by Mark Warren
Virgil snorted. “I took some of their guff out on the street. Billy Clanton is bustin’ a gut to become an honest-to-God desperado.”
“He’ll make it pretty quick with that crowd,” Wyatt said and began loading a deck of cards into the faro box.
Virgil raised his chin at Wyatt. “This is the same Clantons from San Timoteo Canyon back in California.” Virge smiled. “You remember how you snookered Ike when you pulled that one-sided horse trade?”
“I remember,” Wyatt said. “It came down to us recovering a horse he’d already stolen from the freight company.”
They did not speak for a time as Wyatt counted the chips in the dealer’s tray. Virgil set down his beer, lighted a cigar, and looked over the crowd in the room. Finally he dug a coin out of his vest pocket and laid it on the picture of the queen on the layout. With a swirl of smoke from the cigar, he motioned for Wyatt to draw the cards.
“So . . . what about Shibell?” Virgil said.
Wyatt threw the first card into the deadwood, and then he drew a nine. He left the coin where it lay.
“I figure being deputy will help all of us. I’ll have power to appoint.”
Virgil nodded and raised an eyebrow. “How will that run with Mattie?”
Wyatt drew another two cards, as if Virgil had placed another bet with the same coin. The winner was a queen.
“She’ll live with it . . . or she won’t. It don’t matter.”
Virgil picked up his coin from the layout and polished off the dregs of his beer. “Reckon I got to tell you something, Wyatt.” Virge looked around the room and then winked at Wyatt. “Let’s go outside for a walk.”
The summer night held fast to the heat of the day. It was too warm for an outer garment, but both Virgil and Wyatt were dressed in black suits without complaint. Only a few stars were visible. Clouds stacked from the western horizon and extended almost overhead, checkering the dome of night with a pattern like the scales on a snake. The monsoons would be starting soon. And with the rain came the replenishment that would increase the value of the properties they had bought for water rights.
They walked west on Allen Street past the Wells, Fargo office to Hafford’s, turned down Fourth and again west on Fremont—all this with no words. When Virgil saw their houses in the distance he leaned against the high-slatted wooden gate at the back entrance of the O.K. Corral. There he pulled out another cigar and offered it to Wyatt.
“I ain’t been letting Allie go into town,” Virgil began. “I don’t like her being there without me. And I don’t need her walking next to me down Allen Street as long as I’m wearing a badge.”
Wyatt looked up the street at the Gird block where the city fathers made decisions about the town’s future. There, it seemed, men were getting rich just sitting in a room and talking. A few doors down was the printing shop of the Epitaph, which had just converted from a weekly paper to a daily. Prosperity was seeping up from the mines into every branch of business.
“Anyway . . . that’s what I’ve been telling myself,” Virgil continued. “The thing is, it don’t seem right for me to let Allie go in if Mattie don’t.” He laughed and moved his cigar through a tiny circle in the air. It was not often that Virgil allowed himself to be embarrassed. He laughed again and shrugged. “ ’Course Allie don’t talk to me for a day or two after I tell ’er she’s got to stay at home.”
A dog barked at the edge of town, the rhythm steady and insistent until a harsh voice shut it up. The pleasant scent of woodsmoke wafted from the Mexican quarter beyond the buildings across the street.
“No reason to let Mattie’s life ruin yours and Allie’s,” Wyatt said. “Do what you want, Virge.”
Virgil frowned and fixed his gaze on the assay office across the street. “How come Mattie can’t go in?”
Wyatt studied his cigar and flicked a brick of ash into the street. “Mattie made some decisions a while back. Now she’s gotta live with ’em.”
The silence stretched out, and Wyatt knew he owed his brother more.
“In Dodge . . . she whored with Brocius.”
Virgil lowered his forgotten cigar beside his leg and looked off to the jagged peaks of the Dragoons. “Shit,” he whispered. Then he turned to gaze west, where two and a half blocks away the Earp houses stood cattycornered across the intersection. “Wyatt,” he said and cleared his throat. “Allie was in that vacant lot next to your house . . . collectin’ kindlin’. Says Mattie throws her whiskey bottles over there.” He waited a moment, then turned to face Wyatt squarely. “She says there’s laudanum bottles piling up out there, too. Allie says most of the time Mattie’s just kind o’ floatin’ out on the wind.”
