by Matt Braun
Alice held his hand in a death grip. She was frightened and confused, and clung to him as though terrified of the moment they must part. The news of Morg’s death, he recalled, had unnerved the whole family. Their grief was heightened by the knowledge that their own lives were in jeopardy so long as they remained in Arizona. Their hasty departure from Tombstone, arranged in the dark of night, merely confirmed what no one dared say out loud. The Earp family was once more on the run. Stealing away, bag and baggage, like a caravan of gypsies.
In the early morning hours, with the sky still dark, the evacuation had gotten underway. Everyone had an assignment, and there was a sense of impending doom about the hurried preparations. Earp and Holliday, assisted by McMasters and Vermillion, had taken one of the buckboards to the funeral parlor. There, Morg’s coffin was loaded aboard and lashed down with rope. Warren and Starbuck, meanwhile, got the rest of the family ready to travel. Virge and Jim, along with the six women, were dressed and waiting when Earp returned. The women were allowed only one carpetbag apiece, and even then, the buckboards were cramped and overcrowded. As false dawn lighted the horizon, the little caravan rolled north out of Tombstone.
Their immediate destination was Contention. A railway junction and freight yard, the small settlement lay some twelve miles north along the banks of the San Pedro. While the distance was not that great, it was a remote stretch of road, well suited to ambush. Earp, heedful of the danger involved, treated the operation somewhat like a military withdrawal. Outriders were assigned to the cardinal points. With himself and Holliday in the vanguard, Warren and Starbuck were posted on the flanks. The hired guns, Vermillion and McMasters, brought up the rear.
Starbuck had met the gunmen on several occasions during their stay in Tombstone. He recognized them as run-of-the-mill hardcases, a breed he held in low esteem. The border attracted many such men, quiet and cold-eyed, with little regard for the value of life. Their connection with Earp was somewhat of a mystery, never once alluded to in conversation. Yet they clearly respected Earp, and almost went out of their way to fawn over Holliday. It very much put Starbuck in mind of a wolf pack. There was a definite order of dominance, and while all were meat-eaters, those of lesser ferocity forever curried favor with the pack leader. He thought it entirely likely that they had all worked together before.
Around mid-morning, after an uneventful journey, they had arrived in Contention. From there, they caught the noon train, pulling into Tucson late that afternoon. Still under guard, the family was then herded into the depot, where they were to await the evening westbound. Warren, with Starbuck along for good measure, was assigned the task of locating a boardinghouse for Mattie and Alice. Outside the depot, Earp had handed Mattie a roll of money and allowed himself to be pecked on the cheek. Their parting was like some atavistic ritual, without emotion.
Now, less than an hour later, the hack rolled to a stop in front of a two-story structure that looked weather-beaten and in ill repair. The driver assured them it was clean and served decent meals, one of the few boardinghouses suitable for ladies. Warren jumped down and went inside to arrange accommodations. Starbuck helped the women from the hack, then unloaded the bags and carried them to the porch. On his way back to the street, Mattie passed him on the walkway. She seemed dazed, scarcely nodding when he spoke, and continued on into the house. Alice waited for him at the edge of the barren, weed-choked yard. She looked on the verge of tears.
“Cheer up!” he said lightly. “It’s a little the worse for wear, but I’ll bet they serve the best food in town.”
Alice smiled wanly. “I wasn’t thinking of that.”
“Why so down in the mouth, then?”
“I was wondering—” Her eyes suddenly went misty. “Will I ever see you again, Jack?”
“Course you will,” Starbuck assured her. “Once we get this business cleared up, I’ll scoot on back here so fast it’ll make your head swim.”
“Promise?” she whispered, desperation in her voice. “I’d give anything in the world to believe you won’t just … go away.”
Starbuck was not a man who revealed his innermost thoughts. The girl was important to him, and not only as a potential witness. Over their months together he had developed a genuine affection for her, and he was concerned about her welfare. Yet old habits were hard to break, and in his business, emotions were something to be suppressed. He covered what he felt now with an offhand remark.
