by Matt Braun
Before Holliday could respond, Virge quickly broke into the conversation. “Wyatt tells me you worked Leadville.”
“A time or two,” Starbuck said, wondering if he’d misread Holliday. “Not many camps I haven’t worked.”
“I heard Leadville’s gone plumb to the dogs.”
“Don’t you believe it! There’s easy pickings for any man that knows his way around.”
“That’s funny.” Virge’s bushy eyebrows seemed to hood his eyes. “Somebody told me Jeff Winney had folded the Texas House and gone on back to New Orleans.”
Starbuck suddenly recognized the game. He was being grilled, and none too subtly. The Earps had apparently decided on one more test, with a trap thrown in for good measure. He swiftly turned it to advantage.
“That somebody,” he laughed, “don’t know his ass from his elbow about Leadville. First off, Bailey Youngston owns the Texas House, not Jeff Winney. And he’s from down around Galveston way, not New Orleans. Hell, that’s why he named his joint the Texas House!”
“Beats all!” Virge said levelly. “Fellow don’t know who to believe no more.”
Starbuck wedged his cheroot in the corner of his mouth. “Tell you what, Virge. It’d be like stealing money, but I’ll lay you twenty to one that Jeff Winney never even set foot in the Texas House.”
“No, you’re likely right.” Virge hesitated, then gave him a sharp sidelong look. “Wyatt says you come south for your health?”
“One of them things,” Starbuck shrugged. “Some jasper went on the prod and I had to stop his clock.”
“What set him off?”
“Would you believe it?” Starbuck said with mock indignity. “The sonovabitch accused me of cheating at cards!”
Holliday snorted and turned his eyes heavenward. Virge bit down hard on a smile, seemingly stumped for another question. After a moment, he shoved away from the bar, flicking a glance in the direction of the faro table. Then he consulted his watch.
“Well, boys, time flies. I gotta be gettin’ home.”
“I’ll walk along,” Holliday added. “Got a late game waiting at the Oriental.”
“Yeah?” Starbuck grinned. “Maybe I’ll sit in a while. The way my luck’s running tonight, I can’t be beat.”
Holliday examined him with a kind of cold objectivity. Then he grunted something under his breath and walked away. Virge and Starbuck fell in behind, following him toward the door. All the way along the bar, Starbuck felt a strange sensation centered between his shoulder blades. He had little doubt that Earp was zeroed on him like a watchful chickenhawk.
Outside, Virge waved and turned uptown. Holliday turned in the opposite direction, striding off toward the Oriental. Starbuck trailed alongside him, and they walked several paces in silence. Then Holliday riveted him with a sullen stare.
“None of your tricks. It might work with those bohunk miners, but I won’t tolerate it in my game.”
“So you caught that?” Starbuck laughed. “Christ, I must be slipping.”
“No, Johnson,” Holliday said cynically, “you’re not slipping. You just weren’t good enough to start with. A needle ring, for God’s sake!”
Starbuck’s reply was cut short by the hammering roar of gunfire. There were four blasts in rapid succession, and he instantly catalogued it as two men with double-barrel shotguns. All in a split-second, he and Holliday whirled, drawing pistols. The street was empty and still.
Then they spotted Virge. He lay in the gutter, where the boardwalk dropped off to the street. The dim glow of the corner streetlamp bathed him in a spectral light. He was flat on his back, spraddle-legged and unmoving.
Starbuck sprinted to the corner, cautiously checking the sidestreet. There was no one in sight, and as he turned back, Holliday dropped to one knee beside Virge. In the glow of the streetlamp, he saw that the shotguns had done a savage job. The buckshot had blown away part of Virge’s coat, and what lay underneath looked like freshly butchered beef. His left arm dangled by a thread of bone flesh at the elbow.
“Get Wyatt!” Holliday thundered. “Get him quick!”
Starbuck took off running toward the Alhambra.
A stark silence permeated the house. Everyone in the parlor was immobile, their eyes fixed on the hallway door. Their mood was one of people drawn together in a deathwatch, forlorn and without hope.
