Promised Land

by Mark Warren

  “That don’t mean nothin’,” Frank barked. “We use a lot o’ brands.”

  Virgil turned all his attention on Frank. “You’re the other McLaury?”

  “You’re goddamn right I’m a McLaury! And I want all of you off my land!” Without waiting for a reply, Frank turned his head sharply toward the paddock where Hurst’s men and the ranch hands were grouped around the mules. “Goddamn it!” Frank hissed. “What are those damned soldiers doin’ here?” Ignoring the Earps, he marched away in his bouncy gait toward the paddock in front of the house.

  “Wyatt, see what you can get out of this one,” Virgil said, nodding toward Tom. Then he turned to follow Frank McLaury.

  “We didn’t steal those mules,” Tom said, looking up at Wyatt.

  “Where’d you get ’em?” Wyatt said.

  Again Tom wet his lips with a flick of his tongue. He turned his head to watch his brother move down the hill toward the paddock.

  “I ain’t all that sure,” he finally answered and looked back at Wyatt with a deep frown of bewilderment. “I figure they just strayed up the river and wandered onto our land. I reckon Frank would know.”

  Wyatt knew the brother was lying. Tom’s eyes were open wide with a moist sheen reflecting the desert light. When he swallowed, his throat made a wet clicking sound that he tried to cover by coughing up phlegm, but when he turned to one side and spat, he came up as dry as the Sonora wind.

  “The mules were stolen,” Wyatt said simply. “And now you’ve run a brand over the government’s. That’s a federal offense.”

  Tom tried to conjure up a look of resentment, but he couldn’t seem to purge the fear in his eyes. “Look, we didn’t steal any goddamn mules, all right?”

  Wyatt looked over the McLaury spread and then settled his gaze on the twice-branded mules. “Maybe . . . but they’re in your possession. If you didn’t steal ’em, you prob’ly know who did.”

  Now voices rose in anger from the paddock, and Tom’s head swung quickly that way. “I got to go see about my brother,” he said and started off at a nervous, shuffling trot for the larger group in front of the house. Wyatt reined his horse around and followed with Morgan right behind.

  Virgil stood outside the paddock arguing with Lieutenant Hurst, while Williams and the soldiers stood back. Frank McLaury rose up on the toes of his boots to yell at both men. The other Cow-boys lazed against the fence, watching the debate with mixed interest. By the time Wyatt and Morgan reached the volatile parley, Virgil was walking stiffly toward his horse, his face a storm cloud. Mounting, he motioned with his head to his brothers, and they joined him.

  “Ain’t we takin’ these jaybirds in?” Morg asked.

  Virgil’s back was as straight as a wooden post, his jaw clamped so tightly, there was hardly room for words. He stared at Morgan, then Wyatt, and finally leveled his gaze on the army officer still conferring with the McLaury brothers.

  “No,” Virge said in a hard, flat tone. “We ain’t.”

  Wyatt sat his horse and looked back at the sneering smile on Patterson’s face. Williams mounted and sidled his horse alongside Wyatt’s.

  “Hurst isn’t pressing charges, Wyatt. The jackass made some kind o’ deal with Frank. The mules are to be returned day after tomorrow.” He saw the look in Wyatt’s eyes, spewed air from his lips, and shook his head. “Hell, don’t ask me. This lieutenant ain’t got the sense God gave a watermelon.”

  Wyatt touched his heels to his horse and took it at a walk to intercept Hurst as the officer walked from the McLaurys toward his soldiers. When they met, Hurst stopped with a defensive glare on his face.

  “You’re makin’ a damned fool mistake,” Wyatt said evenly.

  Hurst pursed his lips and seemed to be searching for an appropriate reply. Failing that, he looked off toward the river, and his face took on an impatient scowl.

  “I’ll have all my mules back within two or three days,” Hurst insisted. “That’s my major priority.” He swept a hand back toward the paddock. “This need not concern you any longer. We have reached a reasonable agreement here.”

  Wyatt held out the branding iron, showing the soldier the D8 stamp matched to the size of the US brand. “And this don’t bother you?”

  Hurst barely glanced at the iron. He set his jaw and stared up at Wyatt.

  “No . . . not as long as I get the mules back.”

  Wyatt held the man’s gaze. “And what if you don’t?”

