by Mark Warren
“We didn’t receive any money,” Wyatt said. “Who’d they send with it?”
“Coupl’a boys you can depend on. If they missed you, they’ll bring the money back in and get it to you some’eres else.”
“What about Tip?” Wyatt said.
Smith waved away the worry on Wyatt’s face. “One o’ your lawyer friends . . . he’ll be postin’ bail and gettin’ Tip out in a day or two. Tip says not to worry. He’ll catch up with you. He says don’t come back into town. There’s six deputies holed up around the sheriff’s office just hopin’ you’ll make an appearance.” Smith nodded out into the dark. “And some’eres out there there’s three posses lookin’ for you. Behan has hired all the riffraff he can dredge up from around the county.”
“What about Bob Paul?” Wyatt asked. “Is he huntin’ me?”
Smith allowed a smile. “Sheriff Paul made a show o’ lookin’ for you ’bout killin’ Stilwell, but he ain’t pushin’ it. He won’t have nothin’ to do with Behan. Says the men Behan deputized are unfit to be lawmen.”
“Who’d Behan hire?” McMaster asked.
Charlie Smith curled his deformed lip to make a sour face. “Ringo . . . the Clantons, both Ike and Fin . . . a handful o’ Curly Bill’s boys.”
“God!” Doc said. “And here I thought I was somebody special because I’m wearing a badge.”
No one laughed at Doc’s joke. Smith licked his lips again and fixed worried eyes on Wyatt.
“Behan’s tryin’ to stack it against you,” Smith explained, “but Wells, Fargo came out with a public statement supportin’ ever’thin’ you done. They say the territorial governor is comin’ into Tombstone to back you, too.”
Doc leaned on his pommel and smiled at Wyatt. “Governor! How’d you get friends in such high places, Wyatt?”
Wyatt kept his eyes on Charlie Smith. “That’s Wells, Fargo’s doin’. They know who’s been holdin’ up their stage shipments.”
“Hell, yeah, they know,” Smith cackled. “Who don’t?” Then his face sobered. “Where will you go now? Them posses are combing the hills for you boys.”
“I’m going after the rest of the men who shot my brothers,” Wyatt said plainly.
Smith nodded. “I don’t reckon you heard . . . those men named by the coroner’s jury—the ones who kilt Morgan?—they ain’t all available to be found. Hank Swilling—that half-breed who ran with Stilwell—and that German named Bode . . . they both turned theirselves into the law for protection. Pete Spence, too.” Charlie coughed up a humorless laugh. “They’re still shakin’ in their boots though. They say Behan give Spence a gun to keep in his cell, if you can believe that.”
“Let’s give ’em what they want, Wyatt!” Warren blurted out. “Let’s go into town and kill ’em all!”
Wyatt said nothing. He turned his head to look out into the desert. A tendon in his jaw knotted, causing a shadow to pulse there as steady as a heartbeat.
“Say,” Smith said, changing course. “Could you boys eat somethin’? I know where you can get your fill without goin’ into town.” Then he pointed at Vermillion perched double on the wide rump of Creek’s spent roan. “We’ll get this man a horse, too.”
Wyatt turned to either side and studied the faces of his companions. No one made the slightest gesture as a response, but he could see the sag of their shoulders and the fatigue in their eyes. The horses were tired, especially Johnson’s, which had carried double weight after the fight in the Whetstones.
“We could eat and rest a spell,” Wyatt said. “Horses, too.”
Smith nodded sharply and turned his horse a half circle in the road. The other animals perked up at the movement. As the group started off at a walk, Smith twisted around and propped a hand on the cantle of his saddle.
“After you eat and rest up,” Charlie said, “I’d like to ride out with you. Can you use another hand?”
Wyatt heard the ring of sincerity in the man’s voice. He stared into Smith’s eyes, looking for something that would inform him about the man’s grit.
“What’s your stake in this?”
Smith’s whiskered face took on a surprising hardness, while his eyes remained soft as a woman’s. “Your brother, Morgan . . . he was a friend of mine. And besides that . . . I’m damned sick o’ these low-life Cow-boys runnin’ it over on ever’body in the county.”
Wyatt nodded once. He remembered Morgan telling a story about O. C. Smith leveling a man twice his size for poking fun at his deformed mouth. Morg had said that no man made that mistake twice.
