by Matt Braun
A mestizo servant met him at the door, taking his hat and mackinaw. Then he was led down a corridor, his spurs jangling on the tile floor, and shown into a wolf’s lair of a den. Saddles and range gear were strewn about the room, and the walls were lined by an impressive array of long guns. But the whole was dominated by a battered walnut desk, and the man who sat behind it.
Starbuck was surprised. From the tales he’d heard, he had expected Slaughter to be a giant of a man, sledge-shouldered and stout as an oak. Instead, the man circling the desk was below medium height, on the sundown side of thirty, with a slight paunch. Yet his whole bearing was charged with energy, and his face looked adzed from hard darkwood. His eyes were gray and intense, and Starbuck was suddenly reminded that a man’s size often counted for nothing. Determination and grit, when all else was tallied, were the measure of a man’s worth.
Slaughter halted, nodding amiably. “I’m John Slaughter.”
“Luke Starbuck.” Starbuck extended his hand. “John Chisum told me to look you up whenever I got over your way.”
“Why, hell, yes!” Slaughter pumped his arm with sudden enthusiasm. “You’re the range detective. The one that helped ol’ John nail Billy Bonney and clean out Lincoln County.”
“Former range detective,” Starbuck told him. “I’m with Wells, Fargo now.”
“Well I’ll be jiggered.” Slaughter indicated chairs in front of a blazing fireplace. “Take a load off your feet and tell me all about it. You takin’ over the relay operation, are you?”
Starbuck saw no reason to hedge. “Mr. Slaughter, I was hired as an undercover operative. They sent me down here to investigate Tombstone.”
“Call me John.” Slaughter lowered himself into a chair, suddenly somber. “Luke, I’m sorry to say they didn’t do you no favors with that assignment. Not by a damnsight!”
“Amen,” Starbuck said without irony. “Matter of fact, that’s why I’ve come to see you, instead of heading directly into Tombstone. I thought maybe you could give me the lowdown on things.”
“What things?”
“Wyatt Earp, just for openers. Wells, Fargo says him and Doc Holliday are behind all these stage holdups.”
“Yeah, them and Bill Brocius.”
“Brocius?”
“Curly Bill Brocius,” Slaughter elaborated. “He’s leader of the gang that actually pulls the holdups. Part of his bunch are the ones Earp murdered at the OK Corral.”
“Murdered?” Starbuck was astounded. “I understood it was law business of some sort.”
“Christ A’mighty, no! It was a falling out amongst thieves, plain and simple.”
“How so?”
“Earp had the Wells, Fargo agent in his pocket. He got all the dope on payroll shipments and fed it to Brocius through Doc Holliday. The gang robbed the stages and afterward divvied up the take with Earp. Ain’t nobody yet proved it, but you can bet your boots that’s the way it worked.”
“So what happened?”
“Well, now, that’s a tale and then some. Takes a bit of tellin’.”
“Fire away,” Starbuck grinned. “I’ve got nowhere to go.”
Slaughter hauled out a pipe and tobacco pouch. After fussing around, he got it filled and puffing to suit him. Then he leaned back, the pipe jutting from his mouth like a burnt tusk, and began to talk.
Wyatt Earp, along with his four brothers and Doc Holliday, had arrived in Tombstone the latter part of 1879. An ambitious man, and quick to talk about his days as a lawman in the Kansas cowtowns, Earp sought appointment as sheriff of Cochise County. Instead, the territorial governor appointed his chief rival, John Behan. Thoroughly disgruntled, Earp threw in with a group of gamblers and gunmen. At one time or another, their number included Luke Short, Bat Masterson, and Buckskin Frank Leslie. In the meantime, one of Wyatt’s brothers, Virgil Earp, was twice defeated for the office of town marshal. Yet the second election produced the very ally the Earps needed. John Clum, editor of the weekly Epitaph, was elected mayor. Tombstone’s other newspaper, the Nugget, was owned by Harry Woods, who supported Sheriff Behan. Earp and Clum, cast together as members of the opposing faction, soon became close friends. And the lines were drawn.