The entire Earp family, all the brothers and their wives, had gathered at Virge’s home. Following the shooting, Starbuck and Earp had improvised a stretcher and carried him across town. Holliday, meanwhile, had gone to fetch Tombstone’s only surgeon, Dr. George Goodfellow. Now, dreading the worst, they waited for the surgeon to emerge from the bedroom. He had been operating on Virge for nearly an hour.
Starbuck stood with Alice near the front door. She gripped his hand tightly, her face pale and drawn. His presence obviously comforted her, and thus far no one had objected to him intruding on a family affair. His expression was properly solemn, but he shared none of their concern. Whether Virge lived or died was the farthest thing from his mind. He was, instead, fascinated by the tableau of the Earp family.
Until tonight he hadn’t fully appreciated their numbers. Earp, his features stony and cold, dominated the group. Seated around the room were Jim, the eldest brother, and his wife. Nearby were Morg and Warren, both younger and considerably more robust in appearance. Virge’s wife, whose expression was ghastly, was huddled in a corner with Mattie and the other wives. Doc Holliday, sipping from a flask, stared morosely at a spot on the wall. Their silence was palpable, and strangely unnatural.
To an outsider, their stoicism was difficult to credit. Starbuck noted that Virge’s wife, despite her hollow-eyed gaze, hadn’t yet shed a tear. The three brothers, like Earp, were stolid as oxen. No one spoke, and no one registered the emotion normally expected under such circumstances. It was as though any public display of sentiment had been prohibited. Whatever they felt, whatever hurt and suffering they shared, was bottled up deep inside. The effect was eerie, somehow scary. Not unlike an assemblage of brutes contemplating a bleached skull.
The spell was broken as Dr. Goodfellow appeared in the hallway door. His sleeves were rolled up and his shirtfront was speckled with blood. His expression was grim.
Earp spoke for the family. “How is he, doc?”
“Alive,” Godfellow said calmly. “I got all the buckshot out of his side and back. So far as I can tell, his spine wasn’t damaged.”
“What else?” Earp insisted. “Let’s hear it all.”
Goodfellow pursed his lips. “Wyatt, I’m sorry to say it doesn’t look good. I may have to amputate his arm, but he’s too weak to survive major surgery. We’ll just have to wait and hope his condition improves.”
“Will he pull through?”
“I wouldn’t hazard a guess. Quite frankly, it could go either way.”
“Why now?” Earp’s iron impassivity suddenly deserted him. He turned away, his eyes garnet with rage. “Goddamnit, why now?”
Virge’s wife rose from the settee and crossed the parlor. Without a word, Dr. Goodfellow took her arm and escorted her down the hall. A moment later there was a faint click as the bedroom door closed.
Morg abruptly jumped to his feet. “I’ll tell you why! We waited too long. We should’ve gone after them the minute charges was dropped against you and Doc.”
“He’s right!” Warren blurted out. “Brocius and them bastards figured we was runnin’ scared. Otherwise they wouldn’t’ve never done that to Virge!”
“I second the motion.” Holliday saluted them with his flask. “Get them before they get us! I told Wyatt that very thing myself.”
Starbuck looked from one to the other, spellbound. He knew Morg had killed a man in the shootout at the OK Corral, and Warren was reportedly no slouch with a gun as well. Unbidden, a thought popped into his head. He realized he was listening to a brotherhood of murderers. Not just Earp and Holliday, but the entire family. All of them were cold-blooded killers.
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“Take the fight to them!” Morg said vindictively. “If we don’t, they’re gonna pick us off one by one just as sure as hell.”
Warren nodded vigorously. “The same way they did Virge!”
“Better listen, Wyatt,” Holliday affirmed. “You keep trying to polish your image, and we’re all liable to go up the flume.”
“That’ll do!” Earp said sternly. “We’ll move when I say so, and not before.”
“You and your damn politics!” Morg exploded. “It’s not worth it, Wyatt! Not anymore.”
A strained stillness settled over the room. Earp’s jaw muscles knotted and a vein pulsed in his forehead. His brothers seemed to shrink back under his scowl, and he stared at them for several moments. Then, remembering himself, his gaze shuttled to Starbuck. His look once more became stolid, impenetrable.
