The Bisbee Massacre
Page 1
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
ONE
TWO
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
SIX
SEVEN
EIGHT
NINE
TEN
ELEVEN
TWELVE
THIRTEEN
FOURTEEN
FIFTEEN
SIXTEEN
SEVENTEEN
EIGHTEEN
NINETEEN
TWENTY
TWENTY-ONE
TWENTY-TWO
TWENTY-THREE
TWENTY-FOUR
TWENTY-FIVE
TWENTY-SIX
TWENTY-SEVEN
TWENTY-EIGHT
TWENTY-NINE
THIRTY
THIRTY-ONE
THIRTY-TWO
THIRTY-THREE
THIRTY-FOUR
THIRTY-FIVE
THIRTY-SIX
THIRTY-SEVEN
THIRTY-EIGHT
THIRTY-NINE
FORTY
FORTY-ONE
FORTY-TWO
FORTY-THREE
Teaser chapter
Four Men, One Lady, Six Guns
Charley got to his feet then and moved in on them. Clint and Dodge followed, but they were only backing him up.
“All right, Barney, throw your hands in the air, partner,” Charley Smith said, gun in hand. Barney gave his wife a murderous look, as if he suspected her of leading the law there on purpose.
“Take it easy, Barney,” Charley said. “She didn’t know nothin’ about it. I just decided we should follow her.”
“Charley,” Barney said, “you wouldn’t shoot me, would you?”
“I’m wearin’ a badge, Barney,” Charley Smith said. “It’s my job to shoot you if you try to escape. And if I don’t do it, one of these fellas will.”
Barney looked past Charley at Dodge and Clint.
“Damn it, Charley, he deserved it—”
“Don’t admit to anythin’ we’ll have to swear to in court, Barney,” Dodge said, quickly. “Just come along quietly.”
Clint moved in, relieved Barney of a rifle and a six-shooter, and then took the six-shooter Linda Riggs was wearing.
“What were you going to do with this, ma’am?”
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
THE BISBEE MASSACRE
A Jove Book / published by arrangement with the author
PRINTING HISTORY
Jove edition / April 2010
Copyright © 2010 by Robert J. Randisi.
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ONE
TOMBSTONE, ARIZONA TERRITORY
1886
Constable Fred Dodge walked past the Bird Cage Theater, stepped up to the front doors, and checked them. It was 4:00 a.m. All the doors in Tombstone should have been locked, even the Bird Cage. He rattled the doors, and then moved on, continuing his rounds down Allen Street.
Five years ago he had been in Tombstone during the whole Earp/Clanton thing. Since that time the legend had grown. Every story he ever read about the showdown had it happening in the O.K. Corral, when actually all of the principals had been on the street.
Dodge knew the whole story, though, because when he first came to Tombstone in 1879 he met and befriended the Earps. In fact, he and Morgan favored each other, so much so that he was occasionally called “Morg” while Morgan had occasionally been called “Fred.” They were good friends, though, and found it funny.
Dodge had done much work in this area of Arizona. In 1883 he was in Bisbee—twenty-three miles south of Tombstone—during the whole “Bisbee Massacre” thing.
So, the O.K. Corral in 1881, the Massacre in 1883, and now a constable during a time when Tomstone had become pretty boring.
But no one knew that, all during those times, he was also working undercover as a detective for Wells Fargo. Well, that wasn’t exactly true. One man knew that he was a Wells Fargo man, but that man was also a very good friend of his.
His name was Clint Adams.
Clint rode into Tombstone at noon. It was not the Tombstone he had known back in 1881, and again in 1883. He hadn’t been back since then. He had heard that the wild days
were gone, so when he’d found himself fairly close by he decided to take a slight detour and have a look.
As he rode down Allen Street he wondered if the badge wearers in town were the same as the last time he was there. Fred Dodge had been there when he last left. Dodge was a good friend of his—so good, in fact, that Clint had been the only man in Tombstone or nearby Bisbee who knew that Fred Dodge was working undercover for Wells Fargo.
