“Better?” Doc asked.
“Hell, yeah,” Morg said. “Damn. Yes.”
“I am very sorry, Morgan,” Doc murmured. “I should have thought of that sooner.”
“Will you be able to sleep now?” Lou asked anxiously.
Morgan’s eyes were already closed. “Mmm.”
“Miss Louisa, Kate and I will sit with him now. Please, honey, go on over to our room at Mrs. Fly’s and get some rest yourself, y’hear?”
“Doc . . . are you sure?” Lou asked.
He contrived to sound hurt. “Why, Miss Louisa! After all you and Morgan have done for me! How can you ask such a thing?”
“Turnabout is fair play,” Kate added, for she and Lou had spent long hours together back in Dodge when Doc was so sick. “I’ll go with you and get a few things from the room.”
The women left again and for a little while, there was no sound in the room but Morgan’s soft snoring. Easing himself into the corner chair, John Henry Holliday took stock of everyone’s condition three days after the shootings. His own wound was painful but could have been much worse. Virgil might be left with a limp, but he already felt well enough to be impatient with keeping his leg up. Morgan likely had more surgery ahead of him and a long recuperation, but he was young and in good health otherwise.
The crisis was nearly over. All they had to do was wait for the inquest jury to find that the McLaurys and Billy Clanton had been killed without malice aforethought by four police officers doing their duty. Then he and Kate would leave Tombstone for good.
She returned from Mrs. Fly’s and handed him the new Zola novel he’d been reading before he left for Tucson. He opened the book and stared at the print for a time but couldn’t concentrate and set it aside.
Kate was staring at him, her own eyes shadowed by fatigue. “You don’t fool me none,” she said.
For as long as Kate had known him, John Henry Holliday had been haunted by nightmares of his mother’s death. Now there was a new dream that made his sleep fearsome and broke her own. Tom McLaury, reaching for that rifle. Tom McLaury, blood pouring from the crater in his chest.
“Dammit, Doc, we coulda been in Denver by now!” she whispered. “We never shoulda come back here.”
“I know, darlin’. I know,” he said softly. Too late now, he meant.
FIVE DAYS AFTER THE GUNFIGHT, the Cochise County coroner’s jury returned a thunderously unenlightening verdict: William Clanton and Frank and Thomas McLaury had come to their deaths as a result of gunshots inflicted by Virgil Earp, Wyatt Earp, Morgan Earp, and John Holliday. Having failed to characterize the shootings as either justified or criminal, the jury left the whole question open for legal wrangling that could easily drag on for a year or more. Which suited Johnny Behan and Milt Joyce just fine.
That afternoon, there was a soft knock on Doc Holliday’s door. Kate got up to answer it. When she saw who it was, she stepped into the hallway, shut the door behind herself, and scowled up at Wyatt Earp.
“Doc’s sleeping,” she told him. “Come back later.”
“It’s important.”
“So is his rest! Something like this, it can knock him back. You know that.”
Down at the bottom of the stairs, a man wearing a badge stood next to Molly Fly. “I’m sorry, ma’am. I hate to do this, but I hafta.”
“Do what?” Kate asked, wary now. “Who the hell are you?”
“Jim Flynn, ma’am. Acting chief of police. I’m sorry, but I have warrants. Morgan and Virgil are allowed to remain under house arrest, but I have to bring Wyatt and Doc in.”
“On what charge?” Kate demanded, voice rising.
“Murder,” Flynn told her.
“Murder!” Molly Fly cried.
“You ain’t serious!” Kate scoffed as the door opened behind her and Doc stepped out.
“Wyatt,” he said evenly, “what’s goin’ on?”
“I’m sorry, Doc, but you’re under arrest,” Flynn said. “Ike Clanton’s filed murder charges against you.”
“Behan helped Ike Clanton get a lawyer,” Wyatt told him.
“Against me?” Doc said, astonished. “But . . . I was deputized!”
“It’s not just you, Doc,” Wyatt said. “It’s all four of us.”
Kate reacted first. “What’s the bail?”
“Behan asked Judge Spicer to deny bail,” Flynn said, “but when I got the warrants, I went to Spicer, too. He agreed to ten grand apiece.”
White, Doc slumped against the door jamb. “I can’t—I . . . I don’t have anything close to that kind of money! Wyatt, can’t Virgil do something?”
