Wyatt’s shotgun by its barrels—desperately trying to wrest the weapon away instead of jerking the holstered sixgun at his side…
…and Wyatt let go with both barrels, so close to the Cowboy, the roar was muffled and the man’s shirt caught fire.
Stilwell rose off the ground a little, just a little jump, and tumbled backward into a formless pile, flames around the wound crackling and then dying themselves.
Suddenly Doc was at Wyatt’s side and the gambler’s nickel-plated revolver barked four times, downward, hitting the dead man in selected places.
Wyatt gave his friend a curious look and Doc shrugged. His smile was awful.
“Can’t let you have all the fun,” Doc said. “Much less credit.”
They looked for Ike, but the yellow cur had as usual skedaddled, and soon the train was on its way, Wyatt and Doc walking along either side of the car. Before the train pulled from the station, Wyatt looked up at the mournful face of Virgil in his window and raised a forefinger, and mouthed, “One for Morg.”
More would follow.
The lookout, Indian Charlie, Wyatt gave a fairer chance than Morgan had received—an uno dos tres before sending one two three bullets into the bastard who’d taken twenty-five dollars to make sure Morg’s killer, Stilwell, wasn’t interrupted.
And of course Curly Bill, at the Iron Springs shoot-out, with assorted other Cowboys also cashing in. Finally Johnny Ringo, whom he and Doc had taken out, though few knew how they’d managed it, the law calling it suicide.
Wyatt shut the curtain on the steam-drifting depot and lay back in the berth. Not by nature a reflective man, he could not at first fathom this rush of memories; finally he guessed it was Kate Elder showing up and springing a Doc Holliday, Jr., on him, and the prospect of seeing Bat Masterson, and a ride through Arizona where, like Frank Stilwell in that Tucson trainyard, a man could expect to see a ghost or two.
Then he was asleep again.
The rest of the trip brought occasional memories—such as when the Limited passed Trinidad, New Mexico, where Bat had been sheriff, and Wyatt had to ask him to go fetch Doc in Denver on a phony extradition so the Tombstone murder charges didn’t catch up with him.
And also Dodge City, Kansas, which had put Wyatt on the map, and maybe vice versa.
But, mostly, he dozed in his seat between big, wonderful meals, and played poker half the night with men of means who were just delighted to lighten their wallets for the chance to sit down at cards with a real American hero like Wyatt Earp.
Who was he to contradict the sons of bitches?
Four
A SEVERAL-HOUR STOP IN CHICAGO—WHERE HE had come into LaSalle Street Station but had to walk over to Dearborn Station to catch the 20th Century—meant Wyatt Earp did not reach New York City till late afternoon Friday.
Alligator valise in hand, he made his way from the platform into the elegant cavernous echoing concourse with polished
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