Promised Land

by Mark Warren

  Ike Clanton leaned forward and jabbed a finger at Wyatt. “You’re lying. That Wells, Fargo man, Williams, he knows about it. Told me any deal I made with you was good with him. That’s what he said.” Clanton’s breath touched Wyatt’s face like a damp spider web soaked in vinegar.

  “Ike,” Wyatt said, his voice so low that Clanton cocked one ear closer. “Get your stinking breath out of my face.” With a startled pinch in his eyes, Ike slowly straightened.

  “I bet you told that skinny-ass Holliday, too,” Frank said.

  Wyatt held McLaury’s gaze and spaced his words for emphasis. “Just . . . Virgil.”

  McLaury’s lips pulled back, exposing the tips of his teeth. “Then how’s Williams know?”

  “He don’t know,” Wyatt said. “He’s guessing.”

  “Bull-shit!” Ike spat and pointed at Wyatt. “If you or your brothers—”

  Quickly, Wyatt pointed at Ike, and his eyes turned to ice. “Threaten me or my brothers, and I’ll kick your teeth down your throat right here.”

  With his face coloring, Ike glanced quickly at McLaury and then at Hill. Fisting his hands at his sides, Ike frowned like a sullen child.

  “Well, goddammit,” he whined, “Holliday knows—I can tell—and now he’s out to get me ’cause he was friends with Billy Leonard.” Ike’s frantic eyes demanded reassurance. “What’s to keep him from talkin’? You tell me that!”

  Hill spoke out of the side of his mouth. “Stop your bellyaching, Ike. If you’re so afraid of Holliday, why don’t you just kill ’im?” He held his stare on Wyatt and smiled.

  McLaury dropped his boot heavily to the floor. “Our threats stand.”

  “Suit yourself,” Wyatt said. “I’ve stuck by my word.”

  “What about Holliday?” Ike pushed. “Ask him if he don’t know.”

  “Doc’s in Tucson, gambling,” Wyatt said. “Ask him yourself when he gets back.”

  The Cow-boys walked out, their spurs ringing on the floor like a jangle of loose parts in a coffee grinder. Wyatt tried his coffee but it had cooled. He surveyed the room and watched each patron look away from him. The bartender held up the coffee pot with a question lifting his eyebrows. Wyatt shook his head, stood, and left.

  Two nights later, Wyatt ate a late meal in the Alhambra and listened to Ike Clanton’s drunk and abrasive mouth carrying across the long ornate counter that divided the lunchroom from the saloon. Morgan leaned on the bar, at once amused and irritated. He looked at Wyatt as though asking a question, but Wyatt shook his head.

  When Doc Holliday walked into the saloon, Wyatt laid down his fork and stopped chewing. Over the countertop, he watched Holliday move past Clanton to the far end of the bar. Clanton stared at Doc for a time and then groped his way along the backs of the customers until there was no man between him and Holliday. Ignoring Ike, Doc threw back the contents of a shot glass and ordered another.

  “You looking for me, Holliday?”

  Doc deigned to turn his head but did not answer.

  “I know what the Earps told you ’bout me,” Ike slurred, “and I don’t give a shit what you think!” He spewed air from his crooked scowl. “It’s all lies anyway!”

  Holliday drank his second whiskey and set down the glass with a sharp rap. “What the hell are you talking about, Ike?”

  “I ain’t afraid of you or the Earps.” Ike spun his back to the bar and raised his voice to the crowd. “I don’t give a goddamn what this man Holliday says about me! He’s a liar! The Earps, too! They’re all liars!”

  Holliday’s pallid face flushed with color. “Clanton, you’re being damned loose with my name and the names of my friends.”

  But Ike had his audience. As he continued to rant, Morgan sat up on the counter, raised his boot heels, and spun around to drop into the saloon. He insinuated himself between Clanton and Holliday, leaned an elbow on the bar, and smiled at Ike.

  “Oh, great!” Clanton snapped. “A fuckin’ Earp.”

  “Gettin’ a little loud, Ike,” Morgan said. “Why’n’t you go outside and cool off.”

  “Tell it to that sick bastard behind you. He ain’t nobody special just ’cause you know ’im. He’s throwin’ ’round lies about me, and I aim to do somethin’ about it.”

  Doc slipped his hand under his coat. “Then for God’s sake, get to it! I’m game.”

  Morgan threw a hand out in front of Doc. “Hold on, Doc. Help me out here.”