“You boys,” he admonished his brothers, “forgot we have company. Let’s leave it till another time.”
Starbuck took the hint. “Listen, I didn’t mean to butt in on family business. I’ll get on back to the hotel and catch some shut-eye.”
“I’m obliged to you,” Earp said quietly. “Virge and me owe you one.”
“Forget it,” Starbuck replied, opening the door. “I was glad to lend a hand. Let me know how Virge gets along.”
Alice walked him outside. She looked stunned. Her eyes were dulled and her features were completely drained of color. He took her hands, searching her face in the pale starlight.
“What’s wrong?”
“I’m afraid,” she told him. “The killing has started again, and it won’t end here.”
“Don’t worry,” Starbuck gently advised. “Wyatt and his brothers can take care of themselves.”
“It’s not them!” She squeezed his hands fiercely. “I’m worried about you.”
“Here now,” Starbuck chuckled. “You’ve got no call to worry about me. I’m an old hand at looking after number one.”
“Get out now!” she said vehemently. “Don’t let Wyatt draw you into his fight.”
“All things considered, he’s treated me pretty square.”
“Wyatt doesn’t have friends! He uses people and”—her voice became a desperate whisper—“they end up dead.”
Starbuck lifted her chin, smiled. “You can ease your mind on that score. I aim to live a long time.”
The door opened and Earp stepped onto the porch. As he moved down the stairs, Alice brushed past him and hurried inside the house. He glanced back at her, then halted in front of Starbuck.
“She upset?”
“Some,” Starbuck admitted. “It’s been a bad night.”
“Bad as they come,” Earp agreed. “I’m a little touchy myself. Otherwise I wouldn’t have cut you off so quick a minute ago.”
“Don’t give it another thought. No offense taken.”
“Good.” Earp paused, studying the ground. “Doc tells me you’ve got troubles of your own.”
“Leadville?” Starbuck wagged his head. “No, that’s likely water under the bridge by now.”
“Wish ours were,” Earp said bitterly. “Way things look, there’s rough times ahead.”
“Well, listen here now! You need any help, all you’ve got to do is holler. I mean it!”
“I appreciate the offer, Jack. And I’m not one to forget a favor.”
“What the hell!” Starbuck flipped a palm back and forth. “Us gamblin’ men have got to stick together.”
Earp shook his hand warmly and they parted. Walking toward town, Starbuck had to restrain himself from laughing out loud. Tonight had worked out even better than he’d planned. Especially where Earp was concerned.
The sorry bastard had taken the bait, hook and all!
CHAPTER 7
For New Year’s Eve, the diningroom in the hotel had been-cleared of furniture. Gaudy bunting and little Japanese lanterns festooned the ceiling, and the floor had been waxed to a mirror polish. The Volunteer Firemen’s band thumped sedately over the strains of an upright piano.
Alice looked ravishing tonight. Her hair, dark as a raven’s wing, was arranged in an upswept style that accentuated her oval features. Her eyes sparkled and her mouth seemed poised for laughter. She was animated and vivacious, and for one night she was clearly determined to set aside worldly troubles. She smelled sweet and alluring, and she clung joyously to Starbuck.
Holding her at arm’s length, Starbuck swung her gracefully across the dance floor. For a large man, he was surprisingly light on his feet. His step was better suited to the stomping beat of a dancehall, but he managed the waltz without once stepping on her toes. It was their first dance of the evening, and already he knew he’d gauged her mood correctly. Her eyes never left his face, and her dreamy expression spoke louder than words. She was his for the asking, and he sensed she would deny him nothing. Tonight was the night all her secrets would be revealed.
When the dance ended, they walked toward a refreshment table near the front of the room. The crowd was steadily increasing, and a large throng was congregated around the punchbowl. Though other hotels were holding dances, the Occidental’s gala was considered the only affair suitable for decent people. Tombstone’s uppercrust, merchants and bankers and mine owners, formed a snobbish, tightly knit society all their own. So far, Starbuck and Alice had been treated with polite diffidence. A gambler and his lady weren’t particularly welcome, but no one seemed inclined to make an issue of it. The general consensus was apparently one of benign tolerance.
