Bliss was best experienced without the distraction of companions, so it became Curly Bill’s policy to visit Chinatown only when he was alone. Everything might have turned out different if he’d held to that rule the night Fred White got hurt.
Looking back, Curly Bill himself was inclined to blame Little Willie Claiborne for what happened. Claiborne was eighteen, same as Billy Clanton, and when those young fools got to be friends, Old Man Clanton hired Claiborne to handle the remuda. Claiborne was pretty good with horses, but Curly Bill had taken a dislike to the young braggart from the start.
“Well, now,” the little redneck had drawled, “this gang’s already got itself a Billy Clanton and a Curly Bill. I’m the youngest, so I reckon y’all can call me Billy the Kid!”
It was presumptuous, giving yourself a nickname like that—trying to make out like you were a famous outlaw when you were just an obnoxious young cracker who thought highly of himself.
“Billy the Kid?” Ringo scoffed. “You mean Billy the Baby Boy.”
Claiborne bristled and started talking about how tough he was. There was laughter in response, so he said he’d killed lots of men, but anybody could see he was making it up as he went along.
“I killed as many as Billy Bonney, by God,” Claiborne hollered, “and I’ll kill more if anybody says different!”
“Little Willie,” Ringo decided. “We’re gonna call you Little Willie.”
The nickname stuck because it was fun to see how stirred up Claiborne got whenever you called him that. Which Frank McLaury did as often as he could, because he wasn’t the low man anymore. To get some of his own back, Little Willie Claiborne started ragging Frank McLaury and Billy Clanton about going into Tombstone after they’d stolen Wyatt Earp’s horse.
“You gonna let that sonofabitch scare you?” Claiborne would say. “Why, he ain’t so tough! I killed me lotsa men tougher’n Wyatt Earp!”
Didn’t take much of that before Claiborne had the boys ready to ride into Tombstone and dare them law-dogs to do something about it. Curly Bill couldn’t order Old Man Clanton’s kid not to go. He also knew that if something happened, he himself would get the blame, so he decided to go along and keep those young fools out of trouble. He figured he’d corral the boys over at Ah-Sing’s place and put a pipe in their hands. Next morning they’d all ride out of Tombstone without Fred White ever knowing they were in town.
God’s honest truth: What happened that night was just an accident.
PORTENTS OF BATTLE
ALL BEGUILEMENTS AND LOVELINESS
IT WAS ALMOST MIDNIGHT BUT ALBERT BEHAN WAS SITTING on the edge of the bed, watching his father’s girlfriend get ready to go out. She had a tiny glass jar with pink stuff inside and ran the ball of her little finger across it. After she dabbed some on her lips and cheeks, she turned her head from side to side to judge the effect.
“War paint,” she said, winking at his reflection in her mirror. “Hand me that hat, sweetheart. The one with the blue feathers.”
He hopped up and brought it to her. She put it way over on the side of her head and had to use a fancy pin to keep it from falling off. Leaning toward the mirror, she adjusted the little curls around her face. When she was satisfied, she stood and smoothed the wrinkles on her skirt and slipped into her jacket.
“What do you think?” she asked, tugging her sleeves down.
Dumbstruck, he nodded his approval. She looked nice even when she was just cooking or something, but when she was all fixed up, she was the prettiest lady Albert had ever seen. A lot prettier than his mother, who had lines in her face from frowning so much and never said anything kind to a person.
“It’s really dark out there, Sadie.” That was the name he used when he wanted to remind her that he was her most special friend. “I could go with you. If you like. We could protect each other. Like when we went out looking for Daddy.”
She smiled, pulling on her gloves. “Albert, you are the dearest thing, but I really need to go alone. Are you sure you’ll be all right by yourself?”
“Sure, Sadie. I’m nine now,” he reminded her.
He was, in fact, a little nervous. Snakes sometimes came into the house because it was warmer inside at night.
“Sadie?”
“Yes, sweetie?”
“I love you, even if Dad doesn’t.”
It just sort of came out. He thought it would make her feel better, but her face crumpled. “I’m sorry,” he said quickly, ready to cry himself, but she came close and bent to put her arms around him.
