by Matt Braun
A sudden black rage swept over him. He promised himself that wouldn’t happen. Somehow, one way or another, it would end.
CHAPTER 12
“Ten ball in the corner pocket.”
Starbuck leaned over the pool table. He stroked the cue stick with a practiced hand and cleanly sank the ten ball. The cue ball magically reversed itself, spinning backwards on the green felt, then rolled to a stop near the left hand side-pocket. The angle was perfect for his next shot, on the eleven ball.
“Would you look at that position? Talk about blind luck!”
Morg’s tone was bantering, slightly envious. Standing nearby, he watched as Starbuck eyed the eleven ball. Earp and Holliday, who were seated on a bench along the far wall, exchanged a knowing glance. Spectators, and hecklers, they were having a good laugh at Morg’s expense. No one spoke as Starbuck sliced the eleven into the side-pocket. Quickly, calling his shots without hesitation, he cleaned the table. When the fifteen ball dropped, he walked to the near corner pocket and extracted two ten-dollar bills. He kissed them, grinning at Morg.
“Tough break.” He tucked the bills into his vest pocket. “You had it sewed up till you missed the ten ball. Care to try another game?”
“Watch yourself, Morg,” Earp ragged him. “Jack’s liable to trim your wick.”
Morg wasn’t put out in the slightest. “Why, hell, Wyatt, don’t spoil it! I’m just stringin’ him along so he’ll raise the stakes.”
“Guess again,” Holliday injected dryly. “You’re the one that’s being hustled.”
“Oh yeah!” Morg said with a wide peg-toothed grin. “Well suppose we make it twenty a game, and see who gets stiffed. How about it, Jack?”
“Suits me.” Starbuck turned his head and gave Earp a broad wink. “He thinks he’s found himself a pigeon. Reckon I’ve got a chance?”
“What you’ve got,” Earp smiled, “is a gift for gab.”
“Amen to that,” Holliday added. “Get him started and he’ll talk the gold right off a man’s molars.”
While Morg racked the balls, Starbuck chalked his cue and prepared to break. The pool table was located in the rear of Hatch’s Saloon. Benches lined the walls, and an overhead lamp bathed the table in brilliant light. A side door, with glass in the upper panel, led to an alleyway. Up front, a crowd was ranged along the bar. It was nearing midnight, and the murmur of their conversation was sportive, well laced with liquor.
Starbuck dropped the four and the nine on the break. Talking and shooting, he then ran the one through the seven. The eight ball lay flush against the rail, offering a difficult bank shot. He took a moment to study the angle, and finally addressed the cue ball with a great show of confidence. The eight ball zipped across the table, caught the corner of the pocket, and bounced erratically to the far rail. His grin faded, and he gave the eight a look of raw disbelief. Morg laughed out loud, moving into position.
“Stand back, Jack! Gimme room!”
Stepping aside, Starbuck halted beside Earp and Holliday. They immediately began razzing Morg, who returned their jibes with vulgar good humor. No slouch on a pool table, he pocketed the eight ball with a double bank shot. The cue ball rolled into perfect position, and he took a vaudevillian bow. Then, calling his shots, he began running the table with methodical precision.
Watching him, Starbuck reflected on the vagaries of the detective business. Shooting a game of pool with Morg seemed somehow emblematic of his investigation to date. By all rights, he should have had them under lock and key—or dead and buried—long ago. Instead, he was still playing games. Pool tonight, poker last night, a masquerade every night. Unproductive, and seemingly endless, games.
In a swift flight of mind, he realized a month had passed since Earp’s return to Tombstone. At the time, he’d been convinced that the stories in the Epitaph and the Nugget would force someone to take action. His bet was on Brocius, but he nurtured a glimmer of hope that Earp and his posse would again resume the chase. Events of subsequent days had proved him wrong on both counts.
Brocius and his band of outlaws had seemingly vanished off the face of the earth. It was now the middle of March, and for the past month there had been no depredations of any nature. No stage holdups, no payroll robberies, no reports of rustled livestock. Nor had the gang made any attempt on the lives of Earp and his brothers. There was speculation that they had retired to less hazardous pursuits somewhere in Old Mexico. But no one knew for certain where they were. On either side of the border, all was peaceful, uncommonly quiet.
