October, 2010

Issue #13

Only the Legend
by Kenneth Newton

I find myself in a toilet stall, and I see the wisdom in it. My sudden appearance in a more densely populated area might cause quite a commotion. I step out of the stall into an area of sinks and mirrors, where I am immediately accosted by a pimply-faced teenager wearing a change-making device around his waist. "Where did you come from?" he asks, surprised to see me. "I thought you guys were supposed to stay out of sight until 2:30." He walks to one of the mirrors and digs at his curly hair with an odd-looking comb with widely spaced teeth.

"I was just over there. What time is it?" I ask.

"A little after two," he says, "and if the boss sees you, he's gonna be mad as the devil. Say, what part are you playing, anyway?"

"I'm a stand-in," I reply. "In case somebody doesn't show up." I have apparently been prompted to say such things.

He looks me up and down. "Well, you could use a silk vest, but you look OK. Better than some I've seen. Have you got a gun?"

My hand goes reflexively into my right coat pocket and I produce a revolver. It is a Model 1873 Colt single action. The stamping on the barrel indicates it is a Frontier Six Shooter, .44 caliber. It has a four and three-quarter inch barrel, and is in every regard similar to many of the side arms that I carried most of my adult life. "I have this," I say, holding it out for him to see. "Will it do?"

"Sure," he says, "a six-gun's a six-gun. But if you wind up subbing for the star of the show, you're gonna need something with a longer barrel. Not to mention a holster."

"Thanks for the tip." I return the gun to my pocket and look into one of the mirrors. I look about as well as could be expected; no, that isn't true. I look a good deal better than might reasonably be expected. I adjust my wide-brimmed hat, brush the wrinkles from the black frock coat, and straighten the string tie until it lays neatly across the front of my white shirt.

"Well," says the young man, "I'll see you later."

I follow him as he leaves the toilet and watch him enter a separate room. A large sign over the entryway is lettered, "ARCADE." I can't recall the last time I was in a penny arcade, but that will have to wait, for I seem to have passed from the toilet into some sort of museum, and a display on the other side of the auditorium intrigues me. I stroll casually through a sizeable crowd and presently stand face to face with a life-size figure of a handsome man wearing the badge of a United States Marshal. He is quite tall, and dressed not unlike myself, but wearing a blue brocade vest, and no coat. Slung low on his right thigh is the long-barreled Peacemaker that bore the name of the tiresome dime novelist who commissioned its manufacture, Ned Buntline.

The dummy is captioned. A meticulously lettered, hand painted sign rests on the floor in front of him, propped against his boots. "Hugh O'Brian," it reads, "star of the ABC television series, THE LIFE AND LEGEND OF WYATT EARP, ca. 1955-1961. The authentic costume and the Buntline Special Colt .45 were generously donated by Mr. O'Brian."

On the wall to Mr. O'Brian's right is a small photograph, beside it, an equally inconspicuous sentence typed on a note card, explaining, almost apologetically, "Wyatt Earp, as he actually appeared at about the time of the gunfight at the O.K. Corral."

"Wow!"

The excited voice belongs to a boy standing beside me. He looks to be about ten. "That's something," he says. "You really look like him."

So, this one actually looks at the tiny pictures on the wall. "Makeup," I assure him. "I really look like Hugh O'Brian. It takes a lot of greasepaint and moustache hairs to make me this homely."

He eyes me quizically for a few seconds, then smiles broadly. "Yeah, right. And that bulge in your coat pocket isn't a gunfighter's friend, it's really a Buntline in disguise."

"I guess you're onto me," I reply.

The boy laughs out loud. "You and me might be the only ones in town that know Wyatt Earp wouldn't have been caught dead carrying that thing." He indicated the gun on Hugh O'Brian's thigh. "I bet the one in your pocket is just like the one he used. And he wasn't the marshal. Virgil Earp was."

I show him the pistol in my pocket, and quickly put it away as he smiles and nods his head. "Right on both counts. How do you come to know so much about Wyatt Earp?"

"Heck, I was born here. The big gunfight was about the only cool thing that ever happened in Tombstone. I know all about it."

"Do you, now?"

"Yep. Like, for instance," he says, gesturing to the street, "in a few minutes, a guy that doesn't look half as much like Wyatt Earp as you do is gonna gun down Ike Clanton at the O.K. Corral. That never happened. Nothing really happened in the O.K. Corral. The fight was in a vacant lot and the street." He crosses his arms and waits for my reaction, secure in his knowledge of the facts.

"True," I reply, "but Ike was there for a minute. I know that much."

"Do you, now?" he inquires, mocking me.