Neither brother spoke for a time. The sound of a lively piano reached them from the Capital Saloon around the corner. The sound seemed wholly foreign to the desert spreading out from the fringes of the town.
Wyatt tossed his cigar into the street. “I can’t change what she is no more than I can change what she was.”
Virgil pushed out his lower lip and began to nod. “Well, I reckon that’s true enough.”
They stood side by side looking out toward the mountains. There seemed to be nothing more to say about Mattie.
“I’m taking Shibell’s offer, Virge,” Wyatt said.
Virgil blew a long plume of smoke into the night and smiled. “Hell, I already knew that.” He bumped Wyatt’s shoulder with the hand holding his cigar. “I keep tellin’ you . . . you’re born to it.”
CHAPTER 5
Late summer, fall 1880:Tombstone, A. T.
The job of head sheriff’s deputy for the Tombstone district quickly became one of high visibility. Investigations into crimes were more varied than Wyatt had faced in the towns of his previous law experience. There were long, two-day trips to Tucson to deliver prisoners. Then two days back. This job was often relegated to Virgil or, even more conveniently, to Morgan, who had taken over Wyatt’s Wells, Fargo duties. Such an assignment brought in double pay for Morgan, who relished the rambling life, even when his common-law wife Louisa arrived in Tombstone from California.
Wyatt received the custody of prisoners from Tombstone’s satellite villages, served countless summonses and subpoenas, and made arrests of wife-beaters, forgers, lot-jumpers, bribers, mule and horse thieves, murderers, an attorney who had insulted a judge, and the same judge for assaulting the same attorney in his courtroom.
With such an agenda, and with little incentive to spend time at home, Wyatt retreated nightly to the inner sanctum of the Oriental’s plush gambling room. The sounds of the saloon life became his nightly anthem—the click of ivory chips, the whir of shuffled cards, the low undercurrent of men’s voices weaving into the language of the card games.
On a night in late summer, Doc Holliday—sporting an impish grin—slid into the seat across from Wyatt as though he were a minute late for a scheduled appointment. Breaking his standard dealer’s protocol, Wyatt laid aside the cards and smiled at his friend.
Doc closed his eyes and delivered a deep bow of the head in the manner of a royal salute. “From what I hear, Wyatt, your aspirations have gone worldly.” Smiling again, Doc leaned his skinny frame to one side and adjusted his coat, allowing the material to drape loosely over the bulge of his pistol next to his ribs. “Mining capitalist, real estate broker, leaser of water rights, Wells, Fargo agent, deputy sheriff, faro dealer . . . did I leave anything out?”
“Good to see you, Doc.” Their hands met across the table, and, for a moment, the flickering light of humor drained from Doc’s eyes. He looked as though he might say something in earnest, but the moment passed as quickly as it had come.
“So where’s the almighty badge and the requisite armory that goes with it?”
Wyatt shook his head. “Don’t generally wear them at the tables.” Wyatt looked at the game next to his and then turned back to Doc. “In Dodge City my problems were the drovers in town for the cattle season. They needed to see my hardware. Here it’d drive off business.�
�� He looked at Doc’s pallor and lowered his voice. “How’s your health, Doc?”
Holliday pulled a flask from his coat pocket, raised a toast to anything or nothing, and threw back a series of swallows. “What health?” he said, exhaling heavily. Holliday wiped at his smile with the back of his hand and looked around the room, appraising the décor. “Well, are you rich yet?”
“I’m working at it,” Wyatt said and idly cut the cards. “Kate with you?”
“Unfortunately, yes.” Doc’s head bounced once with a private laugh. Shrugging off his own romantic foibles, he eyed a nearby table. Johnny Tyler was there—a showboat gambler from Dodge City who liked to throw his weight around smaller men. “God,” Doc growled. “Everywhere I go I keep running into shit like that. No wonder I’m not civil.”
“You’re civil enough with me, Doc,” Wyatt said and produced two cigars. He laid one before Holliday. “You ever think on going back to Georgia, Doc? Be among your family?”
Holliday slowly screwed down the cap of his flask with his spidery fingers. “Family?” He chuckled. “You’re about it, Wyatt. Besides, family ain’t all it’s cracked up to be. But friendship counts for something, by God . . . especially out here at the edge of hell.”
