I M P R E S S I O N S

The New New West

by Steven C. Day

I had another really weird dream last night, the type that haunts you and leaves you with a vague sense of foreboding. I suppose the pizza and the six pack of beer before bed are what did it. At least I hope that’s all it was, because I have to tell you, this dream had the sense of prophecy about it. You know, kind of like when you dream that something bad is about to happen and then you wake up to find that the dog has pooped on the floor. It’s like someone was trying to warn you.

Earlier that night I had been watching a recap on television of the aftermath of Sept. 11. Although I was drifting in and out of sleep, I do remember some guy talking about how many of our allies in the war against terrorism are totalitarian regimes with bad human rights records. I also remember them playing the tape of George W. Bush saying that we want bin Laden “dead or alive” and that we will ’smoke him out.” Then I guess I nodded off for good.

The next thing I remember, it was 1881 and I was in Tombstone, Ariz., listening to a conversation between Wyatt Earp and Doc Holliday.

“Doc,” Wyatt began, ‘the Clanton gang has been terrorizing Tombstone for too long. It’s time we took ‘em down.”

“That’ll mean a showdown,” Doc replied. “But if you say that’s what needs to be done, Wyatt, I’ll stand with you.”

“Thanks, Doc, but even with the two of us and my brothers, Virgil and Morgan, I still think we’ll need some other guns. What we need is a posse.”

“Good idea,” agreed Doc. “I know several men here in town who will be willing to help.”

“Good,” said Wyatt, “we can use them. But I also think we need some professional guns from outside. And we can’t afford to be too particular about who we get. I don’t care who they are or what they’ve done before. If they know how to shoot and will stand with us against the Clantons, then they’re OK by me.”

Virgil Earp, who had also been listening in on the conversation, looked concerned. “With a crowd like that of gunfighters and outlaws, things are bound to happen that won’t be pretty. Some of the town’s people may not like it.”

“No problem,” Wyatt said confidently. “We’re going to keep this thing real quiet. We’ll just tell folks that the posse’s actions have to be kept secret for security reasons. I’ve even come up with a slogan to make the point: “When too much is said, you can end up dead.”"

“I like it,” said Doc. “I like it a lot.”

The next morning, Wyatt and Doc rode out to begin building the posse. They first headed to Fort Sumner, N.M., to meet up with Billy the Kid.

“Billy, I want you to join a posse that’s going after the Clanton gang,” started Wyatt.

“I heard that you boys were feuding with the Clantons,” replied Billy, “but it ain’t my fight. So I figure I’ll just sit this one out.”

“There’s no staying neutral in this fight, Billy,” said Wyatt. “Y ou’re either with us or you’re against us.”

“Is that so,” snickered Billy. “Well, I’ll tell you what, Mr. Earp, I’ll ride in your posse, all right, but I want something in return. Pat Garrett’s been breathing down my neck lately. Use your contacts to get him off my back and I’m all yours.”

“I don’t know about this,” Doc whispered to Wyatt. “The Kid’s killed 21 men. I’m not sure we ought to be sticking our noses into this.”

“Hey, he’s the kind of gun we need and that’s all I care about right now,” Wyatt snapped.

“You got a deal, Kid.”

Wyatt, Doc and the Kid then rode on to Kansas where they caught up with the Dalton gang, camped a little ways outside of Coffeyville. When Wyatt asked Emmett Dalton, the leader of the gang, to join the posse, he agreed, but, like Billy the Kid, he wanted something in return: “We have a business arrangement in the works with two banks in Coffeyville,” he said. “We’d sure appreciate it if you could use your contacts there to find out, kind of quiet like, just as much as you can about those banks, especially their security set-ups.”

“What sort of business arrangement?” Doc asked suspiciously.

Wyatt interrupted him: “Doc, we need to keep our minds on the business at hand, which is getting the Clanton gang. Whatever business these folks have in Coffeyville ain’t our concern.”

“I’ll find out what I can for you, Emmett,” Wyatt concluded.

“Then count my boys in.”

Bit by bit the posse grew larger as they rode through Kansas, Missouri, Oklahoma, Colorado and finally back into Arizona. Along the way they picked up Jesse and Frank James, Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid, Cherokee Bill, John Wesley Hardin, Black Bart, Clay Allison, Bill Doolin, Sam Bass, along with all their gangs and dozens of other gun fighters. (Yeah, I know a lot of these folks weren’t around in 1881. It was a dream, remember?) Some joined the posse in exchange for something Wyatt promised them, some because he threatened them, and others just because they liked the action. But whatever their reasons, by the time the posse reached the outskirts of Tombstone it numbered more than 200 guns.

As the posse moved into town, they spread out looking for the Clanton gang who, having seen them coming, were wisely hiding out. It took a while, but at long last on Oct. 26, 1881 the posse smoked them out and trapped them in a vacant lot behind the OK Corral. The posse bore down, hundreds of men armed to the teeth. Although most of the outlaws hung back at the end and avoided the fight, the Clanton’s were still hopelessly outgunned. A shot rang out followed by 500 more. Thirty seconds later it was all over. The entire Clanton gang lay dead in the dirt, with more holes in ‘em than a shot up piece of Swiss cheese.

“It’s finally over, Doc,” Wyatt said in a soft voice. “The Clantons will never again terrorize this town. People can once more feel safe walking the streets.”

Doc took a long look at all of the outlaws and gunfighters gathered around them. Most still had their guns drawn and some were pointed in Wyatt’s and Doc’s direction. The Dalton gang was heading straight for the bank, while Cherokee Bill was eyeing the payroll stage. The rest were milling about town firing their guns into the air.

“I hope you’re right,” Doc said, just as I started to wake up. “I surely do hope you’re right.”

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Steven C. Day is an attorney practicing in Wichita, Kansas. His previous columns can be found here.

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