“We got some mining interests,” Wyatt said. “Office is down there, this side of the Grand.”
Josie nodded, but he could see she wasn’t interested in mining.
“What’s up this way?” she said, looking to her right.
“Past Sixth Street is whorehouses,” Wyatt said.
“Let’s walk up there.”
“It’s kind of raw,” he said.
“Oh good,” she said.
He smiled, and they turned right on Allen Street past the retail stores, mostly closed for the night, and the Arizona Brewery, still open. A construction site stood near the corner of Sixth, with a building half completed.
“Going to be the Bird Cage Theatre,” Wyatt said. “Bill Hutchinson’s putting it up.”
“Not a saloon,” she said.
“Well, a saloon too,” Wyatt said.
“I swear if they put up a convent,” Josie said, “it would have a saloon in the front.”
And they both laughed as they crossed the street into the bordello district.
No one paid much attention to Josie east of Sixth Street. They assumed she was a whore. But several people glanced at Wyatt.
“People are surprised to see you here,” Josie said.
“Haven’t spent much time here.”
“Faithful to what’s-her-name?”
“Mattie. I didn’t think I should embarrass her.”
“And now?”
“Now I’m with you,” he said.
By the time they walked back along Fremont Street it was dark. They turned up Third Street and stood for a moment on the front porch of her house. During the entire afternoon and evening they had not touched each other. They did not touch now.
“I’m not going to ask you in,” Josie said.
“All right,” Wyatt said.
“I will someday, I think. But now is too soon.”
“I have time,” Wyatt said.
“But I would like you to kiss me good night,” she said.
“That would be fine,” Wyatt said.
Eighteen
Bat Masterson walked into the Oriental with his bedroll across one shoulder, wearing two Colt revolvers and carrying a Sharps rifle, and sat down in a chair at Wyatt’s table. A big, high-shouldered horse wrangler named Bear shook his head at him.
“Don’t want no new players this game,” he said. “Break the way the cards are falling.”
Masterson paid no attention.
“Wyatt,” he said.
“Bat,” Wyatt said.
“You hear me, boy?” Bear said.
Bat glanced at him curiously for a moment and turned back toward Wyatt.
“Hear they might be hiring here,” he said.
Wyatt nodded and started to deal.
“Don’t you deal with him at the table,” Bear said.
“Friend of mine,” Wyatt said. “I’ll deal around him.”
“Don’t care if he’s a friend of the Virgin Mary,” Bear said. “I don’t want my luck changed.”
Wyatt looked almost as if he was going to smile.
“You going to change his luck, Bat?” Wyatt said.
Bat turned and looked at Bear. He was half Bear’s size. His eyes were a very pale blue.
“You want me to change your luck, cowboy?” Bat said.
Bear’s mouth opened and closed. He tried to hold Bat’s look and couldn’t.
Finally he said, “Aw shit,” and folded his hand.
No one else spoke.
“I’m out,” he said.
He picked up his chips and walked away from the table. Wyatt gestured to the other players, and they handed in their cards.
“You in?” he said to Bat.
“Sure,” he said.
Wyatt reshuffled and dealt again. By late afternoon, Bat had won four dollars, and Wyatt closed the game and took a table near the bar with Bat. Bat had a glass of whiskey. Wyatt had coffee.
“You really looking for work?” Wyatt said.
“Sure. Heard there was work here.”
“We can use you,” Wyatt said.
“I assume that some of the customers are tougher than Bear.”
“Some.”
“But not tougher than you and me,” Bat said.
“Not yet,” Wyatt said.
“Heard you and Virgil and Morg had a little standoff with a lynch mob.”
“Mob’s like a cattle herd,” Wyatt said, “you know that. All you got to do is turn ’em. What you been doing?”
“Up in Ogallala,” Bat said, “with Ben Thompson.”
“Peace officering?”
Bat laughed.
“Not exactly,” he said. “Ben’s brother Billy got himself in trouble up there. Me and Ben had to go up there and get him out ’fore they hung him.”
