by Matt Braun
“I reckon you did. Or at least what you said about that newspaper story. It stands to reason Brocius and his boys will try to save face. So maybe Ringo was picked to get the ball rolling.”
“I don’t follow you.”
“Seems pretty obvious,” Starbuck said solemnly. “Brocius means to knock you off one at a time. Tonight was Doc’s turn, only Ringo got too big for his britches.”
“By God, I think you’ve got something there!”
“I’d bet on it,” Starbuck assured him. “Course, it’s none of my business, but if it was me, I’d take the play away from them.”
“How would you propose to do that?”
“Simplest way on earth,” Starbuck smiled. “Get them before they get you.”
Earp regarded him thoughtfully a moment, then nodded. “Jack, you just gave me a helluva idea. It wasn’t exactly what you intended, but it’s a pip!”
“Oh, yeah? What’s that?”
“I think it’s time I got myself a badge.” Earp’s mouth curled in a sinister smile. “Way past time!”
CHAPTER 11
For the next few weeks Starbuck hung around the Alhambra like a forlorn ghost. He was moody and dispirited, and unable to come to terms with an elemental flaw in his strategy. He had once more underestimated Wyatt Earp.
Late one afternoon, he sat alone at a poker table. The lull before the evening rush had left the Alhambra virtually deserted. As he had every night for the past month, he was scheduled to take Alice to supper somewhere around six. With an hour or so to kill, and nothing better to occupy his time, he had stopped in for a couple of drinks. Now, with a hand of solitaire spread before him, he listlessly shuffled the cards. His gaze was abstracted, and almost mechanically, he laid the jack of diamonds on top of the queen of diamonds. He stared at the cards like a man peering disconsolately into an open grave.
February was half gone, and he was gripped by a leaden sense of defeat. The clarity of hindsight made his stomach churn, and the infernal waiting sawed on his nerves. He thought it one of life’s greater ironies that he had been instrumental in bringing law and order to Arizona Territory. The grandest joke of all was that he had inadvertently transformed a shifty scoundrel into a sworn peace officer. Even now, somewhere south of Tombstone, U.S. Deputy Marshal Wyatt Earp led a posse in search of the Brocius gang. It boggled the mind, and left the sour taste of bile in his throat.
A month ago, only one day after the Ringo incident, Earp had disappeared from town. Three days later, he had returned with a badge pinned on his chest. Somehow, though he offered no explanation, he had managed to have himself appointed U.S. Deputy Marshal for the Tombstone District. It was all very mysterious, and to the consternation of his political opponents, it was also very legitimate. U.S. Marshal Crawley Dake, headquartered in Tucson, had administered the oath personally.
Half the town was dumbstruck, and the other half waited with anticipatory relish for the next act in what seemed a comedy of the bizarre. Sheriff John Behan, now reduced to second fiddle, stomped around town in a faunching rage. Earp’s commission, being federal, superceded both local and county authority. He was the top lawman in all of southern Arizona. The balance of power, virtually overnight, had changed hands.
Starbuck, no less astounded than the townspeople, recognized it as a brilliant improvisation. For cool nerve and audacious conniving, it was unsurpassed. With one stroke, Earp had risen above public censure and given himself an enormous advantage over the Brocius gang. He loudly proclaimed that he was going to run the outlaws out of Arizona. Privately, he let it be known that dead or alive was not an issue. He intended to take no prisoners.
On all counts, Starbuck’s plan had gone haywire. His purpose was to goad Earp into action, and thereby provoke open warfare between thieves. The upshot was that Earp had gone him one better, leapfrogging to a scheme that seemed not only outlandish but wholly improbable. Never in his wildest fancy would Starbuck have imagined such a brazen, and totally unpredictable, turn of events. Nor would he have conjured the unlikely twist that a private vendetta could so easily be spliced into a civic crusade. Even worse, he could have envisioned no outcome that would have left him sitting on his rump in Tombstone.
Yet there he sat.
