Promised Land

by Mark Warren

  “Who is she?” Wyatt asked.

  “Actress, is what I heard,” Williams said. “And a Jew.” His voice turned sly. “Johnny probably stands to make some money off this deal.”

  When she turned away to take in the town, Wyatt studied the woman’s back. She was like water, shifting from one inspiring posture to another. Her waist was small, her breasts full, and her hips mirrored this fullness in a perfect symmetry. She looked strong somehow—strong-willed, Wyatt guessed. As Behan instructed the boys with the luggage, she became still for a moment and looked in earnest at the business establishments lined up along Allen Street.

  In the profile of her face Wyatt saw a restrained hunger, as though she were looking through a door she was determined to enter at all cost and claim whatever waited behind it. Her eyes were dark like her hair, and the smooth outline of her jaw was etched clean and flawless.

  From the near sidewalk John Clum approached Behan and then turned and became animated as he introduced himself to the woman. Wyatt heard Clum refer to himself as “the new mayor” twice in the same sentence. Forfeiting a measure of her grace, the young woman made a deferential bow with her head. Suddenly she seemed flustered beneath that dark beauty, a little girl trying hard to be a grown-up. Clum laughed with her, making her feel at ease. When he spotted Wyatt in the window, he waved, and in that same moment the girl turned her dark eyes on Wyatt and smiled. It was a passing thing of no importance, he knew, but the image burned into his mind, and he held it there, even as Clum approached and spoke through the doorway.

  “Wyatt, can you and Virgil come by my office at the newspaper? First let me get my sorters started at the post office. Then I can meet with the two of you at the Epitaph in an hour.”

  Wyatt nodded to the mayor, and Clum stepped back out into the street, calling up to the stage driver for the mailbag. Behan and his woman angled across Allen Street toward the Grand Hotel, Behan talking continuously to the side of her face. Her walk was not confident but unflagging, a little scared and a little brave at once.

  Wyatt wondered what could bring such a person from San Francisco to a man like Behan. Had it been any other woman, he might have dismissed her as a fool. But the way she carried herself, the way she moved . . . there was nothing about this woman he could deem foolish.

  John Clum wiped at the ink on his hands with a hopelessly stained rag and led the Earp brothers into the back room of the Epitaph offices. After closing the door to the clanking rhythm of the press, he walked behind his desk. Leaning on his fists, he leveled fiery eyes on Virgil, then Wyatt. His flair for a dramatic moment never surprised Wyatt. It matched the tenor of the man’s editorials.

  “First, gentlemen, what is said here, stays here.” Clum waited, prepared to hold the pose all day. His bald head reflected the light from the back window as if he had oiled his skin.

  “That goes without saying, John,” Virgil said.

  Clum sat and threaded his fingers together on the desktop. “I’m not at all happy with our law enforcement officers—town or county. Our citizens are fed up with this ring of politicians getting rich off the land-lot situation. This ring has its hooks into Behan, and he’ll back them.” Clum paused to check for the Earp brothers’ reaction, but there was none to see. “And the marshal . . .” he went on. “Well, Sippy just doesn’t see eye to eye with the town council. He doesn’t understand the town politics.” Clum’s eyes slanted with regret. “Frankly, he just doesn’t make a good officer.”

  Virgil and Wyatt betrayed no expression. When neither brother made a reply, Clum swept a hand to the south.

  “Cattle rustling and smuggling across the border is on the rise. It goes both ways, but the Cow-boys are getting the better of it, so they’re getting bolder even here around Tombstone, waylaying traffic, taking whatever they want. If there’s no money, they’ll take their share of whatever is being transported. Some commerce on the county roads is shutting down. This is going to hurt us. The governor wants a militia formed down here, but the legislature is tight with money, saying there’re already enough soldiers down here to handle the problem.” Clum scowled. “But we’ve got this posse comitatis act. Washington won’t let the army meddle in territorial affairs. And . . . they won’t let them cross the border. Their official job is one thing only . . . Apaches.”

  Virgil cleared his throat. “We know all this, John.”

  “Well, here’s what you don’t know. We’ve formed a vigilance committee. We’re keeping it tight.” Clum looked from one Earp to the other and frowned. “What!” he said, intoning the word as if he’d been challenged.