“Can you shoot?” Wyatt asked.
Smith smiled and cut his eyes to Creek Johnson.
“He can shoot,” Johnson spoke up.
Wyatt studied the confident gleam on Smith’s face. “When I find these men who killed my brother, I won’t bring them into court to walk free on the perjury of their friends.”
Charlie lost the smile and raised his chin. “You just point out the ones did the killin’, and I’ll help you not bring ’em in.”
Smith sat forward in his saddle and coaxed his horse into a trot. The other horses followed without a cue from their riders. The soft sound of hoofbeats on the sandy road melded into a common deep rumble, like the far-off throb of drums marking the advance of a phantom army moving somewhere across the desert.
The next morning Wyatt and his posse rode north up the Sulphur Springs Valley into Henry Hooker’s Sierra Bonita Ranch in Graham County. It was a sprawling grassland still in its winter grays and yellows, bordered on east and west by mountains and shadowed through its beveled interior by occasional hills and bluffs. The valley was generously veined with a network of clear streams that would promise lush growth come spring and summer. Both the acreage and the size of Hooker’s herds spoke of an empire—one he protected with a small army of loyal hands against the constant threat of rustlers and Apaches.
A lone horseman showed himself on a low ridge at a distance, and then he was gone. By the time Wyatt’s party had traveled another three miles inside Hooker’s holdings, nine riders appeared on their flank, coming forward at an easy gallop from higher ground.
“Wyatt,” Creek Johnson announced.
“I see ’em,” Wyatt replied and reined up.
Stopping, the posse turned their mounts to face the oncoming men. One rider wearing a sky-blue shirt beneath a buckskin vest rode a little in front with a Winchester carbine propped vertically on one thigh. The others balanced their rifles crosswise over the bows of their saddles. Wyatt crossed his wrists over what was left of his pommel and waited.
The Hooker party pulled up, and their mounts stamped and snorted and sidled as though the apparent trespass were as much resented by the horses as the cattlemen who rode them. The leader was a wiry man with ink-black hair and a steady gaze. His roan mustang was well-muscled and attentive to the reins. Though young, with a clean-shaven face, this man was clearly the group’s leader. He carried himself like a seasoned frontiersman. Looking over Wyatt’s posse, he gave a nod to Charlie Smith and then settled his piercing blue eyes on Wyatt.
“My name is Earp,” Wyatt said and prodded his horse forward a few steps. He reined up boot to boot with Hooker’s spokesman and then cocked his head to indicate the men behind him. “These men are my deputized U.S. marshals.”
“Billy Whelan,” the young man said, showing no surprise at the identity of the visitors. He sheathed his carbine and nodded to his companions, who put away their weapons and appeared to take on a more relaxed manner. “I’m foreman here,” Whelan said and offered his hand. Wyatt took it. When the handshake ended, Whelan squinted one eye in what might have been a stalled wink. “Mr. Hooker’s ’xpectin’ you.”
Wyatt patted the neck of his travel-weary mare. “Our horses are played out, and we’re pretty much the same. We’d like to rest up for a spell. Feed and water for our mounts, if you can spare it. I can pay you soon as my man comes in from Tombstone.”
Whelan looked south down the long valley of sepia-tinted grasses that lay like
a ragged winter coat over the land. “Anybody else comin’ up that draw we oughta know ’bout?”
“Could be,” Wyatt said. “Coupl’a sheriff’s posses are looking for us.”
Whelan cracked a grin but held a steely glint in his eyes. “And that’d be Sheriff Johnny Be-hind, I’m guessing?”
Doc laughed and then coughed twice to clear his throat. “Sounds like you are acquainted with our sheriff’s inflated virtues.”
The foreman smiled coolly at Doc and then directed his attention back to Wyatt. “Ain’t sure what that means, but it don’t matter what anybody thinks of the sonovabitch out here. Behan ain’t a lawman in Graham County.” Whelan lifted his eyebrows. “Neither are his deputies.”
“Well said, son,” Doc chirped up. “Behan’s not much of a lawman in Cochise County either.”
Wyatt lowered his voice just for Whelan. “We don’t intend to bring any trouble on Hooker. I want to hole up until my courier arrives with expense money . . . that’s all.”