“City Council suspended him without pay until this is settled,” Jimmy Flynn said bitterly. “The whole goddam town wanted that fight, and now the bastards are cutting you loose.”
WHICH WASN’T ENTIRELY TRUE.
The relevant meeting had convened late at night and was not open to the public. Ore magnate Richard Gird and his armed escort had ridden in from Millville. When he arrived, Mayor John Clum had summoned two other men. Eliphalet Butler Gage, who’d presided over the development of the Grand Central Mine, came quickly. They waited twenty minutes more for the Wells Fargo agent, Marsh Williams, to show up, then decided to go ahead without him.
“He’s dealing with another stage robbery, I expect,” Mayor Clum said.
“Cochise County is a magnet for criminals these days,” Gird said. “That scoundrel Behan has all but issued formal invitations.”
“Two of my investors back east just pulled out of a deal we were ready to sign,” Gage said. “I told them that the time to invest is when there’s blood in the streets, but they’ve got other places they can put their money.”
“How is the bail campaign going?” Gird asked.
“Seven backers, thirty-eight thousand dollars so far,” Clum told him.
“Does that include Holliday’s as well?” Gird asked, frowning.
“No. Just an oversubscription for the Earps. Wyatt and his brother James have put up eight thousand dollars of their own for Holliday. Several others have pledged the balance—gambler friends of his.”
“If it’s true that Tom McLaury was unarmed,” Gage said, “the publicity is going to be catastrophic.”
“We’ve got to control this, John,” Gird warned.
“I am doing my best,” Clum said, “but I can’t do anything about the results of the inquest. And I’m afraid I have more bad news. Both of Virgil Earp’s regular deputies say they’ll resign if sworn officers go on trial for doing their jobs—”
“It won’t come to that,” Agent Williams said, sounding confident as he came through the door. “Gentlemen, I’m sorry to keep you waiting, but I believe you’ll all be pleased to know that Mr. Thomas Fitch would like to join us.”
Everyone sat back. Then they all stood up.
THE SILVER-TONGUED ORATOR of the Pacific. That’s what the nation’s newspapers called Tom Fitch. A gifted advocate whose eloquence and force of argument had kept California in the Union. A journalist credited by Mark Twain for improving the novelist’s prose style. Forty-three years old, at the peak of his powers, Tom Fitch was widely acknowledged to be the best damn lawyer west of the by-God Mississippi.
And he knew it.
Aware that he could overawe men, Fitch was all smiles and jocularity at first, but when the greetings were over, he sat at the table, opened a briefcase, put on his glasses, and laid out a stack of papers with efficient dispatch.
“I have already gone over the inquest testimony. All the witnesses called by the coroner were at some distance from the events that took place on October twenty-sixth. Nobody was in a position to see the entire incident. Gun smoke undoubtedly obscured what they could see. In my opinion, the jurymen were not wrong to come to a less than definitive determination.” He looked up. “I understand that Sheriff Behan has been aiding Mr. Clanton in the effort to engage prosecuting attorneys for the murder charges?”
He paused to allow the others to vent t
heir outrage.
“Obviously,” Fitch said mildly, “Behan’s agenda is to eliminate all three Earps as potential rivals for the sheriff’s office in next year’s election. No matter. He will rue the day he allied himself with Isaac Clanton. From what I hear, Ike can’t count to twenty-one unless he’s buck naked.”
When the startled laughter died down, E. B. Gage took the opportunity to ask, “How soon will this go to trial?”
“When hell freezes over, if I do my job right,” Fitch said blandly. “There’ll be a preliminary hearing first, to determine if there’s enough evidence against the defendants to send the case before a grand jury, which would then have to indict. Wells Spicer will be presiding over the hearing. An honorable man. Excellent lawyer. Not one to be swayed by outside pressure. Wells and I have both defended Mormons in capital cases—no easy task, believe me! He stood up to the worst kind of intimidation during the John Lee trial. I promise you: Angry Cow Boys will not frighten him. I myself will represent the Earp brothers. Dr. Holliday has engaged T. J. Drum as his attorney. Good man, Drum. He and I will present a unified defense.” There was a bright smile when he asked, “Would any of you like a cigar?”
None of them were ready to celebrate just yet, but Fitch lit his own.
