Hand flashing between the case and the chase at a veteran typesetter’s thirty words per minute, John muttered to himself as he composed the article.
Blame for the crime must be placed on a cowardly lot of drunken Texas Cow Boys who disturbed the peace early this morning with gunfire. When Marshal Frederick White intervened to stop violation of town ordinances, he was ruthlessly shot by one of their number.
Here he paused, trying to remember how to spell Wyatt Earp’s name. Was it W-I or W-Y? Eliminate the problem, he thought briskly.
Deputy Sheriff W. Earp, ever at the front when duty calls, arrived in time to see the Marshal fall and knocked the assailant down with the man’s own six-shooter. With the assistance of his brothers Virgil and Morgan, Deputy Earp arrested the shooter’s companions. All five were jailed.
Much praise must be given to our fallen Marshal White for his gallant attempt to arrest the outlaws, and to Deputy Sheriff Earp and his brothers for the energy displayed in bringing the murderer and his accomplices to arrest.
John paused there. Technically, the crime was still assault with a deadly weapon, but nobody ever survived a wound like Fred’s. Let it go, he thought. It’ll be murder soon enough.
AS JOHN CLUM LOCKED THE FORM and inked up for his next edition, events in town moved quickly. At nine A.M., the Tombstone Village Council met in emergency session. Assuming that Fred could not survive, Council called for a special election to decide on a new town marshal. In the meantime, Deputy Federal Marshal Virgil Earp would serve in that capacity. Sworn in, Marshal Earp urged immediate passage of ordinances forbidding the carrying of guns within city limits, citing precedent in Dodge City. No action was taken.
Council adjourned to Judge Michael Gray’s courtroom for arraignment of the five men arrested in connection with the shooting of Fred White. Amid rumors that vigilantes were preparing to lynch Curly Bill Brocius as soon as Fred White died, Virgil Earp deputized his brothers Wyatt and Morgan as city policemen, along with several other townsmen he considered game to stand against a mob. The suspects were brought before Judge Gray under heavy guard.
Four were accused of misdemeanors, and their pleas were heard first. Each defendant expounded in turn on the general theme of “We was just having some fun, Your Honor.” Their testimony was consistent. They’d become rowdy under the influence of liquor. Curly Bill Brocius told them to behave themselves and had in mind to take them down to Chinatown. It was somebody else, down the street, who starting shooting at the moon. Fred White just thought it was the defendants, which wasn’t so, honest to God, Your Honor. Fred getting shot was a pure accident, and they were all real sorry.
Judge Gray imposed fines on the first four defendants for being drunk and disorderly. Leaving open the question of who had started the trouble, he ordered them released. The fact that the judge’s son was friendly with several of the Cow Boys became the subject of vigorously expressed commentary. This discussion was gaveled into silence. With decorum reestablished, the court turned its attention to the felony case.
The charge against William Brocius remained assault with intent to murder. Fred White was still alive and might recover—though that notion persisted only among those who had not seen the hole blown in the man’s abdomen a few hours earlier. Mr. Brocius asked several times why he was in court. He was reminded that he’d shot Fred White in the gut and that he was accused of attempted murder. He seemed surprised each time and said, “I guess I better get me a lawyer.”
The court ruled that Mr. Brocius would be given time to secure an attorney and that the case would be moved to Tucson. Any jury impaneled in Tombstone would likely convict regardless of the evidence presented in Mr. Brocius’s defense, assuming that the Cow Boys didn’t show up sooner to bust Bill out of jail before he could be tried. The prisoner was therefore to be transported without delay to the new railway terminus in Benson, some twenty-five miles northwest of Tombstone, and thence by train to Tucson.
Deputy Sheriff Wyatt Earp now swore in his brothers Virgil and Morgan as county deputies, along with the other townsmen who’d guarded Curly Bill on his way to Judge Gray’s courtroom. Armed to the teeth and determined to thwart any attempt—by a lynch mob or the Cow Boys—to interfere, this party left immediately for the Benson depot.
NOTHING MUCH WAS SAID during the railway journey from Benson to Tucson. Wyatt Earp was never much of a talker. Curly Bill Brocius, who was, had a hellacious headache.
