“Probably nothing, but . . .”
“Probably,” Doc repeated. “Implying . . . what, exactly?”
“Where was you last night, Doc?”
“Why do you ask?”
“Goddammit, Doc! I’m giving you the benefit of the doubt here! I could arrest you right now—”
“On what grounds?” Holliday cried, exasperated. He stared at Ben for a moment. “Wait! Are you suggestin’ that I had something to do with a holdup?”
“Well, see, people are saying you planned the robbery—”
Startled into a laugh, Holliday pulled out a handkerchief and coughed for a time, gasping, “Now, that is perfect irony,” before he settled into the fit. When it passed and he got his breath back, he drained his shot glass, looking half-amused. “Well, sir, people may say whatever they please. It is a free country. Any amount of absurdity and nonsense may be spoken.” He paused to cough again before asking, “Out of curiosity, do you have a warrant?”
“Not really, but Mayor Clum says I have to take you in.”
The slate-blue eyes turned cold. “No, sir, you do not have to do any such thing. If you do not have a warrant, then what you have is gossip, which is evidently being purveyed by a Republican politician whose newspaper profits from the sale of rumor, innuendo, and character assassination. And you may tell Mr. Clum for me that if my name is dragged into his newspaper over this affair, I shall sue him for libel.”
Ben could see that he was expected to say something, but nothing came to mind because Holliday had begun to tremble, as some men do when they are very angry or very scared, and since Ben didn’t imagine that anybody could be scared of him, it seemed pretty likely that he was about to get killed. Which made what Doc said next a considerable surprise.
“Marshal Sippy, I have a friendship of long standing with several lawmen and I have seen many arrests. Permit me to guide you on this matter. Take whatever suspicions you or anyone else may have and lay them before a judge. If there is the slightest shred of evidence to connect me with anything remotely illegal, then you may do your best to have a warrant issued and I will engage an attorney to defend my good name. Until that time, good evenin’ to you, sir.”
With that, the skinny, gimpy gambler rose and hobbled out of the saloon, leaving Ben Sippy to take a long-delayed breath while considering whether $112 a month was enough to make this damn job worth its risks.
He went back to the city jail that night and got some sleep in an empty cell. First thing the next morning, he walked over to the Epitaph office and since he couldn’t exactly remember even half of what the dentist actually said, he conveyed to Mayor Clum what he took to be the essence of John Henry Holliday’s message: “Doc says he’ll make a sieve out of the next sonofabitch who repeats gossip about him.”
AFTER THAT, “THINGS QUIETED DOWN,” John Clum would recall in a memoir he wrote many years later, “and tale-bearing became a lost art.”
But seeds had been sown, and John Harris Behan would harvest them.
COME AFTER ME FULL-TILT AND RUN ME DOWN
FOR THE MEMBERS OF THE BEHAN POSSE, IT WAS A relief to get away from Tombstone on the morning of March 16. As soon as they cleared the crowds, they kicked into a cavalry trot, putting the town’s hysterical, shouting civilians behind them. For the next four hours, there was no noise but hoofbeats, the huffing of the horses, the creak of leather, and the wind singing past their ears.
For the lawmen at least, the facts of the crimes were settled when Bob Paul’s telegram arrived, an hour after the attack. Three robbers were waiting for the stage at the crest of a draw near Drew’s Station. They opened fire, killing Budd Philpot outright and wounding a passenger who’d been traveling on the stage roof. The passenger’s name was Peter Roring. Possibly Roarig or Rohrig. He was from Wisconsin. Bob had returned fire. He didn’t think he’d hit anyone but couldn’t be sure. It was dark and he was driving the team and trying to keep the wounded man from falling off the stage. Bob had delivered the strongbox and mail pouch in Benson, but the passenger had died en route. So: two murders and two counts of attempted robbery.
There was one other detail in Bob’s telegram that didn’t seem significant at first. Budd had complained of stomach cramps after leaving Watervale and had become too sick to handle the team. Just before the ambush took place, Budd Philpot and Bob Paul had switched sides on the driver’s bench.
BOB PAUL WAS BACK AT DREW’S STATION, waiting for the posse when it arrived. “C’mon,” he said, leaning into the hill like a Belgian draft horse. “I’ll show you where the bastards were laying for us—”
Frank Leslie shook his head. “I work alone. Stay away from the tracks.”