Billy Whelan allowed an unrestrained smile. “Hell, we ain’t afraid o’ trouble at the Sierra Bonita. Mr. Hooker says you’re welcome, and that’s all we need to know.” He neck-reined his horse and pivoted in place to lead out. “Come on with me. I’ll take you boys to the ranch house.” Then Whelan called over his shoulder to his men. “Two o’ you boys get back up on that rise! The rest o’ you can finish flushin’ cattle out o’ those arroyos to the west!”
The Hooker men rode off in their assigned directions, and Wyatt and his party followed the young foreman north up the valley. For the next hour they saw nothing but prime land, golden-hued grass swaying in the wind, and various breeds of English cattle spread out over the flats with the occasional Durham or Alderney bull strolling about as if he were royalty.
The ranch compound was an island of buildings clustered tightly together amid the swale of the valley. Henry Hooker was waiting in the shade of the ramada that wrapped around the main house. Standing with him in the compound were four men wielding rifles. Seven more hovered at the outbuildings that collectively framed the open space of the yard. The layout of the structures suggested a palisade that could be used as a fortress if the need arose. The muscular limbs of an old cottonwood spread grandly into the air above the yard, its leafless branches casting a mosaic shadow across the entrance to the livery barn. Towering above all of it the blades of a metal-latticed windmill turned in the breeze, rendering a steady mechanical clackety-clack from its well-oiled parts. Chickens strutted and clucked as they scattered in the yard, dodging the incoming party with their wings flailing at the air.
Hatless, Hooker stepped forward into the light. He was a slight but handsome man with authority etched into his face. A neatly trimmed beard followed the line of his jaw and contrasted sharply against his white dress shirt and scarlet cravat. When he picked out Wyatt, he approached directly, stopped, and spread open the front of his gray woolen coat to splay his weathered hands on his hips.
“You must be Earp. I know your brother, Virgil.”
Wyatt dismounted and gripped the man’s outstretched hand. “Wyatt,” he said.
“How is Virgil recovering from his wounds?”
Wyatt removed his hat and propped it over the bare metal of the horn-post jutting up from the front of his saddle. Raking the fingers of one hand back through his hair, he felt the weariness he had suppressed on the ride north now catch up to him. It trickled down through his body like a cascade of warm water, working its way from scalp to toes.
“He’s comin’ along . . . in California with the family. He’ll find a doctor out there, I reckon, but I doubt he’ll ever use that arm again.”
The skin on Hooker’s forehead tightened, and his gray eyes shone slate hard, giving Wyatt a glimpse of the kind of man who could build an independent cattle empire in the hinterlands of Apache territory. Stranded so far away from any town, the Sierra Bonita seemed a world complete unto itself.
“Hell of a thing,” Hooker growled, “when your enemies are a rat’s nest of godless cowards . . . degenerates who would rather skulk around in the night and back-shoot you rather than face you like a man.”
The rancher’s countenance softened and flushed with color—the sudden change in demeanor seeming entirely unnatural for a man such as himself. After looking away briefly toward the mountains to the west, Hooker cleared his throat and then met Wyatt’s eyes with the earnest glow of a gentleman’s apology.
“I read about your other brother in the newspapers. I never met him, but I’m sorry for your loss.”
“Morgan,” Wyatt said, giving a name to his brother and putting the cattleman at ease. He took in a long breath and tried to push the fatigue from his voice. “We’re ev’ning out that score as we go, Mr. Hooker.”
Hooker nodded but spoke no more on the subject. Slipping his hands into the pockets of his trousers, he inspected each of the men in the posse.
“You men are welcome here. I’ll have a meal served up for you within the hour. Meanwhile, you can picket your horses down by the creek. I’ll have some good hay thrown out down there. Clean up all you want.” Hooker pointed toward a long building extending from the far end of the barn. “We’ve got space for you in the north bunkhouse. Towels, too.” He turned to Whelan. “Billy, why don’t you go get these gentlemen some towels they can take down to the creek.”
When the foreman strode off toward the bunkhouse, Hooker jerked a thumb over his shoulder at the hacienda behind him. “When you’re ready, come into the main house and get something to eat. Then you can rest all you want. If you’ve got spare clothes to wear, you can give what you’re wearing now to my washer women.” He nodded toward the open door, where two stout Mexican women had appeared unnoticed. “You are among friends here,” he said, turning back to his visitors. “My men will keep you apprised of anyone who sets foot on my land.”