“Woman?”
“ ’Course,” Bat said. “Little whiskey mixed in. You know Billy.”
“Meanest loudmouthed drunken little bastard I ever ran into,” Wyatt said.
“Got Ben into a lot more trouble Ben ever got into himself,” Bat said.
Wyatt shrugged.
“Blood’s blood,” he said. “You on the run?”
“No, we got him out clean. I left him and Ben in Dodge, got a train to Trinidad, hopped a Santa Fe work train far as it went and caught the stage over to Deming.”
“Apache Country,” Wyatt said.
“Yeah, they let me ride shotgun.”
“Where they can get a clean shot at you,” Wyatt said.
Masterson laughed.
“What was that story Lincoln told, ‘Wasn’t for the honor I’d just as soon walk’? Anyway, we got to Deming and I got a train to Benson, and took the stage in.”
“Doc in town?” Masterson said.
Wyatt nodded.
“Big-Nose Kate is here with him,” he said.
“For how long?”
Wyatt shrugged.
“Half an hour be a long time with Kate,” he said.
Nineteen
Johnny’s losing his hair, Wyatt thought as he sat across from Behan at a table near the back wall of the Oriental.
“The reason I wanted to talk with you, Wyatt, is this,” Behan said.
He had a glass of beer in front of him. He put his hat down on the seat of an unused chair beside them. It was broad-brimmed like the cowboys wore. Most townsmen wore a shorter brim.
“You know,” Behan said, “that there’s a lot of conflict between the townspeople and the cowboys.”
Wyatt didn’t comment. He picked up his coffee cup in both hands and drank and held the cup in front of him as he listened.
“Lotta folks think cowboy is another word for rustler,” Behan said. “And I know there’s some rustling going on, but I figure it’s mostly Mexican stock and…” He shrugged.
Wyatt waited.
“They’d be a good source of tax revenue if you could collect from them. They come into town regularly, and spend money here. What I’m trying to do is, I’m trying to get to know the cowboys a little better, maybe smooth things out.”
Wyatt drank some more coffee. Behan looked at him expectantly. Wyatt didn’t say anything.
“God, you ain’t a talkative man, are you,” Behan said.
“No,” Wyatt said. “I’m not.”
“Well, you know all these cowboys, don’t you?” Behan said.
“Yes.”
“What can you tell me about them?”
“They’re kind of rambunctious,” Wyatt said.
“I know that,” Behan said. “I was thinking we could talk some, you know. You tell me about the ones you know, and maybe I can get to know them; being on friendly terms, I might be able to keep them from being so rambunctious.”
“Fred White was on friendly terms,” Wyatt said.
“Coroner’s inquest held that to be an accidental shooting, Wyatt. You know that.”
“Sure,” Wyatt said.
Behan turned the beer glass slowly on the tabletop in front of him. The bubbles r
ose briskly through the beer. Earp always made him feel uncomfortable. Johnny thought of himself as a politician. He thought of the sheriff’s job as a political job. Before he said something, he tried to figure out how other people would react to what he said. He tried not to offend. He tried to accommodate. Politics was compromise. Life was compromise. The way you succeeded was figuring people out, and using what you’d figured, to get them on your side. Johnny couldn’t figure Earp out. He seemed disinterested in what other people thought. He showed no interest in compromise. He just went in a straight line toward wherever he was going and didn’t pay much attention to what other people said. Johnny felt almost wistful for a moment. What would that be like?
“So tell me about Curley Bill,” Behan said.
“Brocius? He’s a pretty likable fella,” Wyatt said. “Word’s good. Polite around women. Laughs a lot. He wasn’t a damn rustler, he might amount to something. Except when he’s got a problem, the first thing he does is shoot at it.”
“He looks pretty dangerous.”
“Got a cute spin move with a gun,” Wyatt said. “Offers it to you dangling on his finger, butt first, like he’s going to surrender, you know, then spins it on the trigger guard and plonks you in the chest. You ever ask for his gun, have him drop it on the ground.”