"Jimmy, come on!" The voice belongs to a woman waiting across the room by the door.

Jimmy gives her a quick look, then turns back to me. "You gonna be around for a while? You're in the show, right?"

"I'll be here for a while, I guess. But I'm only a stand-in."

He shakes his head, disgusted with the incompetence of the casting director. "Well, maybe we can talk some more. Everybody around here's pretty dumb about most of this stuff. You're different. See ya." He wheels and trots off in the direction of his mother.

I leave that corner in the handsome, well-armed hands of Hugh O'Brian, and wander off to tour the rest of the museum. Objects that seem to me to be unremarkable and mundane—saddles, spittoons, Henry rifles, and Apache arrowheads—are regarded, in this place, as legitimate antiques. There are posted admonitions throughout the building, warning that the displays are valuable, and must not be touched on pain of expulsion. I don't suppose I am particularly valuable, but should someone attempt to touch me, the result would be interesting enough, and would most likely prompt a voluntary evacuation of the premises.

I pause for a moment to contemplate a tintype of John Holliday. He was, for the most part, treated rudely by the storytellers, but when push came to shove, a man couldn't find a better friend, or a worse enemy, than Doc. It wasn't that he was tough, or mean, or even much good with a gun. He just didn't rightly give a damn if he lived or died, and that made him one nervy son-of-a-bitch.

A man's voice bursts forth from a box on the wall, startling me. "Now, don't forget, folks," it warns. "In less than ten minutes, down at the O.K. Corral, you're going to have an unforgettable opportunity to witness an authentic recreation of the most famous gunfight in American history. Good seats are still available in the grandstand, so hurry, and don't miss out on this chance to be a part of one of the most thrilling events in the stirring annals of the old west."

The people around me are beginning to file out through the arcade into the street. I don't want to miss out, so I follow, but I loiter, slightly incredulous, in the arcade. A penny will do a fellow no good in this place; two bits is the going rate for a few seconds of entertainment. I am genuinely shocked. In the tradition of McClellan saddles and lever action Henry repeating rifles, I am a true antique.

The arcade is virtually deserted, but around the corner I hear the sound of a machine in use. I investigate, and it turns out to be Jimmy, locked in mortal combat with a celluloid desperado whose image is projected in the rear of a small booth. The gunman draws and shoots, and Jimmy returns fire, but too late. The gunslick smiles a greasy smile, twirls his nickel-plated pistol, and strolls triumphantly off to exit, stage right. He isn't much of an actor, but I may be spoiled. Back when I was a special guest on the movie lots, I swapped tales with Tom Mix and William S. Hart: Real actors, those two. The words, YOU LOSE, appear across the bottom of the screen.

"Damn it!" Jimmy says. "Damn it all to hell!"

He angrily holsters his electric pistol and tenses as another picture show badman edges his way along the plank sidewalk.

"Watch your language, and watch his eyes," I suggest. "They'll tell you what he's up to before his gun hand moves."

Jimmy spares me a quick glance. "Oh, it's you." I see it in the eyes, but Jimmy reacts too slowly. He loses again, the screen proclaims, GAME OVER, and the booth goes black.

"He tipped it, Jimmy," I remind him. "Forget his hand and watch his eyes."

Jimmy strips off the holster and slings it down on the table in front of the booth. "I suppose you can do better?"

"Probably, but I'm pretty rusty."

"Oh yeah? Well, my oId man used to say money talks, and bullshit walks."

"Well, your old man might well say that, but I doubt if he'd want you saying it. And you know your mama wouldn't like it."

"Aw, my dad's been gone so long I don't even remember what he looks like. And Mom's out watching the big fight. Her boyfriend is the one that don't look anything like Wyatt Earp."

"You don't want to be a part of the thrilling history of the old west?"

"I've seen it a dozen times, and like I told you, it's a phony. So, get out your fifty cents."

This machine is the most notorious thief in the house, requiring two quarters. I rummage through my pockets and find nothing. "I would, Jimmy, but I'm flat."

"Oh, sure."

"It's true. I guess I left my money in my other pants. Besides, no self-respecting substitute gunfighter would go into battle with loose change rattling around in his pocket, now, would he?"

Jimmy shakes his head in disgust, digs out two quarters, and holds them out to me. "You put them in for me," I say. "I have a little trouble holding onto things sometimes."

"Then how are you gonna hold onto the gun?"

"I'll use my own."

"You can't use your own!" I have exasperated the boy beyond all limits. "You have to use that one, so the computer can tell who won. Jeez! Where have you been for the last hundred years?"