Then, quite suddenly, the atmosphere changed. A buzz of conversation swept over the room, and Starbuck noticed that people were staring toward the entrance. Turning, he saw Morg and Warren Earp, accompanied by their wives, standing in the wide doorway leading to the lobby. As the foursome advanced into the room, the murmur from the crowd took on an ugly note. Couples near the doorway quickly moved to the opposite side of the dance floor. The Earps and their women were left in an uncomfortable vacuum.
Starbuck took Alice’s hand and led her across the floor. He totally ignored the stares of onlookers and their muttered comments. With a wide grin, he greeted the Earps, shaking hands forcefully. Their wives looked painfully embarrassed, and he had no doubt the brothers had forced them to attend the dance. As usual, the women wore dresses that appeared to have been purchased at a rummage sale. The men, by comparison, were dandified fashion plates.
“Glad you folks made it,” Starbuck said warmly. “I haven’t seen a familiar face since we got here.”
“You likely won’t, either.” Morg shook his head in disgust. “Our kind isn’t exactly welcome at this shindig.”
“Say listen, don’t let this bunch of swells put your nose out of joint. It’s New Year’s Eve!”
“They don’t seem to bother you none.”
“Nosiree!” Starbuck jerked a thumb toward the crowd. “Anybody looks cross-eyed at me and I’ll tell’em to stuff it where the sun don’t shine.”
“Jack!” Alice giggled. “They’ll hear you.”
“So what?” Starbuck said loudly. “Maybe an earful would do them good.”
Morg burst out laughing. “You’re a regular rooster, aren’t you?”
“Live and let live, that’s my motto.”
Starbuck was mentally calculating how the moment could be turned to advantage. Thus far, he’d had no opportunity to speak with the two youngest Earp brothers. He judged Morg to be in his mid-twenties, and Warren a year or so behind. From their one meeting, he had sized them up as youthful hotheads, and therefore vulnerable. A man whose temper ruled his tongue often talked too much for his own good. What, if anything, they might reveal was sheer speculation. But it was very definitely worth a try.
“How’s Virge?” Starbuck went on, suddenly sober. “Any improvement?”
“Not a whole lot,” Morg said in an aggrieved tone.
“He’ll pull through, but it’s touch and go with his arm.”
“That sawbones still want to amputate?”
“H
ard to say. This afternoon he told Wyatt there’s no sign of gangrene. But he wouldn’t commit himself one way or the other.”
“Wyatt over at the Alhambra tonight?”
“No,” Morg remarked. “Him and Doc are at Virge’s. We’re taking turns watching the house.”
“You really think Brocius would try it again?”
“That crazy jaybird’s liable to try anything.”
Starbuck appeared thoughtful. “What’s Brocius like, anyway? Crazy crazy or crazy like a fox?”
“What makes you ask?”
“Well, for one thing, he don’t seem to take too many chances. He steered clear of that shootout you had with his boys, and now he ambushes Virge. Offhand, I’d say he’s a pretty slick article.”
“Slick, hell!” Warren struck into the conversation with an oath. “He’s a dirty yellow bushwhacker! Why d’you think he got Virge in the back that way?”
“I was wondering about that,” Starbuck said lazily. “What made him pick Virge? Why not Wyatt or Doc?”
“Who knows?” Warren snapped. “More’n likely he took whoever come along first.”
“Queer, though, isn’t it?”
“I don’t follow you.”
“Tell you the truth, I don’t rightly follow myself. I guess I was trying to puzzle out what’s behind it.”
“What’s behind what?”
“Why he wants blood so bad. A man’s got to hate awful strong to shoot somebody after all that time.”
“Seems simple enough to me,” Morg explained. “Virge was marshal the day we killed three of his men.”
“But it’s not just Virge,” Starbuck insisted. “You said the other night he was after the whole family.”
Morg’s mouth hardened. “Are you sayin’ he’s not?”
“No, nothing like that! I’m just asking why—why he wants all of you?”
“Same reason,” Morg said flatly. “We all had a hand in his men gettin’ killed.”
“Yeah, maybe.” Starbuck looked doubtful. “But if he just wanted revenge, why did he wait so long? One dark night’s as good as another.”
