by Mark Warren
Larkin frowned at Wyatt’s gear laid out on the bed. The blanket and slicker were tightly rolled and lashed, the saddlebags stuffed full and cinched tight.
“I can have my boy come over to transfer your belongings, if you like.”
Wyatt shook his head. “My brother?”
“Oh,” Larkin said, “he’s already at the hotel dining room, having drinks with the mayor. I’ve opened up our bar gratis for the occasion . . . for your party, I mean.”
Wyatt lifted the dark frock coat he had draped over a chair back. “When you head back there, would you give this to my brother?”
Again the hotel man surveyed the gear packed on the bed. His eyes narrowed with a question that he seemed incapable of asking.
“Of course, I’ll give it to him,” he managed and cleared his phlegmy throat.
Wyatt gathered his travel gear off the bed. Larkin started to speak, but when Wyatt hoisted his bags to his shoulders and started his way, the hotelier stepped aside to let Wyatt pass.
“Mr. Earp, you are coming to dinner, aren’t you?”
Wyatt stopped in the hallway and turned. Judging by the man’s expression, Wyatt figured the hotel manager spent most of his life in a bewildered state.
“No.”
“But . . . what about your appointment?”
“Don’t figure on working where a man’s life is valued at twenty-five dollars.”
Larkin swallowed and then took a step forward quickly. “But . . . what should I tell the mayor?”
“Same thing I just told you.”
With James’s coat draped over one arm, Larkin raised the other arm away from his side and let it fall to slap against his body. “But they all think you are going to accept the city marshal position.”
“Easy to think something,” Wyatt said.
As Larkin frowned and licked his lips, Wyatt waited, but he was tiring of the man. Larkin looked down at the coat as if it might have some bearing on the conversation.
“Well . . .”
“There’ll always be men willing to take a job on your police force,” Wyatt said. “The trick will be knowing which kind you want.” When the puzzled expression returned to Larkin’s face, Wyatt turned and descended the stairs.
Outside the night showed little promise of cooling. The street was dark along the business district, except across the plaza, where the lights from Brennan’s spilled out onto the rutted dirt thoroughfare, pushing a yellow halo halfway to the rail tracks. Wyatt stopped and listened for a time. Judging by the quiet, he deemed the saloon to be empty.
He walked west to the livery, roused the stable hand, and retrieved his Sharps rifle and gear from the tack room. He paid the boy with two of the coins he had won off of Ben Thompson, and with one more he purchased a sack of grain to compensate for the dearth of good grass along the trail.
He had loaded the packhorse, saddled the chestnut, and just tamped the Sharps into its leather boot when James appeared in the livery entrance, the lantern light illuminating him like an actor making his appearance on a stage. Despite the heat, James wore the frock coat. When he walked toward Wyatt, there was something in the movement that showed James’s shoulder wound trespassed into every corner of his life.
“Sort o’ figured you weren’t gonna sit down to a social event with that oily-tongued mayor and his crowd.” James laughed. “But damned if I’ll pass up their liquor.” He put a hand on the chestnut’s rump and swung around the animal to face Wyatt. “Now where’re you off to?”
Wyatt nodded toward the open entrance of the barn. “Away from here,” he said. When he took up the reins and lead rope and walked the two horses into the street, James fingered a cigar from his breast pocket and followed.
The night had darkened enough to release a horde of stars. They spread across the sky like a flurry of sparks captured in a tintype. There was no moon yet, but Wyatt knew its rising time. It was why he had allowed for leaving town this late.
James scraped a matchstick across a horseshoe nailed to the front wall of the livery. His face bloomed with the flare of light as he sucked at the flame through his cigar. His skin appeared pasty and bloated. Wyatt tried to recall his brother’s farm-hardened appearance before he went off to the war, but the image was irretrievable. James offered a cigar, but Wyatt shook his head.
“I guess you know they’re waitin’ for you over at the hotel,” James said around the cigar. “They want to swear you in as the new town marshal.”
Wyatt circled the packhorse, checking the tie-downs. “Yeah, I know.”
They both looked up at the stars for a time. The quiet of the town seemed unnatural, as if a curfew had been imposed on the citizens.
“What about the sheriff?” Wyatt said.
James curled his mouth into a sneer. “They’ve sent for the doctor over in Junction City, but a man can’t survive a wound like that.” He shook his head. “Saw it too many times in the war.” He shook his head again and allowed a cynical smile. “Did you hear how much Thompson paid the judge to settle for his brother shootin’ the sheriff?”
Wyatt nodded. “I heard.”
They stood again without words, and the two horses matched their stillness. The only movement in the heat of the night was the smoke rising from James’s cigar.
“So, where are you headed?” James finally said.
“Fort Larned. See if I can make some money off the cards there.”
“Soldiers?” James laughed. “That how you plan to get rich? Fleecin’ soldiers? They hardly make enough wages to spit on.”
“Maybe so, but there’s a lot of ’em that come into town. What else have they got to spend their money on?”
James laughed sharply and bent at the waist, making a small, theatrical bow. “Now we’re talkin’ my line o’ work.”