For Earp’s part, he basked in the light of revitalized public esteem. Even his detractors—Harry Woods in the forefront—were forced to admit he’d routed the outlaws. Considering the number of robberies and killings in the last two years, an entire month without violence was looked upon as nothing short of miraculous. John Clum, naturally, made the most of favorable circumstances. The Epitaph trumpeted Earp’s prowess as a lawman in every issue. According to the headlines, Arizona Territory slept better because Tombstone’s noblest citizen now wore a badge.
Starbuck, observing all this with a jaundiced eye, knew his instinct hadn’t played him false. Earp, like any good grifter, was quick on his feet. Having gained the upper hand, he would now milk it to the limit. If the Brocius gang reappeared, he would strike a fresh trail and resume the chase amidst great public fanfare. If the outlaws had gone on to other endeavors, he would continue to claim credit for ridding the territory of a murderous band of desperadoes. Either way, he would be a strong candidate for sheriff when election time rolled around. Earp’s star was definitely in the ascendancy.
All the more apparent, Starbuck reflected, was Earp’s complete switch in attitude. He no longer spent his days, and nights, looking over his shoulder. He plainly had come to regard himself as the hunter, not the hunted. Nor was there any likelihood that he would now make a run for it. Virge was all but recuperated, and for the past several weeks, he’d been fit enough to travel. Yet there was no mention of such plans, and it seemed logical to assume the idea had been shelved. The Earp family, quite obviously, intended to remain in Tombstone.
Starbuck thought Earp’s assessment of Brocius was perhaps too optimistic. An outlaw might tuck tail and run for cover, but that made him no less dangerous. In Starbuck’s experience, a backshooter was the most tenacious of all mankillers. Some perverted sense of pride, harnessed with an obsession for revenge, gave them extraordinary patience. He knew of instances where such men had waited for years, nursing a long-forgotten grievance, before they struck. He considered it very probable that Curly Bill Brocius was just such a man.
Still, there was no denying that Earp had a high opinion of himself these days. The tipoff was in little things, quirks of character. Not only did he smile, which was somewhat like watching granite crack, but he occasionally attempted a joke. Tonight, with business slow, he’d even suggested they quit early and take in the town. After catching the last act at the Birdcage Theatre, they had walked over to Hatch’s Saloon for a nightcap. Morg, who fancied himself a pool shark, had challenged Starbuck to a game. The stakes were friendly, but Starbuck had taken inordinate pleasure in winning the first round. Lately, he hadn’t had too much success in beating the Earps at anything.
Morg dropped the fourteen ball and stood back to survey the last shot. He was directly across the table, facing them, on line with the side door. As he chalked his cue, one of the saloon regulars, George Berry, walked back to have a look. Wobbling slightly, Berry appeared to be feeling no pain. He listed to a stop beside Holliday, and focused a bloodshot gaze on the pool table.
“I got four-bits says Morg makes it.”
“Four-bits!” Morg laughed. “Bet your whole bankroll, George. It’s a lead-pipe cinch!”
“No, make it four-bits,” Earp said humorously. “I’ll cover it, and I wouldn’t want George to go away busted.”
“That’s a helluva note,” Morg said with a mocking smile. “You mean to say you’d bet against your own brothe
r?”
“Why not?” Earp needled him. “You’re getting ready to miss that shot. I can see it in your eyes.”
“He’s right,” Starbuck chimed in. “You choked up last game, and that was before we doubled the stakes.”
“Good try, but there’s no way you’ll talk me out of it. I couldn’t miss that shot if my hands were tied! You and Wyatt just hide and watch.”
Morg chuckled and stepped in behind the cue ball. The fifteen ball was opposite him, almost directly in line with the side-pocket. He dabbed chalk on the tip of his cue stick, and checked the angle one last time. Then he leaned forward over the table.
The upper panel in the alley door suddenly erupted in a sheet of flame and shattered glass. The roar of gunfire swept through the room like a drum roll. Morg screamed and dropped the cue stick. His hands clawed at empty air, then he fell on top of the pool table and slowly crumpled to the floor.
