Epitaph

by Mary Doria Russell

  FROM THE START, the posse had traveled light. Bedrolls on the ground. Whatever they could carry in their saddlebags. Nine days out, they were thirsty, hungry, filthy, sore, and bone-tired when Frank Leslie’s little bay gelding crumpled up beneath him.

  He stepped off as the horse went down. Everyone else just sat there staring at the animal for a while.

  “Damn,” Frank said, his voice like a metal rasp. “I liked that horse.”

  “Frank,” Virgil croaked, “is there a chance in hell we’re gonna find these bastards?”

  “No,” the tracker admitted. “Lost ’em for good.”

  “Well, boys, we’re done,” Virgil said. “At least we got one of ’em.”

  Luther King, he meant. But he was already wrong about that.

  FRANK GOT UP BEHIND VIRGIL, and they turned back toward home. Two dry camps later, they came across an isolated ranch and stopped there, hoping to get fresh mounts. The owner gave them a meal and let them rest up and water their remaining horses, but he claimed he had no animals to lend them.

  “Old Man Clanton just bought a spread near here,” he told them. “I don’t want no trouble.”

  They got about five miles from the ranch before Virgil’s horse died, exhausted by the double burden. That left Morgan on Dick Naylor and Wyatt on Roxana. Neither animal was in good enough shape to carry two men, not even Roxana, an Arab mare bred for stamina. So they took turns. Two on foot, two riding.

  Buckskin Frank was wearing moccasins. The Earp brothers were in high, slant-heeled boots. Everybody was bloody-footed before long, but there wasn’t a damn thing to do except . . . keep going.

  THUS THE GODS HAVE SPUN THE THREADS

  WOULDST THOU ROB ME OF MY PRIZE?

  SEVEN MILES OUT OF TOMBSTONE, THEY CAME TO A rutted road and sat down to wait for one of the wagons that hauled water or lumber out of the Huachucas. Such wagons didn’t have a lot of room for passengers, so they hitched rides into town, one by one.

  Morgan let the older men go first. By the time he got picked up, it was all he could do to tie Dick behind the wagon and fit himself in between some water barrels.

  “Where do you live?” the driver asked.

  “First and Fremont,” Morg mumbled.

  It was afternoon when the driver nudged him awake. “You’re home, young fella.” Morgan snorted at that “young fella,” for he felt like Grampa Earp used to look: crippled up, bent over, and creaky. Groaning, he climbed out of the wagon and stood there, swaying while the water hauler untied Dick Naylor’s lead.

  Morgan had always taken care of his horse before himself and the fact that he’d been riding Wyatt’s favorite animal made that responsibility even more pressing, but he was so beat now, he almost cried when Lou called, “Morgan!” and ran outside to meet him.

  “I’ll take Dick to Dexter’s,” she told him while he drained the glass of water she handed him. “You go on inside. There’s a bath ready and food on the table.”

  Eighteen hours later, he woke to a dawn of red and orange and gold. He looked to his left. Lou was sound asleep. Easing himself out of bed, he went outside for a piss, then came back in for the stack of clean clothes she’d laid out for him.

  He got dressed in the front room so as not to wake her. Nothing fit. He’d lost a lot of weight in the past three weeks. Leaving his scabby, blistered, peeling feet bare, he made himself some coffee and hobbled outside to sit on the porch and watch the April sky lighten.

  Lou had kept herself busy while he was gone. Must have been a couple of dozen new plants in the front yard. When she came outside an hour later, he asked, “Where’d you get all the greenery?”

  She hesitated—just a moment—but he saw the shade pulled down.

  “A neighbor brought them.”

  It sounded innocent, but she seemed troubled. “What’s wrong?” he asked.

  “Morgan, come inside.”

  He knew she had bad news. Was she leaving him? Had his mother died? “What’s wrong?” he asked again.

  “Luther King got away.”

  “What?”

  She made him sit at the table before she handed him a week-old copy of the Nugget.

  Luther King, implicated in the Philpot-Roarig murders, escaped yesterday from the sheriff’s office. Undersheriff Harry Woods went outside the jail for a short time. Suspect King quietly stepped out the back door of the jail. He had been absent but for a few seconds when he was missed.

