“Oh, Jesus,” Budd said. “Oh, Jesus.”
But he gripped the reins more firmly and got himself ready for trouble.
NOW THAT WYATT WAS LIVING in the Cosmopolitan Hotel, his brothers would come by the hotel restaurant two or three nights a week to share a meal with him. Sometimes other friends joined them. Turkey Creek Jack Johnson or Texas Jack Vermillion, maybe. Fred Dodge or George Parsons, sometimes. Ordinarily, Morgan would have made a good story out of what happened that afternoon, but on March 10, it was just Virg and Wyatt and Doc Holliday, and while some of what Morg told them was pretty funny, nobody was laughing.
“I don’t know who was whiter, Budd Philpot or them poor damn Mexicans. I never saw hands in the air faster,” Morg was saying. “They was out looking for a string of remuda horses that got loose and wanted to ask if we’d seen ’em, so they was standing by the track, waiting for the coach. All of a sudden they’re staring down the wrong end of a shotgun with me ready to put half a pound of buckshot into ’em. And you shoulda heard Budd! One minute he’s telling me to hand over the strongbox, and the next he’s cussing ’em six ways from Sunday for scaring him shitless.”
“Idiots,” Virg rumbled. “Standing in the road like that, they was asking to get killed.”
Morgan shook his head at the memory. “Innocent men just don’t think like guilty ones, I guess. They didn’t think they was doing anything wrong—”
“And they weren’t,” Doc noted. “I don’t imagine they realized how that would appear to someone who was expectin’ trouble. And a lawman is always expectin’ trouble.”
“Damn straight,” Virgil snapped. “The day you drop your guard is the day they get you.”
“Pardon my elbows,” Doc murmured, pushing his plate away so he could rest his forearms on the table and take some pressure off his chest. “What would’ve happened if Morgan had opened up on unarmed men?”
“Prolly woulda been some kinda investigation,” Virg said, “but he’d have been within his rights, is my opinion.”
“Performance of his duty,” Wyatt confirmed, “but it’s a hell of a thing.”
“Bad day for them,” Morgan said, “and a bad night for me.”
“More’n one,” Wyatt said quietly.
“You know,” Morg said after a time, “when we came over that little rise and I saw those fellas, I’d have sworn it was a holdup. They had bandannas over their faces ’cause of the dust, and my heart’s going like a steam engine, and I’ve got both barrels cocked, and poor Budd’s there next to me, yelling, ‘For crissakes, shoot those sonsabitches!’ I was this close to firing when I realized they weren’t armed. If they’d been a little slower about raising their hands . . .”
“They’d be dead tonight,” Doc said, “instead of just startled.”
Virgil snorted. “Better them than Morg.”
“Better nobody dead,” Wyatt countered. He leaned back in his chair and lit a cigar. “Just remember, Morg. Anybody with a gun on you is likely drunk, or nerved up, or both. So take your time. Make a judgment.”
“I don’t know, Wyatt. That was so, in Dodge,” Morg allowed, “but down here, it’s not a bunch of liquored-up young drovers. Here, you got robbers laying for you. Come around the corner, and there they are, and it’s them or you. Take your time . . .”
“. . . and it’ll be you,” Doc supplied softly. He laid the price of his meal on the table, got to his feet, and coughed for a while. “Well, gentlemen, I do not envy you such decisions. A bad tooth can kill a man in the long run, but I never had to decide on the proper treatment between one heartbeat and the next. These days?” He gave them that crooked grin of his. “Life is even simpler. I just deal cards on commission. And I am late for work. Evenin’.”
The brothers watched him go.
After a time, Wyatt broke the silence. “Go home, Morg. Get some sleep.”
Nodding, Morgan pushed himself upright and shuffled off, feet dragging.
“Hell of a day,” Virgil observed, watching Wyatt watch Morgan.
They looked out for one another that way. There were enough years between them that each brother could remember the day the next younger had been born. A sense of responsibility had lingered, long past when any of them believed he needed protection.
“You tell Morg yet?” Virgil asked.
“He had enough on his plate. Nothing to do with him anyways.”