  “It ain’t as tight as you think, John,” Wyatt said.

  Clum’s brow furrowed as he looked to Virgil for verification.

  “Sippy told me,” Virgil said.

  Clum fidgeted with the inkwell on the desk and squared it with the blotter. “Sippy is no more happy with us than we are with him. He’s told me he’s considering leaving Arizona. If he does, Virgil, I want you as police chief. Is that agreeable to you?”

  Virgil slipped his hands into his trouser pockets and rocked once on his boots. “It is.”

  Clum looked at Wyatt. “When the next county election comes around, I want to see you sheriff of Cochise County. The newspaper will back you boys. How does that sit with you?”

  “Sits good,” Wyatt said.

  Clum nodded, and, just as quickly, he frowned. “One thing, though.” He glanced obliquely at Wyatt and then adjusted one of the apron straps on one shoulder. Sitting back with a worried look, he worked up a show of determination. Finally, he looked Wyatt in the eye. “There is a rumor that Doc Holliday was in on the Benson stage holdup. They’re even saying he was the one who killed Bud Philpott.”

  Wyatt shook his head once. “That’s Behan talking, John. That’s the way he works. He knows I want his job, and he tries to get at me through Holliday. He’s thinking about that next election, too.”

  “Well, what do we do about it?”

  Nothing outwardly changed in Wyatt, but when he spoke there was a certainty in his voice that would brook no debate. “Doc Holliday is my friend. Like you said . . . it’s a rumor.”

  “Well, yes,” Clum sputtered, “but it can hurt us.” He rubbed distractedly at an ink stain on his palm. Wyatt was quiet for so long, the mayor finally spread his hands and gave a reluctant shrug. “Well, I guess we can’t do much about rumors,” Clum admitted. “So we’ll concentrate on what we can do.” He lowered his gaze and shook his head. “But it would be good if no more rumors circulate. It doesn’t do us any good if your friends are suspected of robbing the stage.”

  The mayor sat back and grasped the arms of his chair as though it might try to buck him off. When Wyatt still said nothing, Clum nodded as if everything was now clear. He stood and shook hands with each brother. The Earps quietly walked out of the office, through the pressroom, and crossed Fremont to start up Fourth Street.

  They were past Spangenberg’s Gun Shop before Virgil broke the silence. “Might be a good time to have a talk with Doc, Wyatt.”

  Wyatt made no reply. Turning onto Allen Street they walked with the same stride, dressed so much alike, they would have appeared near identical but for Wyatt’s slightly leaner physique. When they reached the alley beside Vogan’s, they stopped, and Virgil jerked a thumb toward the telegraph office.

  “I got to get off a wire to Prescott . . . let Dake know I plan to wear two badges now. You got any ideas how we can reverse that rumor about Doc?”

  “Might be a good time to offer that deal to Ike Clanton,” Wyatt said.

  Virgil pursed his lips and looked down the street at the steady traffic moving through the intersection at Hafford’s. Gradually, he began to nod.

  “Just might be.”

  It was never hard to know when Ike Clanton was in the Oriental. His whining voice rose in complaint each time the cards worked against him in a poker game at the front of the room. McMaster had named that voice well: “a mule braying amongst
a church choir.” Wyatt kept a casual eye on Ike, watching his slovenly eating habits at the poker table. The tall, melancholic Ringo was with him. Wyatt bided his time. Ringo would not be right for the deal. It would have to be just Ike.

  When Clanton finally strutted alone to the faro tables, he surveyed the games and chose one far from Wyatt’s, where Lou Rickabaugh dealt. During one of the breaks in his game, Wyatt sent the bar-sweep to Rickabaugh’s table to arrange a switch of dealers. At his next break, Wyatt sat down across from Ike, meeting Clanton’s hostile glare with a straight face.

  “Hope you gentlemen don’t mind a change-up.” Wyatt looked at each man. Clanton was quiet for once, and no one else voiced an objection. “Place your bets for the winning card, gentlemen.”

  Wyatt groomed the professional courtesy that his work required, showing Clanton that business was business . . . that at the gaming tables, at least, he held no grudge about the stolen horse. Ike won enough times to keep him in the game, and at each of these occasions Wyatt nodded his congratulations. Before an hour was up, Wyatt called for a break, leaned to the floor, and came up with a ten-dollar chip.