Billy Whelan reappeared in the yard with a stack of neatly folded towels hitched under one arm. He tossed a brick of lye soap to Charlie Smith and began doling out towels. When Whelan received a nod from his employer, he mounted his roan and kicked the horse into an easy lope out of the yard in the direction from which they’d come. The posse men started their horses for the copse of willows on the low ground behind the compound—all but Wyatt, who remained behind with Hooker.
“I’m behind you all the way with what you’re doing,” Hooker said. “And the Stock Association, too.” He leaned in closer and lowered his voice to a monotonic murmur. “If you can find your way to rid this country of Brocius and Ringo, the association will pay you a thousand dollars a head on those accounts.” Hooker’s mouth twisted with a wry grin. “When I say ‘head,’ I mean that literally.”
“You don’t need to worry about Brocius,” Wyatt informed him. “He won’t be stealin’ any more cattle around here or anywhere else.”
Hooker’s eyes sharpened. “He’s dead?”
Wyatt nodded. “Yesterday. Caught up to him in the Whetstones.”
Hooker’s expression remained contained and unreadable as he continued to study Wyatt. His gaze lowered to inspect the holes peppered into Wyatt’s coat.
“And you’re sure he’s dead?”
Wyatt nodded. “Both barrels of a scattergun.”
Henry Hooker flashed a row of straight teeth in what probably passed for a smile on the Sierra Bonita. Taking his hand from a trouser pocket he tossed a coin in a low arc and snatched it out of the air. Then he let go with a single laugh that sounded like the bark of a dog.
When he looked at Wyatt again, he began to nod, as though confirming something to himself about the man standing before him. “I’ll give you that reward out of my own pocket right now and let the association reimburse me later.”
Hooker started to back away toward the front door of his house, but he stopped when Wyatt raised one palm as a gesture to delay. The cattle baron waited with one hand resting on his door frame.
“Appreciate the offer,” Wyatt said quietly. “But I’ve got ex
pense money coming in from Tombstone in a day or two.”
Hooker’s expression was contemplative. He took a step toward Wyatt and then crossed his forearms over his chest.
“You won’t take blood money for killin’ the men who murdered your brother . . . Morgan. That about right?”
Wyatt said nothing. The two men stared at one another for the time it took one of the yard hens to scout for insects at the fringe of the plank porch. In that half minute of silence the two men learned more about one another than all their previous conversation had afforded.
Hooker turned to face the house, where the two women continued to hover in the doorway. “Consuela, bring us two shot glasses of bourbon, would you?”
When one woman disappeared into the dark interior of the house, Henry Hooker stepped down from the porch into the dusty yard. “I won’t insult you again with any talk of money, but I will drink with the man who has rid this country of Curly Bill Brocius.”
Within a minute, the Mexican housemaid brought the drinks on a hand-carved wooden tray and stood before the two men. Hooker scooped up both glasses and handed one to Wyatt. Even before the woman could return inside, Hooker began a formal toast.
“I speak for all the honest cattlemen in southern Arizona when I say ‘thank you.’ I want you and your men to take your meals and rest up here as long as you need. Then when you’re ready to leave, pick out the best saddle horses from my remuda, and we’ll consider it a fair trade for your mounts.”
As Hooker threw back his drink, Wyatt balanced the amber liquid before him and thought back to the last time he had felt the burn of liquor in his throat. It was in Prescott with Virgil . . . on the turnaround of a freight haul from San Bernardino. Wyatt had been sixteen years old, and it was the sickest night he had ever experienced.
Hooker lowered his glass, exhaled heavily, and extended his forefinger to point at Wyatt’s chest. “You just might have cut off the head of the snake, Wyatt.”
Wyatt raised his shot glass to the gratitude in Hooker’s face, and then, picturing Morgan smiling with that boyish twinkle in his eyes, he downed the bourbon in one quick swallow. The drink was smoother than he expected, the fire of it a delayed singe after he had handed the empty glass back to his host. Hooker looked around the yard as though he were not yet through celebrating. Wyatt returned his hat to his head and started to lead his mare to the creek.
