Promised Land

by Mark Warren

  Her eyes lost some of their fire. “Not since I say I von’t! I am goodt to him.” She shook her head violently, as if to cast off her self-pity. “Who else stay vit a man like dat?” Then her scorn gathered in her eyes, and she coughed out an airy laugh. “He treat you better dan me!” She tried to shake him off again. “Let me go, godt-damnt you!”

  “Kate, you can’t be making trouble. I don’t wanna have to take you down to the jail.”

  She let her head fall back against the building. “I make no more promise to any man.” When he relaxed his grip, she went limp and almost collapsed. “I make him sorry,” she said, her voice now just a whisper. Pulling herself upright, she walked past Wyatt and into the street, where she quickened her pace and was soon gone from view.

  At noon the next day, Wyatt rolled out of bed to answer the pounding on his front door. Pulling on his trousers, he studied Mattie, who lay still as a corpse, purring rhythmically with a soft, medicated snore. An empty, brown-glass bottle lay on its side on the bed table. He hooked the suspenders over his bare shoulders, picked up his revolver from the dresser, and headed for the front room in his stockinged feet. He opened the door to find Virgil waiting.

  Wearing a grim face, Virgil stepped into the parlor without a word, anchoring himself to the center of the room with his boots spread. He looked down at the gun in Wyatt’s hand and then out the front window. Finally, he met Wyatt’s face eye to eye.

  “Behan locked up Doc,” Virgil announced in his no-nonsense voice. “For the Benson stage holdup. And for killin’ Bud Philpott. Says Doc is the one who planned the whole damned thing.”

  Wyatt pushed the loose strands of hair from his forehead, moved to the front window, and stared out at the edge of town. “This is Kate Elder’s doin’, ain’t it?”

  Virgil was quiet until Wyatt turned to him. “Got no idea,” Virge said. “Just got the news myself.”

  “Let me get dressed,” Wyatt said and crossed the room, the quietness of his step seeming inadequate to match the anger he felt building inside his chest.

  Together Wyatt and Virgil marched to Behan’s office, reaching the front entrance just as Billy Breakenridge tried to leave. The deputy’s face went slack, and he backed up into the room, causing Behan to look up from his desk and slowly straighten in his chair.

  “What the hell is this about Doc and the Benson stage, Johnny?” Wyatt said.

  The sheriff feigned a look of regret as he opened a drawer. “Pretty simple really, Wyatt. Attempted armed robbery and murder.” He dropped a paper on his desk, his eyes simmering with pleasure. “That’s a signed affidavit. Says Holliday admitted to the attack on Bob Paul that night.”

  Virgil picked up the document and read. “Signed by Kate Elder? Are you serious?”

  “Of course, I’m serious,” Behan said. “Read it. It couldn’t be clearer.”

  Wyatt leaned on the desk, keeping his voice low. “You get her drunk, Johnny?”

  “She knew well enough what she was signing. I have witnesses.”

  Virgil skipped to the bottom of the page and read aloud, “ ‘J. P. Ringo’ . . . ‘W. Breakenridge.’ ” He tossed the paper to the desk and huffed out a sarcastic laugh. “That the best you could do, Johnny?”

  “What of it?” Behan shot back. “Anybody can be a witness!” He looked away from Virgil, but found himself equally unable to hold Wyatt’s stare. The sheriff straightened the paper on his desk, aligning it with the blotter. “You use whoever is convenient at the moment,” he explained, his tenor voice sounding as if his shirt collar were too tight.

  Wyatt turned to Breakenridge. “How ’bout it, Billy? Any money or whiskey involved in this confab?”

  The deputy glanced at the sheriff and then back at Wyatt. Stuffing both hands into his trouser pockets, he frowned, shifted from leg to leg, and managed a shrug.

  Behan made a show of shuffling papers. “It’s a legal affidavit, Wyatt.”

  Wyatt’s jaw knotted as he straightened from the desk. “I want to talk to Holliday.”

  Without looking up, Behan shook his head. “You can see him at the arraignment.”

  Wyatt glared at Behan, but the sheriff continued to sort items on his desk. “Then I think I’ll go have me a talk with Kate Elder.”

  “Fine,” Behan said pleasantly. “I’ve had my talk with her.”

