By Kyle Cossairt

“Murray, Idaho,” Jim mused. “A fine town for a fresh start. Don’t you reckon, little brother?”

I had my doubts.

We stood on a boardwalk overlooking the drenched boomtown. It was little more than a cluster of tents and flimsy shacks. Two days of violent rain had left Prichard Street a muddy mess. A few brave prospectors navigated the wagon ruts, their boots squelching in the mud. They gave me a curious look as they passed.

Jim and I had similar builds. Wide shoulders, thin waists, and matching handlebar mustaches. But my older brother dressed like a shop owner and could blend in anywhere. I preferred a dark, formal frock, tailored trousers, and a wide-brimmed hat. That pegged me as an interloper this far north. 

Jim took a deep inhale. “Smells like opportunity.”

“All I smell is dirt and horse dung,” I said.  “Let’s push on to Fort Sherman. Or Spokane. Soon. Before those menacing clouds yonder unleash another deluge.”

My concerns didn’t dampen Jim’s spirits.

“Our saloon can go there,” he said pointing to an empty lot. “The mercantile and pool hall over yonder. Whatcha think?”

I shrugged, non-committal, and stepped off the boardwalk into the mud. 

Jim trailed behind, spewing more ideas and boasting about Murray as if he’d lived there his entire life. We cut through an alley where the mud wasn’t as thick. I lifted my collar against the chill wind. Did this valley ever warm up? I missed Arizona something fierce.

My brother preferred to look ahead, envisioning our future with child-like wonder. Forever the optimist. I supported his ventures, even planned to run the farro tables at his saloon. But we needed money.

As we walked, my thoughts dredged through the past. Especially the happenings of the last few years. Pa always said, ‘A man must study his past to understand his future or he’ll run into the same trouble over and over.’

And I did just that.

A young man, maybe twenty, rushed around the corner and crashed into me. I grunted and stumbled back into Jim.

The young man recovered and snarled, “Watch it, old timer!”

Old? I’d been called a lot of derogatory names in my 36 years, but never old. I furrowed my brow and clenched my fists. That little punk should respect his elders. Jim nudged me, a subtle warning to keep my cool.

“Pardon us, son” Jim replied. “Didn’t see ya there. I apologize.”

I said nothing, still catching my breath from the impact.

The punk was lean and determined, with stringy blond hair and a menacing curl to his lip. Mud and grime soiled his miner’s uniform and cap. But his single-action Remington pistol was clean and hung low on his hip, gunslinger style.

“You got mud on my boots,” Punk growled. “Apologize.”

“Like I said, I’m sorry—“

“Not you,” Punk snapped, cutting Jim off. He glared at me, a wild, reckless fire building behind his eyes. “I wanna hear it from him.”

His tone rankled me, steeped with aggression and challenge. I didn’t want trouble, especially since I’d left my pistol in the wagon at Jim’s insistence. But this punk didn’t deserve an apology.

“I’m waiting, old man.”

Jim leaned toward me. “You wanted to go somewhere no one knew you.”

I did, and I wouldn’t let this punk bully me into regretting my decision to head north for fresh air and a fresh start.

“Should I know ya?” Punk snarled. “You famous or somethin’?”

“Not by choice,” I replied, keeping my voice low and even.

Punk narrowed his eyes and sized me up, unimpressed. “If’n you won’t apologize, then compensate me for a boot shine. I’ll take cash, gold, or… maybe this.”

He reached toward my vest.

I moved to grab his hand, but his pistol sprang up and angled my way.

“We’re unarmed,” Jim interjected.

I remained still and silent, but my blood boiled.

Punk retrieved his prize and dangled my silver pocket watch by the chain. “This’s gotta be worth something.”

“Only to me,” I said.

Punk reefed open the case. He silently read the inscription I’d memorized: To my dearest friend, Wyatt Earp. Punk scoffed. “You’re Wyatt Earp? The way they talk, I thought you’d be ten feet tall and bulletproof. Are you bulletproof, Wyatt Earp?”

“Look kid,” Jim said. “We’re real sorry, but we need to get going.”

“Not until I say so,” Punk snared and shifted the pistol barrel toward Jim.

That was the opening I needed.

I sprang forward, grabbed Punk’s wrist, and twisted. A howl of pain echoed through the alley. I yanked the pistol free and shoved him into a neighboring building. He collapsed in the mud.

I gripped the pistol in my hand. It was heavy and unbalanced, but it would do. Punk whirled, ready to retaliate. Just like Ike Clanton—

My mind blazed back to that dusty alleyway in Tombstone. Guns spat fire. Brothers shot brothers. My chest clenched. My breath came in ragged bursts as the memories continued their assault. I could’ve quelled that massacre a week earlier by throwing Ike in jail, where he belonged. Instead, I let that punk go. But that wouldn’t happen here. No one points a gun at my brother and lives.