  “I intend to. Step aside. I’m going to clean some scum off the heel of Tombstone.”

  “I’ll fight you!” Ike screamed, stiffening an arm to point at Doc. “You skinny lung-er!” Clanton came at him, and Morgan had his hands full from both parties. Wyatt tossed down his napkin and stood. Doc’s hand was still inside his coat, and he was trembling with rage.

  “Pull your shooter!” Holliday cried hoarsely and stepped back two paces.

  “I ain’t heeled, damn you!” Ike returned. He pushed at Morgan and backed away.

  “Well, then go fix yourself,” Doc yelled, “and let’s see if there’s more to you than mouth.”

  Clanton lunged again, and Morgan grabbed a handful of Ike’s curly hair, dragging the Cow-boy outside. “Owww!” Ike squealed, turning his rage on Morgan. “You goddamn townshits!”

  Wyatt walked outside in his shirtsleeves just as Morgan heaved Ike across the boardwalk into the street. “If you’re hot to make a fight, Ike,” Morgan taunted, “you can start right here with me.”

  Virgil came at a fast walk from across the street. “Morgan!” he called. Virgil stopped, spread his coat lapels, and rested his fists on his hips. His pistol was tucked into his waistband. He glanced at Wyatt and then turned back to Morgan. “What the hell is this ruckus?”

  “The ruckus has not yet started, Virgil,” Doc said. “I’ll be waiting right here, Ike.”

  Ike got to his feet. “You better be looking for me, you skinny bag of pus. You’ll see me sooner’n you want!” He pointed at Morgan. “All o’ you!”

  “God willing,” Doc mumbled.

  “Get off the street, Ike,” Virgil ordered. “Go get some sleep and sober up.”

  As he turned to leave, Ike snarled at Virgil, “You’re the marshal. See that they don’t shoot me in the back.”

  “Go home, Ike,” Virgil barked and turned to Holliday. “You, too, Doc. I want both of you off the street now, or you’ll spend the night in jail.”

  Holliday started to say more, but, when he met Wyatt’s eyes, he closed his mouth. Snapping down the front of his vest, Doc turned and walked east toward the rebuilt Oriental.

  Virgil gave Morgan a big-brother look. “You go home, too.”

  “Hell, Virge, I’m on duty.”

  “Then go be on duty at home.” Virgil glared at him until Morgan pulled a sulky face and walked off, mumbling something that could not be heard over the scrape of his boots on the boards. Virgil turned to Wyatt. “I still consider you an active deputy.” He waited, but Wyatt made no response. “This is about that goddamn reward money, ain’t it?” Virgil asked.

  “There ain’t no reward money,” Wyatt said. “All the sons of bitches are dead.”

  Virgil frowned and turned his head to watch Ike stumble down the street. “Not all of ’em,” he said and walked away in the same angry stride with which he had arrived.

  The temperature had dropped. Wyatt went back inside, paid his bill, put on his coat, and walked to the Eagle Brewery to check on the faro dealer who was running a game for him there. As he left the Eagle, someone called his name from the alley. When Wyatt stopped and turned, Ike Clanton moved from the shadows, his eyes darting up and down Allen Street.

  “He knows, don’t he? Holliday knows! I know he does!”

  Wyatt did not bother to answer. “You’re a damned fool, Ike.”

  Ike pointed repetitively at Wyatt and struggled to sort out his words. “You told ’im so he would want to get rid of me. I know your game. By God, if I’d been heeled in there—” Ike wiped his mouth with t
he back of his hand and then thrust his chin forward. “Nobody insults me like that! I ain’t afraid to fight him or any o’ you. You hear that? Hey! Where’re you going?”

  “I ain’t interested in fighting,” Wyatt said over his shoulder. “There’s no money in it.”

  “Well, you might have to fight!” Ike called to his back. “All o’ you!”

  Wyatt stopped and turned. “Go home, Ike. You talk too much for a fightin’ man.”

  At the Oriental, Wyatt found Doc counting his money at the bar. Doc looked up to acknowledge him and then resumed his tally. When he finished, he folded the money and slipped it inside his wallet.

  “Is that loud-mouth bastard back on the street?”

  “Let’s turn in, Doc,” Wyatt suggested. “Come on, I’ll walk with you to your room.”

  Holliday’s nickel-plated revolver blinked brightly in the dim lighting as he stuffed his wallet into the inside pocket of his coat. “I’d rather stay up and kill that son of a bitch,” he said. “But I suppose I can use some sleep.” He grabbed his overcoat from the wall peg and followed Wyatt outside.