“Tell you what.” He grinned, taking her by the shoulders. “You keep a light in your window. One of these nights I’ll sneak up and blow it out, and we won’t get out of bed for a whole week.”
“Oh, Jack.” She sniffed, blinking away tears. “You’re terrible. You really are.”
“Terrible good?” Starbuck cocked one eyebrow. “Or terrible bad?”
“You know very well.” She bit her lower lip, silent a moment. Then she hugged him fiercely around the neck. “You will be careful, won’t you? For my sake, please!”
“Why, you ought to know me better than that. Careful’s my middle name! Don’t worry your head on that score.”
“I will,” she said softly. “I’ll worry every minute you’re gone.”
Warren appeared on the porch and came swiftly down the walkway. She pulled Starbuck’s mouth to hers and kissed him soundly. Then she slipped past him, tears streaming down her face, and ran toward the house. He gave Warren a sheepish grin, lifting his shoulders in an elaborate shrug. Wordlessly, they climbed into the hack and seated themselves.
The silence lasted for several blocks. Starbuck’s thoughts were on the girl, but he slowly became aware that Warren was staring vacantly into space. At length, after lighting a cheroot, he shifted around in his seat.
“Something bothering you?”
“What makes you think that?”
“For one thing, you look like you just lost your best friend.”
“Maybe I did,” Warren said miserably. “Mattie and me have always been pretty thick, up till now anyway. She sure gave me the dust-off back there. Wouldn’t even say goodbye.”
“That a fact?” Starbuck looked at him curiously. “I know she was partial to you, more so than your brothers anyhow. What’s her problem?”
“Wyatt!” Warren burst out. “She’s got some fool notion that Wyatt means to ditch her.”
Starbuck’s expression revealed nothing. “Hardly makes sense. Why would he want to get shed of Mattie?”
Warren averted his eyes, visibly troubled. “Lemme ask you something, Jack. You notice anything different about Wyatt … anything unusual … since last night?”
“I’m not exactly sure what you mean.”
“I’m not either,” Warren confessed. “But he’s not himself. He’s acting damn strange, and I can’t rightly put my finger on it.”
“Maybe it’s Morg,” Starbuck suggested. “He got hold of himself quick enough, but he took it awful hard when Morg died.”
Warren shook his head. “I know Morg getting killed caused it. That’s not what I’m talking about, though.”
“You just lost me on the turn.”
“It’s—” Warren faltered, then rushed on. “Take a good look at his eyes. Maybe nobody except family would notice it, but it’s there. Something mighty goddamn queer … spooky.”
“Hold on now! Are you trying to tell me he’s popped his cork?”
“No, I wouldn’t go that far.”
“Well, how far would you go?”
“I don’t know, Jack. I just by God don’t know!”
The storm broke shortly after nightfall. A blue-white bolt of lightning seared the sky and an instant later a thunderclap shook the depot. Then a torrent of rain struck the earth in a rattling deluge.
Already an hour overdue, the westbound pulled into town just as the storm unleashed its fury. A groaning squeal racketed back over the coaches as the engineer throttled down and set the brakes. The engine rolled past the depot and ground to a halt, showering fiery sparks in a final burst of po
wer. The station agent, dressed in a rain slicker, walked forward as the conductor stepped down from the lead coach.
When the train stopped alongside the platform, Earp emerged from underneath the depot’s overhanging roof. He carried a double-barrel shotgun, and the shadowy figures ranged behind him were now armed with Winchesters. He slowly inspected the platform, watching intently as several passengers alighted from the train and hurried into the stationhouse. Then he turned his head and nodded.
Starbuck moved forward and took a position near the express car. A row of lanterns, strung along the front of the stationhouse, gave him a commanding view in either direction. Vermillion and McMasters appeared from beneath the overhang, pulling a baggage cart which contained Morg’s coffin. They trundled the cart across the platform and jockeyed it into position before the express car. A messenger threw the door open, motioning with his hand. The gunmen scrambled onto the cart, one on either end of the coffin, and carried it inside. Within seconds, they returned, jumping from the cart to the platform. Collecting their Winchesters, they moved past Earp and took up position at the far end of the depot.