Wyatt gripped the pommel and tested the play of his saddle. “Under the right circumstances, a fellow can make a lot of money in one night on the green cloth. Once I make a stake, I’ll see can I work my way into this cattle market.”
James gave Wyatt a doubtful glance. “Thing is . . . with this drought . . . and it being late in the season . . . how’re you gonna find your way into owning some livestock? Assuming, that is, you get a hold o’ that kind of money.”
Wyatt nodded south toward the bridge. “I can ride to Texas if I need to.”
“Wyatt, why don’t you think about coming to Wichita? Work with me for a while. You could travel with me and my new prairie flower when we pull out.” James lifted his eyebrows and bared his teeth around the cigar. “What do you say?”
Wyatt leaned an arm into the bow of the saddle and gave the question some thought. “I’d like to do something with more promise to it. Something that can last me a lifetime.”
James’s eyes crinkled just like Morgan’s. “Hell, if there’s anything for certain about the future, it’s that men are always gonna want to poke their prods into a beguiling woman.” He shrugged. “ ’Course . . . if you want the truth,” he said wistfully, “it’s clear enough what you’re cut out for.”
Wyatt studied the profile of his brother’s face. “What might that be?”
James smiled toward the plaza. “Why d’you reckon things are so quiet here tonight?” He turned his head to show off his devilish smile. “Hell, even those Texas boys ain’t showed their faces.” James tapped Wyatt’s shoulder with the back of his fist. “You handled things out there today, son. Don’t get me wrong, I thought you were crazy as a cross-eyed preacher at a shootin’ match, but by God, nobody doubted you meant business.”
“Somebody had to do something,” Wyatt said.
James’s eyes angled to Wyatt. “You mean, you had to do something.”
Wyatt stood quietly, exhuming the picture of Sheriff Whitney’s bloodied shirt. “You can’t let men like that run it over on a town. That’s why we got laws.”
James stared, half amused. “Yeah, but you didn’t have to go at it like you were planning your suicide. What was it . . . eigh
t to one? What if they’d opened up on you?”
In his mind Wyatt returned to that moment on the street when he had determined which Texans he would shoot. “There were at least two of ’em would’a died with me . . . that big ’un, Peshaur . . . and Thompson.”
James narrowed his eyes. “So you’d’a died for them?”
Wyatt shook his head. “Not for them. For what they done.”
James frowned. “Ain’t that the same thing?”
Wyatt shook his head. “No, it ain’t.”
One of the horses in the livery nickered, and Wyatt’s mount began to snort and shift its weight. He led the packhorse behind the chestnut, and then he swung up into the saddle. James backed away, chewed on the cigar, and thrust both hands into his trouser pockets.
“When you get tired of countin’ your pennies at Larned, come over to Wichita, Wyatt. Maybe you were cut out to wear a badge, but workin’ as an enforcer at a brothel you’ll make a helluva lot more money. It’s the same kind o’ work, when you think about it.”
Wyatt chose not to argue the point. “What about you?”
“Oh, my new dove and I will pull out tomorrow for Wichita.” James’s smile widened. “Tonight I’ll see how much free whiskey I can drink.”
Wyatt gathered the reins and took a grip on the lead rope of the packhorse. “Take care of yourself, James,” he said and prodded the horses forward to clatter across the railroad ties.
“Wyatt!” James called.
Wyatt reined up and watched his brother move in his peculiar gait out into the street. James stepped close and looked up at Wyatt with an unexpected luminescence on his face, as though he were about to recite a poem.
“I reckon there ain’t nobody said it . . . so I guess I will.” James lowered his eyes and shrugged. “Regardless to how goddamn crazy it was . . . that was a helluva thing you done out there today. There’d’a probably been more killin’ if you hadn’t done what you did.”
Wyatt waited. He could see there was more his brother would say.
“But you need to understand something,” James continued. “Back in Beebe’s store . . . all those men huddled in there, hidin’ like children . . . they might have something you think you want, but not one of ’em could’a done what you done.” He shook his head, as if agreeing with his own assessment. “Every man has got some gift, Wyatt . . . or at least he’s got some inclination. The trick is to figure out what it is. Then you act on it.” James edged closer, looked up at his brother, and softened his voice. “You don’t want to hear this, but you got something of Pa in you, son. You know how to handle people. But instead of doin’ it by makin’ ’em hate you, you got another way.” He jerked a thumb toward Brennan’s. “Hell, I even heard Ben Thompson say he respected you.”
Wyatt sat his horse without moving, his back straight, his chin up, as though he were listening for the murmur of the river. “You’re tellin’ me it’s wrong for a man to want more’n what he’s got?”
James stepped back, sucked on the cigar, and shook his head again as he exhaled a stream of smoke. “Hell, we all want more. We just got to know what it is we oughta be askin’ for.” He managed the smile of an older brother. “Listen, Wyatt, if it’s really cattle you want . . . the Texans have had enough of Ellsworth. Everybody’s sayin’ Wichita will be the main shipping center next season. Think about getting into the business there. That way, if it don’t work out, you got something to fall back on.” James nodded his encouragement. “Enforcin’ at a brothel ain’t so bad.”
