pleasured—Jessie knew she was finally going to have to look elsewhere for her romance, and the first place she intended to look was Virgil, who could rarely get close to Jessie without his tongue hanging out.
Still, Jesse knew she had to be careful. The Earps might quarrel among themselves, but they were quick to unite when there was a threat—even just a social threat.
Wyatt looked awful when he showed back up—he always did after a binge. Cleanliness meant little to Wyatt, though it meant much to Morgan, who always wore creased trousers and a starched shirt.
Once or twice Jessie had tried to steal a kiss from Virgil, but the results had been disappointing. Doc Holliday had never given her the time of day either. If she really put her mind to it she could usually provoke a little scuffle with Wyatt—and better to fight with her husband than just spend her days pouring whiskey from a bottle to a glass.
“The future’s settled for a while,” Wyatt told her.
“What future?”
“You and me and Warren are going to visit a town called Mobetie, which is probably in Texas.”
“What about Doc?”
“Doc’s slow to make a decision,” he said. “I expect he’ll join us eventually.”
“Why Mobetie?”
“Why not? It’s a brand-new town. Warren is carrying around his sign, hoping to find a saloon to hang it on,” Wyatt said.
“Will I have a job . . . bartender, barmaid?”
“We’ll see about it,” he said.
That afternoon Jessie let a photographer take her picture. The photographer had a studio. It was boredom that drove her to it. He made her dress like an Indian, which she wasn’t. But it passed the afternoon. In one shot you could see her breasts and even her nipples. Probably Wyatt wouldn’t like that very much. But, by good luck, he never saw that picture—at least not until years later, when it showed up in an Arizona magazine. The reason Jessie got away with it at the time was because Wyatt and Warren were anxious to get off to this place called Mobetie, which was in Texas.
The first night out it snowed. All they had to make a fire with were cow chips, which didn’t make a very warm fire. Jessie didn’t care. At least they were going downhill and her nose had finally stopped bleeding.
- 25 -
Charles and Mary Goodnight were showing Lord Ernle, their English partner, around the ranch they owned together. They were riding across the breaks of the Canadian River, thick at this season with wild plum bushes. The plums were not quite ready to pick.
“I wouldn’t mind having a wild plum bush around our house, if we ever get a house,” Mary said. “Do you think they could be transplanted, Charlie?”
“If you had somebody willing to dig up a plum bush I expect they could be transplanted,” he said.
Just then Lord Ernle’s greyhounds put up two lobo wolves—in a moment both the greyhounds and the wolves were in full cry.
Goodnight studied the chase, which was taking place in very broken country. They were on the edge of the Palo Duro Canyon, with ravines and drop-offs aplenty. Lord Ernle was riding his thoroughbred, an unstable animal at best, in Goodnight’s view.
“Thoroughbreds might be all right for Scotland or someplace level—but not here,” he said.
“I don’t think Scotland’s particularly level,” Mary said.
It’s just like her to argue, he thought, but he held his tongue.
“Most places are more level than the caprock,” he said, civilly he thought.
Vaguely troubled, he began to lope in the direction of the chase. Benny Ernle was a skilled rider, of course, but he didn’t know the country. He had begun to spur up a little when suddenly the greyhounds disappeared. Lord Ernle was brandishing a pig sticker when he too disappeared.
Goodnight spurred up, but he knew what he would find before he found it. The drop-off, when he came to it, was sheer and about twenty feet. At the bottom the thoroughbred was trying to rise, on broken forelegs; two of the
Still, Jesse knew she had to be careful. The Earps might quarrel among themselves, but they were quick to unite when there was a threat—even just a social threat.
Wyatt looked awful when he showed back up—he always did after a binge. Cleanliness meant little to Wyatt, though it meant much to Morgan, who always wore creased trousers and a starched shirt.
Once or twice Jessie had tried to steal a kiss from Virgil, but the results had been disappointing. Doc Holliday had never given her the time of day either. If she really put her mind to it she could usually provoke a little scuffle with Wyatt—and better to fight with her husband than just spend her days pouring whiskey from a bottle to a glass.
“The future’s settled for a while,” Wyatt told her.
“What future?”
“You and me and Warren are going to visit a town called Mobetie, which is probably in Texas.”
“What about Doc?”
“Doc’s slow to make a decision,” he said. “I expect he’ll join us eventually.”
“Why Mobetie?”
“Why not? It’s a brand-new town. Warren is carrying around his sign, hoping to find a saloon to hang it on,” Wyatt said.
“Will I have a job . . . bartender, barmaid?”
“We’ll see about it,” he said.
That afternoon Jessie let a photographer take her picture. The photographer had a studio. It was boredom that drove her to it. He made her dress like an Indian, which she wasn’t. But it passed the afternoon. In one shot you could see her breasts and even her nipples. Probably Wyatt wouldn’t like that very much. But, by good luck, he never saw that picture—at least not until years later, when it showed up in an Arizona magazine. The reason Jessie got away with it at the time was because Wyatt and Warren were anxious to get off to this place called Mobetie, which was in Texas.
The first night out it snowed. All they had to make a fire with were cow chips, which didn’t make a very warm fire. Jessie didn’t care. At least they were going downhill and her nose had finally stopped bleeding.
- 25 -
Charles and Mary Goodnight were showing Lord Ernle, their English partner, around the ranch they owned together. They were riding across the breaks of the Canadian River, thick at this season with wild plum bushes. The plums were not quite ready to pick.
“I wouldn’t mind having a wild plum bush around our house, if we ever get a house,” Mary said. “Do you think they could be transplanted, Charlie?”
“If you had somebody willing to dig up a plum bush I expect they could be transplanted,” he said.
Just then Lord Ernle’s greyhounds put up two lobo wolves—in a moment both the greyhounds and the wolves were in full cry.
Goodnight studied the chase, which was taking place in very broken country. They were on the edge of the Palo Duro Canyon, with ravines and drop-offs aplenty. Lord Ernle was riding his thoroughbred, an unstable animal at best, in Goodnight’s view.
“Thoroughbreds might be all right for Scotland or someplace level—but not here,” he said.
“I don’t think Scotland’s particularly level,” Mary said.
It’s just like her to argue, he thought, but he held his tongue.
“Most places are more level than the caprock,” he said, civilly he thought.
Vaguely troubled, he began to lope in the direction of the chase. Benny Ernle was a skilled rider, of course, but he didn’t know the country. He had begun to spur up a little when suddenly the greyhounds disappeared. Lord Ernle was brandishing a pig sticker when he too disappeared.
Goodnight spurred up, but he knew what he would find before he found it. The drop-off, when he came to it, was sheer and about twenty feet. At the bottom the thoroughbred was trying to rise, on broken forelegs; two of the
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