Earp walked directly to the stationhouse door. Opening it, he stuck his head inside, then turned and moved back onto the platform. Holliday and Warren came through the door, both of them armed with Winchesters. Next out were Virge and his wife, trailed closely by Jim and the other three women. They splashed through the rain, led by Warren, and boarded the middle passenger car. Earp took a last look around, then followed them inside the coach.
Starbuck moved along the platform and joined Holliday. His coat was now soaked and rivulets of water rolled off his hat as the rain continued in a steady downpour. Through the car windows, he saw Earp and Warren getting the family settled and stowing their luggage in overhead racks. Watching them, he recalled the concern expressed earlier by Warren. Since returning to the station, he’d observed Earp more closely, and the change, though not pronounced, was evident. Earp looked drawn, older than his years, and there was a strange feverish cast to his eyes. Moreover, he was quiet, uncannily quiet. All evening he had roamed the station, avoiding conversation, curiously withdrawn. He somehow reminded Starbuck of a mad bull hooking at cobwebs. A bull spoiling for a fight.
Some time later Earp and Warren stepped out the coach door. Their faces were somber, and it was clear their final goodbyes had been difficult. Earp glanced around the depot, then looked at Holliday.
“Everything all right out here?”
“So far.” Holliday extracted a telegram from his inside coat pocket. “This came over the wire from Clum while we were in the waiting room. I figured it was best to wait till Virge and Jim were set before I showed it to you.”
Earp scanned the telegram, then grunted. “Coroner’s jury returned a verdict naming Pete Spence, Frank Stilwell and Florentino Cruz as Morg’s killers. Wonder how they managed to overlook Brocius?”
Holliday knuckled back his mustache. “Well, at least we’ve got some names and a legal indictment. It’s a place to start.”
“Indictment, hell!” Earp tapped the marshal’s star pinned on his coat. “All I need’s this badge and a reasonable gun range. Let somebody else worry about the legalities.”
Warren cleared his throat. “You still aim to kill ’em outright?”
“Why?” Earp asked with a clenched smile. “You got a better way?”
“Nooo,” Warren said slowly. “Let’s just make it look like they put up a fight. Otherwise it’ll give Behan an excuse to swear out another murder warrant against us.”
“Not a bad idea! Johnny Behan’s one man I’d enjoy throwin’ down on.”
Earp’s eyes strayed to the front of the train. A lightning bolt illuminated the sky and he suddenly stiffened. The figure of a man darted from behind a stack of railroad ties and ran across the tracks, disappearing around the front of the engine. Earp rapped out a sharp command.
“Doc, you and Warren stay here! Don’t let anyone else on board. The rest of you come with me!”
Vermillion and McMasters rushed forward, trailing Starbuck, and they followed him down the platform. Earp led them around the caboose and across the tracks. Ahead, through the rain, they saw a man moving toward them, rising every few steps to peer in the coach windows. Then, glancing in their direction, the man spotted them and whirled to run. Earp threw the shotgun to his shoulder.
“Halt! Or you’ll get it in the back!”
The man stopped and eased around with his arms in the air. As they approached him, the light from the coaches clearly outlined his features. He stared at them with a mixture of fear and bravado. Earp halted and slowly cocked both hammers on the scattergun.
“Stilwell, I know you’re not alone. You’ve got about three seconds to tell me who’s with you and where they are.”
Stilwell swallowed hard. “You’ve got nothin’ on me, Earp. There’s no law against walkin’ the tracks.”
“Cut the bullshit! Talk quick or I’ll dump both loads of this greener in your balls and let you die slow.”
“Wyatt!”
Holliday rounded the caboose and hurried toward them. “We just saw Ike Clanton run around the corner of the station. Happened too fast to get a shot at him.”
“That figures,” Earp said over his shoulder. “Ike never was one to stick around for a fight.”
Holliday halted beside him. “Who you got here?”
“Frank Stilwell.” Earp grinned, turned his head slightly. “He obliged us by showin’ up just when we heard he helped kill Morg.”
