November, 2009       Issue #2

Brothers Under the Skin
By Kathi Sprayberry

On a cool mid-March evening, long after the decent, law-abiding citizens of Tombstone had taken to their beds, Morgan Earp pushed through the batwings of Campbell & Hatch's Saloon. Thumbing back his Stetson, he crossed the expanse of beer stained floorboards to where older brother, Wyatt, and their gambler friend, Doc Holliday, played pool.

"Sorry it took so long," Morgan said. "Lou felt uneasy about my leaving."

"One of these days," Doc drawled.

"Don't finish that thought." Wyatt lobbed a pool cue across the table. "Go ahead and break, Morgan. I don't have much time before I have to make my rounds."

A badge proclaiming Wyatt's position as Tombstone's City Marshal decorated his black coat. The mayor placed it there three months ago, after an ambush nearly killed another of their brothers, Virgil.

"Things heating up again?" Morgan lined up his shot.

"Not really." Wyatt sighed. "Sure wish Behan would settle the cowboys."

"Just an observation," Doc drawled. "Seems like you and those good old boys are more alike than you realize."

"Right." Morgan laughed.

Comparing the invincible Earps to the cowboy gang was unbelievable. Doc knew better. He and Wyatt were long time friends since the gambler foiled an attempt on Wyatt's life. Folks often said where they found one the other showed up eventually.

"Look at that fool." The shout came from across the street.

Doc sidled across the room and peered through an oiled paper window.

"Trouble's brewing."

"Tell me about it." Wyatt squinted at the windows. "Do you see miners or cowboys?"

"A bunch of miners hasslin' Billy Claiborne." Doc snickered. "Probably giving him a hard time about his unnatural ways. Ain't right, a man wanting to be with another man."

"Bet there's no sign of Behan." Morgan moved for a better angle.

"You nailed it," Doc said.

"We might get home before sunrise." Morgan pulled back the stick.

As he slid it forward, a boom rocked the room. Burning pain lanced his back.

He clutched the table, his fingers digging into the green felt.

Pain spread in all directions and Morgan gasped. Another shot penetrated the fuzziness blanketing him. Doc dove under the table. Wyatt brushed a hand through his hair and turned toward the wall, his features stretching into anger at the sight of the bullet riddled planks.

"Wyatt, get over here." Doc scrambled to his feet. "Morgan's hurt."

Hands grasped Morgan from behind as Doc lifted his legs. The pain grew to excruciating proportions when they carried him to a sofa in the back room.

"Get a doctor," Wyatt ordered Doc.

After what felt like an eternity, the sawbones rushed in and dug at the injury. Screaming, Morgan clung to Wyatt while begging for release.

The howls rebounded off the walls, reaching into Morgan's soul. This was worse than the injury he suffered during the OK Corral shootout.

A lifetime of agony later, he fell limp. "Guess that's the last game of pool I'll ever play."

What would people think of him, of the undefeatable Earps, after tonight?

Consciousness fled.

* * *

Morgan rose from the couch, stretching and feeling his back. Nothing greeted his questing fingers. Puzzled, he moved in the direction of the doorway, where Wyatt conversed with Doc.

"What happened?" Morgan asked.

"Nothing's gone right since October," Doc muttered. "Hell, he was just thirty."

"Should have killed Behan after the shootout." Wyatt snarled at a group of men on the boardwalk. "The cowboys would have moved on with that lousy sheriff out of the way."

"Back to the game, big brother," Morgan said. "I won't let you quit, not when I was winning."

Wyatt remained where he was. Puzzled by his lack of reaction, Morgan touched him. His hand slid through Wyatt's arm.

"Feels like I'll never get warm again." Wyatt shivered. "I can't believe Morgan's gone."

"Damn!" Doc hacked out a cough and spit onto the floor. "Behan shown up yet to explain why he ain't arrested those damned cowboys?"

"Behan won't show his face tonight." Wyatt clenched his jaw. "I'll kill that bastard sheriff if he gets near me for letting Ike's gang do this to Morgan."

Neither acknowledged Morgan. Puzzled, he touched both. Wyatt and Doc shivered but never looked away from the street.

