by Matt Braun
“Hell’s bells!” Starbuck laughed. “A little white lie never hurt nobody. Specially a lawdog!”
“Well, all the same, we’re obliged. Aren’t we, Doc?”
“Johnson,” Holliday clapped him on the shoulder. “How’d you like to take a chair in my game tonight?”
“Doc, I think we’d make a puredee fortune together.”
“None of your tricks! You hear me? Keep it straight!”
Starbuck grinned. “You’ve got yourself a deal, Doc. Straight as an arrow, that’s me!”
Late that night Starbuck parted company with Earp and Holliday. He mounted the stairs of the hotel veranda, watching a moment as they continued up the street. Then he moved inside, quietly closing the door behind him. The night clerk, dozing fitfully on one of the couches, continued snoring. He catfooted across the lobby.
Upstairs, he walked directly to the rear door. On the landing outside, he paused and surveyed the darkened alley. Then, satisfied no one was around, he went down the backstairs. He turned left and hurried to the corner. There, he checked in both directions before darting across the street. With utmost caution, he worked his way from alley to alley, hugging the shadows whenever possible. His general direction was north, toward Safford Street.
As he skulked through town, Starbuck’s thoughts were confused, speculative. There was something strange about tonight’s stage robbery. He knew Earp and Holliday weren’t involved, but the robbery seemed somehow part of a broader pattern. Over the past two weeks he had forged a tenuous link between Earp and the Brocius gang. Though the proof was still to come, the obstacles had not seemed to him insurmountable. Yet tonight had introduced an element that left him baffled. The robbery had triggered the realization that a piece was missing. The sum of the known parts suddenly no longer added up to a whole. The jigsaw puzzle was incomplete.
Starbuck now considered the situation intolerable. Something was about to happen—or had already happened—and he sensed it would have a profound effect on the case. Yet he hadn’t the vaguest notion of what it was, or who had done it. Nor was there any defensive measure he could take to counteract its effect. Not only was he fighting in the dark, he was grappling with an unknown, and that left him only one recourse. He had to take the offensive—and fast.
A half hour later he paused in the alleyway behind Harry Woods’ home. He waited several minutes, wondering if Woods kept a yard dog, then decided there was no way to avoid the risk. He walked quickly to the back door, flattening himself in the shadows. He rapped lightly with his knuckles, listening a moment. Then he rapped harder.
The wait seemed interminable. At last, the glow of a lamp lighted the house. Through the window, he saw Woods appear in a hallway, dressed in a nightshirt. The editor entered the kitchen and hurried to the back door.
“Who is it?”
“A friend,” Starbuck said in a muffled voice. “Douse the light.”
The lamp went out and Woods slipped the door latch. “Come in, Luke.”
“Sorry to bother you so late at night.”
“It’s quite all right.”
Starbuck stepped into the kitchen. Woods locked the door, then moved around the room pulling windowshades. A match flared and he relit the lamp. His eyes were gummed with sleep and he peered at Starbuck like a weary gnome.
“What’s wrong, Luke?”
“We’ve got trouble,” Starbuck told him. “I need your help.”
“Here, sit down.” Woods pulled out a chair at the kitchen table. “What’s Earp done now?”
“Harry, I wish to hell I knew.”
Starbuck straddled a chair and began talking. He briefed Woods on the stage robbery and Sheriff Behan’s visit to the Alhambra. Then, omitting the spicier details, he related the extent of his progress with Alice Blaylock. Finally, he gave a rundown on his dealings with Earp and Holliday, and the Earp brothers. He kept it brief, but covered all the salient points.
“That’s about it,” he concluded. “Or leastways as much as means anything.”
Woods looked impressed. “I would say you’ve made excellent progress. What seems to be the problem?”
“Not the problem,” Starbuck commenced in a sandy voice. “A whole batch of problems! Earp acts like he’s waiting on an egg to hatch. I don’t see any sign of him taking the trail against Brocius. And unless he does, then there’s no reason for him to ask my help.” He paused, slowly shook his head. “On top of all that, I’ve got a gut-sure hunch there’s something I don’t know. Something damned important.”