Shots snicked across the room in a hailstorm of lead. Earp and Holliday, miraculously unscathed, flung themselves off the bench. All around them slugs thunked into the walls and exploded the bench in a shower of splinters. George Berry staggered, struck by a wayward bullet, and collapsed as though his legs had been chopped off. In the same instant, Starbuck threw himself to the floor and rolled toward the end of the pool table. A split-second later he rose to one knee, drawing the Colt. He leveled his arm and thumbed three quick shots through the alley door.
Then, as suddenly as it began, the firing ceased. A haze of gunsmoke hung over the pool table and a tomblike stillness descended on the room. For a moment, frozen in the eerie quiet, no one moved.
Starbuck broke the spell. Circling the pool table, he crossed the room and flattened himself against the wall. Then he jerked open the door and moved swiftly into the alleyway. He crouched low, spinning in both directions, the Colt extended and cocked. There was nothing but darkness, and empty silence.
Turning, he stepped back through the door and found Earp kneeling beside Morg. He glanced at Holliday, who was standing close by, and the gambler slowly shook his head. His gaze dropped to Morg, and he saw immediately that it was hopeless. The youngster had been hit several times, one of the slugs drilling through his back and exiting high on his chest. His shirtfront was splotched with blood.
Morg groaned, his breathing rapid and uneven. His eyes focused on Earp and a trickle of blood seeped down his chin. The corners of his mouth lifted in a ghastly smile.
“Looks like my last game.”
“Hang on,” Earp muttered softly. “The doc’s on his way.”
“Funny.” Morg blinked, casting his eyes about. “I can’t see a damn thing.”
A shudder swept over him and his mouth opened in a long sigh. One bootheel drummed the floor and his sphincter voided with a foul odor. Then he lay still.
Several moments passed in stunned silence. All the color leeched out of Earp’s face and he stared stonily down at his brother. His face was blank, but his jaw muscles ticced as though he were trying to say something. At last, Holliday bent forward and placed a hand on his shoulder.
“He’s gone, Wyatt.”
Earp might have been deaf, for there was no response. His face became congested, and the veins in his temple knotted into purple ropes. He couldn’t look away from the body.
“Wyatt.” Holliday gently shook him. “It’s no use. He’s dead.”
Earp seemed to awaken. He shrugged off Holliday’s hand, took a deep breath and blew it out heavily. Almost tenderly, he reached down and closed Morg’s sightless eyes. Then he climbed to his feet.
“Somebody get the undertaker. I want him looked after proper.”
The night lay gripped in a mealy, weblike darkness. A clot of men stood watching from the saloon door. The undertaker and his assistant had already loaded Morg into the hearse. Now, carrying the shroud-wrapped body of George Berry, they crossed the boardwalk.
Some moments later, their task completed, they closed and latched the rear doors. Walking forward, they mounted the driver’s seat from opposite sides. The undertaker gathered the reins and clucked to his team of matched coal black geldings. The hearse moved off upstreet and slowly disappeared into the night.
Under a nearby streetlamp, Earp stared after the hearse until it vanished. Then he turned to Holliday and Starbuck. His gaze shifted to the men crowded in the doorway, and he waited as they moved back inside the saloon. Finally, he glanced at Holliday.
“It’s time to get Virge out of town.”
Holliday nodded. “What about the women?”
“All of them except Mattie and Alice can go with Virge.”
“You aim to leave them here?”
“No.” Earp looked down and studied the ground a moment. “We’ll find someplace to stash them in Tucson.”
“Warren and Jim?”
“Jim goes with Virge and the women. Warren stays.”
“It’ll be tricky,” Holliday said grimly. “No way to keep it a secret, and once word gets out, there’s no tellin’ what Brocius will try.”
Earp reflected on it briefly. “We’ll move’em all at once,” he said at length. “There’s a westbound out of Tucson every evening. All we have to do is get them there in one piece and our worries are over.”
“What then?”
Earp’s eyes glazed with rage. When he spoke, the timbre of his voice was charged with malevolence. “Then we kill Brocius.”