Morgan rubbed his forehead and reflected on the evening. He, Wyatt, Virgil, and Doc attended a show at Schieffelin Hall. After taking their women home, they gathered at Campbell & Hatch's Saloon for a game of pool. There was a commotion outside the building and then nothing. Absolutely nothing.

"Have Virgil send James or Warren for a couple of wagons." Wyatt said. "You and the others pack clothes for everyone but me. I have to do something." He glanced at the back room. "I'll have our possessions crated and shipped to California."

After following Wyatt's gaze, Morgan nearly came out of his boots. He stood in the saloon but his bloody body lay on the red velvet sofa.

"Say it ain't so," Morgan said. "Hellfire, Wyatt. I'm just thirty."

After Wyatt and Doc walked outside, Morgan floated to the batwings but an invisible barrier held him back. He howled. The sound rebounded against the mountains surrounding the silver mining town.

"Coyotes are mourning him, too," Doc commented. "What are you planning, Wyatt?"

"Nothing less than exterminating the cowboy gang will fill the hole inside me." Wyatt spat onto the boardwalk.

"Remember what you once told me," Morgan said. "Every time you kill a man, even if it's right, that death takes a piece of your soul.

You'll become what you hate if you go after the cowboys feeling like you do."

Laughter came from a group of men across Fifth. Wyatt shook a fist at them before storming back into Campbell & Hatch's.

"If Behan doesn't get rid of those loafers, I'll shoot them and be done with it." He grabbed a whiskey bottle. "Can't the lot of them have any respect for the dead?"

"Damnit, Wyatt, listen to me." Morgan slammed a fist on the pool table.

Instead of going through the felt covered wood, a loud thud rocked the room.

Balls scattered across the surface, coming to rest at the bumpers. Wyatt dropped the whiskey bottle. It clattered against the floorboards and a river of alcohol ran under his boots.

"Did someone else shoot at us?" he asked.

"Don't know but I'll get Virgil and the rest going," Doc said.

"We need to move your women somewhere safe."

"Yeah." Wyatt slumped against the bar. "Have the undertaker bring a coffin for Morgan." A dog whimpered under the table. "Get out of here, you lousy cur!"

The batwings squeaked open as Doc left. A woman sidled through the swinging doors, a silk dress revealing her delectable charms. Josie Marcus was a gifted whore, more so than a singer. Until a year ago, she claimed John Behan, Cochise County's sheriff, as her common law husband. Not long after Virgil brought the Earp clan to Tombstone, she succumbed to Morgan's sweet words before turning her attention to Wyatt.

"I just heard." Josie threw her arms around Wyatt's neck. "I'm so sorry."

"Oh, Josie." Wyatt held her tightly. "Those damned cowboys killed Morgan."

"Stay away from her," Morgan warned. "She's nothing more than a lousy whore."

Josie kissed Wyatt, sickening Morgan. He shoved between them.

They shivered before she wandered back into the night.

"Josie, wait!" Wyatt hustled after her. "I'll walk you to the Bird Cage."

Morgan paced around the room, his anger growing with every passing moment. Why was he stuck in this place?

The sun illuminated the mountains before the undertaker came into the saloon. Virgil and Wyatt wrestled a pine box through the door.

"Don't put me in Boot Hill!" Morgan yelled while the undertaker placed his body in the coffin. "Don't make me lie beside the McLaurys and Billy Clanton."

Virgil and Wyatt left with the undertaker's help. They stopped at a wagon parked outside the door and slid the casket into the bed. A loud sobbing from another wagon tore at Morgan's heart. Louisa, his beautiful wife, leaned against Allie, Virgil's wife, and cried into a handkerchief.

Doc and Warren, Morgan's youngest brother, sat on horses. James, the oldest of the Earp men, controlled the women's wagon.

"Are we ready?" Wyatt asked, taking the reins of the wagon containing Morgan's body.

"Sure are." Virgil, with James' help, climbed onto the seat of the other wagon.

"Let's get out of here. I'm damned tired of this town." Wyatt clucked at the horses and they headed to the west.