“Never!” she said fiercely. “Never be sorry for loving someone, Albert!” She pulled back to look him in the eye. “I love you, too. I always will, no matter what.”
But then she left. Just like his mother.
AND WALKED OUT INTO THE DARKNESS, determined to show John Harris Behan that two could play his nasty game. She had, briefly, savored the notion of cornering Johnny in a cathouse with Albert at her side, but the past six months had made a realist of her. Fatherhood had not kept Johnny from flagrant infidelity to Victoria, whose legal status was not enough to keep her husband home. So Josie Marcus was going to fight fire with fire. Let Johnny worry about her, for a change! Let him think about where she might be, and with whom.
That was the entirety of her plan when she left the house. Just . . . be gone when he finally came home that night. That new Chinese restaurant was open all night. She’d pass the time at Kee’s Can Can Café, then she’d waltz into the house at dawn and refuse to answer questions.
Let’s just see how you like it, John Behan!
Downtown Tombstone didn’t seem all that far away in daylight, but she hadn’t walked far when she began to feel uneasy. Clouds were rolling in. The moon kept disappearing. She could hear the noise of the mine engines half a mile away, but the houses she passed were quiet, their doors and curtains closed against the desert’s nighttime chill.
The only sound nearby was the crunch of her own feet on the gravelly roadside until something rustled in a clump of mesquite she was passing.
A dog, most likely. Or a coyote. Maybe a pig.
Not a snake. It was too cold at night for snakes to be active.
Probably.
She picked up her pace and hurried past the mesquite, but that was when she really grew nervous, for the soft rustling was behind her now. She turned quickly and looked back, thinking Al might have followed her, but nobody was there.
Nobody she could see, anyway.
She had never before gone out at night without a male escort, even if he was only a nine-year-old boy. If somebody snuck up and grabbed her arm and dragged her off, there’d be no sympathy. Everyone would say she asked for it, going out alone like that.
She considered turning back. Maybe she should get Albert to come with her, after all. Or just take off her hat and stay home with him.
Except she was a lot closer to town than to the house now.
She kept walking, but moved to the center of the empty street.
If she were back in San Francisco, she could have gone to Dora Hirsch’s house. Or Agnes Stern’s. Dora would have bucked her up and told her that a shegetz like Johnny Behan wasn’t good enough for her. Agnes would have told her to pack her things and leave that putz. But she wasn’t in San Francisco, and she hadn’t sent a word to her friends since she ran away. She stopped writing to her parents after she got an answer to her letter telling them she was Mrs. John Behan. Her father didn’t exactly say it, but she could read between the lines. We didn’t raise you to marry some mick gonif. I am disappointed. You broke your mutti’s heart. And that was his reaction to the idea that she’d married outside the faith. The truth was a bigger shanda. If her parents found out she was simply shacked up with a man whose first wife had divorced him for constant, remorseless philandering, they’d declare her dead and sit shivah for her.
So. Here she was, walking down a dark street in Tombstone, Arizona. Nine hundred miles from home. Living with a man twice her age who cheate
d on her routinely and publicly. She had no friends. Not one woman in Tombstone would speak to her. Nobody but Albert really cared about her. Several men in town would have been happy to take her as a mistress, but she wasn’t drawn to any of them. Even her schoolgirlish crush on Wyatt Earp had faded for lack of the slightest encouragement from him.
She understood those joyless eyes now. Wyatt had troubles of his own. She’d probably only fallen for him because he was everything Johnny wasn’t. Tall, blond, blue-eyed. A goyische god, Agnes would have called him. True, he was awkward as a guest, but she’d never forgotten that day in the corral when she’d seen him in his proper element: outdoors, working wordlessly with horses. There was something about that quiet, self-contained competence . . .
Johnny, on the other hand, wanted to be your best friend the minute he met you, but he was a politician to the bone. Once he had your vote, it was on to the next man. Or woman. And the talking! Say yes to Johnny Behan, and he was still making his case an hour later, as if he knew you’d only given in to him so he’d shut up. Wyatt didn’t have a syllable of cajolery in him. The only time he’d said more than a few words to her, it was about horses.
And dentistry, for heaven’s sake!