“Oddly enough,” Woods observed, “I was seriously debating whether or not to contact you. It’s just possible Earp has already hatched his egg.”
“How’s that?”
“Let me start at the beginning,” Woods replied. “You may recall you asked me to check into Earp’s business interests. With no one the wiser, I was able to gain access to both the town and county tax records. It turns out that Mr. Earp is a man of some means.”
Starbuck suddenly came alert. “He owns property?”
“Several properties,” Woods corrected. “Some in his own name and some in the names of various family members. Altogether, the Earp family owns eleven town lots outright. More importantly, Earp has a fifty-fifty interest in four rather substantial mining properties.”
“Fifty-fifty?” Starbuck furrowed his brow. “Who owns the other half?”
“Some of the most prominent businessmen in Tombstone. Their names wouldn’t mean anything to you, but they went to great pains to keep their dealings with Earp an absolute secret. Much of it was done through lawyers and paper corporations.”
“Sounds like you’ve done a bit of detective work yourself.”
“Indeed, I have,” Woods admitted. “It’s taken me the better part of two weeks, and led me through a maze of legal hocus-pocus. But I think it yielded some rather impressive dividends.”
“Damn right!” Starbuck confirmed. “Our faro dealer turns out to be something more than he appears.”
“He’s a sly and devious man. I think it’s fair to say he was creating powerful alliances that would have eventually led to political control of Cochise County. After that, there would have been no stopping him.”
“Lift a rock and find a scorpion.” Starbuck was silent a moment, thoughtful. “You said something about him already having hatched his egg. Were you referring to this political alliance?”
“Not entirely,” Woods remarked. “I’m not sure what it means, but this afternoon I happened across a curious piece of information. Within the last two weeks or so, Earp has sold his interest in three of the mining properties. He’s also unloaded eight of the town lots.”
“Goddamn!” Starbuck slammed his fist down on the table. “That’s it!”
Woods was startled. “That’s what?”
“The missing piece!” Starbuck said quickly. “He’s getting ready to run.”
“I fail to see the connection.”
“Virge was shot on December 28. That’s ten days ago, and Earp started selling off his properties right after it happened. He’s just waiting around till Virge is well enough to travel. Then he’s going to make dust for parts unknown.”
“Hmmm?” Woods considered a moment. “You know something, Luke? It makes sense. Very good sense!”
“Maybe for Earp,” Starbuck conceded. “But I don’t like it one damn bit. Matter of fact, we’ll have to move quicker than I thought.”
“Quicker?”
“Harry, I want you to write an article about Behan bracing Earp and Holliday. Play it up big! Tell the whole world how Earp stood right up in the Alhambra and laid the robbery off on Brocius. Tell them how he accused Brocius of ambushing Virge. Put it in big black headlines that he called Brocius a coward and a dirty yellow bushwhacker. Smear it all over the front page. No holds barred!”
Woods appeared puzzled. “To what purpose? What do you hope to accomplish?”
“I mean to push somebody into making a mistake.”
“Earp?”
“Or Brocius,” Starbuck nodded. “I want one of them to start shooting, and I don’t much care which side kicks it off.”
“Then Earp enlists your help and you become a member of the club … correct?”
Starbuck smiled. “That’s the general idea.”
“You’re pretty devious yourself, Luke.”
“I try,” Starbuck said, grinning. “One other thing. When you get a minute, check out the dates Earp bought each of those properties.”
“May I ask why?”
“So we can compare the purchase dates with a list of dates that stages were robbed. I’m betting we’ll get a pretty close match.”
Woods blinked. “Not even Earp would be that—arrogant.”
“Harry, I’ve learned one thing about crooks and desperadoes. I’ve never yet seen it fail.”
“What’s that?”
“All of them,” Starbuck laughed, “confuse balls with brains.”
CHAPTER 9
The Clanton ranch lay in the foothills of the Whetstone Mountains. Across the vast emptiness there was a sense of desolation. The land sloped sharply downward as it stretched toward the San Pedro River, broken occasionally by buttes and treacherous arroyos.