At long last, Governor Frémont had announced his interim appointments for Cochise County’s offices, and the news wasn’t good. Frémont was a Republican presidential appointee, but the territorial legislature was dominated by elected Democrats. They could override anything they didn’t like, so Frémont had threaded the needle. Until the formal election in November 1882, Democrat Johnny Behan would be the sheriff of Cochise County, with all the political power and immense income that entailed. Wyatt had always understood that this might happen. The blow came when Johnny Behan appointed Harry Woods to the position of undersheriff.
“My opinion? You’re well out of it,” Virg told him. “It’s gonna be a thankless job.”
Cochise County was sixty-two hundred square miles of bad land. Five mountain ranges to hide in, a desert in the middle, a convenient border to cross. If you didn’t run a man down in the first few days, the wind would scrub the tracks away, and you’d lose him.
“Let Harry Woods bust his nuts patrolling this wretched slice of hell,” Virgil said. “You’ve got better things to do.”
Wyatt tapped ash off his cigar. “Behan gave me his word, Virg.”
“Yeah, well . . . he’s a politician.”
Good one, too, Virg thought. Harry Woods was not just a Democrat, he was a member of the Arizona House of Representatives—so influential in the creation of the new county, he’d provided its name. Harry was also the editor of the Tombstone Nugget, so press coverage of Johnny Behan’s tenure as interim sheriff would be lavish and fawning. When Behan ran for the office in the ’82 election, Harry Woods would be an effective counterweight to John Clum’s influence as mayor of Tombstone and editor of the Epitaph. You had to admire the thinking.
“Saw you and Behan this afternoon,” Virg said. “What’d you say?”
“Not much. Just told him I’ll run against him next year.”
Virgil managed not to sigh. After his own loss to Ben Sippy, Virg was pretty sure Wyatt would never be sheriff of Cochise County, but Virgil wasn’t going to be the one who told him so. Instead, he yawned and stood and stretched. “I gotta get home, or Pickle’s gonna sic the dogs on me.” He clapped Wyatt on the shoulder. “Don’t let it get you down, kid. A lot can happen between now and that election.”
Wyatt nodded and Virgil almost left, but then another thought struck him. He waited until his younger brother looked at him. “Wyatt, it’s none of my business, but . . .” Virg jerked his head in the direction of Sixth Street. “Don’t rush into anything.” Leave that girl alone, he meant. It’ll only complicate things.
“You’re right,” Wyatt said. “It’s none of your business.”
NOT FAR AWAY, at that very moment, during a private dinner in a secluded room at the back of the Maison Doree, over a multicourse supper that included many delicacies described in bogus French, Mr. Richard Gird of Millville sat across a damask-covered table from John Philip Clum, the freshly elected mayor of Tombstone, discussing the ramifications of Governor Frémont’s appointments to the offices of the newly constituted Cochise County. They had opinions about all of the appointees, but the conversation had primarily focused on the Republican candidate with whom they hoped to replace Sheriff John Behan some twenty months in the future.
“No matter how you cut it, our man’s going to help,” Mayor Clum said. “Wyatt has determination and integrity, but it’ll take more than that to beat John Behan at his own game. It will take money and influence.”
“And yet, it is my firm belief,” Gird replied, “that if we yoke the power of the press to the power of finance, and harness both in the serv
ice of the public, there is nothing that men of good character cannot accomplish.”
Having delivered himself of this pronouncement, Mr. Gird laid aside his fork and knife, which had been unceasingly busy during the past two and a half hours, and lapsed into a thoughtful silence. Across the table, stuffed almost to insensibility, John Clum discreetly unbuttoned his waistcoat and eased back in his chair, while awaiting his patron’s next utterance.
Amid a population of whip-thin, weather-toughened men, Richard Gird seemed as soft and ductile as the metal that had made him rich. His large, rounded body was testimony to the lavish diet that immense wealth afforded, quod erat demonstrandum; on an Italian barber’s recommendation, his tightly curled and graying goatee was sharply trimmed to approximate a spade, though it failed to provide much definition to a bland and boneless face. What gave Richard Gird shape was his capacity for large-scale organization of money, men, and matériel; what gave him hardness were his principles and his insatiable intellect. He was also the most systematically ambitious person John Clum had ever encountered.