“I feel sick,” Bill announced after a while, rubbing his face with hands held close by iron shackles. “Jesus! Why did you hit me like that?”
The answer was still “Because I decided not to shoot you,” so Wyatt didn’t bother repeating it.
About an hour later, Bill asked, “Can you recommend a good lawyer in Tucson?”
“James Zabriskie,” Wyatt said.
“Zabriskie’s in Arizona now?” Bill cried, eyes scrunched up against the light. “Damn. He prosecuted against me back in Texas.”
Wyatt shrugged. “That’s who I’d go to.”
THEY COULDN’T HAVE KNOWN IT, but even before they reached the Tucson jail, Curly Bill had been exonerated.
When Fred White failed to die as soon as expected, a delegation from the Tombstone Municipal Court went to his bedside to take a deposition from him. Fifteen hours into his ordeal, Fred was too weak to scream and too strong to die, but he was still clear-headed and confirmed that the shooting was an accident.
“My own damn fault,” Fred told them. “Never shoulda . . . grabbed his gun like that. Shoulda told him . . . throw it down.”
Sobered and shaken by what they’d seen, the delegation filed out of the dying man’s room. It was Judge Gray who asked the doctors, “Can’t you fellas do anything for him? Whiskey? Laudanum, maybe?”
“He can take nothing by mouth,” Doc Matthews said regretfully.
“It would only leak into his belly,” Doc Goodfellow explained, “and that would make the torn tissue even more painful.”
“Jesus,” Judge Gray said.
“Yeah,” the others agreed.
FREDERICK GEORGE WHITE’S SUFFERING ended at ten A.M. on October 30, 1880, some thirty-three hours after Curly Bill’s pistol discharged.
An autopsy performed by Dr. Henry Matthews revealed extensive immediate damage to the large and small intestines caused by the passage of a .45-caliber bullet through the abdomen. After traveling through the soft tissue, the bullet’s path led it to a particularly dense region of the pelvic bone, which deflected the slug downward, destroying one of the organs of generation upon its exit from the deceased’s body. The cause of death was judged to be acute infection, widely spread throughout the abdominal cavity, with consequent heart failure.
“I don’t know how he lasted as long as he did,” Dr. Matthews said.
POOR FRED, JOHN CLUM THOUGHT, but the Bard was right: It’s an ill wind that blows nobody good. In just three days, John had published and sold out five special editions, picking up over two hundred new subscriptions. Back aching, legs stiff, feet swollen, hands battered and blackened, John Philip Clum was an exhausted but happy man as he typeset coverage of Fred’s funeral.
The services were held in Gird Hall, a spacious building crowded to its utmost capacity. The cortège following our murdered marshal to the grave was the largest ever seen in Tombstone. It embraced all classes and conditions of society, from the millionaire to the mudsill, and numbered fully 1,000 persons.
By then, of course, Fred’s deathbed testimony had made it clear that the shooting was unintentional, but John couldn’t resist the alliterative allure of “murdered marshal,” especially when he could hammer that beauty home with a phrase like “millionaire to mudsill.”
Tomorrow he’d begin coverage of the presidential election with the Epitaph already decisively solvent. And the contest for sheriff was of great interest locally, so sales would remain good, even with Fred White in his grave.
Lord, John prayed that night, Thou hast made me glad through
thy work. I will triumph in the works of Thy hands.
MEN STEEPED IN QUARREL AND CONTENTION
WHEN DR. J. H. HOLLIDAY REGISTERED TO VOTE in Tombstone in the fall of 1880, he handed the completed form to a deputy registrar for the Pima County recorder’s office and muttered, “For all the good it will do.”
“Democrat?” the registrar asked, grinning.
“Born and bred,” Doc said with a sigh that ended in a cough.
Like all white southerners of his age and era, John Henry Holliday had grown to manhood when the very air around him was filled with loathing for Abraham Lincoln and the entire Republican Party. He himself was only thirteen when the war ended, so he had not been disenfranchised during Reconstruction, but Union veterans—Republicans almost to a man—had dominated the government for fifteen years of increasingly venal rule. At the age of twenty-nine, John Holliday had never yet voted for anyone who’d managed to win an office.
