I left the Tombstone Police Station and its old grizzled desk sergeant to enjoy his lunch. It was almost high noon and I headed to the O.K. Corral where Wyatt Earp awaited. (Background: I Consult An Old Grizzled Police Sergeant, Ersjdamoo’s Blog, January 12, 2015.)
I turned the corner, and there was Earp. I immediately raised my hands, from fear of being shot. The walrus moustache of Earp drooped low, accentuating his frown. “‘Bout time you got here, cowpoke,” snarled Wyatt Earp. “I’ve been coming here for seven days now. I’d about given up on you.”
I began to give my neat excuse about how I hadn’t exactly said what day when I had proposed, “high noon at the O.K. Corral” – but decided Earp was angry enough without me adding any yuppified tomfoolery.
“Are you heeled?” Earp demanded to know.
“Heeled? What’s that supposed to mean?” I asked.
“I mean are you packing?” answered Earp.
I gathered that Wyatt Earp wanted to know if I was armed. “No, Mr. Earp, I am not ‘heeled’ as you say. I carry no weapon.”
This might have put Wyatt in a fix. The Code of the West would not let him shoot an unarmed man. But quickly he decided, “Then it will have to be fisticuffs.”
This was bad news for me, since I happened to know that Wyatt Earp was a skilled boxer. He put up his dukes in the old “Gentleman Jim” Corbett style. I tried to talk my way out. “Couldn’t we just play a game of chess or something?” I started to ask when – Pow! – Earp’s right fist delivered a tremendous uppercut to my chin and I went out like a light.
As I lay there on the ground, strange ideas seemed to whirl through my semi-conscious brain:
… secret instructions given to Alexander the Great by Aristotle… Mora, the shape changer who brings bad dreams and suffocates sleepers… transition from the biosphere to the noosphere… Must find John McCain… Nikolai Fedorovich Fedorov… Tale of the White Cowl… Russian Tsar represents the interests of the dead among the living… collect these particles of ancestral dust in the resurrection project… McCain knows… resurrection will be a task not of miracle but of knowledge and common labor… the common task of resurrecting the ancestors… the Poimandres of Hermes Trismegistus… McCain is the key… the medieval world-conception had collapsed… medieval Christianity had not understood and adopted the task of resurrection… Complete truth equals A + (−A)… God needs us to complete the work he began… 
When I came to, Wyatt Earp was reaching out his hand. “Put her there, pardner,” he said as I arose from the ground. “We’re even now. Come on, I will buy you a beer.”
It was once more the Code of the West: When you clobbered a guy, after that you were pals. This Code of the West, incidentally, applies when the U.S. goes to war. See, for example, The Mouse That Roared, a 1955 Cold War satirical novel by Irish American writer Leonard Wibberley, later made into a movie starring Peter Sellers. See also The Report From Iron Mountain, where it is said that war is partly founded upon a basis of international understanding. This is how shy peoples of different nations get to know each other. War “breaks the ice”, so to speak.
So after the fisticuffs, the “ice” had been broken between Wyatt Earp and myself. We walked over to the nearby Dead-Eye Saloon. It was a touristy sort of place, with an old-time piano player, painted-up “hussies”, and a long polished bar counter. Wyatt Earp ordered me a cold beer. He himself did not drink, but puffed on a cigar instead.
“Well, Mr. Earp,” I said, still rubbing my sore chin, “I’m at least glad our misunderstanding has been cleared up.”
“Call me Wyatt,” Earp replied in a friendly way, “and let bygones be bygones.”
“Will do,” I said, and we shook hands. I sipped my beer and glanced around the Dead-Eye Saloon. Seated at a corner table enjoying his union-stipulated lunch hour was the old grizzled police sergeant who had earlier been unable to help me. “Come on, Wyatt,” I said. “Let me introduce you to an acquaintance, a member of the local constabulary.”
The sergeant was chewing on some sort of sandwich and was drinking iced tea. We approached the table and I said, “Hello, sergeant. Let me introduce Wyatt Earp to you. You’ll be glad to know that – no thanks to you – our difficulty has been settled.”
The two lawmen cooly nodded to each other. The sergeant invited us to sit down. “I have something to tell ye, laddie,” whispered the sergeant. “Remember how I said, ‘There’s quite a lot we desk sergeants know about?’ That wasn’t just bosh. But I couldn’t tell ye more then, because my union steward wouldn’t approve. Now that I am on my guaranteed lunch hour, I can offer ye more.” And having said this, the sergeant handed over to me, beneath the table, a manila file folder. “You don’t know who gave this to you, eh?” whispered the sergeant. I gave him a sly wink and he arose from the table and loudly said, so that any eavesdroppers could hear, “No, I know nothing about it. We are still studying what says the law. I cannot help you.”
The sergeant left the Dead-Eye Saloon. I refrained from immediately examining the contents of the file folder, lest there be unknown observers, and instead unobtrusively slipped the folder and its contents into my travelling bag.
——- Sources ——-
 Acknowledgement to: The Russian Cosmists: The Esoteric Futurism of Nikolai Fedorov and His Followers, by George M. Young. Kindle e-book edition.