  They found Kate drunk in the Grand Hotel barroom. Virgil took her to the city office and force-fed her coffee while she kept up a steady spate of slurred profanity. Finally he put her in a cell with a piss bucket in one corner and tin of fresh water beside the bunk.

  When Wyatt checked on her in two hours, she was still splayed out on the bunk but coherent. He entered the cell and stood beside the small bed, looking down at the side of her pouting face as she stared at the wall.

  “Kate?” Wyatt said quietly. “Do you want Doc dead?”

  “He deserff to be deadt,” she said and tightened her forehead into a web of wrinkles.

  He waited the better part of a minute, knowing she could probably stare at that wall for hours. “I ain’t talking about punishing him for what he’s done to you, Kate. We all make mistakes on that count. I’m asking: are you prepared to see him hanged?”

  She sniffed and swiped a palm across her cheek. “He treat me badt. He shouldt hang!” she said, but the fire had gone out of her complaint.

  Gently taking her shoulder, Wyatt rolled her to face him. “Kate, Doc prob’ly ain’t got much time left anyway. As I see it, every day he can get is worth somethin’. Especially when you know he had nothin’ to do with that stage holdup.”

  Fresh tears sprang from her eyes, and she covered her face with her hands. “Vhy can’t he be goodt to me? Vhy duss he alvays hit me?”

  “I don’t know, Kate. I reckon he got a raw deal from life, but not much place to show it.”

  Virgil appeared in the cellblock and stood with his forearms resting through the crossbars of the cell. When Wyatt looked at him, Virgil laced his fingers together and looked down at his boots.

  “Kate,” Wyatt continued, “Behan is using Doc to get to me. He wants to keep me from making sheriff when the next elections come around.”

  Kate blew a short laugh through her nose. “You men. You and your damnt offices. You make all da rules.”

  “Behan’s the one making the rules,” Virgil said, his harsh voice unmindful of her misery. “He’ll hang Doc if you let him.”

  She uncovered her eyes and stared at the wall again.

  “You played right into it,” Virge said. “If Doc swings, it’ll be your doin’. You’ll have to live with that.”

  Her face screwed up like she might cry. “Ringo and Behan,” she mumbled. “Dey treat me goodt.”

  “Did they talk you into signing something?” Wyatt pressed. “And maybe you didn’t know what it was?”

  “They keep pouring, and I drink too much,” she admitted, her voice wavering like that of a child making a confession. She turned to look at Wyatt. “I don’t remember signing anyt’ingk.”

  Wyatt nodded. “All you got to do is say that to a judge. Can you do that?”

  Gradually she began to nod; then she settled into silent weeping. Wyatt looked at his brother. Virgil nodded once and walked back into his office. Wyatt reached to Kate’s shoulder to give her a reassuring squeeze but thought better of it. He watched her sob into the dirty mattress for a time, and then he left.

  CHAPTER 13

  End of summer 1881: Tombstone and Bisbee, A. T.

  The nights were cooler. After a five-hour stint of poker at Hafford’s, Wyatt and Doc Holliday walked toward their respective homes. When Doc went his way at Fly’s boardinghouse, Wyatt continued out Fremont Street, slowing just after passing Second Avenue. A solitary horseman appeared from the shadows of the big cottonwood in the vacant lot next to Virgil’s house. The rider came out at a walk, his relaxed body bending easily with the rhythm of the horse’s gait. Wyatt had come to know the silhouette well. When the man circled his ho
rse back into the shadows, Wyatt followed.

  After an exchange of terse greetings, McMaster sat his horse and stared off into the dark. Wyatt gave him time. Finally, the horseman looked over both shoulders, leaned, and spat.

  “Mexican regulars kilt Old Man Clanton and a dozen others in Guadalupe Canyon.”

  Taking in this information, Wyatt began to calculate how this news might affect his aspirations for the sheriff’s office. “What about Brocius?” he asked.

  McMaster shook his head. “That man leads a goddamn charmed life.” He removed his hat and scratched vigorously at the crown of his scalp. After pushing his hat back on his head, he leaned on his pommel and arched his back.

  “You make the ride from Tucson to tell me that?” Wyatt asked.

  McMaster shook his head and spat again. “Coupl’a stage robberies bein’ planned.” He faced Wyatt. “I don’ know how I can keep avoidin’ bein’ part of it. You wanna give me any advice on this?”

