The Last Ride of German Freddie by Walter Jon Williams

at Freddie gravely. “People might say that of the two of us,” he said.
    “I'm sure they would.”
    There was another hesitation, another silence. “Freddie,” Holliday said.
    “John.” Smiling.
    “There is a story that it was you who killed my friend.”
    Freddie laughed, though there was a part of his soul that writhed beneath Holliday's gaze. “If I believed all the stories about  you —” he began.
    “I do not know what to believe,” Holliday said. “And whatever the truth, I am glad I killed that cur Behan. But it is your own friends—your Cowboys—who are spreading this story. They are boasting of it. And if I ever come to believe it is true—or if anything happens to Wyatt's brothers—then God help you.” The words, forced from the consumptive lungs, were surprisingly forceful. “God help all you people.”
    Sudden fury flashed through Freddie's veins. “Why do you all place such a value on this  Earp!  I do not understand you!”
    Cold steel glinted in Holliday's eyes. His pale face flushed. “He was worth fifty of you!” he cried. “And a hundred of me!”
    “But  why?” Freddie demanded.
    Holliday began to speak, but something caught in his throat—he shook his head, bowed again, and made his way from the room as blood erupted from his ruined lungs.

    *

    Who was I to be so upset? Freddie wrote in his journal. It is not as if I do not understand how the world works. Homer wrote of Achilles and Hector battling over Troy, not about philosophers dueling with epigrams. It is people like the Earps who the story-tellers love, and whom they make immortal.
    It is only philosophers who love other philosophers—unless of course they hate them.
    If I wish to be remembered, I must do as the Earps do. I must be brave, and unimaginative, and die in a foolish way, over nothing.

    *

    “Why do I smell a dead cat on the line?” Brocius asked. “Freddie, why do I see you at the bottom of all my troubles?”
    “Be joyful, Bill,” Freddie said. “You've been found innocent of murder and you have your bond money back—at least for the next hour or two.” He dealt a card face-up to Ringo. “Possible straight,” he observed.
    John Ringo contemplated this eventuality without joy. “These words hereafter thy tormentors be,” he said, and poured himself another shot of whisky from the bottle by his elbow.
    “I have been solving your problems, not adding to them,” Freddie told Brocius. “I have solved your Wyatt Earp problem. And thanks to me, Doc Holliday has left town.”
    Brocius looked at him sharply. “What did you have to do with  that?”
    “That's between me and Holliday. Pair of queens bets.”
    Looking suspiciously at Freddie, Brocius pushed a gold double eagle onto the table. Freddie promptly raised by another double eagle. Ringo folded. Brocius sighed, lazy eyelids drooping.
    “What's the  next  problem you're going to solve?” Brocius asked.
    “Other than this hand? It's up to you. After this last killing, your Mr. Fellehy the Laundryman will never be appointed sheriff in Behan's place. They'll want a tough lawman who will work with Virgil Earp to clean up Cochise County. Are you going to call, Bill?”
    “I'm thinking.”
    “The solution to your problem— this  problem—is to remove Virgil Earp from all calculations.”
    Ringo gave a laugh. “You'll just get two more Earps in his place!” he said. “That's what happened last time.”
    Brocius frowned. “Entities are not multiplied beyond what is necessary.”
    Freddie was impressed. “Very good, Bill. I am teaching you, I see.”
    Brocius narrowed his eyes and looked at Freddie. “Are you going to solve this problem for me, Freddie?”
    “Yes. I think you should fold.”
    Brocius pushed out a double eagle “Call. I meant the  other  problem.”
    Freddie dealt the next round of cards. “I think I have solved enough problems for you,” he said slowly. “I am becoming far too prominent a member of your