He laughed to himself again. “This desert had better cough up a lot of silver, Wyatt, because I can’t find any other damned asset to commend it.” He cocked his head toward Tyler and scowled. “Same for some of the people who inhabit it.” He grinned with one corner of his mouth. “But . . . I suppose shit still draws flies.”
Johnny Tyler approached and stood behind Doc. “You boys playin’ or talkin’ about playin’?” He tapped Holliday’s shoulder with the back of his hand, and Doc’s eyes turned frosty.
“Care to try your hand?” Wyatt said.
Tyler bumped Doc again. “I like to sit where I can see what’s going on.”
Wyatt looked at Doc and waited. “You mind, Doc?”
“I don’t mind being asked.” Holliday turned his head to fix his pale blue eyes on Tyler. “But I don’t like another man’s hands on me. Makes me think he might be a little too sweet.”
Tyler looked amused. “Well, you skinny little bastard, you’d be the one to know about that.”
Holliday smiled, but his pale skin went hard as porcelain.
“Doc,” Wyatt said, “why don’t we get something to eat when I’m done here with business.”
Holliday’s eyes softened at the word that Wyatt had carefully chosen. The faro table was Wyatt’s “business.” It was no different from the dental offices Doc had managed in his other life. Doc stood, manufactured a cough in Tyler’s face, smiled his apology, and left.
Tyler wiped his face with his sleeve and sat heavily in the chair. “Sick bastard,” he said. Then his mood turned hopeful when he pulled out his money. “All right, let’s buck this tiger.”
Wyatt watched Doc exit the room. Walking away had been a favor, he knew. Doc was the flip of a coin. A hot fever flash on one side and a cold shiver on the other. You never knew.
In the second week of October, a little after noon, Virgil sat in the kitchen drinking his coffee and talking with Allie, when Wyatt came in shirtless, heading for the washbasin. He had come in at midnight from Tucson and still wore a half-ring of trail dust on the back of his neck. Allie stood and moved a pot of water off the stove for Wyatt’s clean-up. Then she stopped at the window to gaze at the roofing going up on the new Earp house across the street.
“That long-haired carpenter knows the meaning of the word ‘work,’ ” she said into the windowglass. “He’s a odd bird, but, Lordy, he’ll get somethin’ done in a day.”
When Virgil only grunted a reply, Wyatt glanced at his brother and saw right away that Virgil had something on his mind. Virge’s head came up, and he watched Wyatt wash until the sound of a handsaw began a rhythmic grind across the street.
“Holliday is in jail this morning,” Virgil announced.
Wyatt’s hands stopped lathering in the basin, and he turned to face his brother. Virge sipped his coffee and nodded toward the business district.
“Him and John Tyler got into it at the Oriental,” Virgil continued. “When a bunch tried to break it up, Holliday shot Milt Joyce in the hand and a bartender in the foot. Joyce cracked Doc’s head with a pistol.”
Wyatt had been twisting a towel around his fingers, but now he stopped. “He all right?”
Holding her gaze out the window, Allie said dryly, “Which one?” Then she turned to show her arched eyebrow.
When Virgil shot her a look, Allie moved to the sideboard and busied herself with the breakfast dishes, every sound a sharp criticism spoken in ceramic. Wyatt yoked the towel around his neck and waited.
“Just bloodied up a bit,” Virgil said. “Already had the hearing. Nobody showed up to press charges or testify. The judge let him plea down to assault and battery. Twenty-dollar fine and court costs.”
“Why didn’t they show up?”
Virgil propped an ankle on his knee and rubbed absently at the heel of his boot. “Favor’d be my guess.”
Wyatt frowned. “Favor to who?”
Virgil uncrossed his legs and stood with his coffee. Lifting both eyebrows, he gave Wyatta tentative nod. When Allie banged a pot on the edge of the washbasin, Virgil didn’t move, but something changed in his eyes. Wyatt walked into his bedroom, and Virgil followed as far as the door, where he leaned against the jamb and sipped his coffee. Wyatt pulled the bed sheet over Mattie’s shoulders, picked up the empty bottle from her table and set it on the floor. Gathering shirt and boots, he stepped into the hall and closed the door behind him.