  The officer jerked down on the front of his uniform, making the coat fit smoothly over his slight frame. “Like I said, we have an agreement. McLaury will hold up his end of the bargain. He has to. He’s dealing with the United States Army.”

  Wyatt watched the men in the paddock pick up their pistols and cartridge belts and buckle them at their waists. The short, compact man with the carbine leaned on the fence again, exactly as he had when the posse had arrived.

  “You’re playing right into their hands,” Wyatt replied to Hurst. He dropped the iron into the dirt at the officer’s feet, where it thudded heavily and sent up a small cloud of dust. The lieutenant looked down reflexively, but he made no move to pick up the evidence. Wyatt reined his horse around to join his brothers.

  “Hey, Arp!” Frank McLaury yelled. He swung his arms like scythes as he marched toward Wyatt, stopping so close that the horse started to shy. Wyatt settled his mount and watched McLaury take a wide stance in the dry dirt as his gloved fists clenched at his sides. “Don’t any o’ you be comin’ out here no more! We shoot trespassers!”

  Wyatt looked down at McLaury. He could see this hothead spitting venom for as long as he had an audience. Nodding once toward the mules, Wyatt fixed cold eyes on the livid rancher.

  “You’re either involved in stealing these mules or you’re holdin’ ’em for the men who did. But you’re damned sure searing your brand over the government’s. If I or my brothers have cause to ride out here again, you can be damned sure we won’t have a wet-behind-the-ears stripling soldier with us.”

  McLaury puffed up his chest and scuffed forward a step, his entire body like one tensed muscle. Wyatt eased his boot from the stirrup on that side. McLaury was breathing so hard through his teeth, Wyatt could feel the warmth of it on his leg. Tom McLaury eased forward and pulled on his brother’s arm.

  “Come on, Frank. Don’t you got it all worked out with the lieutenant?” Tom glanced up at Wyatt as though asking permission to remove his brother. “The lieutenant said—”

  Frank jerked free of his brother’s grip. “It’s settled. You don’t have to explain a goddamn thing to these town-shits who think they know something about this country.”

  When the younger McLaury led his brother away, Wyatt toed back into his stirrup. Hurst stood in conversation with Patterson, who was raising and lowering his hands in a placating gesture. When he turned, Patterson inadvertently spooked the paint, and it kicked at him, the hoof just catching his hip. Patterson snatched a quirt off the fence and lashed out at the horse, whipping it across the face, neck, and withers.

  The short, bowlegged man with the carbine walked to the paint and calmed it. Then he strode coolly to Patterson, grabbed the quirt, coiled it, and slapped the bigger man over the head three times. Patterson crouched and tried to cover himself with his arms. The smaller, compact wrangler stood glaring at the cowering man. Then he flung the quirt into the dust and walked away.

  Wyatt wheeled his horse around and moved down the road. Waiting by the gate, Virgil and Morgan turned to join him, and the three brothers rode side by side down the double-rutted track that led to the Charleston Road.

  “That Frank McLaury,” Morgan said, “now there’s a half-pint rooster could stand to have his jewels clipped.” He looked back at the ranch and chuckled. “I’d sure like to be the one to do it for ’im.”

  They spoke no more as they climbed out of the valley. Their horses lunged through a series of sand-drifts, their hooves sinking to the fetlocks and quiet as a man’s stockinged feet on a hardw
ood floor. Cresting the hill, they gained a view of the desert that would dwarf any man’s thoughts. Only the blue arch of the sky could claim dominance over such an expansive land.

  When they reached the road they formed a tacit, fraternal flank and rode side by side at an easy gallop. As the cadence of their horses’ hooves synchronized into a common rhythm, Virgil came out of his dark mood and shook his head.

  “Camp Rucker will never see those mules. Those boys might’ve give their word, but they’ll never make good on it.”

  Wyatt kept his eyes on the road ahead. “There ain’t nothin’ good’ll come out o’ this goddamn day,” he said under his breath.

  Virgil and Morgan looked at him, but no more was said as they made their way back to Tombstone.

  CHAPTER 4

  Summer 1880:Tombstone, A. T.