"Don't leave Lou alone," Morgan yelled over the batwings. "Damn you, Wyatt, don't you dare let my wife be alone!"

A boy appeared the next day with a bucket and brush. He scrubbed at the floorboards until the dried blood became nothing more than a dark stain. After he left, Morgan paced around the room.

There were many entertaining times but Morgan remained at Campbell & Hatch's batwings. Not once did he waver in his belief that his family would return. The Earps were strongest together. In all that time, he never saw a sign of his brothers. After many lonely years, the Mountain Maid mine shut down.

Not long after that, the saloons closed their doors. Both Schieffelin Hall and the Bird Cage Theater went dark. Whores drifted away, to better pickings in other towns. No longer did miners drag silver from beneath the ground.

Cowboys drove their cattle to Tucson or Dodge City.

When Morgan thought he would go insane from loneliness, tourists arrived to gawk at the spot where he died. To relieve boredom, he threw shot glasses at them or appeared as a misty cloud above the bar.

Most times, people ran away screaming. One afternoon, a boy stared up at him.

"You sure ain't too scary," the kid announced. "It only took one bullet to put you down. Wyatt never got shot, you know."

"So what?"

Morgan did not care if the kid heard him or not. It was excruciatingly dreary living like this. He had always enforced the law, first in Dodge City with Wyatt, and then Deadwood. Both times, they left behind towns where people respected order. In Idaho, Morgan took up the City Marshal position, in charge for the only time in his life. It was also the first time he killed a man. That thought jarred him. He obeyed every known law but some felt he should have held back and waited until the man slept before arresting him.

"Is that why I can't leave this place?" Sighing, Morgan slumped against the pool table "Get on out of here, kid. Find your parents."

The kid kicked the bar. "Sure ain't what I expected from an Earp. Guess all of them movies lied."

He wandered out the door, the batwings swinging in a lonely wind.

"Life ain't what you expect, kid." Morgan sighed. "Nor death."

January of 1929 came upon Tombstone with an icy blast. Snow coated the streets. On the morning of the thirteenth, a crowd of men hustled through the doors. Frank and Tom McLaury appeared as they had the day they died at the OK Corral with Billy Clanton on their heels. The trio bristled at Morgan but never made a threatening move.

"Why are you here?" Morgan demanded.

"We have our orders," Frank McLaury said. "Can't say anything else until the others get here."

One hour later, Indian Charley Florentino entered looking confused. Curly Bill Brocius sauntered in not long after that, a tequila bottle swinging from one hand. Johnny Ringo appeared near sunset, his red gold mustache quivering. Ike Clanton slithered through the batwings moments later, his eyes moving from side to side.

Morgan reached for his sidearm. Nothing was there. He checked the holster but it was gone too. Before he reacted, the cowboy gang stood against a wall on the far side of the room, close to where he died.

The batwings swung again. James, Virgil, Wyatt, and Warren marched through them.

"Good to see you again," Wyatt said. "We wondered if you'd be with us."

"You're dead?" Morgan had trouble believing that.

None of his brothers looked older than they did the day the Earps and Doc took down the cowboys at the OK Corral. As if Morgan's thought sent a message, Doc stomped into the bar. He grinned, the same one he displayed that fateful day.

"Well, damn! Ain't this a sweet reunion? Break out the cards and whiskey." Doc rubbed his hands together. "I haven't had a decent game of poker since we left this place."

"Better get over here, Doc." Virgil nodded at a hole growing in the center of the floor. "It appears we're about to discover our fate."

Doc joined the Earps. Morgan turned a cold shoulder to the gambler. If not for Doc harassing Ike Clanton, they would have never marched through Tombstone in October of 1881.

"What happened to Louisa?" Morgan asked.

"Not sure." Wyatt shrugged. "I didn't see the family much after your death." He glared at Virgil. "Someone blamed me."

"Tell my wife had a good life. Tell me she's all right." Morgan grabbed Wyatt's coat.

"None of us know where Louisa is," Virgil said. "She left not long after we buried you. Refused to tell us where she went."