At nineteen, Dick Gird had left a good New York family during the California gold rush, but instead of panning or digging for the mineral, young Mr. Gird had learned assaying and apprenticed himself, as well, to mechanical and civil engineers. While still in his early twenties, he sought further experience with a mining concern in Chile, where he studied hydraulics and business management. When he returned to North America a few years later, he took a relatively menial job preparing topographical maps of the Arizona Territory based on the geological studies of Professor J. D. Whitney. It might have seemed an odd choice at the time, but a year of hand-coloring such maps provided Dick Gird with an encyclopedic knowledge of the region’s geological formations.
Everyone in Tombstone knew what happened next: One day, a half-starved prospector named Ed Schieffelin brought Gird a black lump of silver ore the size of a hen’s egg.
When Ed and his brother Al returned for the assay results, Gird asked, “Where did you find this?”
“Oh, south of here,” Ed said, unwilling to say more.
Gird produced paper and pencil and began sketching little mountain ranges. “The Dragoons,” he said quietly. “The Whetstones. The Huachucas.” Within the space thus delineated, he drew a series of parallel lines, quickly shading them to look like wales of corduroy. “Long limestone hills, eroded and gullied.” He looked up. “This is where you found the float. Am I correct?”
Ed glared at his brother, who cried, “I swear, I didn’t tell him!”
“I assure you, Mr. Schieffelin, your brother revealed nothing. Now, as to my results. At this morning’s price for silver, this ore assays at better than two grand to the ton. That is exceedingly high. In my opinion, you will do well to return here”—he tapped the center of his little map—“to establish your claim without delay.” Gird held the piece of paper out to Ed. “Would you like to keep this as a memento, sir? Or shall I burn it? Either way, your secret is safe with me.”
That display of acumen and rectitude led to less guarded discussions. By the end of the week, the men had a handshake agreement. All three of them would journey to the source of the ore, a place so desolate and dangerous that soldiers warned, “You’ll find nothing out there but your tombstone.” Two years later, the Tough Nut, the Goodenough, the West Side, the Defense, the Owl’s Nest, the East Side, the Tribute, and the Lucky Cuss mines had made them millionaires.
Ed and Al sold their thirds early on. They were prospectors with no interest in organizing the complex interlocking industrial processes that transformed raw ore into progress and wealth. Richard Gird by contrast, had spent his life preparing to do exactly that. He brought California investment capital into the business. He initiated logging in the Huachucas to provide lumber for company buildings. He recruited, hired, and housed hard-rock miners from Pennsylvania and Cornwall. He found experienced managers to oversee the daily operation of the mines. He negotiated with suppliers of steam engines, explosives, hammers, bathtubs, canned goods, and coffee. He had a road to the San Pedro River graded, established Millville, and supervised the construction of a two-hundred-foot dam that would funnel thirteen million gallons of river water over a one-thousand-foot flume that powered twenty-five massive reduction stamps to crush the ore for smelting. Finally, he retained Wells Fargo to ensure the delivery of payroll cash for thousands of employees and the export of millions of dollars in silver ingots to the New Orleans Mint.
All that, barely three years after Ed Schieffelin’s lump of ore was dropped into Richard Gird’s palm. All that, in jeopardy now because of a rootless gang of thieves who called themselves Cow Boys.
The editor of the Tucson Star had wasted no words on subtlety when he wrote, “These outlaws are worse than Apaches. They should be hunted down and shot.” Throughout Arizona, newspapers were calling for a territorial police force like the Texas Rangers. Unlike Geronimo’s Chiricahuas, the Cow Boys no longer confined their depredations to the Mexican side of the border. They were stealing from American ranchers now. Shooting up small towns. Taking whatever they wanted from stores and restaurants. Taunting local lawmen, daring them to do something about it. Scaring off investors.