Behan nodded.
“I was a sheriff in Prescott, you know,” he said.
“Fred White done some police work too,” Wyatt said.
Behan nodded again.
“You sound like you like Brocius,” Behan said.
“I do, but I ain’t confused about him.”
“How about John Ringo?” Behan said.
“He don’t talk much either,” Wyatt said.
“But he’s dangerous,” Behan said.
“Yes.”
“Dangerous as Curley Bill?”
“More.”
Behan stared thoughtfully into his beer glass for a moment. Then he lifted his head and leaned back a bit in his chair. Wyatt noticed that Behan hadn’t drunk any of the beer. A careful man, Wyatt thought.
“Dangerous as your friend Holliday?” Behan said.
“Never been put to the test,” Wyatt said.
“More dangerous than you?” Behan asked, and smiled as if to apologize for so brazen a question.
“Same answer,” Wyatt said.
“Explain to me about you and Holliday,” Behan said.
“I like him,” Wyatt said.
Behan waited. Wyatt didn’t say anything else.
Finally Behan said, “That’s it?”
“Yes.”
Behan thought about pushing the issue and decided not to. He had plenty of time to learn about Doc Holliday.
“What do you know about the rustling?” Behan said.
“Same thing everyone knows,” Wyatt said. “It’s back and forth across the border. Steal horses in Arizona, sell them in Mexico. Steal cattle in Mexico, sell them in Arizona.”
“Ringo and Brocius are involved?”
“Yes.”
“They have a headquarters?”
“Hear they got a camp in the Mountains.”
“Chiricahuas?”
“Yes.”
“You know where?”
“No.”
“Could you find it?”
“Sure.”
“But you have no reason to,” Behan said.
“I deal cards,” Wyatt said. “I’m in business with my brothers.”
“Of course,” Behan said. “Who else is involved?”
The bubbles had stopped rising in Behan’s beer glass.
“The McLaury brothers got some holding pens down on the White River,” Wyatt said. “Ike Clanton’s got some pens at his place.”
“They steal ’em or just receive ’em?” Behan said.
“McLaurys mostly receive. Clanton does both. Hell, Ike raids down in Sonora, steals two thousand cattle at a time.”
“McLaurys dangerous?” Behan said.
“We’re a fair piece down the danger scale from Ringo and Brocius,” Wyatt said.
“Tell me about them.”
“McLaurys and Clantons?”
Behan nodded.
“Well, Tom McLaury’s all right, I guess. Quiet. Works hard. Probably works harder than he should, ’cause Frank don’t work hardly at all. Frank’s a strutter. Talks a lot. Don’t do much. Think’s he’s a ladies’ man. Ike Clanton’s a blowhard.”
“How about his brother?”
“Billy?” Wyatt shrugged. “Billy’s a dumb kid. Does what Ike tells him.”
“Think I can get along with them?” Behan said.
“Seems like you can get along with anybody, Johnny.”
“If I can get them smoothed down, it will be good for everybody, don’t you think?”
“Sure.”
“You think it can be done?” Behan said.
“If it serves them it can,” Wyatt said. “Those boys mostly do what serves them.”
“Anything you can do to help?” Behan said. “Your name means something.”
“Might mean something to Ringo,” Wyatt said, “or Curley Bill. McLaurys and the Clantons don’t think much of us, ever since we caught ’em stealing mules from the Army.”
“Nobody ever proved that,” Behan said.
Wyatt smiled.
“So can you talk to any of them?” Behan said. “Ringo? Curley Bill?”
“That’s lawman work,” Wyatt said. “I’m in business with my brothers.”
“Well, at least,” Behan said, “I can count on you if there’s trouble.”
“Depends on the trouble,” Wyatt said.
“Well, of course,” Behan said. “ ’Course it would, Wyatt. And thanks for your help. Nice of you to give me your time.”
Wyatt didn’t say anything. Behan stood.
“Good to talk with you,” Behan said.