Dismissed, the others eased past the canvas-wrapped body lying on the front porch and went inside Bill Drew’s house. Bill poured coffees all round but not entirely graciously. Didn’t offer lunch, either.
“What am I supposed to do with Budd?” he asked.
“He’s got a family in Calistoga,” Morgan Earp said. “Wife and kids.”
“Jesus,” Virgil said with a sigh. “Well . . . they’re gonna want the body.”
“Where’s Calistoga?” Bill asked.
“California, someplace,” Morgan said.
“It’s up near San Francisco,” Johnny Behan told them.
“Take the body into Benson,” Bob Paul said. “Ship it from there.”
“That canvas ain’t free, nor the use of my buckboard, nor my time neither,” Bill said, for he’d had twelve hours to think all this through, and he was still pretty sore about how Kinnear had taken the stage-stop contract away from him a few months back and given it to some bastard in Contention City. “Then there’s the undertaker in Benson and the freight charges on the train. Who’s paying for all that?”
Everyone looked at the Wells Fargo agent.
“He worked for Kinnear, not us,” Williams said.
“Budd Philpot died because he was sitting in my place on that stage,” Bob Paul said. “They meant to shoot the guard, not the driver.”
Bob was flanked by Morgan and Wyatt Earp, who had also served as strongbox guards. All they did was stare at Williams, but the combined effect of that massive wall of male silence was persuasive.
“All right,” said Williams. “Mr. Drew can invoice me for the canvas and for use of his wagon. Tell the agent in Benson I said the company will pay for the embalming and for the transport back to his family. Fair enough?”
It was, so they finished the coffee and got Budd loaded onto the buckboard. There was a sharp whistle from up the hill, where Frank Leslie had been cutting sign. He was beckoning now, the buckskin fringes on his sleeve fluttering.
“I make it four men,” he said, leading them to a clump of mesquite on the far side of the draw. “One stayed with the horses here. Big fella. Or fat. His prints go deepest into the sand. Three others walked up here on foot. Stood around, waiting.” He kicked at a few cigarette butts. “Got cold,” he noted, pointing at places where the men had stamped their feet. He moved on to the next site. “Spent cartridges,” he said, pointing them out in the dirt. “I found seventeen. That makes it three pistols.” He looked at Bob Paul. “Sound right?”
Bob nodded. “Sure does.”
Satisfied, Frank led them around the mesquite copse.
“No blood?” Bob asked as they walked.
“Just on the road where Budd fell. I don’t guess you hit anybody.”
“Shit,” Bob said.
Frank slowed and gestured toward a trail of hoofprints that narrowed into a single file. “Moving fast. Headed for the mountains.” He took a pull on his canteen, which was probably not filled with water. “Best we catch ’em quick,” he said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Nothing but rock up there.”
THE WEATHER WAS COLD BUT WINDLESS. The tracks were easy enough to follow, for the ground between the San Pedro River and the Whetstone Mountains was gravelly sand dotted with barrel cactus and ocotillo and yucca.
&nbs
p; “Heavy fella’s horse is starting to stumble,” Frank pointed out, and sure enough, they found the animal—head down and exhausted—abandoned in the foothills near the Wheaton ranch.
“Luther King’s pinto,” Wyatt said.
“You certain?” Johnny asked.
“Saw him on her, couple of weeks ago. Hard to miss a pinto.”
They followed the trail up another hill, then dismounted and crouched down before they crested, to see what lay beyond.
The Wheaton ranch was a simple one. A brush corral, a crude shack. No animals visible. No smoke coming from the chimney.
“Well, let’s go take a look,” Johnny said, remounting.
The quiet remained unbroken as they approached the ranch house. Johnny called hello but got no response. The house was as silent as the rest of the place.
They took care of the horses, helped themselves to some canned beans, and bedded down. In the morning, Buckskin Frank went back out on his own, circling wide to get beyond where the fugitives’ tracks merged with those of the rancher’s stock. He returned to the ranch house an hour later.
“Found sign a quarter mile out. Heavy fella’s on a new animal now.”
“Add horse theft to the bill of particulars,” Virgil said.