A rumble shook Campbell & Hatch's Saloon. It sounded much like the town had in its heyday, with cattle roaming the streets while cowboys herded them to the broker.

Two men sprang from the hole in the floor. The first was pale green, from his clothes to his skin. He gripped a scythe in one hand. The second had the horns Morgan had long associated with Satan. As they stood between the two groups, a brilliant light pierced the ceiling. A man wearing a pristine white suit with a glow surrounding him floated gently to the floor.

"Why are you here, Gabriel?" the pale green man asked.

"I claim one of these men." Gabriel crooked a finger at the cowboys.

The impossible had happened. An angel wanted an outlaw.

"Johnny Ringo, you devoted your life to protecting those unable to do it themselves," Gabriel said. "Most thought you an unrepentant drinker and gambler but someone noticed your good works. Come with me. There's a place for you."

Johnny joined the being and gazed upward. A massive library appeared in the clouds.

"Now that's what I call a reward." Johnny vanished with the angel.

Satan and the pale green man laughed.

"Well, he only took one, Death," Old Scratch said. "That leaves us with the rest."

The Pale Rider had come for him after all these years. Disbelief ran through Morgan. What had he done wrong to invite this afterlife?

"Sure did," Death replied. "Now that we have our booty, shall we get about it?"

"Gabriel forgot one." Satan glanced at Morgan. "I can't take him. Ah hell. I get to pass on the glad tidings again. When will Gabriel stick around long enough to do his own dirty work?"

"What do you mean?" Morgan demanded.

"You'll find out," Death said.

The thundering outside the saloon grew louder. A herd of cattle moved past, fire spewing from their horns and tails. Then a group of horses stopped at the railing, their manes a mass of flames.

"Gentlemen," Satan announced. "Keep the calves with the herd."

The cowboys, Earps, and Doc jerked against invisible strings pulling them toward their fate. Morgan took a step but like the day he died, an invisible wall separated him from his brothers. Without a word, outlaws and lawmen clambered onto the horses and took off after Satan's cattle.

Despite their enmity in life, they worked together to bring the dogies back to the herd. When the excitement faded, Morgan turned to his tormentors.

Before he could demand why they had done this to him, the batwings slammed against the walls.

"Why have you disturbed my rest?"

Time had not treated former Cochise County Sheriff John Behan well. A yellowish cast to his skin announced Bright's Disease, usually brought about by a bullet a surgeon had not been able to remove. Morgan smiled. At least one of his enemies suffered before dying.

Death pointed at the hole in the floor. Four men marched along Fremont, their dusters flapping in a breeze. A gasp blocked Morgan's throat as he gazed at Virgil, Wyatt, Doc, and himself heading for the OK Corral on October 26, 1881.

"John Behan, you incited a battle that brought about more problems than it solved," Satan said. "Your scheme to destroy the Earps and control the cowboy gang failed but you still tried to sow discord. For that, you shall stand between these groups for eternity.

"The hell you say," Behan protested. "I won't do it."

"As if you have a choice," Death commented. "Join the men." With a flick of his hand, he hurled Behan into the hole.

Death and Satan chuckled as Behan struggled to escape his fate.

For hours, the devil and the biblical horseman stared as Virgil shoved the sheriff aside and the Earps continued their march.

"Sure looks like Behan won't ever figure it out," Satan said.

"I'll enjoy tormenting him."

"What about me?" Morgan asked. "What happens to me?"

"Should we tell him, Old Scratch?" Death slung an arm around Satan's neck.

"Always thought he'd figure it out himself," Satan said. "All these years, I thought he was the smartest of the Earp brothers."

"Tell me what?" Morgan demanded. "You have to send me to my fate. I can't stay here."

"Why should we do that?" Satan asked. "You're not our responsibility."

"You are," Morgan insisted. "Gabriel didn't want me."

"Neither do we." Satan snickered and turned to Death. "Shall I tell him or will you?"

"I've wanted to for a long time but Gabriel wouldn't let us until we gathered all of them in the same place." Death bowed to Morgan.

"You've always been where we wanted you. Give the tourists a good show."

They disappeared into the fiery smoke. Morgan howled and wept.

This truly was hell.

End