by Mark Warren
The bulk of the men eating at the table leaned into their trays, each man wholly dedicated to a meal that he himself did not have to prepare. Only Doc and McMaster looked up to read Wyatt’s face. Every man wore his revolver on his person, and nearby a rifle leaned against a wall within easy reach.
Wyatt took off his coat and hat and laid them across a neighboring table stacked with the sundry garments of his deputies. Doc held up an empty metal plate and set it down at the vacant space beside him. Wyatt sat and began serving himself from the platters of beef, peas, potatoes, and flat bread.
“How is he?” Doc said, pouring Wyatt a glass of water.
“Asleep. Doctor said, long as we keep the wound clean, he’ll be fine.”
Doc nodded and set down the pitcher. “Dig in, Wyatt. You need it.”
Charlie Smith leaned forward to talk past Tipton and Johnson. “Army food ain’t half bad, Wyatt. Not like Hooker’s spread, but a hellava lot better’n salt pork and beans.”
The front door opened, and Colonel Biddle and another officer entered the room. Biddle, a portly man with sweeping gray moustaches, walked to the kitchen and spoke brusquely to the men on duty. The other officer stood by the door as Biddle crossed the room and took up a stiff position at the head of the table.
“I trust you men are getting what you need?”
Creek Johnson smiled and raised a fork weighted with a chunk of beef. “Almost makes me wanna enlist, Colonel.” He stuffed the meat into his mouth and spoke around the chewing. “Almost,” he added and shook once with a private laugh.
Biddle returned the smile, looked at each man, and then settled his gaze on Wyatt. “Could I have private word, Marshal?” Without waiting for a response, he turned on his heel and joined the other officer, who now waited at the center of the room. Wyatt wiped his mouth with a folded cloth ink-marked with a black “U.S.,” set the cloth aside, and rose to join the private parley.
Biddle seemed to be gathering his thoughts as he stared at the plank floor. Then his head came up with authority. His bloodshot eyes showed a contradictory mix of power and compassion.
“I know what you’re up against. I got the story from Hooker’s man. And I think I know what kind of man Sheriff Behan is. As little as I care for the man, he does have a warrant for you, and the warrant appears to be valid. I checked. I’m sure you’ll understand when I tell you that I have to be careful of my moves that might interfere with civilian government. I’ve contacted my superiors in Washington, and it seems that you have friends that extend a long way from Arizona Territory.”
Wyatt said nothing but wondered which of the Tombstone businessmen might have tried to pull strings for him. Probably Wells, Fargo, which had the ear of the governor.
“Nevertheless,” Biddle continued, “despite where my loyalties may lie, I can’t be seen as an abettor to a fugitive from the law. Behan’s warrant comes from Cochise County. There is a second warrant for you out of Pima. That only complicates the situation.”
Wyatt nodded. “I would not want to put you at risk, Colonel.”
Biddle’s aide unfolded a telegram and held it for Wyatt to see. Wyatt glanced at it and then met Biddle’s troubled eyes again.
“As you can see, my hands are tied by my superiors,” Biddle said. He pursed his lips and stared past Wyatt at the men feasting off army food. When he turned back to Wyatt he seemed to lose some of the stiffness in his posture. “Look,” the colonel sighed, “these are Arizona warrants. If you were to continue what you’re doing in ridding this territory of its degenerates, I could be held complicit . . . putting you up here at the fort, feeding you, permitting my surgeon to work on your brother. If you rode east to New Mexico Territory, things would be out of my assigned jurisdiction. You’d be someone else’s problem. It would take an extradition order to get you back here to stand trial. And it sounds like that ball is already rolling. Do you hear what I’m saying?”
Wyatt took in a long breath of air and looked down at his boots for a time. When his head came back up, he stared into the threads of blue and red that webbed across the colonel’s apologetic eyes.
“When Behan was here,” Wyatt said in a flat tone, “was John Ringo with him? And a short man with a little goatee and whining voice—name of Ike Clanton?”
Biddle squinted at the change in direction. “Behan and his undersheriff came in with over a dozen hard cases. I don’t know their names, but I’m pretty sure that most of them have had their hands on government cattle at some time.”