Johnny Behan nodded. “If they killed Wheaton, it’s another murder. We are trailing some very bad men.”
ON MARCH 19, THEY WERE STILL IN THE WHETSTONES. Steep, waterless heaps of rubble.
“We’re gonna lose a horse,” Wyatt warned when Roxana stumbled.
“Just as bad for them,” Frank said, but half an hour later, high on an outward-facing slope, he called for a halt and sat for a time, studying the vast valley below.
From that vantage, the San Pedro River was a green ribbon of cottonwoods winding through winter-browned grasses. Dragoon Mountains to the east. The Huachucas, far to the south.
Billy Breakenridge polished his specs and squinted. “Could be, that’s their dust,” he said, gesturing. “What do you think, Frank?”
Frank uncorked his canteen. “Dirt devil.”
“Well, their horses are gonna be as thirsty and tired as ours,” Morg said. “My guess? They think they’ve lost us—which they have, right, Frank?”
Frank took a pull, wiped his mouth, and declined to comment.
“So they’ll think it’s safe to double back to the river to water the horses,” Morg pressed. “Right?”
Virgil said, “I don’t see what else they could do.”
“Or us, neither,” Williams said. He wasn’t complaining, but it wasn’t like the company had lost a strongbox. It was too bad about Budd Philpot and that passenger, but they were Kinnear’s problem. At this point in the festivities, he sincerely regretted having volunteered for this goose chase.
“Johnny?” Virg said. “Your posse. Your call.”
“All right,” Behan said. “We’ll go back down and follow the riverbed. Maybe Frank can pick them up again.”
BY SUNDAY, the horses were done in and the provisions almost gone. The weather was cold and so was the trail, but anyone passing this way was likely to get a meal and a place to sleep at the Redfield ranch.
Like all the small ranchers in the county, Len and Hank Redfield did a little pasturing for the Cow Boys, but simple hospitality would be provided to anyone—outlaw or lawman—who asked for it. So that’s where the posse headed, and that’s where they caught the break they needed.
“Well, now. Lookee there,” Virgil said, pulling up as the Redfield corral came into view. “Anything about that strike you boys as strange?”
It was a heavyset man milking a cow. With two pistols strapped to his waist. And a rifle, propped against a bucket, close to hand.
“Lotta artillery for a fella milking a cow,” Morg noted.
“That’s Luther King,” Wyatt said.
“I believe I’d like to ask Mr. King a few questions,” Johnny murmured.
Luther saw them coming. Taking off on foot was not a good plan, but it was the best he could come up with on short notice. Though he made the mesquite barrens beyond the ranch, he was not quick, and it didn’t take long to surround and disarm him.
“Luther King,” Johnny Behan said, “you are under arrest for the murder of Peter Roring and Budd Philpot.”
“And for attempted robbery of a Wells Fargo strongbox,” Williams added.
“And for an attack on a stagecoach carrying the U.S. mail,” Virgil told him, adding, “You are in a heap of trouble, son.”
“Horse theft, too,” Billy Breakenridge reminded them.
King was still staring, open-mouthed, at Johnny Behan. “Budd? Budd Philpot? But we didn’t mean for—” King shut up then, but he’d already said too much, and he knew it.
“Who’s we?” Wyatt asked.
Virgil caught Morgan’s eye, and Morg started to chuckle.
“There he goes,” Virg said.
“Ole Wyatt . . .” Morgan agreed, for their brother was staring at Luther King with a look so hard it felt like a shove, and a man with a guilty conscience always took that as a bad sign.
Which it was. Because while the rest of the posse had filled the hours with stories and jokes and idle chatter, Wyatt Earp had been riding a little ways off on his own, thinking for days about what Bob Paul had said back at Drew’s Station: “They meant to shoot the guard, not the driver.” And not just any guard—that’s what Wyatt had finally figured out. They wanted the guard who was going to be the Pima County sheriff soon. A sheriff who would enforce the law. A sheriff who could not be bribed and would not be intimidated.
“It wasn’t ever a robbery,” Wyatt said. “The Cow Boys wanted Bob Paul dead, and you killed Budd Philpot by mistake.”
“Now, Wyatt, let’s not rush to judgment here,” Johnny Behan began.