  They turned at Hafford’s Corner and walked down Fourth. Doc coughed, and his breath plumed gray in the cold. He turned up his coat collar and pressed his lapels against his chest.

  “God,” he growled, “this feels like Philadelphia.” When they turned west on Fremont, the wind was in their faces, whipping the tails of their coats behind them. “I know you asked me, Wyatt, but I couldn’t very well avoid Clanton tonight. There’s only so much you can take off that filthy bastard. I can’t even understand the idiot most of the time.”

  Wyatt nodded but wanted no more conversation about Ike Clanton. They walked the boardwalk past the Papago Cash Store, stepped down at the back gate of the O.K. Corral, and up onto the boards again at Bauer’s Meat Market. When they reached Fly’s boardinghouse, Doc turned to face Wyatt.

  “What the hell was Ike talking about back there?”

  Wyatt removed his hat and turned it like a wheel on the axle of his hand. “It’s complicated, Doc. Clanton thinks you know something about a deal he might have made. He’s afraid you’ll tell it to the wrong people. Or maybe act on it yourself.”

  Doc’s eyes narrowed and studied Wyatt’s face. “You made a deal with Ike?”

  When Wyatt did not answer, Doc laughed and coughed at the same time. “God, Wyatt, is the faro table just not doing it for you anymore? What was the deal?”

  Wyatt stopped the motion with his hat and looked inside the crown as if he might find an answer there. “Just trying to catch some stage robbers, Doc.”

  Holliday offered a wry smile. “This is about Billy Leonard’s ranch, isn’t it?”

  “For Ike, maybe,” Wyatt said. “For me, it was about votes.” He raised the hat toward Doc and lowered it. “I’m asking you to stay away from Ike, Doc.”

  Holliday laughed. “Hell, why don’t we just kill ’im? That ought to get you some votes.”

  “We don’t need that kind of trouble, Doc. I’m still aiming to be sheriff, and running up against Clanton ain’t gonna help me do that. Ike’s a piece of shit, but he’s connected to all the other shit in the yard. We’d be stepping in it everywhere we turned.”

  Still smiling, Doc nodded. “All right, I’ll try to restrain myself.” The wind whipped up dust and rattled the gate back at the corral entrance. Doc opened the door to the boardinghouse. “For as long as you need me to, anyway.”

  “ ’Preciate it, Doc,” Wyatt said. He fitted the hat to his head and continued down Fremont to his home.

  After Wyatt closed the bedroom door on Mattie’s drug-induced snoring, he spread a copy of the Nugget over the kitchen table. For an hour, he cleaned and oiled his gun, giving each working part of the Colt’s its due. He listened to the wind gust outside, sometimes moaning like a deep-throated animal as it carved around the eave of the roof on the west side. All the while he worked, he thought about Sadie Marcus.

  CHAPTER 15

  October 26, 1881: Tombstone, A. T.

  Wyatt was seated at his kitchen table reading the Epitaph when Virgil came through the side door. The noon wind was blustery, whipping up at unexpected moments and pushing the rocking chairs outside into a hollow, rumbling rhythm. Crystals of snow dusted Virgil’s hat and the shoulders of his heavy coat. When Virge opened his coat to the cast-iron wood stove, Wyatt saw his brother’s pistol stuffed into his waistband.

  “You heard?” Virgil said.

  Wyatt set down his coffee and wiped his moustaches with a napkin. “Ike?”

  “Hell, yes, ‘Ike,’ ” Virgil grunted. “He’s on the street threatening all of us.”

  “That’s Ike’s fight . . . his mouth. Why don’t you just arrest him? Let him sleep it off in jail.” Wyatt sipped his coffee and watched his brother angrily re-button his coat. “You going into town now?”

  “Don’t reckon I can put it off any longer,” Virgil answered, his face set hard with purpose. He turned his head to look squarely at Wyatt. “I’ll be wantin’ you on duty again today.”

  Wyatt downed the last of his coffee and stood. “I’ll walk with you.” Buttoning his collar, he crossed the kitchen to the bedroom. Mattie lay in bed with her back to him. He slipped into his wool vest and stared at her as he pushed the buttons through their holes. Her limp hair splayed on the pillow in a nest of tangles. It had been so long since she had tended to herself in the way that females did that he had come to think of her as a presence without a soul. An empty brown bottle lay on its side on the small table next to her. He couldn’t remember an exact time she had abandoned the idea of hiding the laudanum. Its presence had simply become a part of her daily fare.

