Bird of the Gods

Chapter Thirteen

Tombstone, Arizona—zip code 85638. The town too tough to die. Center of the original American silver rush of the 1880s. What could be luckier than striking it rich in precious metals?

Conrad pulled the rental to a spot along the curb behind a minivan with a stick family decal that included seven people, three dogs, two cats, and a guinea pig. Fiona gave a moment's thought to whether she'd made the wrong life choices, looked over at the well-built handsome guy driving the Mustang, and decided she was doing alright without a small bus load of children and animals.

They climbed out and stretched. It was well over an hour's drive from Tucson and that's after sitting on a plane half the day. Her joints popped and protested the movements.

A gentle breeze whipped up a film of dust and carried it down Allen Street. She followed its progress with her eyes and looked straight into an old western movie. Two tottering red stagecoaches rattled along the road in opposite directions, pulled by teams of the biggest horses she'd ever seen. Men with red sashes and guns holstered at their hips strolled along the boardwalk arm-in-arm with women in hoop skirts and wide-brimmed, flowered hats. Tourists in shorts and polo shirts and bikers with heavy leather vests made way for them.

Conrad grinned like a little boy in a toy shop. "This is so cool."

"This is cool?"

In a small city park on the corner, two boys shot each other with plastic arrows.

"Definitely." He took off across the street. "Come on."

Fiona raced to catch up with him and reached his side just as he came to the old time photo place. Inside the dimly lit fake saloon, a huge family—maybe the minivan sticker people—were being organized for a photo. All the males, even the toddler, wore long beige dusters and held rifles. All the females, even the preschooler, wore saloon girl dresses. "Don't even think about it," she said.

Conrad's slightly maniacal grin only grew wider. "Too late. I'm already thinking."

"We have work to do, you know. I am not dressing up like a nineteenth century prostitute and having a photograph done with you."

He rolled his eyes. "Killjoy."

"Gunfight at the OK Corral; starts in fifteen minutes, folks." A tall slim man in a black suit and a red, satin brocade waistcoat slipped a gold watch into his pocket. "It's American history, folks. You don't want to miss it."

Fiona smiled politely. "We're actually quite—"

But Conrad was staring, agape, at the wooden sign creaking back and forth in the wind. "It's the actual OK Corral?"

"Yes, sir, the one and only."

Conrad practically ran through the doors.

"You can't be serious," Fiona sighed.

"Ma'am, Americans take their history very seriously."

She bit back a half dozen sharp retorts and followed Conrad.

"I got you a ticket," Conrad said. "There's a Historama show after the gunfight."

"We watch this little re-enactment and then we're back on task. No Historama. Do you understand me?"

He pouted and held up his right hand. "Scouts honor."

"You were never a boy scout."

"I was. They threw me out. It's only because the other boys were intimidated by my mad skills."

"No doubt."

He continued grinning. "We should find a seat."

"Lead the way."