Dodge was good with a gun—so good that some called him a gunman. He had also owned a saloon for a while in Bisbee. And he had worked as both a constable and a deputy sheriff. And while holding each of those jobs, he had been working for Wells Fargo.
Clint also new Jim Hume, who Dodge had learned from. Those two men were the best detectives he’d ever known working for Wells Fargo. They were probably almost as good as his good friend Talbot Roper, the Denver-based private detective, and his other friend, the famous Heck Thomas.
Dodge—and his bosses at Wells Fargo—felt it was necessary for him to remain undercover as long as possible. So it was possible that he might have moved on to pursue his real job. If he hadn’t, though, if he was still around, Clint felt certain he’d find Dodge wearing some kind of badge. Being a deputy was good cover for his undercover job.
Clint went through the ritual of freshly arriving in a town. First stop was the livery, which was being tended by a man he didn’t know. The man was impressed with his horse, Eclipse, and promised to take good care of him.
Next move was to take his rifle and saddlebags over to the Sagebrush Hotel, one of the lesser known of the Tombstone hotels. He didn’t want to attract any attention until he was good and ready.
After checking in he left his gear in the room and walked down to the Crystal Palace Saloon for a cold beer. If it had been later in the day he might have gone to the Bird Cage, where Doc Holliday used to deal faro back in the day. Now Doc was dead, and the Earps had gone their separate ways. He wasn’t even sure where Wyatt and Virgil were at the moment.
He decided to nurse the beer and, when he was done, take a walk over to the sheriff’s office to see who was behind the badge these days. He would be surprised if he walked in and found Dodge himself sitting at the desk.
However, before he even finished his beer the bat-wings opened and a man wearing a badge walked in. He looked around, but since there wasn’t much to see—the gaming tables were covered, the girls hadn’t come down yet, and a few customers were scattered—his eyes fell immediately on Clint, and brightened with recognition.
“Clint Adams?” he said, aloud. “By God, is that you?”
At the sound of Clint’s name the few men in the place—including the bartender—perked up.
So much for keeping a low profile, Clint thought.
TWO
The next to last time Clint had seen Robert Hatch he had been running Campbell & Hatch Billiard Parlor, where Morgan Earp had been shot and killed. Two years later Hatch had managed to get himself appointed a deputy sheriff, and then elected sheriff. Apparently, that situation had not changed.
He approached Clint with his hand extended. Hatch and Clint had never been good friends, but they’d been civil to each other back in ’81 and ’83. However, Hatch pumped Clint’s hand as if they were old friends.
“Well, whataya know?” Hatch said. “What are ya doin’ in Tombstone?”
“Just passin’ through, Bob,” Clint said. “Looks like you’ve been doing a better job than your predecessor.”
“I think folks around here woulda voted for anybody to get rid of Sheriff Ward.”
Ward, now there was a man Clint remembered, and had never liked. The people of Cochise County had found out very quickly that they’d elected the wrong man.
Whatever kind of sheriff Bob Hatch was, he had to be better than Ward.
“Well, congratulations,” Clint said. “Who are your deputies?”
“You know ’em,” Hatch said. “Charley Smith and Fred Dodge.”
“Dodge is still around?”
“He is,” Hatch said. “He’s not only a deputy, but a constable, as well. The man is a hard worker, Clint.”
“I know it,” Clint said. “Do you know where he is now?”
“Not exactly,” Hatch said, “but he should be in here shortly. Why don’t you let me buy you another beer while we wait?”
“Sure,” Clint said. It would save him the trouble of trying to find Dodge, himself.
Over fresh beers they discussed what had happened to them each in the past three years, where the Earps were, mutual acquaintances like Doc Holliday and Bat Masterson. Hatch finally finished his beer and turned down a second.
“I need to do my rounds,” the man said. “Tombstone ain’t the home for hellers it used to be, but I still like to keep my eye out.”
“Sounds like a good idea,” Clint said. The two men shook hands.
“Gonna stay long?” Hatch asked.
“A day or two,” Clint said, “now that I know Dodge is here. Like to catch up with him.”