Wyatt nodded, and Behan nodded back and stood for a moment and then turned and left. Wyatt sat without moving, holding his coffee, looking over the rim of the cup after Behan.
Twenty
The way Bob Paul told it later, to Wyatt riding beside him, after he had joined the posse, was that Bud Philpot had wanted Paul, who was the shotgun messenger, to drive the Benson stage that night.
“His bowels was all cramped up,” Paul said. “So when we got to Contention, I give him the shotgun and took the reins. We was coming up out of a wash couple miles north of Contention, when a fella steps out and yells, ‘Hold.’ And then there’s some other boys in the road and they’re shooting and poor Bud gets it right through the gizzard.”
“Wanted to eliminate the shooter right off,” Wyatt said.
“Yep, so I grab the shotgun from Bud and get off both barrels with my right hand, hanging on to the reins and Bud with my left, and the team bolts, and one of the passengers, riding back in the dickey seat, says he’s hit, and we’re rolling like hell flat out now along the road with the team out of control, with the coach swaying, and I lose Bud off the side, and making a grab for him, I lose the reins and finally got to get down onto the wagon tongue to get them back and get the damned horses steadied. And I figure Bud’s done anyway, and maybe I can save the passenger, fella named Roerig, so I keep her rolling on into Benson.”
“Boys from Drews Station heard the shots,” Wyatt said, “and then you went whooping on past. So they run out and found Bud and one of them come galloping into Tombstone yelling for the sheriff.”
The first thing Behan had done when he got the report was to come into the Oriental looking for Wyatt.
“Benson stage was held up, Bud Philpot’s dead, and we’re organizing a sheriff’s posse,” Behan said.
“I’ll get my brothers,” Wyatt said.
They rode north from Tombstone just after sunrise. Three Earps, Bat Masterson, Doc Holliday, Marshall Williams, the Wells Fargo agent, Johnny Behan, and half a dozen of Behan’s deputies. They picked up a trail where Philpot had died, and Billy Breakenridge, one of Behan’s deputies
and the best tracker in the posse, followed it across the shale-littered desert floor, the horses picking their way among the jagged desert plants. In patches where the desert earth was clear, Breakenridge would get off his horse and study the ground.
“Four riders, I think,” Breakenridge said, squatting on his heels, his head bent. “Looks to me like we keep going the way they’re going, we’ll run right into Len Redfield’s place.”
“Cowboys,” Doc Holliday said.
“Now, Doc,” Behan said. “Don’t go deciding things ’fore you know.”
In an hour and a half, with the sun well above the horizon, they were sitting their horses in front of the small frame house that was the main building of the Redfield ranch. There was a stable past the house and an outhouse that looked as if it hadn’t wintered well. Nobody came out of the house.
Virgil said, “See what’s in the stable,” and Morgan turned his horse with his knee and walked on down and into the open stable door. In a moment he rode back out and up to the group.
“ ’Bout six horse,” Morgan said. “Two of ’em been ridden hard and not long ago. They’re still lathered.”
Virgil nodded and squinted at the house.
He said to Behan, “Don’t you think you ought to spread ’em out a little, Johnny?”
Behan nodded and gestured with his right hand, and the riders moved away from each other, putting space between them until they were in a half-circle in front of the silent house.
“Goddamned fool had us bunched up like quail,” Doc said to Bat Masterson. Masterson shrugged.
Wyatt held his Winchester vertically in front of him, its butt resting against his saddle horn. Most of the men had Winchesters; Doc had a shotgun.
“Redfield,” Behan shouted. “Len Redfield.”
There was no sound but the ones the horses made: the snort of their breath, the sound of their hooves as they shifted patiently, the creak of leather, the small clink of the bits and buckles.
“You in the house,” Behan said loudly, “you either come on out or we’re coming in.”
After a moment a tall man with narrow shoulders and a big belly stepped out onto the small front porch. He had on pants that had been washed threadbare, and colorless. He wore the suspenders over his undershirt.
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