  Wyatt reached inside his coat for an envelope. “I been carrying this for days.” McMaster took the envelope. “You’re gonna have to let me know which stage, Mac. I can’t be paying somebody to rob Wells, Fargo.”

  McMaster chewed on that for a while. “What if I can’t get word to you in time?”

  Wyatt looked off toward the mountains, knowing full well that one of the deterrents to enforcing the law in southeastern Arizona was the vastness of the territory. “Then I reckon you can’t.”

  McMaster let some anger show in his face. “Look, it ain’t easy walkin’ both sides of the line. Maybe you ought’a get somebody else to do this for you.”

  Wyatt kept his expression neutral. “Already got one,” he said. “But I need both of you.”

  McMaster’s brow tightened. “You got another informant with the Cow-boys? Who?”

  Wyatt shook his head, and McMaster glared at him.

  “He know about me?” McMaster demanded.

  Wyatt shook his head again.

  “Well, shit-fire, Wyatt!” the horseman said and spat off to the side again. Still angry, he looked behind Wyatt’s house over the broad expanse of desert that stretched all the way to the Dragoons. Raking his upper teeth across his lower lip, he gradually cooled, seeming to accept his situation. The horse snorted and jangled its bit.

  “One more thing,” McMaster said, shaking his head and avoiding Wyatt’s eyes. “You won’t like it.” He shifted in his saddle, stretching the leather in a crackling groan. “Jim Crane was at Guadalupe.” Mac’s cautious gaze turned to Wyatt. “He’s one o’ the ones got kilt.”

  The horse stamped a front hoof, tossed its head, and nickered. McMaster stroked his mount’s neck and spoke to it in a low murmur.

  “Wyatt, these killin’s at Guadalupe . . . that’ll likely shut down raids across the border for a while. If these boys can’t git what they want out o’ Mexico, they’ll git it right here.” Mac lowered his voice as though talking to himself. “That’s all there is to it.”

  Wyatt nodded. “Just let me know what you can, Mac.”

  McMaster picked up his reins but hesitated. “You gonna tell me who else you got workin’ undercover?”

  Wyatt looked up into his informant’s face. “Best if neither of you know.”

  McMaster stared off into the dark for a time, his mouth tightened into a humorless grin, as though he were the brunt of some joke. Finally, he adjusted his hat, shook his head, and nudged his horse from the shadows onto the road to Tucson. The horse eased into a lope and melded with the darkness, its hooves clopping softly in the dust until the sound dropped into the wide arroyo past Boot Hill and disappeared.

  Wyatt listened for the horse to rise on the other side of the swale, but only the desert wind could be heard. He thought about the prize at the end of McMaster’s two-day journey, wondering how much Mac told his woman about their conversations. Probably everything. Valenzuela Cos was not the kind of woman you held back on.

  He looked toward town. Sadie Marcus would be that kind of woman, he wagered. He imagined himself talking to her in a room at night—a lamp turned low, and the quiet wrapped around them like a buffalo robe. She would listen. She would probably have something to say about each thing that mattered to him. He walked toward his house, feeling the numbness begin to sink into him as it did every night when he lay next to Mattie’s inert body curled in the bed. He might as well keep walking out to Boot Hill and sleep with all the strangers buried there. It made about as much sense.

  A week into September, late in the evening, the Western Union clerk found Wyatt at Hafford’s saloon. Wyatt unfolded the telegram and read McMaster’s pseudonym at the bottom of the page. He began standing as he read the message: Bisbee stage tonight.

  Within a half hour, Wyatt and Morgan were riding hard by moonlight for the Mule Mountains, but they arrived too late at the hold-up site. An open Wells, Fargo strongbox lay in the road, and empty purses and satchels were strewn among the brush beside the road. Even as the Earp brothers examined the tracks, Fred Dodge, Marsh Williams, and Behan’s deputies, Neagle and Breakenridge, rode up on the scene.

  “Looks like two men came out o’ the south from Hereford,” Wyatt said. “We found the same tracks leaving the road about a hundred yards that way.” He pointed down the road toward Bisbee. “If it’s the men we want, they’re cutting across country to get there ahead of the stage.”

  The combined posse followed the trail to a broken-down windmill, where the tracks were lost in the wide trampled swath of a cattle crossing. The lawmen divided into two natural factions: Behan’s deputies in one, the Earps, Williams, and Dodge in the other.