  The mules were not returned. Like a child trying to make amends for his failed chore, Lieutenant Hurst printed a card in Tombstone’s Republican supported newspaper, the Epitaph. In it he disclosed the names of the alleged thieves and named the McLaurys as accomplices. A reward was offered for information leading to a conviction.

  Two nights later, as Wyatt ran his faro game at the Oriental, the two McLaurys, Curly Bill, and a big strapping boy in his late teens elbowed their way up to his table. All wore hats, as if they had just entered the establishment. The few observers who had been standing there gave ground or were bumped aside, where they stared at the intruders from a deferential distance. The heavyset boy dropped a folded newspaper on top of Wyatt’s layout. It was the Epitaph. At a glance Wyatt recognized Hurst’s juvenile plea centered on the fold of the page.

  “Poor old Frank’s been at home cryin’ the last coupl’a nights,” the boy said. “I think maybe his feelin’s got hurt.”

  “Shut up, Billy,” Frank McLaury snapped, giving the boy a sharp look.

  The customers sitting in on Wyatt’s game became quiet and uneasy. One player tried to rise from his chair, but the Cowboys crowded him, giving the man no room to exit.

  “If all you boys want to sit in on a game, you’ll have to wait a spell,” Wyatt said, his voice as calm as if he were calling for all bets. “I’ve only got room for one more at the moment.” Like a man plucking lint from his coat, he casually picked up the paper and dropped it on the carpeted floor of the gaming room.

  The broad-shouldered boy leaned forward with his fists on the table. “Game’s prob’ly rigged, anyway,” he huffed. When Wyatt said nothing, the boy laughed. His breath smelled of cigarette smoke, alcohol, and onions.

  Wyatt looked up at Frank McLaury. “Want to sit in?”

  “To hell with your game,” Frank said, swatting the card box with the back of his hand. The box toppled, collapsing a stack of chips that spread across the layout. Wyatt ignored the upset and kept his eyes on McLaury, telegraphing the message that there were limits to his patience.

  Curly Bill cackled. “Try him in poker, Frank. See what he’s really made of.”

  Wyatt’s gaze held on McLaury. “He knows well enough,” Wyatt said quietly.

  Frank pushed the oafish boy aside and took his place. Leaning on his knuckles in the same pose, he lowered his face closer to Wyatt’s.

  “You come out to the Babacomari again and accuse me of anything, you’d better come out in a wagon so we can haul your corpses back to this shit-hole of a town. We been here in this territory a long time before you pimps moved in. No one in Arizona has ever called my name into question.”

  Wyatt tipped his head toward the newspaper on the floor. “Till now,” he said.

  McLaury straightened to stand his full height, but the crown of his hat only leveled off at the jaw of the brutish boy standing next to him. Brocius seemed content to be a smiling audience.

  “The same thing goes for the Clanton place,” the boy said in a husky threat. “I’m a Clanton, by God. You come out there, and you’ll get yourself shot all to hell for damn sure. Me, and Ike, and—”

  “Ike Clanton?” Wyatt said, interrupting the blustery boy. “You’re the same Clantons ran a horse ranch outside San Bernardino?”

  “Why do you wanna know?” the young Clanton challenged, bumping the table as he rounded its corner. “What do you know about Ike?”

  Wyatt almost smiled. “We did a little horse trading a while back. Reckon we were about your age.”

  Unsure if an insult had just been palmed off on him, the young Clanton frowned and looked quickly from Wyatt to Brocius and back. Wyatt turned his attention back to Frank McLaury and let his eyes go cold.

  “If you boys don’t know how to play proper,” he said, nodding toward the spilled chips, “I’ll give the seat to someone else.” He righted the card box and stacked the chips.

  The Clanton boy gave a sneering laugh and turned away, keeping his eyes on Wyatt as a parting message of warning. McLaury glowered a few seconds longer and then strutted to the bar. Brocius chuckled, saluted from the brim of his hat with one finger, and joined his friends. The faro customers took this opportunity to pick up their chips and relocate.

  Finding himself without a customer, Wyatt noticed a well-dressed man with a finely trimmed beard and moustaches watching him from the bar. The man picked up his beer and strolled over to Wyatt’s table. Slight of build, he possessed a youthful face and personable eyes.

  Wyatt nodded to a chair. “Care to play? It appears my customers have vacated.”