Upon recovering from his initial shock, he had assumed Earp would ask him to join the posse. After all, it was his prompting that had suggested the scheme to Earp in the first place. He wasn’t particularly thrilled with the idea, but as a member of the posse it would still induct him into the Earp clique. Once on the inside, he would simply adapt his plan to fit the new circumstances. Ultimately, by hook or crook, he would have emerged with Earp’s scalp on his belt. It hadn’t worked that way.
At no time, either by word or intimation, had he been invited to join the posse. Instead, Earp had sworn in Holliday and his younger brothers, Morg and Warren. Then, in a stunning piece of arrogance, he had imported two professional pistoleros from south of the border. Operating out of Nogales, Sherm McMasters and Texas Jack Vermillion were known throughout the southwest. They were hired guns, mercenaries available to the highest bidder, and their work was considered top drawer. Earp, expedient to the end, pinned federal badges on them. No mention was made of salary, but the arrangement was hardly a secret. John Clum published reports in the Epitaph that a “civic group” had placed a bounty of $1000 on Curly Bill Brocius.
Starbuck concluded that he’d overplayed the role of happy-go-lucky cardsharp. Earp liked him, even trusted him, but apparently considered him a lightweight when it came to gunplay. The marshal and his posse rode out of Tombstone the third week in January. Starbuck was left to contemplate the ashes of a plan gone awry.
Forced to wait it out, Starbuck had turned to Alice for comfort and diversion. His feelings about her veered wildly. He enjoyed her company and she raised his spirits, and her abandon in bed made the wait somewhat more bearable. Yet the other side of the coin disturbed him, and gave him pause. She was like a schoolgirl with her first crush, except it wasn’t puppy love. She was hearing church bells and organ music. Worse, she kept dropping broad hints that clearly tagged him the bridegroom in her fantasy. He did nothing to encourage her, nor did he attempt to prick the bubble. He was genuinely fond of her, and more to the point, he couldn’t afford to alienate his only potential witness. At night, when she lay snuggled in his arms, he often had difficulty reconciling one with the other.
His excuse, which he perceived as legitimate, was the overriding goal of bringing Earp to justice. All the more so now that Earp was operating under the mantle of a badge. Through the Wells, Fargo agent in Tucson, he had learned that considerable pressure had been brought to bear on Crawley Dake, the U.S. Marshal. Apparently Earp had called in all his political markers in Tombstone. Tom Harris, one of the territory’s power brokers, had pulled the necessary strings to secure Earp’s appointment as Deputy Marshal. Harris, in turn, was aligned with the Tombstone businessmen who supported Earp. The link had been easily traced, and appeared to be little more than one hand washing the other. For all the quid pro quo, however, it posed a graver threat.
Brooding on it, Starbuck was of the opinion that Earp had raised his sights. Were he to rid Arizona of the Brocius gang, he would effectively kill two birds with a single stone. Foremost, and not to be discounted, was that he would eliminate the personal danger to himself and his brothers. At the same time, he would restore his own prestige, and emerge not just the man of the hour, but a lawman of imposing credentials. Using that as leverage, he could then consolidate his business alliances and move to gain control of Cochise County. It was a bold play and might very well succeed. By staking all his chips on the turn of a card, Earp could realize a complete turnabout in his political fortunes. From there, whatever venture he attempted, the sky would be the limit.
So far, Earp and his posse had produced little in the way of results. For the past three weeks they had chased around the territory without once sighting the outlaws. Clearly, Brocius and his ga
ng had gone to ground, and were waiting for the dust to settle. There had been no more stage robberies, which pleased Wells, Fargo, and cattle rustling was reportedly at an all time low. But that in no way resolved the larger problem. Brocius and his gang, in the scheme of things, were merely a nuisance. Wyatt Earp was a dyed-in-the-wool menace.
The central question, Starbuck reflected, was how to bring the nuisance and the menace together. Slowly riffling the cards, he pondered ways to flush the gang from hiding and pit them in a bloodletting against the Earps. At this point, his options were limited and he was fresh out of ideas. He was also leery of creating any situation that might further Earp’s resurgent flirtation with power. Yet anything was better than the Mexican standoff which now prevailed.
