The Last Ride of German Freddie by Walter Jon Williams Page B

bringing them supplies. But still three Cowboys were found dead, shot near their homes; and the Clanton spread was burned. A day later John Ringo rode into town on a lathered horse, claiming he'd been chased by a half-dozen gunmen.
    “And Holliday's with them,” Ringo said. “I saw the bastard, big as life.”
    Freddie's heart sank. “I was afraid of that.”
    “His hip's still bothering him, and Virgil's leg. Otherwise they would have caught me.” He blew dust from his mustache and looked at Freddie. “We need a posse of our own, friend.”
    “So we do.”
    They called out their friends, but a surprising number had made themselves scarce. Freddie and Ringo assembled a dozen riders, all that remained of Brocius' mighty outlaw army, and hoped to pick up more as they rode.
    Josie surprised everyone by showing up in riding clothes at the O.K. Corral, her new pistol hanging from her belt. “I will go, of course,” she said.
    Freddie's heart sang in praise of her bravery, but he touched his hat and said, “I believe that Helen should remain on Ilium's topless towers, where it is safe.”
    She looked at him, and he saw the jaw muscles tauten. “Those towers burned,” she said. “And I don't want to survive another lover.”
    Freddie's heart flooded over. He kissed her, and knew he would kiss her thus time and again, for infinity.
    “Come then!” he said. “We shall meet our fate together!”
    “Let slip the dogs of war,” Ringo commented wryly, and they rode out of town into a chill dawn.
    They followed a pillar of smoke, a mining claim that belonged to one of the Cowboys. No one had been killed because no one was home, but the diggings had been thoroughly burned. From the mine they followed the trail north. After two days of riding they were disappointed to discover that the trail led to the Sierra Bonita, the largest ranch in the district. Ringo and his friends had been running off Sierra Bonita's cattle for years. The place was built like a fort against Apache raids, and if the Earps and their friends were inside, then they were as safe as if they were holed up in Gibraltar.
    “ Hic funis nihil attraxit,” Ringo muttered, this line has taken no fish. Freddie hoped he didn't smell Brocius' dead cat on the line.
    The posse retreated from the Sierra Bonita to consider their options, but these narrowed considerably when they saw a cloud of dust on the northern horizon, a cloud that grew ever closer.
    “Looks like we've been out-posse'd,” Ringo said. “Their horses are fresh—we can't outrun them.”
    “What do we do?” Freddie gasped. Two days in the saddle, even riding moderately, had exhausted him—unlike Josie, who seemed to thrive once cast in the role of Bandit Queen.
    Ringo seemed almost gay. “They have tied us to the stake, we cannot fly.” Freddie could have wished Ringo had not chosen  Macbeth.  “I think we'd better find a place to fort up,” Ringo said.
    Their Dunsinane was a rocky hill barren of life but for cactus and scrub. They hid the horses behind rocks and dug themselves in. Within an hour the larger outfit had found them: the Earps had been reinforced by two dozen riders from the Sierra Bonita, and it looked like a small army that posted itself about the hill and sealed off every exit. The pursuers did not come within gunshot: they knew all they had to do was wait for the Cowboys' water to run out.
    Ringo's crew had a smaller store of water than their enemies probably suspected, and one night on the hill would surely exhaust it. “We shall have to fight,” Freddie said.
    “Yes.”
    “Few of those people have any experience in a combat. Holliday and Virgil Earp are the only two I know of. The rest will get too excited and throw away their fire, and that will give us our chance.”
    Ringo smiled. “I think we should charge. Come down off the hill at first light screaming like Apaches and pitch into the nearest pack of them. If we run them off, we can take their horses and make