  The man set down his beer and offered his hand. “I’m Charlie Shibell, sheriff of Pima County.” Wyatt shook the man’s soft hand. “You put a good handle on things that might go out of control, Mr. Earp.”

  Wyatt’s eyes narrowed at the use of his name.

  Shibell sat and canted his head toward the bar. “Got your name from the owner,” he explained. He leaned, picked up the folded Epitaph from the floor, and then cocked his head as he read it. “I like the way you defused that situation. Those boys like to run roughshod over the town folk. They’re not accustomed to walking away.”

  “Won’t help my business any if I start crackin’ the heads of people at my table.”

  Shibell smiled at the faro layout. “So, you consider this your business?”

  “One of ’em,” Wyatt said. “Whatever it takes . . .”

  Shibell acknowledged Wyatt’s persistence with a nod. Leaning in closer, he lowered his voice to a murmur.

  “Marsh Williams told me about your trip to the McLaury ranch. Told me you didn’t mind naming Frank McLaury for what he is to his face. I know you’ve got a background. Dodge City and . . . what? Wells, Fargo?”

  “I’m working for Wells, Fargo now.”

  The sheriff sipped from his beer, careful to keep the foam from his moustaches. “I need a deputy here in Tombstone,” he said in earnest. Then he made a quick appraisal of Wyatt’s chest and shoulders. “My only other deputy down here is near to sixty.”

  “How much does it pay?” Wyatt said.

  Shibell smiled at Wyatt’s directness. “With mileage, court appearances, and arrest bonuses you should average well over a hundred twenty-five a month.”

  Wyatt nodded to show his interest.

  “On top of that,” Shibell continued, “you’ll get a cut of the taxes you collect for me.”

  The sheriff waited for a reply, but Wyatt remained quiet, his face unreadable.

  Shibell frowned and gestured with a hand, sweeping it around the room. Then he shook his head with a sense of helplessness.

  “Pima County is too damned big. I need a good man down here.”

  Wyatt thought about Tombstone’s unbridled growth. It was like a brush fire just before going out of control. Everyone knew that Tombstone would warrant its own county sliced out of Pima, and the new county would need its own sheriff. With that title came the big money—a sizeable percentage of all taxes collected. With the wealth accumulating from the mines and the expansion of the outlying cattle ranches—legal or not—a sheriff’s income would catapult into several thousands of dollars a year. A for
tune.

  “Would I have the power to appoint deputies?” Wyatt asked, thinking of his brothers.

  “Of course, when the situation warrants. Naturally, all invoices for expenses must be cleared through the county. As long as the privilege is not abused, I’ll back you all the way.”

  “One thing,” Wyatt said, “I understand you’re a Democrat. I’m Republican.”

  Shibell smiled at his beer mug, then lost the smile when he looked Wyatt in the eye. “I need somebody who can handle men and is not afraid to knock on a stranger’s door to serve a warrant. It doesn’t matter to me if that man is a Jesuit priest.”

  Wyatt had already made up his mind. It could be helpful to have a badge again. And the permit to carry a gun. More importantly, the offer positioned him for the sheriff’s office for the new county with Tombstone as its hub.

  “Will you still be in town tomorrow?” Wyatt asked. “I’d like a chance to talk this over with my brothers.”

  Shibell nodded, finished his beer, and stood. “Good,” he said. “I’ll look for you here tomorrow evening.”

  Inside a half hour Virgil pulled out the same chair where Shibell had sat and dropped into it without spilling the contents of his beer mug. He carried a folded newspaper under his arm.

  “Business slow tonight?”

  “It’s looking up,” Wyatt said. “Charlie Shibell offered me a position as deputy sheriff. Wants me to police this part o’ the county.”

  Virgil managed to frown and smile at the same time. “Like I told you . . . you were born to the badge, Wyatt.”

  “It’ll be some extra income,” Wyatt explained. “And it might lead to somethin’.”

  Virgil laughed. “You see the card Frank McLaury ran in the paper?” He turned the folded newspaper and tapped a column with his finger. It was a new article, this one printed in the Nugget, the town’s Democratic voice. “Appears he don’t like bein’ called a thief.”

  Wyatt only glanced at the announcement. “He was in here a while ago . . . strutting like a peacock. Him, Brocius, and one of the Clantons—a big brawny kid with a loose mouth.”