Shortly thereafter, the stagecoach robberies began. Though no hard proof existed, word leaked out that Earp had formed an alliance with Curly Bill Brocius. Among others, the Brocius gang included the Clanton brothers, the McLowery brothers, and the most dangerous pistolero in Arizona Territory, Johnny Ringo. Doc Holliday, on several occasions, was linked to the outlaw gang. But no solid evidence was uncovered, and therefore no connection to Earp could be established. The Earps gained a legal front, however, when the town marshal mysteriously departed Tombstone. Mayor Clum, now considered one of the family, appointed Virgil Earp to fill the post.
Then, over a period of months, mutual distrust between the Earps and the Brocius gang ripened into open hostility. Only two months ago, on October 26, it exploded in bloodshed. The Earp brothers and Doc Holliday cornered five of the gang at the OK Corral. Only two of the outlaws were armed, but that gave the Earps no pause. Within seconds, they killed three of the men; the others survived by dodging and running, all the while being fired on by Doc Holliday. In the aftermath, with the town council in a rebellious mood, Virgil Earp was stripped of his marshal’s badge. Wyatt and Doc Holliday were formally charged with murder, and eye-witness testimony substantiated that the killings had been performed in cold-blood. But Justice Wells Spicer, a political crony of the Earp-Clum faction, chose to ignore the facts. In his decision, notable for its convoluted logic, he absolved Earp and Holliday of all blame. The charges were dismissed.
After that, an eerie lull settled over Tombstone. The stage robberies abruptly ceased, and the Brocius gang hadn’t appeared in town for more than a month. Earp and Holliday, conducting business as usual at the Alhambra Saloon, seemed to be biding their time. For what, no one had the faintest inkling. But everyone in Tombstone was convinced that Earp had yet another card up his sleeve. Despite his unsavory reputation, he was not noted as a quitter.
“That’s the gist of it,” Slaughter concluded, knocking the dottle from his pipe. “Earp and his crowd lost a little ground, but they ain’t done yet. Not unless I miss my guess.”
Starbuck digested what he’d heard, silent a moment. Then he looked up. “What about Fred Dodge, the new Wells, Fargo agent? Any chance Earp might try to work the same deal with him?”
“I’d tend to doubt it. After what happened to Marsh Williams—he’s the one that just up and disappeared—I suspect Dodge wouldn’t much cotton to the notion of playin’ footsy with Earp.”
“What’re the odds on Earp making his peace with Brocius?”
“Well …” Slaughter said speculatively. “I reckon anything’s possible amongst cutthroats like them. But I’d say the odds are lots better that they’re sittin’ around figgerin’ ways to bushwhack one another.”
“What makes you think so?”
“Cause Brocius has a score to settle, what with Earp havin’ killed three of his men. And Earp knows he ain’t never gonna be safe till he’s rid of Brocius. If for no other reason, I’d imagine he’s damn tetchy about the fact that Brocius could tie him to those robberies.”
There was a prolonged silence. Starbuck’s gaze drifted to the fire, and he appeared lost in thought. At last, watching him closely, Slaughter shifted around in his chair.
“Where do you aim to start?”
Starbuck kneaded the back of his head. “Way it looks to me, I’ve got to get in thick with Earp. He’s covered his tracks on the outside, so I’ll have to worm my way on the inside. Sooner or later he’ll slip, and when he does, I’ll be there to get the goods on him.”
“Sounds reasonable,” Slaughter nodded gravely. “Course, I don’t have to tell you, you’ll be walkin’ into a den of vipers. One miscue and they’ll kill you deader’n hell.”
“I’ll play it close to the vest.”
“That’s the ticket!” Sl
aughter beamed. “And by Jesus, if you need any help, all you got to do is shout. I’d jump at the chance to tangle with them sorry bastards.”
“Now that you mention it, I could use some advice.”
“Anything a’tall! You name it.”
“I need somebody to act as a go-between with Fred Dodge. Wouldn’t do for me to be seen in his company, but I’ve got to funnel information through him to Wells, Fargo. Anybody come to mind?”
“Harry Woods,” Slaughter informed him. “That’s your man.”
“The newspaper editor?” Starbuck looked skeptical. “I need somebody with a permanent case of lockjaw. You think he fits the bill?”