  “Must be yours, Ike,” Wyatt said and slid the chip across the layout.

  Clanton’s eyes darted to Wyatt’s unreadable face. “Yeah, probably is.” He picked up the chip and looked around his chair as though there might be more scattered there. The other players left the table for refreshments.

  “You do pretty well at this game, Ike.”

  Clanton smirked. “I’m game for most any kind o’ gambling. I like keno better.”

  “Wherever the money is,” Wyatt agreed.

  “Hell, yeah. I’ll take the swag however it comes.” Clanton smiled, and both men knew he was talking about Mexican cattle and army livestock. Wyatt sorted the chips before him.

  “I remember you now,” Ike said, raising his goateed chin at Wyatt. “You pulled a switch on me with a gimpy horse. You were running freight for Taylor out o’ San Berdoo.” Ike smirked, as though by merely remembering the incident, he had somehow evened the score.

  “I’d say you came out pretty good on that deal,” Wyatt said.

  “Yeah, how’s that?”

  Wyatt let his hands go idle, and he looked directly into Ike’s dark, beady eyes. “That horse you traded me didn’t cost you anything. It was stolen.”

  “Yeah?” Ike shot back. “But the nag you traded me went lame.”

  Wyatt allowed one corner of his mouth to lift. “It was already lame. But I’m bettin’ you made some money off it.”

  Ike could not mask his gloating smile. “Hell, yeah, I did. I’m a businessman. I’ll tackle most anything if there’s some money in it.”

  Wyatt nodded, as if approving such a philosophy. “You might be interested in a deal I’m working on, Ike,” he said casually.

  Clanton’s eyes tightened, even as his vanity opened wide to possibility. “What deal is that?”

  Wyatt loaded the cards into the box. “Thirty-six hundred dollars worth.”

  Clanton laughed and spewed air from his lips, but when Wyatt’s face remained stoic and focused, Ike leaned forward and stacked his forearms on the table, allowing his curiosity to prod him. “Thirty-six hundred? For what?”

  “Wells, Fargo is offering a reward for the men who tried to rob the Benson stage. Same ones who killed Bud Philpott and a passenger. Leonard, Head, and Crane. Twelve hundred each. I’m offering it all to you.”

  Clanton looked to either side and leaned closer, baring his teeth in a forced smile. “The hell you say.” But his eyes had already glazed over with a private calculation.

  “I’m offering a business deal,” Wyatt said. “I need information. In return, you keep all the money.”

  “What information?”

  “I want to find those men. You tell me where and when. That’s all.”

  Clanton tried for disdain. “Why the hell would I do that . . . even if I could?”

  Wyatt was as dead faced as a poker player about to triple the pot. “Like I said, thirty-six hundred dollars.”

  “Shi-it!” Clanton huffed and rotated his beer glass with his thumb and forefinger. He looked around the room again and finally settled a challenging glare on Wyatt. “Why would you do that?”

  Wyatt gritted his teeth to get out the words he had already chosen for the moment he was asked this question. “For the glory.”

  Clanton squinted as though he had been spoken to in an arcane language.

  “I’ve got business ambitions with the county, Ike,” Wyatt explained. “Bringing in those men might help me.”

  Letting his head tilt back, Clanton looked down his nose at Wyatt, then smiled until his wax-tipped moustaches rose. “Ohhh,” he purred, drawing the sound out with a coarse laugh. “You mean ’cause those boys made you look like the horse’s ass when you chased ’em all over the territory.” Ike snorted. “What makes you think I’d give ’em up like that?”

  Not in the habit of repeating himself, Wyatt breathed out a silent sigh and made on-the-spot adjustments for dealing with Ike Clanton. “Again,” he said as plainly as he could, “the money.” His voice was full of reason. He stacked his chips in the order of their value. Then he looked up into Clanton’s eyes to toss in the prime bait for the transaction. “And that ranch of Billy Leonard’s.”

  Ike’s smile dried up. He licked his lips and began fidgeting with the ten-dollar chip Wyatt had supplied him from the floor.