  Half a mile out, Dodge cut the trail of two horses and right away spotted a dark, smooth, crescent shape contrasting sharply against the rough texture of rock and sand. Wyatt dismounted and picked it up—a worn boot heel, the points of its tacks shining brightly in the dawn light. He pressed it into the sand, studied its impression, and looked up at his companions.

  “Like that print we saw all around the hold-up area,” Wyatt said.

  “Look here,” Dodge said, dismounting and pointing to a scrape on a flat platter of shale. “His horse slipped. Sonovabitch probably stiffened and pushed the heel off his boot with the stirrup.”

  They followed the tracks to Bisbee, which appeared of a sudden, nestled as it was in the narrow canyon beneath the ridge trail. The work day had begun, with mining machinery hammering out a jarring, redundant dirge that echoed through the town. In all directions the land was scarred and rough with scree and tailings from the gutted terrain—even intruding so close to private homes as to be a liability. All through the canyon, the slopes were studded with flat-topped stumps, like grave markers for the trees that had been sawn to feed the boiler furnaces for the stamp mills. Just as in Tombstone, mining took precedence over everything. Here, instead of silver, it was copper.

  As they rode into town, Wyatt doled out instructions. “Morg, check the stage office. See if you can get a description of the hold-up men from the driver and passengers. Fred, check the saloons. Marsh, watch the main road. If any of you see a man missing a boot heel, throw down on him and hold tight. It’ll be a federal arrest, so don’t let Breakenridge and Neagle take him. I’m going to the boot maker.”

  “We got federal authority on this?” Morgan asked. “Without Virge?”

  “There was mail on the stage, so we’ll make it federal. Us bein’ here is the same as Virge bein’ here. I don’t want another Cow-boy walkin’ out of Behan’s jail.”

  Wyatt had just stepped out of the boot repair shop when Fred Dodge found him. “Frank Stilwell and Pete Spence own the saloon across the street,” he reported. “They’re in there right now.” He gave a sly laugh. “Stilwell’s got a brand new heel on his boot, Wyatt.”

  Morgan rode up at a brisk pace, reined his horse to a stop, and leaned on his pommel. “Wyatt, I was just over at the stage livery. Levi McDaniels was driver on that stage. He says one o’ the men who waylaid ’em climbed up in the
box, put a pistol to his gut, and asked did he have any ‘sugar’ to add to the sack.” Morgan smiled at Dodge, whose eyes burned with certainty.

  “That’s Stilwell talkin’, by God,” Fred said. “He uses that word all the time.”

  Wyatt stared across the street at the saloon and nodded back toward the boot maker’s shop. “Stilwell was here this morning,” he said. “Purchased a new heel and asked the shop keeper how much ‘sugar’ did he owe.”

  “God, they almost make this easy.” Morgan laughed.

  “Stilwell and Spence will have friends here,” Wyatt reminded them. “Morg, you and Fred go round up Williams and Behan’s deputies. I’ll watch the saloon.”

  “You wait on us, now, Wyatt,” Dodge warned. “Stilwell is still a deputy sheriff.” When Wyatt did not respond, Dodge added, “B’sides, I want to see his face when you show ’im that boot heel.”

  For fifteen minutes Wyatt stood across the street from the saloon in the shade of a grocery store awning. With the sun up over the canyon rim now, Stilwell and Spence came out, mumbling to one another with their heads down, laughing. They appeared to be unarmed. Wyatt stepped into the street and called their names, and both men raised a hand to shield their eyes from the glare of the sun. As Wyatt approached, Spence slowed and then stopped, grabbing Stilwell’s sleeve to halt him. Stilwell’s head jerked one way, then the other, checking the street.

  “You boys have been out in the hills this morning,” Wyatt said and kept walking.

  Stilwell jerked a thumb at the saloon. “Been right here, if it’s any o’ your business.”

  Wyatt slid his Colt’s from its holster and stopped three paces short of the men. “Take off your coats so I can see what you’ve got.”

  “You go to hell!” Spence said.

  Stilwell broke into a chattering laugh. “Hell, Earp! I’m a goddamn deputy sheriff in this county. As I remember, you ain’t nothin’ at all.”

  “I’m serving as a deputy U.S. marshal. You’re both under arrest. Take off your coats.”