It was then that she remembered the slow southern voice, inflected by an eerie musical malice. If you ever decide to leave that presumptuous, third-rate, overdressed Irish bigot, ask at the desk for the envelope, y’hear?
Fifty dollars . . .
I could go anywhere, she thought. Chicago, maybe. Or New York! Stay at the Cosmopolitan tonight. Get on a stagecoach tomorrow, and go. I can buy new clothes when I get there and start over.
Leave, she thought. That’s the solution to everything.
Albert was forgotten in a rush of optimism, along with humiliation and anger, discouragement and fear. Eyes on the future, she hardly noticed the drunks who came to a sudden, swaying stop to stare at her.
The oldest among them swept off his wide-brimmed hat, revealing a luxuriant mass of dark, curling hair as he bowed with elaborate courtesy. “Show the lady some respect!” he snapped, slapping at his younger charges with the sombrero.
“Evening, ma’am,” they mumbled, pulling their own hats off.
Cheered by this frontier gallantry, she smiled her acknowledgment with a confidence bred for daylight.
“C’mon, boys!” she heard the curly-haired one urge after she passed. “You’re gonna love it! One pipe at Ah-Sing’s, and everything’s just grand . . .”
A hophead, she thought, for she’d read the lurid stories in the San Francisco press and knew the Chinatown lingo. Feeling worldly, she sailed on toward Allen Street, her head full of plans and possibilities, and after that first friendly encounter, she wasn’t the least bit concerned when she saw a knot of miners jamming the boardwalk.
“Please,” she began politely, “Let me—” Let me pass, she was going to say.
“I’ll let you do anything you like, little lady!” one said. “What do you like, little lady?” He grabbed her hand and pressed it against his crotch. “How ’bout this? You like this?”
Startled, disgusted, she snatched her hand away amid gales of laughter and gripped her skirts, lifting the fabric slightly when she stepped into the street to go around the men. Setting her face, she kept her head down after that, minnowing through the crowds in front of every saloon, hoping to go unnoticed the rest of the way to the Can Can.
She made it to Allen before someone jostled against her and she stumbled into a man who caught her before she could fall. She started to thank him. Then she saw the look on his face.
“Excuse me,” she said stiffly. Moving left, then right.
Grinning, he matched her moves, stepping from side to side, blocking her way. “You wanna dance, sweet thang? C’mon, I’ll dance with you!”
All around her, men got closer. Remarks got uglier. A callused hand reached around from behind and closed over her breast. She shrieked, twisting to get loose, only to be gripped by someone else who smelled so bad, she gagged and pushed against his chest. “Let me go! I’m not—I’m not what you think!”
“What? You mean you ain’t female?”
Frantic, she began to scream for help, but her struggle only amused the miners and ranch hands. It seemed a miracle when three young women elbowed their way to her side, their painted faces contorted by fury as they forced themselves between her and the laughing, leering drunks.
“Thank God! Thank you! I am so grateful,” she began, only to be silenced by the glittering hatred in the eyes of a Chinese girl who couldn’t have been more than fourteen.
“This our corner,” the girl snarled. “You go now!”
“But I’m not— Really, I wasn’t trying to—”
“God damn, I tell you! You go now!” the little hooker yelled, shoving hard.
With a dancer’s grace, she managed to keep her balance, but she was no longer sure which way the Allen Street crowd was moving her. West, toward the hotels and restaurants? Or east, toward the brothels? Tamping down panic, she scanned the street, hoping to see something familiar and get her bearings, but everything looked so different at night and—
“There!” she cried, voice cracking, when she identified the brightly lit lobby of the Cosmopolitan through its plate-glass windows.
“Out! Of! My! Way!” she shouted with the imperious disdain of Miss Pauline Markham correcting a foolish ingenue who’d upstaged her in rehearsal.
Cowed by her ersatz courage, the drunks let her through, and she entered the lobby with her head held high and stood still, blinking in the gaslight’s flaring brightness, waiting for her heart to stop hammering.
“Evening, Mrs. Behan,” Mr. Bilicke said. “I’m afraid Johnny’s not here.”