Wyatt nodded once. “I’ll keep it in mind.”
James raised his good arm, and the two Earps shook hands. After crossing the bridge, Wyatt could still feel the strength of his brother’s grip. It was good to have family out here on the frontier. Like money in the bank. If he could get a toehold in the cattle business, maybe James would partner with him. Then the two of them could draw in Virgil . . . and maybe Morg. The Earps could build a dynasty as legitimate businessmen.
A mile into the journey, he felt the solitude of the dark trail envelop him like a ragged set of clothes. All the words he had spoken to James . . . they were just that—words. They might as well be pebbles rattling around inside a tin can.
When the rusty-hewed slice of moon rose in the east, its pale light served to remind him that by traveling toward Fort Larned, he was little more than a seed blowing in the wind. But he kept on. It was some kind of plan. And it might lead to something.
Now and again he heard a coyote howling to the night, and as it always did, the sound conjured the memory of a San Bernardino peach orchard and the young Mexican girl who had spoken to him of omens and prophecies. A moon made of mud. She had tried to teach him that life was about settling for less than one’s ambitions. He had argued then. If Valenzuela Cos were here now, he wondered what argument he might mount against her claims. He had little to show for the years that had passed—a string of fights in railroad camps, a dead wife and child, an arrest record that had included a federal warrant, and the extended company of whores in his longest stints of employment.
There was still time, he knew. As long as he was hungry enough to want for more, sooner or later a winning hand would be dealt him, and, when that happened, he was determined to play his cards smart. It was all about timing. And acting upon decisions. Going about it direct. The same way he had stepped across that line into the street with Ben Thompson. He’d simply made up his mind, and then he’d done it. It shouldn’t be much more complicated than that to make a fortune.
BIBLIOGRAPHY
* * *
Wyatt Earp, The Life Behind the Legend by Casey Tefertiller: John Wiley & Sons, Inc., 1997
Doc Holliday, The Life and the Legend by Gary Roberts: John Wiley & Sons, Inc., 2006
Wyatt Earp, A Biography of the Legend by Lee Silva: Graphic Publishers, 2002
Wyatt Earp, The Biography by Timothy Fattig: Talei Publishers, Inc., 2002
Wyatt Earp, Frontier Marshal, Stuart Lake: Houghton Mifflin Co., 1931
Wyatt Earp, The Untold Story, 1848–1880 by Ed Bartholomew: Frontier Book Co., 1963
Dodge City by Frederic Young: Boot Hill Museum, Inc., 1972
The Illustrated Life and Times of Wyatt Earp by Bob Boze Bell: Boze Books, 1993
The Buffalo Hunters by Charles Robinson III: State House Press, 1995
The Clantons of Tombstone by Ben Traywick: Red Marie’s Bookstore, 1996
Inventing Wyatt Earp, His Life and Many Legends by Allen Barra: Carroll & Graf Publishers, Inc., 1998
Bat Masterson, The Man and the Legend by Robert DeArment: University of Oklahoma Press, 1979
Wyatt Earp, A Biography of a Western Lawman by Steve Gatto: San Simon Publishing Co., 1997
Wyatt Earp Speaks by John Stevens: Fern Canyon Press, 1998
Wyatt Earp’s Lost Year by Roger Jay; Wild West magazine, June, 2006
The Earp Papers, In a Brother’s Image by Don Chaput: Affiliated Writers of America, Inc., 1994
The Truth About Wyatt Earp by Richard Erwin: The O.K. Press, 1993
The Earps Talk by Al Turner: Creative Publishing Co., 1980
Virgil Earp, Western Peace Officer by Don Chaput: Affiliated Writers of America, Inc., 1994
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
* * *
With gratitude
To friends and fellow researchers who have dug so diligently for the truth:
Peter Brand, (the late) Jack Burrows, (the late) Carl Chafin, Anne Collier, (the late) Paul Cool, (the late) Mark Dworkin, Bill Evans, Tim Fattig, Tom Gaumer, Paul Andrew Hutton, (the late) Roger Jay, Billy “B.J.” Johnson, Paul Johnson, Bob McCubbin, (the late) Carol Mitchell, Jeff Morey, Bob Palmquist, Pam Potter, Cindy Reidhead, Gary Roberts, (the late) Lee Silva, Jean and Chuck Smith, Casey Tefertiller, Ben Traywick, Vickie Wilcox, and Roy Young.
Thanks to Angela Halifax for that rusty-hued moon.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
* * *
Mark Warren is a teacher of Native American survival skills in the
Appalachian Mountains of north Georgia, where he lives with his wife Susan. His study of Wyatt Earp’s life spans sixty years. Through his travels he has interviewed the storied writers of the Earp saga and trekked with them to sites where the actual events in Earp’s life took place.
Adobe Moon is the opening volume of his Earp trilogy, Wyatt Earp: An American Odyssey. His book Two Winters in a Tipi (Lyons Press, 2012) chronicles the years he spent living in the primitive abode of the Plains Indians. Secrets of the Forest (Waldenhouse Publishers, Inc., 2016) is a comprehensive guide to primitive survival skills and plant lore.
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