“Wyatt!” Jim’s reprimanding voice cut through my gloom. “He’s not one of them.”

No, he was like Ike. A punk.

I squeezed the trigger.

The gun bucked and—

“Wyatt! Listen to me.”

I shook my head, scattering the memories. To my surprise, Jim gripped my gun wrist. Smoke wafted from the pistol’s barrel. The bullet had lodged in the wood panels above Punk’s trembling head. I was two inches from ending his life.

Jim collected the pistol from my hand. Then he patted my shoulder and continued in a gentler tone, “Be the better man, Wyatt. Remember that.”

I scoffed and retrieved my watch, wiping mud from the clock face. A better man would have aimed low and scared the punk. But that wasn’t me. When trouble called,  I aimed center mass. Always would.

“Give me my gun back,” Punk spat.

“You can collect it from the Sheriff once you cool off,” I growled.

“This ain’t over,” he snarled. And with that, Punk stomped off in the opposite direction.

No, it wasn’t over.

So much for my fresh start.

_____

“We could use a man like you in these parts,” Sheriff Art Munson said and pushed a tin star across his desk. “Sure you won’t be my deputy?”

Jim and I sat on a bench across from the Sheriff in his one-room cabin. It was strong and sturdy much like the man who occupied it. In the corner, a pot-belled stove crackled with heat. In the opposite corner, two prisoners commiserated in a cramped cell.

I stared at the badge.

Sheriff Munson took my silence as an opportunity to elaborate on his proposal. “We’ve got eager men pouring into town, all looking to strike it rich like Prichard. And where there’s gold, trouble’s soon to follow.”

“It’s already here,” Jim replied.

“You may be more right than you know,” Sheriff Munson agreed. “There’s a fight brewing in Eagle City over mining claims.”

I said nothing.

“I know it’s a big ask, Mr. Earp,” Sheriff Munson continued. “But I figure once they hear your name, and see that badge, the warring factions will put aside their squabble.”

“He’s not interested,” Jim said, standing from the bench.

I remained seated. “Hold on, Jim. Let’s hear what the job pays before we refuse.”

Sheriff Munson shook his head. “To be honest, it doesn’t pay much. And there might be… shooting.”

“You mean killing,” Jim clarified.

Sheriff Munson stayed quiet, which was all the confirmation my brother needed.

“Thank you for your time, Sheriff,” Jim said, tugging my arm. “Let’s go, Wyatt.”

I resisted.

Jim scowled. “You’re not considering this are you?”

“We need the money,” I said. “You’ve got big plans for this town.”

“We’ll find another way.”

I remained seated.

“Stubborn little…” Jim shook his head. “How are you gonna turn over a new leaf if you keep falling back on old habits?”

I chewed on that statement for a moment. He was right. Our family had once stood for law and order, and it almost wiped us out.

“Okay, we’ll find another way,” I agreed.

We bid the sheriff goodbye and headed for the door.

“If’n it’s any consolation, I can offer you land,” Sheriff Munson said. “Prime real estate in the center of town.”

I gave Jim a shrewd smile. He sighed, relenting.

I retook my seat. “Tell me about this trouble.”

_____

The next morning, Jim and I rode north through the roughest country on God’s green earth. Old-growth cedars clogged the creek beds. Thick buckbrush choked the hillsides. And if by chance, we cut across an elk trail, it’d make a sudden turn straight up a cliff.

“We gotta be close, right?” Jim asked.

I shrugged and guided my Appaloosa around a cluster of stinging nettles. I didn’t hear shooting yet, so either we were still a ways off or they’d paused for breakfast. I could tell Jim was getting cold feet about our mission, so I said, “Why don’t you tell me about your plans again?”

 Jim grinned and launched into his spiel. “First, we buy a big, white circus tent. Something flashy where we serve the finest whiskey and entertainment.”

As Jim prattled on, I let my thoughts drift. Maybe when we quelled this feud, the miners would offer us a stake. I could moonlight swinging hammers and crushing ore. The hard labor would go a long way toward commuting my life sentence of guilt and shame.

“And the best part is,” Jim continued. “We call it the White Elephant.”

I rolled my eyes.

“C’mon Wyatt,” Jim said spurring his gelding into a trot beside me. “It’ll make us stand out and—”

A burst of gunfire sent us sprawling from our saddles.

_____

Jim and I ducked behind a rock outcropping. Bullets whizzed above our heads.