“Gentlemen,” he said, puffing, “we are going to bury the prosecution under testimony. We will ensure that every single witness with an opinion testifies during that hearing. The more they disagree and contradict one another, the better. Every statement will be undermined until none of what they say can be believed. The prosecution’s case will then hang on the version of events provided by Ike Clanton and William Claiborne.” Tapping ash off the Cuban, Fitch peered over his glasses to add dryly, “Both of whom were running away while the shooting took place. It should be easy to prove that neither man has eyes in the back of his head.”
Brows up, Fitch held out his cigar case again. This time, Gage and Gird accepted the offering.
John Clum hesitated. “If I may ask, sir, who will be paying your fee?”
“Am I speaking to the mayor of Tombstone or the editor of the Epitaph?”
“The mayor,” Clum said. “My officers took an oath to enforce city ordinances. They were told to prevent trouble, not simply to react after it happens. The Earps—and even Holliday—did their duty at the risk of their own lives. If they face trial for that, Tombstone will never be able to hire another policeman and anarchy will prevail. I understand that drawing out the preliminary hearing as long as possible will help to prevent a trial. Many hours mean big fees, and I imagine that your rate is commensurate with your experience and reputation. Wyatt Earp has money. His brothers are not rich men. I have a divided City Council, and I cannot pretend that Tombstone will undertake to foot the bill. So, I ask again: Who is paying you?”
There was a moment of silence. Tom Fitch made his face completely impassive, but when he glanced at Agent Williams, they all understood. Every stagecoach robbery ate away at Wells Fargo’s balance sheets. Anything that curbed the outlaw element of Cochise County was to be supported, and no price was too high. Not even Tom Fitch’s.
“I am working pro bono,” Fitch lied, smooth as you please. Then he grew quite sober. “Gentlemen, the police officers in this case will be exonerated—I promise you that. However, I must also warn you that this will not end in the courtroom. My fee is nothing. Before this is over, there will be hell to pay.”
WHAT ATONEMENT FOR BLOOD SPILT UPON THE EARTH?
WILLIAM MCLAURY WAS NOT ALARMED WHEN the Western Union boy appeared at the door on October 27. He’d been expecting a wire telling him that his younger brothers were about to leave Tombstone and were on their way to Texas so they could all travel to Iowa together for Sarah Caroline’s wedding.
Bereft and benumbed since his wife’s death in August, Will was grateful for the distraction of travel. For weeks, he had concentrated on wrapping up legal affairs for his clients so he could leave his law practice with a clear conscience. He’d made a good start on packing his bags and the children’s. He was taking woolens, mostly. Iowa was chilly in November. He’d send summer things for the children later. His older sister, Margaret, had agreed to take them in. Will couldn’t make a living and care for three little kids as well.
Neighbors had looked after the children since Malona’s death, but all three were home now, excited about seeing their uncles Frank and Tom, looking forward to the wedding up in Iowa.
The messenger wouldn’t meet his eyes when he handed Will the flimsy folded paper. That was the first sign. Messengers weren’t supposed to read what they delivered, but sometimes . . . Well, they knew.
The boy waited for a tip, but Will just closed the door and sat down in the nearest chair, too stunned to notice when the telegram fell from his hand.
REGRET TO INFORM YOU THOMAS AND FRANK MCLAURY KILLED OCTOBER 26 STOP DIED INTESTATE STOP GEORGE PRIDHAM APPOINTED ESTATE ADMINISTRATOR BY PROBATE JUDGE LUCAS STOP
His son, John, picked up the telegram.
“Are they gonna be late?” John asked, eyes full of concern. There was supposed to be a party for his eighth birthday. It wouldn’t make up for his mother being gone, but having Uncle Frank and Uncle Tom there would be special. “Pa?” he asked again, “are they gonna be late?”
His father started laughing but in a scary way, for he was crying at the same time.
“They are late,” William McLaury said, just before he broke down entirely. “They are the late Tom and Frank McLaury.”
ONCE MORE, he attended to the busyness of death. Making arrangements for the children to go back to the neighbors. Wiring word to his parents. Following the telegram with a letter.
I have no details, he wrote. I believe their deaths must have been an accident of some kind. A fire perhaps. I am leaving for Tombstone on the 28th to take responsibility for their estate. Embrace Sarah Caroline for me and tell her I am sorry to spoil her celebration. Yours in grief, William.