  A confederate on the outside had a saddled horse in readiness for him. It was a well-planned job to get him away.

  King gave the names of his partners in crime at the time he was arrested. Their names were Bill Leonard, Jim Crane, and Henry Head. King was also an important witness against John “Doc” Holliday.

  “What’s Doc got to do with it?” Morgan cried. “What in hell is going on? Luther King never said a word about Doc Holliday!”

  “They’re saying Doc planned the stage robbery.”

  Morgan fell back against his chair. “Well, that is the stupidest thing I ever heard! Is he under arrest?”

  “Not anymore. The judge said there wasn’t any evidence, but Harry Woods is saying Doc was the one who had a horse ready for Luther King to ride away on!”

  There was more, but Morgan had heard enough.

  SOMEBODY WAS BANGING ON THE DOOR. “Hell,” Wyatt muttered. “Now what?”

  Whatever it was, he devoutly hoped it could wait until sometime next year. Bearded, befuddled, he felt like he’d been beaten with a club, but when he heard Morgan calling his name, he put both hands over his face, winced at the sunburn, rubbed the crust out of his eyes, and sat up on the side of the bed.

  “C’mon in!” he called, staring at the raw wreckage of his feet. Morgan yelled back that the door was locked, so Wyatt got up to open it.

  “Get dressed,” Morg snapped, angrier than Wyatt had ever seen him. “We’re meeting over at James’s place. Virgil’s on his way. I’ve got to go find Doc.” He waited. “Wyatt! You awake?”

  “Yeah,” Wyatt said, looking around for some trousers. “What’s going on?”

  “I’ll explain later. Just go on over to James’s.”

  Virgil was already sitting at one of the tables when Wyatt got to the tavern, and he was furious. “Harry Woods let Luther King get away.”

  “What?”

  Virg held up a copy of the Nugget. “Says here, Harry left the jail and Luther just up and walked out the back door.”

  “Which wasn’t locked,” James called from behind the bar. “Woods is blaming Doc Holliday for it.”

  Wyatt stared. “But . . . That don’t make any sense at all! Doc don’t even know Luther King!”

  “Well, he knows Bill Leonard,” Virg said, “and everybody knows we were chasing after Bill and Henry Head and Jim Crane.”

  “Doc’s a friend of ours. Why would he work against us like that?”

  Virgil tapped the newspaper. “According to this, Doc helped Luther King escape because he didn’t want Luther to testify against him.”

  “Testify against him for what?”

  “Planning that damn stagecoach attack.” James came over with coffee for Wyatt and pulled up a chair next to Virgil. “There’s been rumors for weeks. Word is, one of the robbers was a lunger, and now people are saying it was Doc Holliday, not Bill Leonard.”

  Wyatt shook his head, dumbfounded. “Luther never said a word about Doc. He said it was Leonard and Head and Crane. The whole posse’ll testify to that!”

  “Don’t be so sure,” James warned. “Behan’s backing Harry Woods’ story.”

  Wyatt’s jaw dropped, but the door had opened. Doc and Morgan were headed for the table. It was hard to tell who was hobbling worse: Doc on his bad hip or Morgan on his battered feet.

  “They are not just callin’ me a murderer and a thief,” Doc said as he and Morgan sat down. “They are callin’ me incompetent as well! If I wanted to steal a Wells Fargo shipment, I’d have done a better job of it. God a’mighty! Just sho
ot a horse! You could take whatever you wanted from the stage.”

  “It gets worse,” James told Wyatt. “People are saying Doc poisoned Budd Philpot, and that’s why he got sick the night of the holdup.”

  “Pilin’ absurdity on top of slander and libel.” Doc cried. “I was nowhere near Watervale when Budd was there, and why would I do such a thing in the first place?”

  James shrugged. “I guess the idea is that you wanted Budd sick so that Bob Paul would have to drive. That way he wouldn’t have the shotgun in hand.”

  “This just don’t add up,” Wyatt said, rubbing his face with both hands. “Go back, Doc. Why would anybody think you had something to do with this?”

  “I was out of town the night the stage was attacked. Evidently that single fact is sufficient to justify draggin’ my name through the mud.”

  “Where were you?” Virgil asked.