  “I’m gonna get these boys one way or the other,” Wyatt said simply and pushed back from the table. “Just thought you might like to make some money in the deal.” He stood, picked up his tray, and started to walk away. Ike touched Wyatt’s sleeve, stopping him.

  “Well, what if I want to talk to you some more ’bout this?” Ike said in a rough whisper.

  “Can always talk. But I got other irons in the fire.”

  Wyatt carried his tray from the back room into the saloon, feeling a gritty vibration running through his fingers, as though he’d just had hold of a rattlesnake. Setting down the tray he saw Ike in the mirror’s reflection, his head down, turning his glass in circles again.

  They met the next night in the alley behind the Oriental—Wyatt, Ike Clanton, a nervous Frank McLaury, and a sullen man squinting through the lazy drift of smoke from his cigarette. With three Cow-boys present, Wyatt considered how this proposition might have already jumped track. He stopped six feet away and peered into each man’s face, his focus settling last on Ike.

  “For a man who might need to keep his business dealings private, I’d say you’re off to a poor start.”

  “I ain’t gonna do business with you without some witnesses,” Clanton snapped. “Besides, Joe here is the one who will be able to locate them boys if anybody can.”

  “Joe?” Wyatt said.

  “Joe Hill,” Clanton replied and jerked his head toward the Cow-boy slouching against the rear wall of the building.

  Hill slowly removed the cigarette from his lips, his stare an open challenge. McLaury shifted his weight from one leg to the other and glared at Wyatt.

  “They’re gonna need to hear all this from you,” Ike insisted. “So start from the beginning.”

  In the dark of the alley with the muted sounds of gamblers’ voices and the clink of glassware reaching them from the gaming room, Wyatt explained the deal in the same terms that he had offered to Clanton. Ike’s eyes focused on one Cow-boy to the other and back, waiting for their expressions to manifest some sign of credulity, some appetite for the reward . . . like his own. McLaury held on to his God-given scowl, but Wyatt could see the idea of easy money begin to lure Frank in. When the proposition had been laid out in full, Joe Hill spewed smoke and shook his head.

  “Them boys won’t go easy. Not without killin’ ’em, maybe.”

  “Or them killing you,” McLaury added with a malicious grin.

  Clanton stepped forward. “Yeah, what about that? Is the reward for dead or alive?”

  “Wells,
Fargo wants those men off the books. I don’t reckon it matters how it goes.”

  McLaury hissed through his teeth. “What you ‘reckon’ don’t mean shit to us. You’re asking a hellava lot of us, sticking our necks out like this.”

  “Who else is in on this?” Hill asked. “On your end, I mean.”

  “Just my brother Virgil. No one else.”

  Hill frowned. “He’s the marshal now, ain’t he?”

  Wyatt nodded. For a time no one spoke. The three men stared at Wyatt as though waiting to see if the combined force of their innate distrust might crack his composed demeanor. A congratulatory roar of voices swelled inside the building, announcing a winning hand for someone.

  “All right,” Frank said. “Find out about the reward for dead men, and we’ll meet again. Bring your brother so we can see this thing is on the square. Meet us at noon tomorrow behind the Eagle Brewery.”

  “Noon,” Wyatt said and walked back inside the Oriental.

  The day following, just before noon, Wyatt met Virgil in front of Spangenberg’s on Fourth Street. For a moment the two brothers simply looked at one another, and then, without speaking, they turned down the alley and worked their way through the back lots to the last building in the block.

  When the Earps appeared from the alley, McLaury and Hill looked up from their conversation. Ike sat on a wooden crate with his head in one hand. The two standing Cow-boys stepped apart a few feet, and the sound of their boots in the dust brought up Ike’s head. The three men stared at Virgil, their eyes gravitating to the new chief-of-police badge pinned to his vest. Ike slowly stood, looked uncertainly at Wyatt, then at Virgil.

  “How’d you get to be the new marshal?” Ike said. “What happened to Sippy?”

  “Left town on extended leave,” Virgil said. “We don’t expect him back.”

  Frank huffed a laugh and shook his head. “You Earps like bein’ in charge, don’t you?”

  Virgil opened the front of his coat and splayed his hands on the sides of his cartridge belt, his elbows cocked outward as a sign that there was only so much guff he would take off McLaury. He turned his impatient glare on Wyatt.