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

were driven out of Texas,” Freddie reminded. “This is our last stand.”
    “Last stand in Tombstone,” Ringo said. “That's doesn't have a comforting sound.”
    “I'm on top of it,” Brocius insisted.
    He and his crowd defiantly called themselves Cowboys. It was a name synonymous with “rustler,” and hardly respectable—legitimate ranchers called themselves “stockmen” The Cowboys ranged both sides of the American-Mexican border, acquiring cattle on one side, moving them across the border through Guadalupe and Skeleton Canyons, and selling them. Most of the local ranchers—even the honest ones—did not mind owning cattle that did not come with a notarized bill of sale, and the Cowboys' business was profitable.
    In the face of this threat to law from the two hundred outlaws, the United States government had sent to Tombstone exactly one man, Deputy Marshal Virgil Earp, who had been sent right out again. The Mexicans, unfortunately, were more industrious—they had been fortifying the border, and making the Cowboys' raids more difficult. The Clanton brothers' father, who had been the Cowboys' chief, had been killed in an ambush by Mexican  rurales.
    Brocius now led the Cowboys, assuming anyone did. Since illegitimate plunder was growing more difficult, Brocius proposed to plunder legitimately, through a political machine and a compliant sheriff. His theory was that the government would let them alone if he lined up enough votes to buy their tolerance.
    German Freddie mistrusted the means—he did not trust politicians or their machines or their sheriffs—but then his opinion did not rank near Brocius', as he wasn't, strictly speaking, a Cowboy, just one of their friends. He was a gambler, and had never rustled stock in his life—he just won the money from those who had.
    “Everybody ante,” said Brocius. Freddie threw a half-eagle into the pot.
    “May I sit in?” asked a cultured voice.  Ay,  Freddie thought as he looked up,  the plot thickens very much upon us.
    “Well,” Freddie said, “if you are here, now we know that Tombstone is on the map.” He rose and gestured the newcomer to a chair. “Gentlemen,” he said to the others, “may I introduce John Henry Holliday, D.D.”
    “We've met,” said Ringo. He rose and shook Holliday's hand. Freddie introduced Brocius, and pointed out Ike Clanton, still asleep on the table.
    Holliday put money on the table and sat. To call him thin as a rail was to do injustice to the rail—Holliday was pale and consumptive and light as a scarecrow. He looked as if the merest breath of wind might blow him right down Skeleton Canyon into Mexico. Only the weight of his boots held him down, that and the weight of his gun.
    German Freddie had met Doc Holliday in Texas, and knew that Holliday was dangerous when sober and absurd when drunk. Freddie and Holliday had both killed people in Texas, and for much the same reasons.
    “Is Kate with you?” Freddie asked. If Holliday's Hungarian girl was in town, then he was here to stay. If she wasn't, he might drift on.
    “We have rooms at Fly's,” Holliday said.
    Freddie looked at Holliday over the rim of his cards. If Kate was here, then Doc would be here till either his pockets or the mines ran dry of silver.
    The calculations were growing complex.
    “Twenty dollars,” Freddie said.
    “Bump you another twenty,” said Holliday, and tossed a pair of double eagles onto the table.
    Ike Clanton sat up with a sudden snort. “I'll kill him!” he blurted.
    “Here's my forty,” Ringo said. He looked at Ike. “Kill who, Ike?”
    Ike's eyes stared off into nowhere, pupils tiny as peppercorns. “I'm gonna kill him!” he said.
    Ringo was patient. “Who are you planning to kill?”
    “Gonna kill him!” Ike's chair tumbled to the floor as he rose to his feet. He took a staggering step backward, regained his balance, then began to lurch for the saloon door.
    “Dealer folds,” said Brocius, and threw in his