A fair question, best left unanswered. But Jimmy persists, stubbornly holding out the coins until I reluctantly extend an upturned palm. The quarters pass through my hand and wind up on the concrete floor. Jimmy stoops to retrieve them. "Kinda clumsy, aren't ya?" He reaches for my clumsy wrist to steady it, and in the same motion slaps the money down, through my hand, and into his own. For a short time he stands motionless, then he slowly reaches farther up my arm, his eyes widening with each pass his groping hand makes through my disembodied apparition. His lip trembles, and he moves to back away.

"Hold on, Jimmy," I say. "You don't have any reason to be afraid of me. Unless, that is, you've thrown in with the Clantons and McClaurys, and that no account Johnny Behan of a sheriff." I smile and wait.

He stops his retreat and shakes his head in wonderment. "It's you," he says. "I knew it wasn't makeup, but I didn't think it was really you. Where did you come from? Why are you here?" He is a very composed young lad.

"I come from wherever it is they keep me. Sometimes they just send me places. Whoever is in charge makes the decisions."

Jimmy swallows hard and thinks about that for a few seconds. "Do you mean God?"

"I've wondered that myself, but I don't know. Honest to God." I attempt a wry smile. Gunfire has erupted outside in the street.

"Will your gun work?" Jimmy asks.

"I assume it will, although I haven't tried it since 1910, or so."

Jimmy is about to feed the two quarters into the fast draw game, but I stop him. "Save your money, Jimmy," I say, indicating a man standing some fifty feet from us. "Unless that's one of your phony actors," which I know for a fact it is not, "I don't think we'll need to feed the machine for this fight." Ike Clanton stands silently seething over his recent arrest for carrying firearms inside the city limits of Tombstone.

"I'm tired of hearing that you've threatened my life," I say. "I want it stopped. You damned cow thief, if you want a fight, you can have it."

Ike grins. "All I need is a few feet of ground." He turns away and vanishes.

I know now what it is I'm here to do, and I think I know why. And I need some help. "Virgil," I call out. "Morgan."

"Here, Wyatt," says one brother, and, "Here I am," the other. They come out of the shadows behind me, along with Doc Holliday.

"Like I told you before, Doc," I say, "this isn't your fight."

"And like I told you, Wyatt," he says, snapping shut the lock of a side by side shotgun, "that's a hell of a thing for you to say to me."

Billy Clanton runs up to me, agitated. "Listen, Wyatt," he says, "I'm taking Ike home. I don't want a fight. Nobody does." As quickly as he arrived, he leaves, running after his brother.

"Wow." It is Jimmy. "This is radical. You guys are really gonna do it. For real, just like the first time!"

"Yes, Jimmy," I reply. "I'd say you're right."

We are abruptly removed from the arcade and placed, in mid-stride, onto Fremont Street. Not a movie lot street, with lights and cameras and a crew standing around, but Fremont Street, Tombstone, Arizona Territory, on the afternoon of October 26, 1881. A persistent breeze whips at our coat tails, and I pull my hat down almost to my ears. John Behan, Sheriff of Cochise County and unapologetic friend of the Clantons, runs up to Virgil, perspiring heavily. "Earp," he says, "for God's sake, don't go down there."

"I intend to disarm those men," Virgil replies, and we continue past Mr. Behan, who runs off in the opposite direction.

We're almost there, and I look for Jimmy, who is holding back, and waits on the porch of the photographer's shop. He will have a good vantage point, if not a grandstand seat.

Ike and Billy Clanton, along with Tom and Frank McClaury and Billy Claiborne, loiter in the lot between the photographer's studio and a private home, and not, as Jimmy correctly pointed out to me a little earlier, in the O.K. Corral. It is nearby, and I have to admit, "The Gunfight at the O.K. Corral," does have a more dashing ring to it than, say, "The Fatal Attempt to Disarm Four Cowhands in a Vacant Lot." Perhaps, also, Wyatt is a more memorable given name than Virgil, and for that reason does the part-time assistant peace officer gain lasting fame and "legend" status, while the marshal with the common name is remembered as a bit player. Legends, of course, are made of half-truths and outright lies. Jimmy thinks he knows all about the big fight, but he has a little more to learn.

We are face to face, ten feet apart. We are men who cannot co-exist, and who are about done with talking. "Throw up your hands. I want those guns," Virgil declares. Billy Claiborne decides he wants no part of this, and runs away

Frank McClaury and Billy Clanton cock the hammers on their holstered weapons. "Hold!" Virgil says. "I don't mean that!"

