Johnson sat in the hotel dining room. The other breakfasters looked at him. Nobody spoke. Sunlight came in through the windows. He heard a bird chirping.
He heard the rattle of wagons in the street outside, the people shouting to each other to clear out, that there was going to be some gunplay. He heard Mrs. Wilson’s piano lessons in the next building, a child playing scales.
Johnson felt completely unreal.
Minutes later, Wyatt Earp hurried into the dining room. “What’s this foolishness about you and Dick Curry?”
“It’s true.”
Earp stared at him a moment, then said, “Take my advice and back out.”
“I’m not backing out,” Johnson said.
“Can you shoot?”
“Not real good.”
“That’s unfortunate.”
“But I’m going up against him anyway.”
“You want some advice, or you want to die your own way?”
“I will be grateful for any advice,” Johnson said. He noticed that his lip was quivering, his hand shaking.
“Sit down,” Earp said. “I been through lots of these, and it’s always the same. You get a pistoleer like Dick, he is pretty full of himself, and he has shot a man or two. He’s fast. But mostly his victims have been drunk or scared or both.”
“I surely am scared.”
“That’s fine. Just remember, most of these gunmen are cowards and bullies, they have a trick that works for them. You must avoid his tricks.”
“Such as what? What tricks?”
“Some of ’em try and rush you, some of ’em try and distract you—they smoke a cigar, toss it away, expecting your eyes naturally to follow it. Some of ’em try and talk to you. Some of ’em yawn, try to get you to yawn. Tricks.”
“What should I do?” Johnson’s heart was hammering so loudly he could hardly hear his own voice.
“When you go out there, you take your time. And never take your eyes off him—he may try and shoot you while you’re stepping into the street. Never take your eyes off him. Then take your position, put your feet wide, get your balance. Don’t let him engage you in talk. Concentrate on him. Never take your eyes off him, no matter what he does. Watch his eyes. You’ll see in his eyes when he’s going to make his play, even before his hand moves.”
“How will I see it?”
“You’ll see it, don’t worry. Let him fire first, you draw deliberate, you aim deliberate, and you squeeze off one shot right to the middle of his stomach. Don’t do anything fancy like aim for the head. Make it count. Shoot him in the stomach and kill him.”
“Oh God.” The reality of it was settling in on him.
“You sure you won’t back out?”
“No!”
“Fine,” Earp said. “I believe you’ll come out. Dick’s cocky, he thinks you’re a mark. You can’t ask for better than a cocky man to go up against.”
“I’m glad to hear of it.”
“You’ll come out,” Earp said again. “Is your gun loaded?”
“No.”
“Better load it, boy.”
Johnson stepped out of the hotel into the morning light. The main street of Deadwood was deserted. There was silence, except for Mrs. Wilson’s piano lesson, monotonous scales.
Black Dick was at the north end of the street, waiting. He puffed on a cigar. His broad hat put his face in deep shadow. Johnson had trouble seeing his eyes. He hesitated.
“Come on out, Foggy,” Dick called.
Johnson stepped away from the hotel, into the street. He felt his feet squish in the mud. He did not look down.
Keep your eyes on him. Never take your eyes off him.
Johnson moved to the middle of the street, stopped.
Get your balance, get your feet wide.
Clearly, he heard Mrs. Wilson’s voice say, “No, no, Charlotte. Tempo.”
Concentrate. Concentrate on him.
They were thirty feet apart, on the main street of Deadwood in the morning sunshine.
Dick laughed. “Come closer, Foggy.”
“This’ll do,” Johnson said.
“I can’t hardly see you, Foggy.”
Don’t let him talk to you. Watch him.
“I see fine,” Johnson said.
Dick laughed. The laugh trailed off into silence.
Watch his eyes. Watch his eyes.
“Any last requests, Foggy?”
Johnson did not answer. He felt his heart pounding in his chest.
Black Dick threw his cigar away. It sailed through the air, sputtered in the mud.
No matter what he does, never take your eyes off him.
Dick drew.
It happened very fast, Dick’s body was obscured by a cloud of dense black smoke, and two bullets whizzed past Johnson before his own gun was out, and he felt the third knock his hat off as he aimed and fired. His gun bucked in his hand. He heard a scream of pain.
“Son of a bitch! I’m hit!”
Johnson peered through the smoke, more confused than anything else. At first he could see nothing; Dick seemed to have disappeared entirely from the street.
Then the smoke cleared and he saw the figure writhing in the mud.
“You shot me! Damn! You shot me!”
Johnson stood and stared. Dick struggled to his feet, clutching his bleeding shoulder, his wounded arm hanging limply. He was covered in mud.
“Damn you!”
Finish him, thought Johnson.
But he had already killed a man and didn’t have the heart to shoot again now. He watched as Dick staggered across the street and swung onto his horse. “I’ll get you for this! I’ll get you,” he cried, and he rode out of town.
Johnson watched him go. He heard scattered cheers and applause from the surrounding buildings. He felt dizzy, and his legs went watery.
“You did good,” Earp said, “excepting you didn’t kill him.”
“I’m not a gunman.”
“That’s fine,” Earp said. “But mark, you should have killed him. It didn’t look to me his wounds were mortal, and now you have an enemy for life.”
“I couldn’t kill him, Wyatt.”
Earp looked at him for a while. “You’re a down-Easter, that’s the trouble. Haven’t got any common sense. You’re gonna have to get out of town pronto, you know.”
“Why is that?”
“Because, boy, you have a reputation now.”
Johnson laughed. “Everybody in town knows who I am.”
“Not anymore,” Earp said.
It turned out that Foggy Bill Johnson, the man who gunned down Clem Curry and then went up against his brother Dick, was indeed a notorious celebrity in Deadwood. Every man who fancied himself sharp with a gun was suddenly asking to meet him.
After two days of extricating himself from gunfights, Johnson realized that Earp was right. He would have to leave Deadwood soon. He had just enough money to buy fare and freight on the express stage, and purchased his ticket for the following day. When the light was low, he took one of the horses and checked to see that Little Wind’s grave had not been disturbed. So far, it hadn’t. The ground had hardened up in the cold and he had left no tracks. Even so, he forced himself to leave immediately, lest he be noticed.
Earp, meanwhile, had grown tired of gambling and a desultory courting of Miss Emily. He had expected Deadwood to offer him a position as marshal, but no offer was forthcoming, so he was going to head south for the winter.
“When’re you leaving?” Johnson asked.
“What’s it to you?”