Some miles west of Tombstone, there was no road as such leading to the ranch. Instead, a rutted trail bordered the river, eventually ending at a remote settlement called Charleston. On the afternoon of January 10 a rider appeared southward along the trail. His horse was lathered and spent, but he held it to a gallop as he rode toward the ranch headquarters. A ramshackle collection of buildings, the compound consisted of a main house, a cook shack and bunkhouse, and a log corral. No working ranch, it was a waystation for Mexican cattle rustled by the Brocius gang.
The rider slid his horse to a dust-smothered halt before the house. Vaulting from the saddle, he left the horse wheezing and near collapse. Hurrying forward, he jerked a soiled newspaper from his coat pocket and burst through the door. Inside, he slammed to a stop and waved the newspaper aloft.
“You ain’t gonna believe what I got here!”
The men sprawled around the room were a rough lot. Their clothes were rank, and with the exception of one man, none of them had taken a bath since the last time it rained. The smell of unwashed bodies, stale food, and rotgut whiskey left the room permeated with a rainbow of odors. For several moments, no one spoke. They stared at the man holding the newspaper with looks of bored disinterest. Finally, he advanced toward a large man slouched down in a rickety chair. He shook the newspaper as though swatting flies.
“You made the front page, Bill! Wyatt Earp says you’re—”
Bill Brocius snatched the paper out of his hand. A huge man, wide and tall, Brocius had thick curly hair and full mustaches. He snapped the paper open and began reading. His lips moved as he labored with the words, and his face slowly colored to the hairline. A leaden silence ensued while he scanned the article. Then he suddenly balled the newspaper into a wad and hurled it across the room.
“That sonovabitch!” he snarled. “Gawddamn if he couldn’t lie his way out of a locked safe!”
Pete Spence, who had brought the newspaper, wisely took a chair. Frank Stilwell glanced at Johnny Ringo, who was slumped in a battered, cane-bottomed rocker. On a dilapidated sofa, Ike and Finn Clanton, owners of the ranch, exchanged a quick look. At last, Ike leaned forward and retrieved the newspaper. Unwadding it, he moved back beside his brother, and skimmed through the article. His mouth popped open in astonishment.
“Talk about the pot callin’ the kettle black! The dirty scutter out and out accuses us of robbin’ the Benson stage.”
“That ain’t no lie,” Stilwell chuckled. “Unless I was dreamin’, we did.”
“Mebbe so,” Finn Clanton allowed. “But he’s still got no call to be sayin’ it out loud.”
“Why not?”
“Because he ain’t so clean himself. That’s why!”
“You’d play hell provin’ it, and don’t nobody know it better than him.”
“Oh yeah?” Ike Clanton chimed in. “How about all them times Holliday give us the lowdown on stage shipments?”
“That was Holliday, not Earp.”
“Same difference!” Finn retorted. “Earp don’t itch without Holliday scratchin’ his ass.”
“I’m not sayin’ otherwise. I just said we ain’t got no proof of that.”
“Johnny does!” Finn said positively. “Earp slipped up once’t, and was standin’ right there when Holliday gave Johnny the dope. Ain’t that right, Johnny?”
Ringo lolled back in his rocker, one leg hooked over the chair arm. “You’ve got a big mouth, Finn.”
“Awww—” Finn Clanton’s wise-ass smile faded under his cold stare. “C’mon, Johnny! I didn’t mean no harm.”
“Then button your lip and leave my name out of it.”
Ringo was swarthy man, with muddy eyes and sleek, glistening hair. He was clean-shaven, neatly dressed, and smelled like a lily compared to the others. Among all the gang members, he was the one authentic pistolero. Some years ago, when his brother was murdered in Texas, he had tracked down the four killers and dispatched them in mano a mano gunfights. When angered, his face became stern as a deacon’s and his eyes turned to chilled stone. The other men saw that look now, and prudently left him to himself.
Ike Clanton, who was again perusing the newspaper article, suddenly erupted. “Dirty rotten sheep-humper! You boys wanna hear what Mr. Godalmighty Earp thinks of us?”
“Sure thing!” Stilwell cackled. “Couldn’t be no worse’n what we think of him.”