Just that quickly, the fight is on. Billy has his pistol out, cursing, but he isn't the gunslick of this bunch, Frank McClaury is, and I want him out of the way. Billy and I fire almost simultaneously. His shot flies wide, but mine strikes home, and Frank staggers past me into the street, blood oozing between his clutching fingers as he grasps at his midsection. Tom McClaury reaches for the Winchester in the saddle scabbard on Frank's horse, but the horse won't stand still long enough for him to grab it. He gives it up and takes cover behind the animal instead.

Morgan fires two quick shots at Billy, who stumbles against the wall of the nearby house, hit in the chest and right wrist. His hand dangles, held to his arm by sinew and skin, the bone shattered. He coughs, spitting up blood from his injured lung as he slumps to the ground, fumbling for his Colt with his left hand. Ike moves to grab me, then backs off. He is unarmed, and I shove him with my empty hand. "The fighting's commenced. Get to fighting," I tell him, "or get away."

He chooses to leave, and dashes for the front door of the photographer's place. He rushes past Jimmy and into the building. Jimmy stands open-mouthed and white-faced, slowly shifting his gaze from a writhing Frank McClaury to the mutilated Billy Clanton.

Frank's horse has shied, and gallops off up Fremont, leaving Tom in the open. I see no weapon, but Doc levels the shotgun anyway.

"No! No more!" The anguished voice belongs to Jimmy, but if Doc hears, he pays him no mind, and let's Tom have it. The load of buckshot tears into Tom's side, and, like his brother, he staggers into the street where he collapses in a bloody heap, dying.

Frank, the front of his shirt stained crimson, has gotten to his feet. Doc and Morgan finish him with their handguns, but not before he gets off a shot that grazes Doc's hip. Billy has picked up his gun, and firing left-handed, puts a bullet through Virgil's calf. Doc and Virgil are on the ground beside me, and I have Billy lined up when Jimmy runs up to me with tears in his eyes.

"No," he begs. "Please stop. Don't do any more." I believe he would grab my arm and wrestle me for my gun—perhaps I should say "gunfighter's friend"—if he could. But, of course, he can no more do that than we can stop what we are doing. This thing will run its course, and besides, we're having too much fun to stop now. This is just about the only cool thing that ever happened in Tombstone, and there is more fun to be had.

A gunshot explodes, startling Jimmy as Morgan spins to the ground, shot through the shoulder by Billy Clanton. Billy opens the loading gate on his revolver and tries to eject empty casings with his one good hand. Morgan is still game, and props himself up into a sitting position. We both take aim.

"Stop it, damn you." Jimmy is crying, choking out his words between wrenching sobs. "He's out of bullets. Don't shoot him. He didn't even want to fight. He said so. Just go take his gun. You don't have to kill him!"

"Yes," I sigh, "I do." Morgan and I shoot Billy, both slugs striking him in the chest, and it is finished. It has taken less than a minute, and it is done, not a legend reenacted, but a fight to the death, relived, for real, just like the first time.

Jimmy's mother has come back looking for him. She finds him sitting on the floor of the arcade weeping.

She kneels beside him, sees that he is physically sound, and turns to me, glaring. "What have you done to this child?" she demands.

I try to reassure her, insofar as a man holding a smoking gun in his hand has the power to reassure. "He'll be fine."

"Fine, indeed." She pulls the trembling boy's face to her breast. "I should think you'd get your fill of playing with that damned pistol in your silly little O.K. Corral show. But, no, you've got to come strutting in here and fire the damned thing off, and scare my son half to death! God, how this kind of crap infuriates me." She digs through her purse and produces a small note pad, then a pencil. "Unluckily for you, the gentleman who runs the re-enactments is a personal friend of mine. I want your name." She waits, pencil to paper, for the identity of a soon-to-be-unemployed substitute gunfighter.

"Mom," says Jimmy, matter-of-factly, "that's Wyatt Earp."

"I know, honey. It's all right," she says, then she turns her attention back to me. "Well, Mr. Earp?"

"No, Mom, it really is him," Jimmy protests, wiping at his eyes. "And he's not even real. He's like a ghost. I'll show you." He tries to get up, but his mother holds him fast, and looks to me for an answer.

I can only shrug. "My name doesn't tell you much about who I am, or what I am. It's kind of confusing. There's been a lot added, and a lot left out."

She stares at me, bemused, and even offers a half-smile as she shakes her head. "I'm not interested in your acting school bullshit. All I want to know is who you are."

"As it turns out," I reply, "I'm really not anybody at all. I'm just what's left of somebody."

"Very well," she sighs, "I'll bite." She readies the pencil once again, having quite clearly run out of patience with me. "What's left?"

"The legend," I explain. "Only the legend."

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