“Godalmightybingo!” Slaughter roared. “Harry hates Wyatt Earp worse’n the devil hates holy water. You couldn’t find nobody better if you searched from now till doomsday.”
Starbuck smiled, rising. “I’ll take your word for it, and I’m obliged.”
Slaughter argued persuasively, urging him to spend the night. But Starbuck had ridden almost a thousand miles, and he was anxious now to begin the hunt. As the sun neared its midday zenith, he stepped into the saddle and rode north toward Tombstone.
In early 1878 a bedraggled, footsore prospector struggled along the jagged mountain slopes east of San Pedro Valley. His name was Ed Schieffelin, and quite literally, he stumbled upon one of the richest silver strikes in frontier history. With ore assaying at twenty thousand dollars a ton, the discovery sparked the greatest mining boom ever recorded in the southwest. Schieffelin named his strike Tombstone, and within a matter of months, the mile-high camp had mushroomed into a carnival of speculation. A stagecoach line was established across the seventy-mile stretch of desert to Tucson. Men and machinery began pouring in, followed closely by merchants and tradesmen, gamblers and saloonkeepers, and the finest assemblage of whores ever gathered in the Arizona barrens. From a few hundred whiskery desert rats, huddled in tents and squalid shacks, Tombstone burst upon the map as a rip-roaring boomtown. Within three years, the population leaped to six thousand, and still growing. A town, complete with all the civilized vices, was spawned in a land previously thought inhabitable only by Apaches and scorpions. It was a dusty helldorado, vitalized by the motherlode, and it ran wide-open day and night.
Starbuck left his horse at the livery stable early next evening. Dusk was settling over Tombstone, and he had no trouble losing himself in the crowds of miners thronging the streets. While it was approaching suppertime, saloons and gaming parlors were already doing a brisk business.
Within a half hour he had located the Nugget office. Outside a saloon, directly across the street, he positioned himself where he could keep a watch on it. His grimy trail clothes and bearded stubble made him all but invisible among the grubby miners. On his fourth cigarette, the wait ended. A man he assessed as the printer stepped out the front door and hurried down the street. Only moments later, another man pulled the shades on the office windows.
Grinding his cigarette underfoot, he crossed the street and entered an alleyway beside the newspaper. He located the back door and rapped softly. From inside, he heard the sound of footsteps, then the door opened in a spill of light. The man who had pulled the windowshades stood framed in the doorway.
“Harry Woods?”
“Yes?”
“I have a message from John Slaughter.”
“Slaughter?” Woods appeared confused, then quickly stepped aside. “Come in, Mr.—”
Starbuck entered, waiting until Woods shut the door. “The name’s Starbuck. Luke Starbuck.”
“Are you one of Slaughter’s men?”
“Not exactly.” Starbuck inspected the shop, satisfying himself they were alone. “I need some help, and Slaughter said you could be trusted.”
Woods was a gnome of a man, with hair receding into a widow’s peak and inquisitive eyes magnified behind thick glasses. He was slender and quick, highly intelligent, and grasped immediately the secretive nature of his visitor. He indicated the front office.
“Come this way.”
Starbuck had reconciled himself to the risks involved in revealing his identity. Seated in the office, with Woods attentive and openly curious, he wasted no time in sparring around. He briefly described his mission for Wells, Fargo, stressing the fact that he would be operating undercover. Then he related everything Slaughter had told him regarding Wyatt Earp and Tombstone’s volatile political climate. He concluded by asking the editor to act as a go-between with Fred Dodge. Woods, visibly caught up in the intrigue, agreed without hesitation.
“One other thing,” Starbuck added. “I’ll be operating under the name of Jack Johnson. Unless it’s an emergency, don’t even think of contacting me. One way or another, I’ll manage to stay in touch with you.”
“Anything else?” Woods asked. “Anything at all. I’m willing to go the limit if it’ll rid Tombstone of Earp and his crowd.”
“What about Earp?” Starbuck responded. “You got anything personal on him? Habits, family, that sort of thing.”
“I do indeed!” Woods laughed. “I wrote an editor friend in Kansas, and asked him to check out the newspaper files. What he turned up was enlightening, to say the least.”
“Such as?”
“Oh, the fact that the Earps got their start operating a two-bit whorehouse. Court records in Wichita prove it beyond a doubt.”