The aide put away the telegram and cleared his throat. “If I may, sir . . . I think five or six of them rode off early this morning. Seems there was some kind of argument between them and the sheriff.”
“Was it Ringo?” Wyatt pressed.
The man looked away for a moment and then looked firmly at Wyatt. “Tall with dark hair and moustaches. Kind of morose. Wouldn’t look at you when he talked to you.” The man arched his eyebrows at the memory. “Tell you the truth, he seemed the kind of man that you were better off if he didn’t look at you.”
Wyatt clenched his teeth at the missed opportunity in the grove of oaks. If he had known it was Ringo and Clanton, he might have sent Doc with Warren to the fort while he and the rest of the posse trailed them south.
But that was the past. Already he could feel his plans taking a new direction. There would be time for those men—Ringo and Clanton. And the men who had taken refuge in Behan’s jail.
“Marshal Earp,” Biddle said in a low, humming voice. “I urge you to consider carefully which way you’ll be traveling from here.”
“You don’t need to worry, Colonel. I owe you a debt for my brother. We’ll head east. And as far as the territory is concerned, we were never here at the fort.”
Biddle offered a flaccid hand, and they shook. “Your horses have been fed, watered, and groomed at the livery,” the colonel said and released his grip.
Then the aide took Wyatt’s hand more firmly. “The doctor says your brother can travel when he wakes. May I suggest you depart before reveille? The fewer eyes on you, the better. Wouldn’t you agree?”
Wyatt gestured toward his men at the table. “I’d like my men to have a few hours rest. Can you accommodate us?”
“I’ve already taken care of that,” the aide said. “We’ve set up cots in the back of the hospital. You can keep watch on your brother there.”
“Appreciate your hospitality,” Wyatt said and nodded to both men. He turned to leave, but the colonel stepped forward and touched his sleeve.
“The way you’ve been scouring the country for this Cow-boy scum,” Biddle whispered, “I imagine most of that crowd will be heading for Mexico soon. Some of the men in my livery heard them talking about that. Arizona will likely owe you a great debt, Marshal Earp.”
Wyatt thought for a moment before answering. “I reckon that’ll depend on who you ask, Colonel.”
When the two officers left, Wyatt returned to his table and finished his meal. The others lighted cigars, all but Johnson, who preferred his tobacco chewed, and Doc who could no longer subject his lungs to the acrid smoke. Anxious to be off duty, the kitchen crew quickly cleared the table, leaving the civilian visitors to converse in the warmth of the hall.
“Here, Wyatt,” Doc offered, holding out a cigar. Then Holliday slipped his flask from his coat and took a long pull of whiskey.
Wyatt lighted the stogie from the oil lamp on the table. As he worked the tobacco into a steady burn, the men around him quieted and settled in, waiting for him to speak.
“It’s time we got out,” Wyatt said. “The longer we cover the territory looking for these last few men, the better chance we have gettin’ put behind bars. That or gettin’ killed. I figure one’s the same as the other. If we go into Behan’s jail, we’re not likely to get out alive.”
Johnson leaned to spit into a tin cup. No one else moved.
“What about Ringo?” Creek said. “You think that was him opened up on you in the oak grove?”
>
“Half a dozen of Behan’s posse split off,” Wyatt explained. “Ringo was with ’em. I figure they missed the watering hole and ran into us by accident.”
McMaster’s ruddy face sharpened like an axe blade. “Maybe it was him you hit, Wyatt.”
Wyatt shook his head. “We weren’t there,” he said, underscoring his words with a flat monotone.
Charlie Smith’s face wrinkled like a balled up dish rag. “What do you mean ‘we weren’t there’? I shot one of the sonzabitches myself!”
“We weren’t there,” Wyatt repeated. “And my brother—Warren—was never shot.” He looked at each man’s bewildered expression in turn. “I don’t want to leave a trail to Fort Grant. We never came here. Never needed the fort surgeon. Colonel Biddle never saw us.” Wyatt paused and checked the burn on his cigar. “I owe the colonel that much.”
One by one, each posse man began to nod. Wyatt took a draw on his cigar and blew a thin stream of smoke that rose with the heat wavering over the lamp.
“Besides that,” Wyatt went on, “I see no need to give Ringo’s crowd the satisfaction of knowing they hit one of us.”