  He donned his frock coat and then the heavy mackinaw that cut out the wind. In the mirror he squared his hat on his head. From atop the dresser, he lifted the Colt’s revolver and checked the loads. The smooth clicks of the cylinder filled the room like a surrogate message to Mattie: there was business he needed to tend to. But he doubted she heard it. He tucked the gun in his coat pocket and dropped a handful of cartridges into the other. When he left the room, he felt Mattie’s misery peel away from him like a rotted cloak.

  On the street Morgan walked to his brothers in a direct, purposeful line, his boyish face drawn and focused. “Ike’s carryin’ a Winchester and a pistol. He was down at Fly’s askin’ for Doc.” Morg shook his head to the unasked question. “Nothin’ happened.”

  The brothers split up to scour the business section. Wyatt was on Allen Street crossing to Hafford’s when he heard the deep boom of Virgil’s voice. He spun in time to see Virgil just past the gun shop, one-handedly trying to twist a rifle from Ike Clanton’s grip. With his other hand, Virge drew his pistol and slammed its barrel against the side of Ike’s head. Ike dropped heavily, face-down in the street. When Morgan appeared from the alley and stooped to pick up Ike’s dropped revolver, Wyatt relaxed his grip on the gun in his pocket and walked to his brothers.

  “He was coming up behind you, Wyatt,” Virge said.

  “I’m growin’ damned tired o’ this loudmouth sonovabitch,” Wyatt growled.

  When Ike moaned, Virgil handed the rifle to Morgan and jerked Clanton to his feet by his coat lapels. “He’s drunk. Let’s haul him to Judge Wallace and see if that takes some of the fight out of him.”

  “You mean ‘some of his mouth,’ ” Morg corrected.

  In Judge Wallace’s courtroom Morgan pushed Ike onto a bench, where the battered Cow-boy sat hunched forward, cupping the cut on his head with one hand. Then he looked up to glare at Wyatt and Virgil.

  “A second later, and they’d ’a been carryin’ some o’ you Earps to the coroner,” Ike snarled.

  Wyatt felt the prelude to violence crackle across his skin like sparks from a fire. Townspeople had begun to crowd the doorway, their faces full of curiosity and expectation.

  “I’ll go find Judge Wallace,” Virgil huffed. “Try not to kill the sonovabitch.”

  As Wyatt and Morgan wa
ited for the judge, Ike let go with a litany of complaints to anyone in the room who would listen. When he stood to further remonstrate, Morgan shoved him back onto the bench and used the muzzle of the Winchester as a prod to keep him there. One of Behan’s deputies looked on uneasily from the other side of the room. When Ike resorted to screaming his insults, everyone turned to watch his antics.

  “You goddamned Earps are gonna pay!” Ike screeched. “All o’ you!” He tried to shunt aside the rifle pressed into his gut, but Morgan leaned in with his weight. Ike winced at the pain and screamed again. “You goddamn pimps . . . you come here to leech off the rest of us. You cheat at your cards . . . strut your badges . . . and you rob the goddamn stages. Then you make a big show of ridin’ out to catch the bandits when you’re really chasin’ your own tails. There ain’t none o’ you fit to live here among us ranchers who been makin’ a livin’ off this land. Hell, the people of Arizona would thank us for killin’ you.”

  Ike knotted his mouth to gather saliva, and then he spat at the two brothers. He seemed surprised when he hit his mark. Wyatt looked down at his trousers, at the beads of white foam clinging to his pant leg. Morgan tightened his hold on the rifle and checked Wyatt’s face. In the silence that followed, Ike seemed to shrink on the bench.

  Then the stillness broke as Wyatt moved as quick as a cat and lifted Ike by his throat to pin him against the wall. Morgan backed away, lowered the rifle, and watched.

  “You goddamned dirty cow thief,” Wyatt began in a whispery growl, his face so close to Ike’s that the Cow-boy had to turn a cheek to the wall. “I’d be justified in shooting you down like a dog. You’ve threatened us for the last time. I’ll fight you any place you name, even if I have to come over among your crowd in the San Simon.”

  Clanton’s one visible eye was ringed in white. When he swallowed, the bulge in his throat bobbed with a dry click. Then, just as quickly as the fear had seized him, he mustered bravado.

  “All right, I’ll fight you!” he snapped, his voice cracking like cold glass. “All I need with you is four feet o’ ground.”