Still rattled, she needed a moment to understand what he was talking about. “I—I know,” she said, coming to the desk. “Doc Holliday left me something and—”
“Doc’s right in there,” Mr. Bilicke informed her, lifting his chin toward the piano room.
She was pleased to have the opportunity to tell the dentist he’d been right about Johnny Behan all along and that she’d be leaving Tombstone in the morning. But it wasn’t music she heard now. It was gusts of deep male laughter.
Peeking through a gap in the slatted swing doors, she saw a dozen men smoking cigars and drinking, enthralled by a story about a horse and a whorehouse, and she was about to turn away—to ask at the desk for Doc’s envelope and check in for the night—when she recognized the storyteller.
Wyatt? she thought. Wyatt is telling a funny story?
Doc Holliday was coughing and wiping tears off his thin cheeks. “No more, Morgan! Please! I’ll hemorrhage!”
Oh! That’s Morgan, she realized. And that older man—that must be Virgil.
Shifting slightly, she caught sight of Wyatt in the corner, and her mouth dropped open again, for Wyatt Earp had been at her table a dozen times or more this autumn, but he had never so much as smiled, let alone laughed like this: great, gasping sobs of laughter.
“Did I ever tell you fellas the elbow story?” Morgan asked.
“Morgan, don’t!” Doc pleaded. “I swear! You’ll kill me!”
“C’mon, Doc! They gotta hear this one! Now, this was a coupla days after Johnnie Sanders’ wake, right? And Doc was just about broke after that, remember, so he needs some cash to get a faro game going again. So I says, ‘Well, I got some money saved,’ and he says, ‘No, son—just come along to Eddie Foy’s show tonight, and I’ll show you how it’s done.’ So I stop by the theater on my rounds, and Doc sees me, and goes over to Eddie, and it’s . . .”
Morgan made himself grave and still—Doc Holliday’s poker face, Josie presumed—while miming a whisper into somebody’s ear.
“So now Eddie calls out to the crowd, ‘Quiet down, boyos! We have a wee wager on the table, so we have!’ And now five hundred Texas cowpunchers are—” Morgan paused to look stupid and drunk and curious by turns. “And Eddie says, ‘There’s a f
ine gentleman here offering a bet of one thousand dollars that nobody can lick a smear o’ jam off his own elbow. Let’s see yer cash, boys!’ So these dumb sonsabitches are falling over themselves to get in on this bet, and Doc’s standing there, watching this stampede to give him money, right? Because everybody’s thinking, ‘Well, hell, my elbow’s right there . . . and my tongue’s right here . . .’”
You could see that Wyatt was thinking the same thing, which made his brother Morgan point at him, and Virgil howled, and Doc Holliday was coughing so hard he could barely speak, though he managed to gasp out a threat to have Morgan arrested for assault if he kept this up. But the others were beckoning, Come on, come on! Keep going!
Behind the swing doors, Josie was smiling as well, for she was enjoying Morgan’s story as much as any of them. But it was Wyatt to whom her eyes returned again and again. It was amazing how boyish he looked. Untroubled, unburdened, utterly at ease . . . And she was swept by a kind of sadness then, for there was such a difference between what Wyatt was and what he might be—if only someone loved him enough.
“So now Eddie’s got a grand collected,” Morgan was saying, “and there’s this parade of idiots coming up to the stage and, one by one, they push up their sleeves, and Eddie’s got this big ole jar of jam, which Doc just happened to bring that evening—”
“Strawberry,” Doc choked out, wet eyes shining.
“And Eddie smears a dab of it on each cowboy’s elbow, and then it’s—”
Morgan broke off to demonstrate their efforts. Neck twisting, elbow sawing up and down next to his ear, just out of range of his tongue. Face earnest, and determined, and angry, and flummoxed by turns. Which had everyone wailing and breathless.
“Can’t . . . be done!” Doc said, behind his handkerchief. “Anatomically . . . impossible!”
Wiping his eyes, Virgil declared, “Maybe so, but ‘impossible’ won’t stop a Texan from trying!”
“Half an hour later,” Morg said, wrapping the story up, “Dr. John Henry Holliday was back in business, dealing faro at the Lady Gay!”
Epitaph Page 17