Jim trembled beside me. “Time to earn your keep, little brother.”

“Me?” I said. “Sheriff deputized you too.”

“Mine’s more of an honorary title,” Jim said. After a moment, he added, “What do you think Doc would do at a time like this?”

“Don’t know,” I grunted. “But I’m sure he’d be doing it with someone prettier than you.”

Jim chuckled and crouched lower as bullets sparked off the rock.

Doc was a talker. He’d talk himself into trouble, somehow talk himself out of it, and then talk himself right back into it again. He called it diplomacy. That wasn’t my way.

I rechecked my pistol rounds. Six bullets were enough to do damage at close range. But I was still thirty yards from the action, despite the stray bullets whipping around us. I cursed myself for diving out of the saddle and not grabbing my Winchester rifle.

From my vantage point, I saw several tents along the creek and three wood buildings. A dance hall, a laundry shack, and a small sawmill stood on the opposite end of the clearing. This was Eagle City.

Most of the shooters clustered in those buildings. A few stragglers fired from behind the massive cedars.

“I need to quell this and fast,” I grunted.

“How?” Jim asked.

“Take out the leaders.”

“Who are the leaders?”

I didn’t know. And even if I shot them, was there someone worse waiting in the shadows for a chance to unleash hellfire—

“Ahh!” Jim cried.

“What?” I said shaking loose from my thoughts. “You hit?”

“Grazed,” Jim replied through gritted teeth. Blood seeped between the fingers clutching his shoulder. “I’ll live.”

But could I live with losing another brother? I’d already lost Morgan. Almost lost Virgil. And Doc. He was as much a brother to me as Jim. No, I couldn’t lose Jim. He deserved his circus tent and whiskey.

I removed my bandana and pressed it against Jim’s wound. “Hold this tight until I get back.”

“What are you gonna do?” 

“Try a little diplomacy,” I said and holstered my pistol.

I snuck toward the hail of gunfire. Bullets roared past, ricocheting off rocks and tree trunks. Finally, there was a break in the shooting and I marched into the clearing.

“Hold your fire!” I yelled.

“Clear out!” A gruff voice warned from the dance hall. “We got business to settle.”

“Not with that poor marksmanship,” I shouted. If they’d been at the O.K. Corral, we all would’ve survived.

“I don’t know who you are mister, but this is a private matter,” a sawmill miner bellowed. “You need to git.”

Before I could state my name and business, a sharp voice yelled, “Wyatt Earp!”

The Punk.

He sauntered from the shadows of the sawmill, his fingers tapping the butt of his Remington revolver.

“Don’t be a fool, Charlie,” a miner said. “If’n that’s Wyatt Earp, he’s a fast draw.”

“Maybe at one time,” Charlie snarled. “But he’s old now.”

“Don’t do this kid,” I said loud enough for him to hear the warning in my voice, but not be mistaken as a threat.

“I came here to do some shootin’ and I ain’t leaving until someone’s shot.”

I sighed and squared up.

Charlie faced me and I couldn’t shake the feeling that he looked a lot like Billy Clanton. My chest clenched. My eyes narrowed. Don’t do it, Wyatt. He’s just a kid. Not a Clanton. But he was hunting trouble and wouldn’t stop until someone stopped him. Or talked him down. “Kid let’s—”

Charlie’s pistol broke leather and came up barking fire.

Wild bullets whined past my head.

The quickest draw rarely hit their mark. So I took a steadying breath, drew my Colt, and fired.

And hit my mark.

Charlie cried out and crumpled to the ground.

“Wyatt shot him!” someone yelled. “He killed Charlie.”

“I ain’t dead,” Charlie growled and clutched his leg.

A miner swooped in and collected Charlie’s pistol. Others tended to his wound.

I swept my frock to the side revealing the deputy badge.  “Sheriff asked me to broker a treaty. Y’all ready to listen now?”

The miners conferred amongst themselves. Finally, the dance hall gang leader stepped from the shadows. “We’re game.”

“Us too,” Sawmill Leader said.

The other miners agreed, holstered their weapons, and sauntered from their hiding spots. Not exactly Doc’s diplomacy, but it worked.

“You aimed low.”

I turned as Jim sauntered up beside me.

“Trying something new,” I said, holstering my pistol.

“Lucky for Charlie,” he replied. “A lesser man would’ve killed him.”

I said nothing but my heart swelled with pride.

After bandaging Jim’s shoulder, we shared a smoke with the two factions and then brokered a peace treaty. This hadn’t been the fresh start I envisioned. Trouble would follow me for the rest of my days.

But killing wouldn’t.

Not anymore.