“That sounds like you think we didn’t kill Ringo,” Tipton said.
“If we did,” Wyatt said, “those boys would never let the news get out. Same as they’re doin’ with Curly Bill.” He set down his cigar. “If Ringo is still alive, he’ll head for Mexico. Him and a lot of others. There’ll be another time to settle those scores.”
Doc Holliday smiled and raised his flask like a toast. “Amen to that,” he said. “And all the while, they’ll be runnin’ from their own shadows and wonderin’ when we’re comin’ for them.”
“What do you wanna do, Wyatt?” Vermillion asked.
Wyatt flicked his cigar over the metal plate the men had appropriated for their ashes. “Sleep a few hours. There are beds set up for us at the hospital. After that we’ll ride for New Mexico. I think all you boys should consider staying out of Arizona for a while.”
The posse men looked at one another, but no one offered a comment. Wyatt stepped out from the bench and stood looking at his deputies.
“I owe you boys. I reckon I always will.”
Doc pocketed his flask and waved away the gratitude Wyatt had laid bare on the table. “It was a hell of a party, Wyatt. I, for one, would not have missed it.”
The other men said nothing, but in each of their eyes was the deep-seated glow of loyalty. The steady flame of the oil lamp was like an extension of their solidarity. Wyatt donned his vest and coat and then withdrew an envelope from his inside pocket. When he dropped it on the table, the sound seemed magnified by the stillness of the men gathered there. Everyone knew that the package contained a hefty stack of bills.
“Split this up among yourselves. It should get you where you want to go.”
Charlie Smith rose and extended a hand across the table. “I ain’t been with you as long as these ol’ ki-yotes, but I can tell you it’s been an honor.”
Wyatt took his hand and shook. Then each man in turn stood and repeated the ritual—all but Doc, who watched the proceedings and smiled as if he were on a good run at the poker table. McMaster was last to pay his respects and walked with Wyatt to the door.
“I guess you know I got reason to go back to Tucson,” McMaster said. “Me and Val, you know?”
Wyatt stopped walking and turned to face his ex-informant. “You’re the one’s got reason to go back, Mac. But I hope you’ll use that money to get the two of you out o’ there. Bob Paul is doin’ his best not to catch us, but he may have to do something if you rub it in his face.”
“Val and me used to talk about California. She lived there when she was a kid . . . outside San Bernardino.”
Looking at the earnestness in his friend’s face, Wyatt pushed from his mind the picture of the young Mexican girl who had dressed and spoken like someone twice her age in an outdoor cantina. Though she had taught him in a peach orchard the subtleties of the carnal equation between a man and a woman, she was no longer Wyatt’s to remember. She belonged to McMaster.
“California sounds good, Mac. Lot o’ opportunities there.”
McMaster nodded. “Long as they got horses. I figure that’s what I’m best cut out for . . . workin’ with ’em from wild oats to snubbin’ post.”
Wyatt nodded. “You hang on to what you got, Mac . . . it’s a hellava lot more than what most men have.”
Wyatt reached for the door latch, but McMaster cleared his throat and sidestepped to stand squarely before Wyatt. The flushed skin on the ex-Cow-boy’s face tightened, giving new angles and shadows to his ruddy countenance.
“Wyatt . . . you pulled me up out o’ a bad place. I’m beholdin’ to you.” His eyes were bright and steady, like two candle flames in the stillness of an empty room.
Wyatt patted the upper arm of the smaller man. “I threw you one end of a rope, Mac. You’re the one climbed out.”
McMaster thrust out a hand, and the two men shook again. Then Mac offered a single brisk nod before returning to the table for his things.
Buttoning up against the night air, Wyatt stepped outside and strode onto the parade grounds until he could stand beyond the half halo of dim light spreading from the mess hall. He stood for a time letting the slight breeze of the desert night carve around the contours of his body like the anointing of a private ritual. From one of the distant barracks he could hear the laughter of soldiers rising above the steady whisper of the wind. Oddly, the muted sound of it made him feel more isolated from the line of buildings spread out behind him. The stars were scattered thickly across the night sky, like shattered jewels arranged across a black blanket. Some of the points of light flickered like distant campfires. It was a celestial show of infinite possibilities.