While it was no masterpiece, he still had one dodge left in his bag of tricks. Until now, he had hesitated using it simply because it was his last resort. If it failed, he would have nowhere to turn, and that prospect troubled him more than he cared to admit. Still, with the situation as it stood now, he was boxed into a corner anyway. From that viewpoint, there wasn’t a hell of a lot to lose whatever he tried. Time was the enemy, and to sit on his butt any longer would be the worst mistake of all. What it boiled down to was the oldest axiom in the book. Nothing ventured, nothing gained.
He tossed the cards on the table and walked out of the Alhambra.
The sun dipped westward as Starbuck entered the front door of the Epitaph. John Clum was seated behind a desk littered with foolscap and newspaper tearsheets. His expression was somewhat harried, like a man battling several fires with only one bucket.
“Afternoon, Johnson.”
“Afternoon, Mr. Mayor.”
Clum brightened. He liked titles, and respect. “What can I do for you?”
“Wondered what the latest was on Wyatt. You heard anything?”
Clum’s smile vanished. The sour look Starbuck received was not unexpected. It was no secret that Clum’s fortunes had waned in the last six months. His association with Earp had provoked the wrath of both the town council and the voters. Barring a miracle, his political career had been consigned to the dung heap. Still worse, the Epitaph was steadily losing subscribers and advertisers to Harry Woods’ Nugget. His financial position bordered on the perilous, and there were rumors he had mortgaged his home to raise operating funds for the newspaper. His frown was that of a weary and troubled man at the end of a long day.
“The last I heard of Wyatt, he was down around Bisbee somewhere. That was almost a week ago.”
“If he’d caught up with Brocius, I suppose you would’ve got wind of it by now?”
“Probably so,” Clum said dully. “News like that would travel fast.”
“Bisbee?” Starbuck appeared thoughtful. “You reckon Brocius and his bunch skipped into Old Mexico?”
“I wouldn’t hazard a guess.”
“Seems logical, though, doesn’t it?”
Clum shrugged indifferently. “Who cares where they’ve gone? It’s hardly front page news.”
Starbuck lit a cheroot and stuck it in his mouth. Then he hooked his thumbs in his vest, puffing cottony wads of smoke. “I’ve been thinking on that very subject, Mr. Mayor. The way it looks to me, it’s high time Wyatt got the credit he deserves.”
Clum looked startled. Like everyone else in town, he knew that the gambler named Johnson was practically a member of the Earp family. Alice Blaylock’s visits to his hotel room, coupled with the fact he’d attached himself to Earp, had set the gossip mill churning. Yet, for all that, Clum knew he was considered something less than a mental wizard.
“Exactly what credit do you think Wyatt deserves?”
Starbuck ticked it off on his fingers. “There hasn’t been a single stage robbery since he took out after Brocius. None of the mines have reported a payroll holdup. And there’s talk that rustled cows are scarcer than hen’s teeth. I’d say Wyatt has kept his promise, and he’s done it in spades.”
“You seem to forget he hasn’t caught Brocius.”
“Strictly beside the point,” Starbuck said confidently. “He’s put the Brocius gang out of business, probably scattered them to hell and gone across the border.” He paused, using his cheroot like a wand, and scrolled a headline in the air. “Wyatt Earp has brought law and order to Arizona Territory!”
“You’re right!” Clum marveled. “By all that’s holy, he has done it, hasn’t he?”
“See?” Starbuck grinned. “You hadn’t thought of it that way and likely no one else has either. You stick that on your front page and they’ll probably give Wyatt a medal. Might even erect a statue to him!”
Clum considered that unlikely. But the gist of the idea was sound, and anything that enhanced Earp’s image would work to his own benefit as well. Elbows on the arms of his chair, he steepled his fingers and stared off into space.
“I like it.” His voice was reverent, almost a benediction. “U.S. Deputy Marshal Wyatt Earp brings law and order to Arizona Territory. By the saints, that’ll make them sit up and take notice! And it’s true. Do you realize that, Johnson—it’s indisputably true!”
“Gospel truth,” Starbuck affirmed. “The town idjit could see that.”
Clum grabbed a sheet of foolscap and began writing furiously. Starbuck flicked an ash with his pinky finger and crammed the cheroot back in his mouth. He looked proud as punch.