This state of affairs was not devoid of amusement. Back in June, for example, he’d followed press coverage of the Republican convention with a quiet, bitter glee. Hundreds of delegates and thousands of observers crammed into Chicago’s Industrial Exposition Building and screamed themselves hoarse over which as-yet-unindicted criminal might best disserve the country in their name. In the end, the field narrowed down to two men who were disliked and mistrusted even by their fellow Republicans. Ulysses Grant had left the White House three years earlier under a dense cloud of scandal; he was now ferociously backed by Roscoe Conkling, arguably the most corrupt politician in the nation. Which was saying something. Grant’s opponent for the Republican nomination was James Blaine, a man so sensationally consumed by the desire to attain the presidency that even his friends admitted he’d sacrifice anything—including honor and his firstborn child—on the altar of his ambition.
After thirty-six ballots, the Republican convention remained deadlocked, whirling between corrupt Scylla and vainglorious Charybdis. Fistfights broke out on the convention floor. Baroque insults were traded. There were threats and deals, betrayals and reprisals, high dudgeon and low comedy. As entertainment, it was hard to beat.
Just when it seemed the Democrats would win the White House by default, James Garfield emerged out of nowhere as a candidate and was nominated by acclamation. “Who in hell is James Garfield?” people asked, and the answer was: a former college professor who’d taught Greek and Latin at Hiram College in Ohio and who’d risen to the rank of general in the Union Army. Quiet, ethical, and brilliant, Garfield tried repeatedly to dissuade the delegates, warning that he would do nothing to gain the office if they forced the nomination on him. He’d kept his word, too, traveling no farther than his own front porch during the campaign.
Instead of capitalizing on their opponents’ disarray, the hapless Democrats sabotaged their first postwar opportunity to regain influence in national politics by nominating Winfield Scott Hancock, a man known primarily for his willingness to hang a woman for her very doubtful part in Mr. Lincoln’s assassination. Which had left John Henry Holliday to wonder what he might have done if he’d had to choose between a well-educated, reform-minded Republican and the cynical, unprincipled mediocrity served up by his own party.
He was delivered from this extremity by circumstance. Arizona was a territory, not a state; its residents were barred from voting in the national elections. Only Pima County and City of Tombstone offices would be on the ballot in November. The decision to cross party lines felt no less consequential, however, for men he knew were involved in the local elections. Virgil Earp was running for town marshal. Virgil’s opponent was the late Fred White’s deputy, Ben Sippy. Ben was a nice enough fellow, but he lacked Virgil Earp’s experience in law enforcement, not to mention Virgil’s sheer physical presence. For John Henry Holliday, it came down to this: If I were being beaten and robbed in an alley, which of the two candidates would I feel most relieved to see? The answer was clear, though he half-expected his hand to shrivel and turn black when he voted for a Republican. His X went next to Virgil Earp’s name.
He was willing to go no further. James Earp was on the ballot for village assessor, but if James was going to win that office, he’d have to do it without a Georgian’s support. John Henry Holliday had too many memories of kin and neighbors thrown off their properties when carpetbagging Yankees jacked up real estate taxes beyond the owners’ ability to pay. He would not place that financial weapon in the hand of any Republican, not even a friend’s.
Which left the Pima County sheriff’s office. And that was his most difficult decision, for Morgan Earp was dear to him, but Wyatt . . .
Well, the truth was that Wyatt often seemed stupid. Or, more charitably, rigid in his thinking. Wyatt himself wasn’t running for sheriff—not yet, anyway—but his support for Bob Paul was exactly what made Doc hesitate. Bob Paul and Wyatt Earp shared many strengths and weaknesses. Both had demonstrated admirable moral and physical courage, and Doc had no doubts about their competence and honesty, but they also shared a propensity to see the world in black or white. Charlie Shibell, by contrast, was more flexible in his thought, as demonstrated by his willingness to deputize a Republican like Wyatt Earp. Furthermore, a Democrat like Charlie Shibell understood that Pima County’s ranchers and farmers would respond to a Yankee push with a Confederate shove. Pin a sheriff’s badge on Bob Paul—or Wyatt himself, one day—and you could end up with a shooting war like the one in Lincoln County.
