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took Freddie's every penny, leaving him with nothing but his coat, his hat, and his gun.

    *

    “You don't own me” Freddie wrote in his notebook. She almost spat the words at me. It is her  crie d'esprit,  her defiance to the world, her great maxim.
    “I own nothing,” I replied calmly. “Nothing at all.” Close enough to the truth. I must find someone to loan me a stake so that I can win money and pay the week's lodging.
    I argued my points with great precision, and she answered with fury. Her anger left me untouched—she accused me of jealousy, of all ridiculous things! It is easy to remain calm in the face of arrows that fly so wide of the mark. I asked her only to choose a man worthy of her. Behan is nothing, and Earp an earnest fool. Worthy in his own way, no doubt, but not of such as she.
    Ah well. Let her go. She is qualified to ruin her life in her own way, no doubt. I will keep my room at the Grand—unless poverty drives me into the street—and she will return when she understands her mistake.
    I must remember my pocketbook, and earn some money. And I must certainly stay clear of John Holliday, at least at the card table.
    I think I sense a migraine about to begin.

    *

    “Freddie?” It was Sheriff Behan who stood in the door of the Grand Hotel's parlor, his derby hat in his hand and a worried look on his face. “Freddie, can you come with me and talk to your friends?”
    Freddie felt fragile after his migraine. Drugs still slithered their cold way through his veins. He looked at Behan and scowled. “What is it, Johnny?” he said. “Go away. I am not well.”
    “There's going to be a fight between the Earps and the Clantons and McLaurys. Your friends are going to get killed unless we do something.”
    “You're the sheriff,” Freddie said, unable to resist digging in the spur. “Put the Clantons in jail.”
    “My God, Freddie!” Behan almost shouted. “I can't arrest the  Clantons!”
    “Not as long as they're letting you have this nice salary, I suppose.” Freddie shook his head, then rose from his wing chair. “Very well. Tell me what is going on.”
    Ike Clanton had been very busy since Freddie had seen him last. He had wandered over Tombstone for two days, uttering threats against Doc Holliday to anyone who would listen. When he appeared in public with a pistol and rifle, Virgil Earp slapped him over the head with a revolver, confiscated his weapons, and tossed him in jail. Ike paid the twenty-five-dollar fine and returned to the streets, where he went boasting of his deadly intentions, now including the Earps in his threats. After Ike's brief trial, Wyatt Earp had encountered Ike's friend Tom McLaury on the street and pistol-whipped him. Now Tom was bent on vengeance as well. They had been seen in Spangenburg's gun shop, and had gathered a number of their friends. The Earps and Holliday were armed and ready. Vigilantes were arming all over Tombstone, ready for blood. Behan had promised to stave off disaster by disarming the Cowboys, and he wanted help.
    “This is absurd,” Freddie muttered. The clear October light sent daggers into his brain. “They are behaving like fools.”
    “They're down at the corral,” Behan said. “It's legal for them to carry arms there, but if they step outside I'll—“ He blanched. “I'll have to do something.”
    The first tendrils of the euphoria that followed his migraines began to enfold Freddie's brain. “Very well,” he said. “I'll come.”
    The lethargy of the drugs warred within Freddie's mind with growing elation as Behan led Freddie down Allen Street, then through the front entrance of the O.K. Corral, a narrow livery stable that ran like an alley between Allen and Fremont streets. The Clantons were not in the corral, and Behan was almost frantic as he led Freddie out the back entrance onto Fremont, where Freddie saw the Cowboys standing in the vacant lot between Camillus Fly's boarding house, where Holliday lodged with his Kate, and