Starbuck was startled by the expression on Earp’s face. He saw there a wild homicidal rage, and deep within the ice-blue eyes, a look of feral savagery. Suddenly the engine chuffed smoke and the wheels groaned as the train got underway. Earp turned back to the outlaw, and there was a quiet steel fury in his voice.
“Stilwell, if you’ve got the faith, you better start prayin’. Your time’s run out.”
The train jolted forward and the first passenger car slowly rolled past them. Out of the corner of his eye, Starbuck saw the conductor and several passengers peering out the coach window. Then Earp triggered both barrels and the shotgun belched a yard-long streak of flame. Stilwell staggered backwards, the entire front of his coat blown apart. His knees suddenly buckled and he struck the ground hard, sprawled in a welter of blood.
The coaches gathered speed, and intermittent light from the windows framed Stilwell’s face in a death-mask. Powder flash from the shotgun had set his clothes afire, but the rain quickly extinguished the flames. Wisps of smoke continued to rise from his blood-scorched body as the express car rattled past. Then the train was gone and a moment later the tail lights of the caboose were obscured by the storm.
Warren ran across the tracks. A jagged streak of lightning split the darkness, and he stopped, looking down at the body. His eyes widened, and he quickly turned away. After a moment he found his voice.
“Frank Stilwell?”
“Used to be,” Holliday said without expression. “Now he’s nobody.”
“Better get used to it,” Earp said gruffly. “You’ll see lots more like him before we’re through.”
“Yeah,” Warren mumbled. “I know.”
Earp broke open the shotgun. He extracted the spent shells and contemptuously tossed them on the smoldering body. His mouth worked at the corners, and he stared down with an unsettling gaze, deep and intense. Several moments passed, then he laughed a low, gloating laugh.
“At least the sorry bastard didn’t beg.”
A cone of silence enveloped the men. Warren exchanged a worried glance with Starbuck, and a message passed between them. Unbidden, almost unwittingly, they were both thinking the same thing. The laugh they’d just heard was sane and yet somehow spooky. The laugh of a man skittering very near the edge of reason.
“Let’s go,” Earp ordered abruptly. “We’ve still got a long haul, and it won’t all be this easy.”
The men fell in behind Earp as he walked toward the
depot. Lagging back, Starbuck looked at the body one last time. He smiled, telling himself it had begun and knowing in the same thought where it would end. The place where Frank Stilwell would soon take up residence.
The boneyard.
CHAPTER 14
Early the next evening Earp convened a council of war. The meeting had been called at Starbuck’s suggestion, the purpose being to work out strategy for the upcoming manhunt. Apart from Holliday, no one else was asked to attend.
The others, Warren and the two hired guns, raised no objections. The previous night, after Stilwell’s killing, Earp had led them on a long walk to the first flag station outside Tucson. From there, they hopped a freight train to the railway junction at Contention, and then traveled by horseback to Tombstone. The party had arrived, weary and trailworn, shortly after the noon hour. None of them had slept since day before yesterday, and the tension of the last forty-eight hours had sapped their energy. Earp took rooms at the Occidental, and the men had fallen gratefully into bed. Holliday and Starbuck were awakened before suppertime, and had joined Earp in the hotel diningroom. The others were left to their own devices for the balance of the night.
At Starbuck’s request, Earp had obtained a detailed map of Arizona Territory. Now, huddled around the desk in Earp’s room, they examined the map closely. Starbuck, by virtue of his hitch as an army scout, asked the questions.
“Last time out, where did you start?”
Holliday stabbed at the map with a bony finger. “Charleston.”
“Why there?”
“Because that’s where Brocius and his boys hang out.”
“Any special reason?”
“There’s a saloon—The Silver Dollar—that caters to cattlemen and their hired hands. Brocius only rustles cows down in Mexico, so the welcome mat’s always out. He sells cheap and there’s plenty of ranchers that don’t mind turning a crooked dollar.”
“What made you think you’d find him there?”
“That’s a damnfool question!” Earp’s tone was hotly defensive. “Doc just told you why.”