Virgil kept his voice low. “Fred White and I could use you. This jackleg mayor we got is trying to void the land claims in the business district. You read about it in Clum’s paper?”
Wyatt nodded. “The Townsite Company. It’s fraud, pure and simple.”
“Well, there’s a hellava uproar ’bout it. This so-called ‘Company’ is trying to charge people for what they already got. And here’s the kicker: The more work you done on your building, the more it’s gonna cost you to buy it back. The only ones tryin’ to stop it are the marshal and Clum and some pissed-off merchants. Clum’s got the Epitaph, and people read it, but readin’ ’bout it only goes so far. Clum’s organizing a vigilance committee as a show of force whenever these jaspers try to evict someone.”
Wyatt led the way into the parlor, where he sat and pulled on his boots. “Who’s providing the muscle for the Company?”
“Saddlers mostly. Curly Bill’s crowd. They’re hiring out to this damned crooked mayor like they’re a special police.” Virgil clamped his jaw and shook his head. “Clum’s vigilance group might not be a bad idea. All the legal work has to be done in the courts at Tucson, and people can’t just pick up and haul over there every time the Company tries to outmaneuver ’em. If a property owner leaves town, he’s liable to come back and find new owners in his building. It’s come down to a show of force.”
“You working with the marshal on this?” Wyatt asked. “Official?”
Virgil nodded. “As his deputy. Me and the long-haired carpenter workin’ on our other house.”
Wyatt had begun to button his shirtsleeves, but his fingers froze on a button. “Vermillion?”
Virgil nodded. “He’s more’n capable, and he don’t back off.”
Wyatt tucked in the tails of his blouse. “Why’s he getting involved?”
Virgil finished the last of his coffee, his eyes smiling over the tilted cup. “I told ’im you’d be workin’ with me and that you said we could use some good help.” He nodded at Wyatt. “He seems to think highly of you.”
“This could affect our holdings, too,” Wyatt said. “Tell Fred White to call on me.”
A web of lines spread from the corners of Virge’s smiling eyes, just like Morgan’s when he put one over on someone. “Already did.” Virgil looked down at his boots. “There’s one more thing. I know you got your eye o
n the sheriff’s post when they carve out the new county.”
Wyatt waited as his brother sorted out his thoughts. When Virgil’s head came up, his expression showed a mix of anger and bad news.
“I know, Virge,” Wyatt said. “Doc ain’t helping with that. I’ll have a talk with him.”
Virgil shook his head. “No, it ain’t just that. There’s a feller I knew in Prescott—Johnny Behan—slippery as a greased snake in a fry pan. He can tell you just what you want to hear so’s he’ll be your best friend inside o’ two minutes after meetin’ you. A politician down to his dick. Democrat. Got connections in Tucson and Prescott. He was sheriff over in Yavapai and a member of the territorial legislature. Word is . . . he’s a shoo-in for the sheriff’s appointment.”
The angles in Wyatt’s face sharpened. “The Governor is Republican. He’s the one’ll be appointin’ the new sheriff.”
Virgil shook his head. “It don’t seem to matter what party. Behan’s got to ’im some way or other.”
Wyatt had threaded a string tie under his collar. Now as he began arranging the ends into a knot, his fingers stopped moving, and the tails fell free down his shirt front.
“But this Behan ain’t out making saddle sores rounding up the troublemakers in the county.”
Virgil frowned. “That ain’t how it works for these plum positions, Wyatt. More to who you know than what you do.”
Wyatt’s face soured. “I’d hate to think you’re right on that.”
“Well . . .” Virgil sighed and tightened his mouth into a false smile. “Whether we like it or not, that’s the way it works. I seen it too many times before.”
Wyatt finished the knot and stared out the front window. He could see Vermillion hanging rafters for the roof across the street.
“This Behan . . . he got a favorable record?”
“Only with the women. He’s a hound dog sniffin’ at anything in a dress. And goddamn if the women don’t eat it up . . . ’cept his wife, o’ course. She divorced him for adultery.” Virgil huffed a laugh through his nose and shook his head. “I can’t figure what they see in ’im. A half-bald Irishman who could talk his way out of a case of dysentery.” Virgil scowled. “He makes me feel like I need to wash my hand after he shakes it.”
