on the right side, chipped the intercostal artery, passed through both intestines, and lay pressing against the spinal cord. Both were fatal injuries.
Having finished his preliminary examination, Matthews washed his hands in a basin of lukewarm water provided for that purpose, toweled off, drew two cigars from the inside breast pocket of his coat hanging on the back of a chair, gave one to the carpenter, and lit them both with a sulfur match. His fingers smelled of alcohol despite the washing. Clouds of smoke deadened the blood-and excrement stink in the room.
“Should I fetch the undertaker?” The carpenter sounded eager.
“Ritter’s ears are better than yours or mine when it comes to gunfire.” He rotated the cigar between his lips, wetting the end. “You may leave, and thank you.”
Gratefully the other man let himself out the front door. Alone, the coroner contemplated the Frontier model Colt’s he had picked up from the floor near Frank McLaury’s body and placed on the table next to the banknotes. He was a collector and carried a Schofield pistol in his instrument bag for his own protection. The Colt’s was blue-black with a stag handle, a twin of the popular Peacemaker but chambered for the .44-40 centerfire cartridge employed by the Model 1873 Winchester rifle and carbine. The mechanism appealed to his medical mind. When drawn back, the hammer advanced the cylinder to the next chamber, where once the trigger was released the nose of the hammer snapped down on the cartridge, igniting the powder and expelling the ball from the barrel at the approximate speed of eight hundred feet per second. A simple engine, really. He winked.
It was not Wyatt but Morgan, with his shirt off and his coat draped over his shoulders, a patch on each where the ball had gone in from behind and where Goodfellow had cut it out and then wrapped gauze around his chest and over his left shoulder toga-fashion. Morgan’s helpers tracked dirt in through Allie’s door and tipped him into bed beside his brother. He lay facedown, grunting.
Virgil looked up at Goodfellow, who had followed the party inside.
“He has lost some blood,” the doctor said. “I will be in every day.” To Allie: “Change the dressings twice daily and send someone around for me if either of them takes on fever. That will mean infection.”
He handed her a blue bottle of laudanum and left after drilling her in its application. John Clum and Colonel Herring remained. Clum, the slight, slope-shouldered young mayor of Tombstone and founder-publisher of the Daily Epitaph, stood with his hat in his hands and his tan ending where his fringe of dark hair began. His handlebars and naked scalp heaped ten years onto his appearance. Beside him the huge attorney with muttonchops resembled an erect walrus in a charcoal suit and wing collar. Snuff clung to his whiskers and hammocked in the creases of his vest. Both men had pistols stuck in their belts and Herring had a shotgun broken over his right arm in clear violation of the city anti-firearms ordinance.
Virgil said, “John, can we count on the Citizens’ Safety Committee to watch the place and see we are not both murdered in our sleep?”
“We will post guards outside on a rotating system,” said Clum. “But I think you have taken the fight out of Ike for now.”
“It ain’t Ike I’m concerned about.”
“Even a mob respects a show of arms,” Herring said.
Clum was sober. “A coroner’s inquest is setting up now. Wyatt would not be arrested by Behan but there will be warrants issued. I will put the best face I can on the business in the Epitaph.”
“I’d feel easier about that if you had the Nugget’s circulation.”
“It would be simpler if you had not deputized Doc Holliday,” Clum said.
“Doc is like a puppy. Where Wyatt goes he follows.”
“I guess Wyatt will be retaining Tom Fitch,” said Herring. “He is a good man for this kind of thing.”
“It is a hell of a note when a peace
Having finished his preliminary examination, Matthews washed his hands in a basin of lukewarm water provided for that purpose, toweled off, drew two cigars from the inside breast pocket of his coat hanging on the back of a chair, gave one to the carpenter, and lit them both with a sulfur match. His fingers smelled of alcohol despite the washing. Clouds of smoke deadened the blood-and excrement stink in the room.
“Should I fetch the undertaker?” The carpenter sounded eager.
“Ritter’s ears are better than yours or mine when it comes to gunfire.” He rotated the cigar between his lips, wetting the end. “You may leave, and thank you.”
Gratefully the other man let himself out the front door. Alone, the coroner contemplated the Frontier model Colt’s he had picked up from the floor near Frank McLaury’s body and placed on the table next to the banknotes. He was a collector and carried a Schofield pistol in his instrument bag for his own protection. The Colt’s was blue-black with a stag handle, a twin of the popular Peacemaker but chambered for the .44-40 centerfire cartridge employed by the Model 1873 Winchester rifle and carbine. The mechanism appealed to his medical mind. When drawn back, the hammer advanced the cylinder to the next chamber, where once the trigger was released the nose of the hammer snapped down on the cartridge, igniting the powder and expelling the ball from the barrel at the approximate speed of eight hundred feet per second. A simple engine, really. He winked.
It was not Wyatt but Morgan, with his shirt off and his coat draped over his shoulders, a patch on each where the ball had gone in from behind and where Goodfellow had cut it out and then wrapped gauze around his chest and over his left shoulder toga-fashion. Morgan’s helpers tracked dirt in through Allie’s door and tipped him into bed beside his brother. He lay facedown, grunting.
Virgil looked up at Goodfellow, who had followed the party inside.
“He has lost some blood,” the doctor said. “I will be in every day.” To Allie: “Change the dressings twice daily and send someone around for me if either of them takes on fever. That will mean infection.”
He handed her a blue bottle of laudanum and left after drilling her in its application. John Clum and Colonel Herring remained. Clum, the slight, slope-shouldered young mayor of Tombstone and founder-publisher of the Daily Epitaph, stood with his hat in his hands and his tan ending where his fringe of dark hair began. His handlebars and naked scalp heaped ten years onto his appearance. Beside him the huge attorney with muttonchops resembled an erect walrus in a charcoal suit and wing collar. Snuff clung to his whiskers and hammocked in the creases of his vest. Both men had pistols stuck in their belts and Herring had a shotgun broken over his right arm in clear violation of the city anti-firearms ordinance.
Virgil said, “John, can we count on the Citizens’ Safety Committee to watch the place and see we are not both murdered in our sleep?”
“We will post guards outside on a rotating system,” said Clum. “But I think you have taken the fight out of Ike for now.”
“It ain’t Ike I’m concerned about.”
“Even a mob respects a show of arms,” Herring said.
Clum was sober. “A coroner’s inquest is setting up now. Wyatt would not be arrested by Behan but there will be warrants issued. I will put the best face I can on the business in the Epitaph.”
“I’d feel easier about that if you had the Nugget’s circulation.”
“It would be simpler if you had not deputized Doc Holliday,” Clum said.
“Doc is like a puppy. Where Wyatt goes he follows.”
“I guess Wyatt will be retaining Tom Fitch,” said Herring. “He is a good man for this kind of thing.”
“It is a hell of a note when a peace
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