  It was a simple question, but Doc didn’t answer right away. “I was on my way to Charleston,” he said finally. “For a poker game.”

  “Well, that’s easy then!” Morgan cried, flooded with relief. “Who did you play? They can vouch for you.”

  “I didn’t make it that far, Morgan.”

  The others shifted uneasily in the silence that fell, for it seemed like Doc was deciding how much to say. Or how to say it. Or making something up. He seemed relieved when a couple of Chinese came in for beer.

  James turned to yell, “We’re closed!” but they didn’t understand, so he got up and shooed them out, locking the door.

  “Doc,” Morgan said, “just tell us what happened.”

  “You know where the Charleston road bends around those three big hills?”

  They nodded.

  “I was robbed on the highway. There were two of them.”

  “Hell,” Wyatt said.

  “You get a look at any of them?” Virgil asked.

  Doc shook his head. “Flour-sack masks.”

  “Horses?” Wyatt asked.

  “Bays. Nothing special—nothing I noticed, anyway. I was not at my best,” he admitted. “The game had a ten-dollar ante. I was bringin’ just about everything I had to the table. Somebody must have seen me takin’ cash out at the bank. I don’t believe the robbers knew who I was, but I was afraid they’d come after me for braggin’ rights! ‘I killed the ferocious Doc Holliday!’” He paused. “This will not sound good, but . . . I was close to Bill Leonard’s place, so that’s where I went.”

  Virgil groaned. “You’re right. That don’t sound good.”

  “Who’s Bill Leonard?” James asked.

  “He’s a goldsmith,” Virgil told him. “Melts down stolen coins and jewelry to make big gold rings for the Cow Boys.”

  “Doc, how do you know Bill Leonard, anyways?” Morgan asked.

  “I met him in the Las Vegas sanatorium. He used to work with dentists. I was bored. We talked now and then, that’s all. Anyway, he wasn’t home when I got to his place. Nobody was there. I rested a few hours and rode back to the city in the morning.”

  “Did you report the robbery to Harry Woods or Ben Sippy?” Virgil asked.

  “I didn’t dare! Virgil, if something like this gets around, I may as well carry a sign that says, ‘Rob me at your convenience.’”

  “Did you tell anyone?” Morg pressed. “Mrs. Fly maybe?”

  Doc went still, then straightened suddenly. The movement set off a coughing fit, and James got him a drink. “I pawned a gold watch for forty dollars,” Doc said when he could speak again. “The pawnbroker might remember that. And Ben Sippy saw me playin’ faro that night. I would never do that if I weren’t damn near to broke.”

  “Pawning a watch and playing faro are not exactly proof you weren’t in on a failed robbery,” Virgil pointed out.

  Doc’s face fell. “You’re right . . . The funny thing is, I almost told Marshal Sippy. He said I was accused of bein’ in on the holdup, and I said, ‘That’s ironic,’ but I didn’t tell him why and—”

  “Cui bono?” Wyatt said.

  At a loss, Morgan asked, “Coo-ey what?”

  “It’s Latin,” Doc told him, astonished. “‘Who gains?’”

  “It’s what Eddie Foy told me about politics, back in Dodge,” Wyatt said. “Remember, James? The trick is, you have to ask, Cui bono? That’s how the Romans said it. You have to ask, Who gets the good of it?” He looked around. “Why would anybody drag Doc into it? There’s no reason Doc would want Bob Paul dead. So if Doc’s accused, who gains?”

  “Gimme that newspaper,” Virgil said. Silently he read the article again, looking up when he got to the part about Luther King quietly stepping out the back door of the jail. “Well, who left the damn cell unlocked?” Virgil asked, throwing the paper down in disgust. “That’s gotta be Harry Woods’s doing. Which makes him negligent or complicit.”

  Doc said, “I was at work when that happened! There are two dozen witnesses who can tell you I was dealin’ at the Alhambra when Luther King escaped.”

  “But why blame Doc?” Morgan asked. “Must be a thousand men in this county more likely to rob a stage.”

  “To hurt me,” Wyatt snapped. “To ruin my chances in the sheriff’s election next year. To make me look bad because Doc is my friend.”

  Virgil looked skeptical. “I don’t know, boys. Behan was right there with us, chasing Luther King and the others down. Maybe Harry Woods did this on his own.”