“I’ll be damned!”
“Moreover, Wyatt and two of his brothers married some of their former whores. That too is substantiated by court records.”
Starbuck appeared puzzled. “I always understood Earp was a lawman in Kansas. How does that square with what you say?”
“He was an ordinary policeman,” Woods countered. “He brags about being city marshal, but that’s pure tommyrot. As a matter of fact, he was fired from the Wichita police force and all but run out of town. His record in Dodge City was somewhat better, but not much. He’s a four-flusher and a liar, all puff and no substance.”
Starbuck decided to reserve judgment. Earp apparently resorted to violence and gunplay when necessary, and that hardly indicated a man without substance. “What about his family? You mentioned wives a minute ago.”
“Sluts!” Woods invested the word with scorn. “Common trash, and no better than the men they married.” He paused, thoughtful. “Earp’s sister-in-law might be the one exception. Her name is Alice Blay-lock, and from what I’ve seen, she’s a cut above the rest.”
“She’s not married?”
Woods shook his head. “She lives with Earp and his wife. All the brothers have houses nearby, over at the west end of Fremont Street.”
Starbuck pondered a moment. “Slaughter said Earp operates a faro game at the Alhambra. Is that it … no other business interests?”
“I’ve heard rumors that he’s involved with some of the big mining muckamucks. Of course, considering he’s such a grifter, he might have started the rumor himself.”
“Could you nose around, see what you can turn up?”
“Glad to.” Woods hesitated, studying him closely. “If you don’t mind my asking, how do you intend to approach Earp?”
Starbuck smiled. “I’m a pretty fair gambler myself. Figured I’d meet him on common ground and see where it leads.”
Several minutes elapsed while they discussed Tombstone’s sporting crowd. With some revealing insights into the town and its shadier element, Starbuck finally rose to leave. Woods recommended the Occidental Hotel, commenting that the food was passable and the clientele relatively civilized for a boomtown. At the door, Woods smiled warmly, offering his hand.
“Good hunting, Luke. And a Merry Christmas.”
“Christmas?”
“Why, yes.” Woods gave him a quizzical look. “Tonight’s Christmas Eve.”
“Yeah?” Starbuck seemed somehow surprised. “Well the same to you, Harry! Hope Ol’ Nick leaves you something special.”
Starbuck stepped into the alley, and Woods slowly closed the door. His excitement, the s
ense of intrigue and danger, suddenly gave way to an infinite sadness. He thought it somehow sorrowful that anyone could lose track of Christmas. Luke Starbuck seemed to him the loneliest man he’d ever met. Lonely, and very much alone.
CHAPTER 3
Christmas Day was bleak and chilly.
Mayor John Clum trudged down Fremont Street shortly after the noon hour. His expression was distracted, and he walked with the stoop-shouldered gait of one who bears a heavy burden. Only when he met passersby was he able to present his normal air of bonhomie. Then, exchanging holiday greetings, he tipped his hat and gave them a politician’s smile. The effect was forced but nonetheless convincing.
At Fremont and First, he crossed to the southwest corner. There he mounted the stairs of a modest clapboard house. A coat of whitewash had turned the color of ancient ivory, and there was a look of general disrepair about the building. On the porch, the planks underfoot creaked like a coffin lid, and he suddenly dreaded the next few minutes. Then, halting before the door, he collected himself and knocked.
A moment later the door swung open. He doffed his hat and managed a weak grin. “Afternoon, Wyatt.”
With a curt nod, Earp motioned him inside. “Out makin’ the rounds, are you, John?”
“I was,” Clum said, moving through the door. “Until I stopped off for a drink at the Oriental.”
“Yeah?” Earp closed the door and turned to face him. “Something happen to change your plans?”
“I heard something that put the damper on my Christmas spirit. Thought you ought to hear it, too.”
Clum dropped into a chair, and Earp took a seat across from him. Even in repose there was something sinister about Earp. He was of medium height, powerfully built, with close-cropped hair and a brushy handle-bar mustache. His slate-colored eyes and taciturn manner were striking, yet somehow cold and dispassionate. John Clum knew him to be a man who seemed impervious to even the simplest emotion.