Morgan loved nights like this. He would smile up at the stars and talk about things he and Wyatt discussed with no other living person—not even Virgil. On those occasions Morg could hold up a conversation by himself for long stretches, and Wyatt loved nothing better than to learn about the private thoughts his favorite brother entertained.
Those were the memories Wyatt wanted most to hang onto. But as they always did, the recollections funneled inevitably to the end, where they were supplanted by Morg’s last words as he lay bloodied and broken on the sofa at Hatch’s billiard parlor.
Get out, Wyatt. Get away from—
Even then, with his labored breathing and grimace of unspeakable pain, Morg’s voice had retained a trace of that personable warmth that had been a part of him since he was a young boy on the Iowa farm. It was as if Morg’s good humor had been part of two brothers’ plan to balance out the deficits of Wyatt’s laconic character.
Wyatt raised his eyes to the stars again. Time to get out, Morg, he mouthed, almost saying the words aloud. For a while, at least.
So wrapped up in his thoughts was he, Wyatt heard the relaxed approach of a horse’s hooves only after the animal was almost upon him. A soldier walked Wyatt’s unsaddled mare through the short, stiff grass of the open field, leading the chestnut by a simple halter of supple leather.
“Marshal?” the soldier called out and stopped a few feet away. “I was walkin’ your mount to see why she was favoring a foreleg, but it was only a little speck of rock wedged near the frog. She’s lookin’ fine. I’ll lead her back to the stall.”
“I’ll take her,” Wyatt said and moved to the mare’s muzzle where she could smell him. “Thank you, Corporal.”
When the soldier started back alone for the livery, Wyatt slowly reached up to the horse’s neck and combed the mane with his fingers. She had been groomed well, leaving no tangles in the coarse hairs. When the mare shifted her stance and swung a slow quarter turn, Wyatt found himself looking into the liquid gold-brown of the animal’s eye. Sadie’s eye. The mare stared back at him with the same gentle devotion he had seen in Sadie’s farewell gaze in the dining room at Brown’s Hotel.
You’ll know when it’s time to leave, she had sai
d.
Now that time had come, Wyatt knew. And with that knowledge came the revelation that he could choose whatever life he wanted. He had nothing now—just a horse and saddle, a few guns, and a coat riddled with bullet holes. There was just enough money in his pocket to make a quiet exit from Arizona Territory. As he thought about it, it seemed to Wyatt that a man with almost no assets might be freer than most to determine his direction.
He turned and rested his forearms over the shallow sway of the mare’s spine and stared out into the dark of the desert. Everything had been lost in Tombstone. He had banked on becoming sheriff and amassing his wealth through that plum position of the law, but now such a position was an impossibility.
A sudden fatigue washed over him, and Wyatt leaned into the horse’s ribs, taking a grip on the withers. He didn’t know how he had survived the battle at Iron Springs. Just like he did not understand why Behan’s superior force had not laid siege to him on the hill outside Hooker’s ranch. Except for Warren’s wound, none of his men had been hurt. It seemed improbable. They had lost only a horse. That was it. How could one man have been blessed with so much good fortune?
Finishing the job of finding Morgan’s murderers did eat at him, but there would be time enough to finish it later. Spence, Bode, and Swilling. Ike Clanton and Ringo. Let those sons of bitches hide out in Mexico. Let them wonder which day he might be coming. They would keep. The threat would hover over them like a dark storm cloud shuddering with flashes of fire and brimstone.
Perhaps that was enough—to simply leave them to uncertainty. One-eyed jacks, always looking over one shoulder. Either that or, one day when the time was right, he would bring judgment down upon them like the fury of God.
The door opened behind him, and Wyatt pivoted to see Doc turn his back to the wind and cough into his handkerchief. For a long time he racked his lungs and alternately sucked in air to let the spell run its course. Doc had seemed to take strength from their task of scouring the country for the men who had killed Morg. Regardless of his cavalier attitude, the ex-dentist had not been able to hide his pride in wearing a badge. But now it seemed his disease had worsened. In the last few days, Doc’s vitality had waned. All the men had noticed and had tried to take up some slack to let him rest more than the others.