  “Wyatt,” Doc said softly, “if you want me to go, now is as good a time as any. I will pack up, buy a ticket, and leave tonight.”

  “No,” Wyatt snapped. “‘The wicked flee when no man pursueth, but the righteous are bold as a lion.’” He stood, wincing when his weight settled onto his feet. “I can fix this, Doc.” And he sounded confident, like it was a harness that needed mending, or a sprung plank in a boardwalk.

  “What’s the plan, Wyatt?” Doc asked warily.

  “Find the real killers and shovel this shit right back onto Behan.”

  Doc and his brothers watched him leave.

  “Gentlemen,” Doc said when the door had slammed, “correct me if I am wrong, but didn’t y’all just spend two weeks tryin’ to do exactly that?”

  “NEVER CONFUSE STUPIDITY WITH MALICE. It’s nearly always a mistake, and it’ll get you into useless feuds.” That’s what Johnny Behan would have said, had Wyatt Earp bothered to ask him why Luther King had been allowed to escape from the county jail.

  In point of fact, it was Undersheriff Harry Woods who decided that it would be in Johnny Behan’s best interests if Luther were unavailable to be prosecuted for a variety of felonies in connection with the attack on the Kinnear stagecoach. When Johnny Behan came to the office after a badly needed night’s rest and found out that his chief deputy had simply let Luther go . . .

  Well, no one can curse like the Irish.

  For the next hour, the undersheriff was informed at length and in detail that his presumption in this matter was in error. It would have been a political triumph to send Luther King to prison, if not to the rope. Holding at least one man accountable for the crimes would have gone a long way toward dispelling the Epitaph’s ugly insinuations that the sheriff himself was in league with the county’s outlaws. Furthermore, that desirable outcome would have been accomplished without stirring up trouble with Old Man Clanton, Curly Bill Brocius, Johnny Ringo, or anyone else, because Luther King really was just a hanger-on and none of the Cow Boys would have given a good goddam if he’d been convicted as an accessory to murder, attempted robbery, and horse theft. Now it was going to look like Johnny gave an order to let Luther escape in order to appease the Cow Boys and to prevent unsavory allegations of collusion from coming out at Luther’s trial.

  Only when his boss’s initial fury had been spent did Harry try to say anything, and all he got out was “Hell, Johnny. I’m sorry. I didn’t think—”

  “No! You didn’t, God damn you! And that’s the trouble! Nobody thinks! Nobody ever thinks!”

  That observation beca
me an additional tirade on the general theme of being surrounded by fools and bunglers until worldly realism and saddle-sore exhaustion set in. Sitting at his desk, his wind-chapped, sun-scalded face in his hands, Johnny eventually muttered, “Well, goddammit, what’s done is done,” and began to assess his situation with as much dispassionate composure as he could muster.

  He had not intended to make enemies of the Earps but when they found out Luther King had escaped, there would be hell to pay. Which was a pity. Johnny and the brothers had worked well together on this posse, and that was how he liked things to be: cordial, professional. Sure, he and the Earps would be on opposite sides as the ’82 election came closer, but there’d have been be no reason for hard feelings, if not for Harry’s imbecilic initiative.

  Sighing, he stared out the office window, his mind blank, until his eye was caught by a thin, bent figure wrapped in a blanketlike cloak, moving slower than the foot traffic around him.

  “Harry,” he said quietly, “when Billy and I brought Luther in, you said folks were talking about Doc Holliday being the lunger who was involved with the holdup, right?”

  “Yeah, but Luther said that was Bill Leonard, not—”

  “Shut up,” Johnny snapped. Face still, he took a piece of paper out of his desk drawer and began writing. “This,” he said, handing it to his undersheriff, “is what you are going to publish in the next edition of the Nugget.”

  Harry frowned when he got to the last sentence and read, “‘King was an important witness against Holliday’?”

  “Yes. Against Holliday.”

  “Johnny,” Harry said cautiously, not wanting to set off another tongue-lashing, “Luther didn’t say anything about Doc Holliday.”

  “No, you idiot! I’m saying it. We’re saying it. The Nugget is saying that Luther said it. Jesus Christ, Harry!”