Shortly after dark, Starbuck slipped through the back door of the Nugget. While he waited in the print room, Harry Woods drew the shades on the front windows. Then he walked forward and took the wooden armchair beside Woods’ desk.
“I just had a chat with your competition.”
“Our esteemed mayor?”
“Prize sucker,” Starbuck said quickly. “Nobody’s easier to gaff than a man with larceny in his blood.”
Woods smiled. “Tell me about it.”
“I conned him into running a story on how Earp has tied a can to Brocius’ tail. He thinks he’s beating the drum for Earp, but that’s pure whiffledust. What it’ll really do is make Brocius mad enough to chew nails.”
“You are, indeed, a devious man.”
Starbuck chuckled softly. “Harry, this time we’ll pull out all the stops. I want you to publish those two lists, side by side. On the left side, a list of the dates the stages were robbed. On the right side, a list of the dates Earp purchased property. No editorial comment, just the lists by themselves. Let folks draw their own conclusions.”
Woods studied him with admiration. “I daresay Brocius and Company will find that fascinating reading.”
“I’m depending on it,” Starbuck nodded. “If they’re like most outlaws, they spend it as fast as they steal it. I’m betting they don’t own much more than the clothes on their backs.”
“Yet Earp, by contrast, is worth a fortune.”
“In addition to which, he’s kept them on the run for nearly a month. No holdups, no rustled cows, nothing. The way they look at it, he’s taking the bread out of their mouths.”
“Not to mention the fact that he’s doing his level best to kill them.”
“One more thing,” Starbuck added. “I want you to write an editorial blasting Earp. Something to the effect that he doesn’t give two hoots in hell about ridding the territory of outlaws. Charge him with using the Brocius gang to his own political ends, turning their skeletons into steppingstones. I think you get the general idea.”
“Indeed, I do!” Woods laughed. “You intend to rub their noses in it. The Epitaph story, the lists, my editorial! Brocius and his men won’t be able to ignore all that. “They’ll go off like skyrockets!”
“If they don’t,” Starbuck said ruefully, “I’ll be in a helluva fix, Harry. “I’m just about at the end of my string.”
“Never fear, Luke! The pen is mightier than the sword … especially a poison pen!”
Starbuck wasn’t fully convinced. But, then, as he’d told himself earlier, he had nothing whatever to lose by trying. He left Woods scribbling with
a sort of mad glee over an impassioned editorial.
Starbuck knew something was wrong the moment she opened the door. Alice’s smile was bleak, and she looked wretched. Stepping inside, he found Earp seated in the parlor. He stopped, genuinely surprised, then crooked his mouth in a jack-o’-lantern grin.
“Well, knock my socks off! Where’d you come from?”
“Just rode in, not more than ten minutes ago.”
“You got’em!” Starbuck hopped toward him like a dancing bear. “I know you! You wouldn’t have quit unless you got’em.”
Earp gave him a hangdog look. “No such luck. We never even got a sniff.”
“I’ll be switched,” Starbuck said, suddenly somber. “You mean to say they got away—clean?”
“That’s about the size of it.”
“So what’s next? You aim to rest up a spell and then head out again?”
“Jack, I wouldn’t have the least goddamn idea where to look. We’ve combed the territory from stem to grudgeon, and it’s like they dropped through a hole in the ground.”
Starbuck glanced at Alice and she ducked her head toward the door. She quite obviously wasn’t pleased by her brother-in-law’s return. For his own reasons, Starbuck was none too happy himself. After nearly two months of effort, he felt very much as though he’d just hop-scotched back to square one.
“Well, listen, we’ll talk some more. Let me buy you a drink later and you can tell me the whole story.”
“Maybe tomorrow,” Earp begged off. “I’m so damn wore out my butt’s draggin’ the ground.”
“Sure thing, Wyatt! Get yourself a good night’s sleep and I’ll see you tomorrow.”
On the way out the door, Starbuck glanced back and got a shock. Earp looked whipped, somehow drained of resolve. Now, more than ever, the double-barrel newspaper blast represented a last ditch effort. Unless it brought Brocius into Tombstone, there would be no war. No bloodletting, and no end to the case.