Wyatt started to argue, but Virgil had seen Johnny Behan do this kind of thing before and admired the way the sheriff handled interrogations. So he shook his head, and Wyatt held his tongue.
“Luther, there are two men dead,” Johnny reminded King gently, “and somebody is going to swing for that, but it might not be you.”
“I swear, Johnny! I didn’t kill nobody! I always liked Budd!”
“And Curly Bill always liked Fred White,” Wyatt muttered.
“Wyatt, just hang on,” Virgil soothed, and Johnny continued, “Luther, if you can explain to us what really happened, maybe we can work this out.”
“I just held the horses!” Luther cried, looking at Buckskin Frank Leslie. “You know that, Frank! You musta seen that in the tracks!” Nobody said anything, and Luther rushed to fill the silence. “I swear, I just held the horses! Henry Head and Bill Leonard and Jim Crane went off to wait for the stage.”
Morgan murmured, “All Cow Boys.”
“And they was looking for somebody on it, I know that, ’cause we stopped a different stage before that one, and Henry said, ‘No, that ain’t him.’”
“But they were figuring to rob the stage, too, weren’t they?” Johnny suggested. “May as well be hanged for a sheep as a lamb, right, Luther?”
“I guess.”
“Luther, how much did they figure to take?” Johnny asked, like he was just curious. “Did they say anything about how much was on the stage?”
“No, sir. They didn’t say nothing about that.”
“That’s surprising.” Johnny frowned thoughtfully. He turned toward Williams, winking at him with the eye King couldn’t see. “Agent Williams, what was the cargo manifest on that stage? Fifty grand in cash and bullion, was it?”
“Something like that,” Williams said, playing along.
“Fifty grand!” Luther squawked. “Those sonsabitches! Those dirty goddam bastards!”
“Luther, were they trying to cheat you out of a cut because you only held the horses?” Johnny asked, like he was shocked at how unfair that was.
“They— Those bastards! Look, I lost a card game and I owed some fellas twenty bucks. Billy B., you know that’s true. I lost t
wenty bucks to the Slopers. Johnny Tyler and Billy Allen, remember?”
“Yes, I remember that,” Billy Breakenridge confirmed.
“And Billy Allen, he said he’d shoot me if I didn’t pay up, so Henry Head said they’d give me twenty dollars if I came along with them and helped them do a job. Jesus! Twenty dollars, with them sitting on fifty grand. Those bastards didn’t say nothing about no fifty grand!”
“Well, maybe,” Johnny suggested thoughtfully, “maybe they didn’t figure on robbing the stage at all. Maybe they wanted to kill Bob Paul before he could take office and make things hot for them.”
Luther King was looking at Wyatt now. “Mr. Earp, I swear! I don’t have nothing against Bob Paul, and it wasn’t me shot at that stage. It was Henry Head and Bill Leonard and Jim Crane.”
“Where’re they headed?” Wyatt asked.
“They said they was gonna make for New Mexico. Cloverdale, down near the border. I didn’t figure on all this hard riding! And anyways, I just held the horses! I didn’t do nothing wrong, so I told them I was done running. I wouldn’t have stopped running if I’d killed somebody, right?” He looked from one face to the next. “Right?”
It was Wyatt who broke the silence, quoting Proverbs: “‘The wicked flee.’”
“But the righteous don’t,” Luther said, nodding vigorously, for his mother was religious and he remembered the gist of the text.
Satisfied, Johnny Behan pulled in a deep breath and let it out. “Well, Luther, we need to take you before a judge and get a deposition and so on.”
King went pale beneath his sunburned skin. “Johnny, you can’t— Jesus! They’ll kill me if they know I said all that!”
It was not an unrealistic concern. And if the Cow Boys didn’t get him for being a snitch, the townspeople might lynch him for killing Budd.
“Don’t worry,” Johnny told him. “We’ll take care of you, Luther.”
Which certainly sounded like a promise.
The plan was for Johnny Behan and Billy Breakenridge to take the prisoner to Tombstone, where Luther would be charged as an accessory to murder and horse theft. Agent Williams—a desk man who hadn’t figured on all that hard riding, either—would also go back to Tombstone. Reprovisioned by the Redfield brothers, the Earps would stay on the trail with Frank Leslie, trying to catch the other three fugitives before they disappeared into the mountains or crossed into Mexico.
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