Grateful for the sacred secrecy of the ballot box, John Henry Holliday cast his vote for Charles Shibell and did so in the knowledge that Wyatt would probably be out of a job if Charlie was reelected. That was regrettable, but Wyatt must have known that campaigning actively for his boss’s opponent was a risk.
One vote won’t make the difference anyway, Doc thought as he folded his ballot and tucked it through the slot. There were so many Republicans in the county now, the latest odds were on Bob Paul to win with a spread of sixty votes.
HIS SLAVE GIRL OR HIS WEDDED WIFE
THOSE FIGURES ARE WRONG,” WYATT INSISTED when Johnny Behan finished reading the newspaper to him a few days later. “The numbers don’t add up.”
“I tried to warn you, Wyatt. I knew the race would be closer than you expected, but . . .” Johnny Behan shrugged his helplessness in the face of the younger man’s stubborn disbelief.
Johnny himself had seen the results coming from a mile away. James Garfield would be the next president. Sheriff Shibell was reelected. Virgil Earp’s defeat was decisive, and James had lost by an even wider margin. The prospect of two Earps holding two important city offices had galvanized the opposition. Democrats all over the county—and even some Republicans in town—were deeply opposed to putting so much power in the hands of one family, especially when a third brother was a deputy sheriff who didn’t seem to recognize that his badge was a political gift, graciously bestowed. Democratic turnout was heavy, particularly in Sulphur Springs Valley.
His brothers’ losses stung, but it was Bob Paul’s defeat that had stunned Wyatt—a state of mind evidenced by the cruller left untasted on a plate next to the coffee Josie had poured for him.
“Anyway, the election’s over,” Johnny said. “We have to accept the results.”
Wyatt shook his head mulishly. “The numbers from Precinct Twenty-seven can’t be right. A hundred and four ballots cast, and all but three of them for Charlie Shibell? That precinct don’t have more than thirty registered voters, total!”
Josie paid very little attention to politics, but she came out of the kitchen when she heard that, wiping her hands on a dish towel and frowning.
“Wyatt,” Johnny was saying, “the votes have been certified.”
“It’s fraud,” Wyatt snapped, and without another word or so much as a glance at Josie, he left the Behans’ house.
Johnny shook his head and reached across the table for the abandoned cruller. Josie went to the doorway, watching until Wyatt was lost to view.
“You knew Bob Pau
l would lose,” she said. “Didn’t you.”
Chewing, Johnny brushed crumbs off his waistcoat. “Everybody knew Bob Paul was going to lose—except Wyatt, I guess.”
“But you told Wyatt to support him!”
“I did no such thing.” Johnny wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and swallowed. “Wyatt was going to support Bob no matter what I said. I just told him he oughta talk to voters and find out what they were thinking. It’s not my fault if Wyatt can’t read people any better’n he can read a newspaper.” Josie was staring at him, mouth open, and he laughed—gently—at her innocence. “Wyatt has many fine qualities, honey, but he’s smart about politics only on Tuesdays and Fridays in months that begin with Q. The sooner he figures that out, the better off he’ll be. Sometimes people have to learn their lessons the hard way.”
“What do you mean, ‘the hard way’?”
“He gambled and lost.” Johnny cleaned his hands on a napkin and pulled a piece of flimsy yellow paper from his pocket, holding it out to her. “Charlie Shibell is going to replace him.”
She read the telegram and looked up. “With you.”
“I’ve got the experience. I’ve got the skills. And I didn’t campaign for Charlie’s opponent.”
“But if it hadn’t been for that one precinct, Bob Paul would have won. And if those results are fraudulent, then Bob Paul did win.”
“The results are whatever the Board of Elections says they are, and the board says Charlie Shibell was reelected by forty-two votes.” Johnny sat back in his chair, crossed his arms over his chest, and smiled with pure satisfaction. “Pick out your wedding dress, honey, and start thinking about the big new house we’re going to build! This’s going to mean forty grand a year—”
“Forty . . . But, Johnny, you told Wyatt his half would be ten.”
Epitaph Page 19