Starbuck felt his pulse skip a beat. There was a cold ferocity about Earp that he’d never seen before. The war he had tried in vain to provoke was about to start, and Earp’s manner told him there would be no mercy asked nor none granted. He sensed it was time to act, or again get left behind.
“You’ll need somebody to take Morg’s place. I’d like the job.”
Earp gave him a swift, appraising glance. “How many shots did you get off in there? Three, four?”
“Three,” Starbuck said levelly. “Wish it’d done more good. By the time I got myself set, they’d already skedaddled down the alley.”
“You did better than me and Doc.”
“Not much,” Starbuck hedged. “I didn’t hit anybody.”
Earp eyed him a moment. “Where’d you learn to handle a gun that way?”
“The hard way,” Starbuck informed him. “The world’s full of sore losers, and some of them take exception to the way I deal.”
“All the same,” Holliday interjected, “for a gamblin’ man, you’re still mighty sudden.”
Starbuck smiled. “I hear you’re pretty fast yourself, Doc. What makes you different from me?”
“No offense, Jack,” Earp cut in quickly. “We’re beholden for what you did tonight. But it’s not your fight, and you’d likely be better off if we left it that way.”
“Then let’s just say I’m making it my fight.” In case you forgot, Brocius and his boys were shooting at me too.” Starbuck paused, looking from one to the other.”On top of that, I’m sort of interested in what happens to Alice. She’ll tell you so herself, if you care to ask.”
“Don’t worry about her,” Earp said with a trace of impatience. “She’s family, and we take care of our own.”
Starbuck played his hole card. “You haven’t done so good up till now.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Last time out, Brocius gave you the slip six ways to Sunday. I’d say you need yourself a tracker.”
Earp stared at him with puzzlement. “Are you tellin’ me you’re a tracker?”
“I’ve done my share.”
“Whereabouts, just exactly?”
“Took lessons from California Joe. That was back in ’67, with Custer, on the Wichita.”
Holliday regarded him with squinted eyes. “You must’ve been the only scout in diddies.”
“I’m older than I look,” Starbuck said flatly. “Lots older in lots of ways.”
He let the idea percolate a few moments. “What the hell’s the rub, anyway? You need another gun, and I’m willing
to go along. You could damn well do lots worse!”
“Maybe so.” Holliday’s features were set in stubborn disapproval. “For my money, though, you’re johnny-come-lately to this game.”
“No, Doc, he’s right,” Earp said grudgingly. “Last time, Brocius ran us round and round in circles. Jack might just be the fellow we’ve needed all along.”
“One thing’s for certain,” Holliday said stolidly. “He’s a regular sackful of surprises.”
“You tell me your secrets,” Starbuck grinned, “and I’ll tell you mine. Fair enough, Doc?”
“Let it lay,” Earp silenced them. “Doc, get hold of McMasters and Vermillion. Tell them we ride at first light.” He turned to Starbuck. “Jack, you hire a couple of buckboards from the livery. Have them at the house a little before dawn.”
“Anything else?”
“Yeah,” Earp said shortly. “Bring your gun. You’re gonna need it.”
CHAPTER 13
A streak of lightning forked the sky west of Tucson. Within seconds, the rumble of thunder sounded in the distance. The storm moved swiftly closer, somehow ominous in the lowering dusk.
A rented hack rolled through one of Tucson’s seedier neighborhoods. The driver, one eye on the storm, popped his buggy whip, urging the team into a quickened pace. Up front, Warren and Mattie sat together in strained silence. Neither of them had spoken since the hack pulled away from the train station. No fool, she suspicioned she was being left behind, while the rest of the family went on to California. Earp had explained it away, telling the others he wanted her near. But she wasn’t wholly convinced, and it showed. Her expression was one of heavy-hearted sorrow.
Starbuck, seated in the back with Alice, wasn’t convinced either. Yet he thought it highly improbable that Earp would simply dump his wife. She, along with her sister, knew too much about his affairs in Tombstone. Still, they were being left behind, and that in itself raised intriguing possibilities. In the event Earp abandoned them, the fury of a woman scorned might very easily be turned to advantage. Wells, Fargo would then have two potential witnesses.