“Stick around here,” Hatch said. “He’ll show up.”
“Okay, thanks.”
Hatch started away, then stopped and said, “Oh, almost forgot why I came in here.” He waved the bartender over. “You seen Riggs?”
“Old Bannock or Young Barney?” the bartender asked.
“I’m lookin’ for Barney,” Hatch said, with a shrug, “but either one would do.”
“Ain’t seen hide nor hair of either one,” the barman said.
“Then why’d you ask me which one?”
The bartender shrugged.
“You didn’t say which one.”
Sheriff Hatch gave the barman a hard look, then looked at Clint and said, “See you later.”
“All right.”
The sheriff left and the barman smiled.
“Giving the sheriff a hard time?”
The bartender looked at Clint. The man behind the bar was in his early thirties.
“Just havin’ a little fun. Besides, Barney Riggs is a friend of mine.”
“What’d he do that the sheriff is looking for him?”
The bartender shrugged.
“Hell if I know. Barney lives outside of town with his wife and Pa, Old Bannock Riggs.”
“You think much of Hatch as a lawman?”
“You his friend?” the man asked.
“Not really,” Clint said.
“Hatch ain’t much,” the barman said, “but I only got to town a few months ago. I hear he’s better than the old sheriff.”
“Ward,” Clint said. “He wasn’t worth anything.”
“Hey, did he call you Clint Adams?”
“That’s right.”
“The Gunsmith?” the man asked. “That Adams?”
“Right again.”
“Hey . . .” the barman said, but nothing else.
“What’s your name?” Clint asked.
“Bascomb,” the man said. “Carver Bascomb.”
“Really?”
“What’s wrong with it?”
“Kind of fancy,” Clint said.
The man shrugged.
“That’s my name.”
“Hey, it’s a fine name,” Clint said, “just a little . . .”
“Fancy?”
“Yes, fancy. Can I call you Carver?”
“Yeah, if I can call you Clint.”
“Deal.”
They shook hands.
“Another beer while you’re waitin’ for Dodge?” Carver asked.
“Sure, why not?”
Carver drew him another beer and set it in front of him.
“You friends with Dodge?” Carver asked.
“Yes,” Clint said, unequivocally. “Why? What’s your opinion of him?”
“Truthfully?”
“Carver, when I ask you a question I want the truth. Always.”
“Dodge is okay,” Carver said. “So is Charley Smith. It’s just Hatch I don’t like.”
“That’s fine,” Cl
int said.
“And I’m not sayin’ that because Dodge is comin’ through the door,” Carver said, with a smile.
THREE
Fred Dodge had not seen Sheriff Hatch since that morning, so he knew nothing about Clint Adams being in town. When he walked into the Crystal Palace and saw Clint standing at the bar it was a complete surprise.
It was almost two o’clock when Dodge walked in the door. There were a few more patrons in the place, but not so many that Dodge couldn’t spot Clint at the bar as soon as he came in. Clint could see the look of surprise on his face, and knew that Dodge either hadn’t seen Hatch, or Hatch simply hadn’t told him.
“What the hell—” Dodge said. He rushed forward and grabbed Clint’s hand, pumped it warmly. “What the hell are you doin’ in Tombstone?”
“Came to see you,” Clint said. “Heard you were probably in trouble again, thought I’d help you out.”
“Yeah, right,” Dodge said. “What’s the real reason?”
“To buy you a beer?” Clint asked.
“That’s as good a reason as any,” Dodge said. “Beer, Carver.”
“Comin’ up, Deputy.”
Dodge accepted the beer and then said to Clint, “Let’s go sit down and catch up.”
“Deal.”
“Want me to freshen that for ya, Clint?” Carver asked.
“No, that’s okay,” Clint said, and followed Dodge to a back table.
As he’d done with Hatch, Clint traded recent histories with Dodge, only there was much more concern and warmth involved.
“Hear anything from Wyatt? Virgil?”
“I saw Virgil a while ago, working as a private detective in Colton, California. Don’t know if he’s still there.”
“And Wyatt?”