“Civilized society requires law and order,” Gird said, dabbing at his lips with a heavy linen napkin. “We cannot tolerate drunkenness and thuggery and violence on our streets. And Sheriff Behan is, I fear, a tolerant man.”
“Too tolerant,” John agreed.
“He is playing a long game, Mr. Clum. Behan wants to be governor one day. Perhaps even president . . . In the meantime, he thinks the sheriff’s office will serve his ambitions. I myself believe he will find his new job a mixed blessing. We have a year and a half before the first election. That is plenty of time to hold Sheriff Behan accountable for every unsolved crime in Cochise County.”
“I’ll do my best,” John promised.
Mr. Gird smiled mildly. “I’m sure that you will.”
John Clum still owed him $5,720, and they both knew it.
Gird nodded to their waiter, who snapped his fingers at a boy, who rushed to retrieve the gentleman’s topcoat from the cloakroom. The mayor stood and steadied the chair as the mining magnate hurled himself onto small, neat feet with a grunt and a shove. Gird was helped into his coat and handed his hat and walking stick.
John waited deferentially as the fat man lumbered toward the door. There was always one last thing at the end of such a meal. One last order, one last remark. Sure enough, Gird paused before leaving the room.
“John,” he said with the kind of quiet delicacy that meant something unpleasant was about to be discussed, “it has come to my attention that there are certain of Wyatt’s associates who do not reflect well on him.”
John cleared his throat. “Yes. That unfortunate woman he brought here from Kansas . . . I believe Wyatt has broken with her.”
“But . . . there are others. That Holliday fellow, for example. He has been seen in Charleston lately. He is a southerner. A Democrat. A notorious troublemaker. Even if he isn’t in Charleston to make common cause with the Cow Boy element, he will harm Wyatt’s chances.”
“Yes, sir. I understand your concern,” John said. What he didn’t understand was what Richard Gird expected him to do about it.
RUMOR WENT BLAZING AMONG THEM
IT SNOWED ON THE IDES OF MARCH THAT YEAR: A LIGHT frosting of white that made the desert landscape glitter. By John Henry Holliday’s Georgia-bred standards, it was bitterly cold when he set off on Duchess for that big poker game down in Charleston, but it was nothing compared to what Bob Paul remembered from his New England childhood. Standing at a café window that evening, warming his hands with a tin mug of coffee while waiting for the stagecoach team to be changed, Bob could still recall thigh-high snow in temperatures so low, your lips thickened and the hairs in your nostrils froze together.
That chilly childhood was long gone. When he climbed up beside Budd Philpot on March 15, 1881, Robert
Havlin Paul was fully half a century old. His big old bones were arthritic, his personality brusque on good days, crotchety on bad ones. This was among the latter.
He was losing patience with the slowly grinding wheel of justice. Charlie Shibell was within his rights to appeal when his election was overturned, but three months had gone by and there was Charlie, sleeping in a nice warm bed up in Tucson, still turning a blind eye to crime, still raking in 10 percent of Pima County taxes. And here was Bob himself, on another Wells Fargo night run with a shotgun over his knees, for the princely sum of $125 a month.
Budd slapped the reins. A team of six leaned into their harnesses, straining to start the stage moving over the rutted, stony track dignified as the Tombstone-Benson Road. They had a full load tonight. Luggage and salesmen’s sample cases crammed into the front and rear boots. A heavy canvas bag of mail. A massive iron and oak strongbox with $26,000 in cash and coin. Nine passengers, one of whom had to sit on top of the coach behind the driver’s box.
In the dark, in snowy weather like this, a momentary miscalculation by the driver could send a heavily laden coach skidding into a ditch, but the trip went smoothly until about two hours out, when Budd hunched over and let out a groan.
“What’s wrong?” Bob hollered above the noise of the team and the harness and the coach springs and the wind.
“You eat that chili back in Watervale?”
Bob shook his head. “Why?”
Budd didn’t answer; nor did he slow the horses when he leaned over the side to puke. The only indication that he’d let that chili fly was a string of outraged curses from a passenger next to the window on the driver’s side of the coach.
“Sorry,” Budd called.
“Feel better?” Bob asked.
Epitaph Page 24
