bullet wound in his right hip. He could still see the bullet hole in his pants and the bloodstains on the cloth. Evidently Doc hadnât even changed clothes before he began his nonstop poker playing.
Doc took a seat next to Falcon, so he, too, could watch the other men in the bar. When the waiter brought their cups of coffee, Doc took out a silver flask and poured a dollop of amber liquid into them.
Doc held up his cup toward Falcon. âA toast,â he said, a strange look in his eyes. âA toast to the man behind the scenes.â
Falcon clinked his cup against Docâs. âWhat do you mean?â
A sly smile crossed Docâs lips. âDonât think you went unobserved in your little altercation with Johnny Ringo.â He took another drink, and added, âYour timely interference was much appreciated. The man might have gotten lucky and actually hit one of us with that rifle.â
Falcon laughed. These last few years, there had not been many men he enjoyed being with. Billy the Kid had been one, and Doc Holliday was another. The manâs sense of humor, and his loyalty to his friends, caused Falcon to feel a kinship with him that was rare for a man who spent most of his time alone.
âWhat are you going to do now, Falcon?â Doc asked, as the waiter piled plates of scrambled eggs, bacon, sausage, tortillas, sliced tomatoes, and potatoes in front of them.
Falcon shrugged. âMosey on down the trail, I guess. Iâve still got a lot of country to see.â
âWhy not stay here in Tombstone? It is a growing town, and given enough time I might be able to teach you how to play poker.
âThatâd be the day,â Falcon said. âIn the little time Iâve watched you, Iâve noticed you have a tendency to go against the odds. In the long run, thatâs a no-win strategy.â
âAh, but that is the key, my friend. For me, there is no long run, only the here and now.â
Doc bent his head and began to nibble at his food, but Falcon could tell his heart wasnât in it. He knew consumption took away the appetite, but he wished Doc would at least try to take better care of himself. Of course, he didnât say that, for he respected him too much to try to tell him how to live what was left of his life.
After they finished eating, Doc said he was going home to take a nap, and Falcon went to Morgan Earpâs house, where both he and Virgil were recovering from their wounds.
Wyatt answered the door, a pistol in his hand. âOh, itâs you, Falcon. Come on in.â
âExpecting trouble?â Falcon asked as he took his hat off and entered the room.
Morgan was lying on a sofa, propped up on several pillows, bandages on both shoulders. Virgil was across the room with his wounded leg stuck out in front of him on an ottoman, a shotgun cradled in his arms.
Wyatt peered out the door for a moment, then closed and bolted it. âYeah. Sheriff Behan has been making noises about arresting us for murder.â
âBut he has no authority in Tombstone. Heâs the county sheriff,â Falcon said.
Virgil nodded. âThatâs correct, Falcon, but he still has plans to haul us in to stand trial.â
âHow do you think itâll play?â
Morgan gave a short, harsh laugh. âThereâs no tellinâ. Half the people in Tombstone make a lot of money off The Cowboysâ trade. Theyâre gonna be plenty pissed off that weâve shut them down.â
âWell, I just came to say good-bye, and good luck,â Falcon said, walking around the room and shaking hands with each of the brothers. âBut if you need some helpââ
Wyatt shook his head. âNo, Falcon, youâve done enough. This is our battle now, and weâll see it through.â
Falcon took Wyattâs hand. âIâll keep watch in the newspapers. If I see that the trial is going against you, Iâll be back.â
âThanks