“He says”—Ike squinted hard at the paper—“and this here’s his own words, ’Bill Brocius is a yellow-livered coward. He and his gang of penny-ante badmen drygulched my bother with never a chance. They are nothing but bushwhackers and backshooters, the lowest form of vermin known to man.’ That’s what he called us! Them exact words!”
Everyone turned to look at Brocius. He glowered back at them, outrage stamped across his face. He shook a finger at Ike.
“Keep readin’ and you’ll find out he said all that standin’ at the bar in the Alhambra. Made himself a regular gawddamn speech! Told it to the world and anybody that’d listen.”
“Bastard!” Finn muttered. “He’s sure got a lot of room to talk, don’t he?”
Stilwell looked confused. “What d’you mean?”
“What he means,” Brocius rumbled, “is that Earp and his brothers make us look like pikers. They’re nothin’ but common murderers, and pretty damn open about it! Ain’t that right, Ike?”
Ike Clanton flushed beet red. Any mention of the OK Corral shootout brought the bright light of shame to his eyes. On that October day, less than three months past, he had shown the white feather. As the Earps and Holliday approached the livery stable, he had darted forward, screaming hysterically that he was unarmed. Then, as the shooting commenced, he had taken refuge in a nearby photographer’s studio. From there, he watched the final execution of his own brother, Billy Clanton, and the two McLowery brothers. He was the lone survivor, and it was simple cowardice that had saved his life. The memory of that day had dimmed none at all. He still burned with guilt, and the other gang members held him in studied contempt.
“I’ll tell you one thing,” he said with false bravado, unable to meet their eyes. “Virgil Earp deserves whatever he got! That sorry asshole never even give us a chance that day.”
Stilwell flashed a mouthful of brownish teeth. “Same song, second verse.”
“Damn if it ain’t,” Brocius agreed. “Wyatt’s the kingpin of that bunch, and don’t you never forget it, Ike. He just used Virgil’s badge to give him a license to kill.”
“If that’s so,” Finn ventured, “then we shore as hell gunned down the wrong man.”
“Quit your bellyachin’!” Brocius yelled. “We’re gonna get’em all. Every last one!”
Finn hawked and spat a wad of phlegm in the direction of the stove. “How d’you figger to
do that?”
“I’m thinkin’ on it.”
“You been thinkin’ on it near about three months. So far, all we’ve done is wing Virgil. That ain’t much to show for what’s owed us.”
“Why, hell, Finn,” Stilwell chortled. “We stole better’ n four hundred head of cows and robbed a stage. We sure as the dickens ain’t done ourselves no harm.”
“That’s what I mean,” Finn bridled. “We been runnin’ around like a fart in a bottle. Half the time we’re down in Mexico rustlin’ cows and the other half we’re in some greaser cathouse tryin’ to catch a dose of clap. That ain’t gettin’ the Earps killed.”
“We’ll kill’em!” Brocius said viciously. “Wyatt Earp’s on the top of my list! So don’t you worry your head about it, Finn. You hear me?”
“Yeah, I hear you.”
“C’mon, Finn.” Ike nudged his brother in the ribs. “Don’t act so down in the mouth. Bill ain’t never led us wrong yet, has he? He’ll get it figgered out.”
“I never said he wouldn’t. I’m just askin’ when.”
“I’ll tell you when!” Brocius exploded. “When I’m gawddamn good and ready! Anybody put your brains in a jaybird and the sonovabitch would fly backwards.”
“What the hell’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means you’re dumber’n a horseturd! Don’t you think Earp’s on his guard now? Christ, he probably don’t stick his nose outdoors after sundown. We’ve got to wait till he gets over the jitters! Then we’ll nail his butt once and for all.”
“How long’s that gonna take?”
“Till I sayso and not a minute sooner.”
“Well, don’t take it personal, but I sure as shit ain’t gonna hold my breath waitin’.”
“You keep on and you’re liable to be holdin’ your breath a lot longer’n you think.”
Stilwell waved them apart. “Simmer down! Bill’s got the right idea, and no two ways about it. We just have to wait till Earp gets careless. It’ll happen, don’t never believe it won’t!”
“You bet’cha!” Ike slapped his knee. “Catch the bastard when he ain’t lookin’ and blow him to Kingdom Come. I’d give a nickel to see his face when it happens!”