THE JOURNEY TO TOMBSTONE was a complicated and wearisome combination of trains and stagecoaches. Four nights in bad hotels. Five long days lost in misery as he stared out at the desolate cactus-marred countryside, trying to come to grips with it all. Malona had been consumptive for years. Her terrible death was no surprise, but to lose Tom and Frank as well seemed a great injustice, even before Will knew how they had died.
Somewhere along the line, he bought a paper and managed to read for a few minutes. The big news seemed to be a street fight in Tombstone.
Trouble is likely to arise from a recent shooting of some Cow Boy criminals in Tombstone, A.T. An investigation of the shooting will begin soon. A large amount of money has been raised to assist the prosecution of the Police by friends of the Cow Boys. Arizona Governor Gosper has requested that a company of cavalry from Fort Huachuca be sent to protect Tombstone from Cow Boy reprisals, should the Police be exonerated.
General William T. Sherman has requested authority from the U.S. and Mexican governments to cross the border to pursue, capture and arrest Cow Boys and bring an end to this scourge, but the Posse Comitatus law renders our government powerless to prevent these marauders from using the mountains and desert of southeastern Arizona as their asylum. No one in Washington seems to understand the need for action.
He read no more. The words seemed to pass beneath his eyes without sinking into his mind. And anyway, the Cow Boys were of no interest. His brothers were alfalfa farmers, not cattlemen.
ON THE SECOND OF NOVEMBER, suffering from a head cold that mercifully explained his red eyes and swollen nose, Will McLaury climbed down stiffly from the stagecoach, collected his bags, and trudged into the Grand Hotel. Tired and sick as he was, he knew he would not rest until he’d seen his brothers’ graves.
“Can you tell me where Tom and Frank McLaury are buried?” he asked the desk clerk, whose eyebrows had risen when he’d seen the new guest’s signature.
“You passed it on the way in, Mr. McLaury. I’m sorry for your loss. The cemetery is about a
quarter of a mile back on the Benson road.”
It felt farther. Uphill, with a frigid wind pouring down out of the highlands that surrounded the town. The grave was easy to pick out. Freshly mounded, with a single plank marker that served for both boys.
FRANK AND TOM McLOWRY
Murdered in The Streets of Tombstone.
OCTOBER 26, 1881
The name was spelled wrong. That was what he noticed first. It took a moment before another word registered. Murdered.
“D’you know them?” someone asked.
Startled, he took a step back and nearly fell. When he caught his balance, he saw two men sitting on the ground. Empty whiskey bottles nearby. Another bottle, half full, passing between them.
“My brothers,” he said. “My little brothers.”
“Drink? You look like you could use one.”
The man who offered the bottle would have been handsome, if not for his eyes. They were the eyes of a drunk, half-hidden under lazy lids, but there was something else about them that gave Will pause. Still, he took a pull, coughed, and handed the bottle back. “Who killed them?”
The dry, unblinking eyes flickered with amusement. “Tell him, Ike.”
The second man—Ike—showed enough emotion for the pair of them. “Doc Holliday and the Earps,” he said, breaking down. “They killed my little brother, Billy,” he said, pointing at another fresh grave. “And Holliday killed my daddy, too.”
JOHN RINGO AND IKE CLANTON walked with him back to the Grand Hotel, telling the whole story along the way. Will McLaury was a sick and exhausted man, barely able to think, but he could not sleep after what he heard and spent the whole of his first night in Tombstone pouring his outrage into letters to his parents, his sisters, his law partner.
“The cause of Frank and Tom’s death was murder,” he wrote over and over.
Some time ago Holliday, one of the murderers, attempted to rob the strongbox of Wells Fargo & Co. and in doing so shot and killed the driver and a passenger. The other parties engaged in the murder of Thomas and Frank, the Earp brothers, were also part of the attack on the coach. Young Bill Clanton, a boy 18 years, knew the facts about the attempted robbery. He told his brother J. I. Clanton, and Tom and Frank as well. They had the facts for a prosecution of Holliday and the Earp Bros., and Holliday had information of that. He and the Earps killed Tommy and Frank and young Clanton to keep this matter of the robbery quiet.
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