by Mark Warren
James turned back to his brother. “Ain’t that the big’un was with that Texas crowd in Ellsworth when you backed down Ben Thompson?”
Wyatt said nothing. Slowly he dealt cards to the players and set the deck aside. In his peripheral vision he saw Peshaur slap an empty glass to the bar and then do the same with his hat. The Texan turned from his friends and approached Wyatt’s table, where he stood behind Cogswell. Leaning forward, he splayed his hands on the table to glare at Wyatt. Beneath the man’s bulk, Cogswell was forced to hunch forward, his nose just inches from the table.
“Last time I saw you in Ellsworth, you were runnin’ errands for that piss-ant mayor . . . deliverin’ that gutless message to Ben Thompson.” Peshaur coughed up a rough laugh and leaned more heavily on Cogswell. “You got any messages for me, errand boy? ’Cause if you do, you won’t find me quite so easy as Thompson was. I don’t lay over for nobody.”
Wyatt contemplated his cards for a few seconds, then closed them, looked back at the big Texan, and let his eyes go to ice. Peshaur’s smile was profane, some of his teeth recessed like the sunken keys of a cast-off piano.
“You’re crowdin’ my friend,” Wyatt said evenly. “If you got something to say, step back and say it.”
The room went deathly quiet. Every man in the saloon had turned to spectate. The legs of Dick Cogswell’s chair began to scrape the floor as he tried to work his way out from under the Texan’s overbearing weight.
Peshaur leaned closer and sneered. “Yeah, I got a message for you, California boy. Without a gun and a piece of tin pinned to your shirt . . . you ain’t nothing.” With that, Peshaur pushed at Cogswell and rose to his full height. He stepped around the table, bumping James’s chair as he approached Wyatt. When he stopped, he spread his boots and showed his teeth again. “Get up! I’m gonna take that strut out o’ your walk.”
Every man in the room watched Wyatt as he carefully set his cards facedown on the table. The gun lay just inches from his right hand. From down the street the jaunty notes of a piano drifted to them, the sound as alien and inappropriate to the moment as the voices of children laughing at a funeral.
Peshaur huffed a profane laugh. “What’s the matter, Earp, you—?”
Wyatt came out of the chair and hit him under the chin with such speed that Peshaur’s teeth snapped shut in mid-sentence, the sound like a pick axe cracking into ice. Before the Texan could recover, Wyatt drove a fist into the man’s abdomen, forcing a rush of air to expel from the braggart’s lungs. Peshaur went down heavily and lay still, his eyes bulging and his mouth forming a soundless rictus as he worked at sucking in air from the room.
“Goddamn, Wyatt,” James breathed. “Don’t kill the son of a bitch.”
No one moved to help Peshaur. Slowly, the gasping Texan rolled to his side and propped up on an elbow to concentrate on his breathing. With unsure fingers, he gingerly probed the angle of his jaw.
“You goddamn bastard,” he rasped. “A straight-up fight ain’t good enough for you, is it? You always got to have a edge.”
Picking up the gun Wyatt waved it at the three Texans still standing at the bar. “Get him out of here . . . now!”
When the bartender leveled a shotgun over the bar, the trio went into motion and lifted Peshaur by his armpits. When the big Texan finally got his feet under him and regained balance, he jerked free from his friends.
“You goddamned yellow piece o’ Yankee town-shit,” he growled.
Wyatt stuffed the revolver into his waistband and looked at the men behind Peshaur. “I ain’t gonna tell you again.”
One of the Texans pulled at Peshaur but kept his eyes on Wyatt. “Come on, Georgie. It’s all stacked against you.”
“Hell, yeah,” Peshaur yelled as he was led away. “That’s the way the fuckin’ law works in this shit-hole town.” He made to spit across the floor at Wyatt, but the best he could do was a dry airy sound. Even after he stumbled backward through the doorway and passed out of sight, Wyatt re-gripped the handle of the gun and kept his eyes trained on the empty door frame, where he could hear the Texans arguing in hoarse whispers. Then Peshaur’s booming voice filled the street.
“The law in this town’s nothin’ but a bunch o’ sheepfuckers!”
Wyatt walked across the room and out the door, the gun hanging by his leg now. James and Jimmy Cairns followed behind him, and the other patrons followed in a cautious line.
Out on the boardwalk, Peshaur thrust a finger at Wyatt. “You’re a yellow bastard! Always stackin’ the odds your way.” One of the Texans watching Wyatt’s face tugged on Peshaur’s sleeve, but the big man’s momentum was set. “I’d give a month’s pay to have you alone in an empty room.”
With his eyes on Peshaur, Wyatt spoke up so sharply that the Texan standing closest to him jumped. “Dick?”
Cogswell shouldered through the small crowd of onlookers. “Right here, Wyatt.”
“That back room in your store . . . is it empty?”
Cogswell’s face paled. “Well . . . yeah,” he said uneasily. “Pretty much, I guess.”
“Can I use it?” Wyatt said.
“Wyatt, I . . .” Cogswell licked his lips. When Wyatt turned to face him, the merchant looked startled. “Well, sure . . . I s’pose you can if you need to.”
Wyatt looked hard at Peshaur and hitched his head toward the door where Dick Cogswell stood. “Give him your month’s pay . . . unless that was just more talk.”
Peshaur frowned a moment, until his lust for violence brightened his face. He dug into a pocket for a roll of bills, peeled off several, and tossed them at the door. The paper money flew apart and fluttered to the boardwalk. No one made a move for it.
Wyatt pointed. “Next block. Move!”
No fewer than a dozen men clattered down the boardwalk following them. But for the rumble of boots on the tread boards, the walk to Cogswell’s cigar store was as quiet as a cortege. Cogswell unlocked the front door, went in alone, and lighted an oil lamp. Then everyone else filed inside. The sweet pungency of tobacco gave the impression of an exotic land—a place exempt from the laws of Kansas. Cogswell pushed open the door to the back room and stood aside. With a flick of his gun barrel Wyatt motioned Peshaur into the dark room.
“We’ll need the lamp, Dick,” Wyatt said. He handed the revolver to James, removed his coat, and laid it on the counter.
“Well, wait a minute, Wyatt,” Cogswell protested, “what if you start a fire?”
Wyatt pulled his shirt over his head and laid it on top of the coat. “We won’t,” he said and took the lamp from Cogswell. He entered the room and set the lamp on the floor. When he straightened, his elongated shadow spread across the far wall and engulfed Peshaur. The men in the front room watched the door close, the slice of light narrowing until there was only a slit beneath the door.
Those gathered in the dark of the store listened to a light scuffing of boots that soon became a steady shuffle. The dull smacks of fist against flesh ran a gauntlet of rhythms, until a loud crash shook the near wall, making the cigar jars rattle on the shelves. Then a crash to the floor jarred the building, and a muted groan—eerily melodic—trailed off, like a train whistle fading into the distance across the plains.
No more than three minutes had elapsed when the door opened again. Wyatt’s dirty-blond hair fell damp over his forehead. His color was high, and a rime of sweat gave his face and torso the sheen of alabaster. No one spoke to him as he approached the Texans.
“Take him outta town, and tell him he ain’t to come back.”
The Texans tried for a surly look as they sauntered into the back room. There they took a grip on Peshaur’s inert body and began dragging him through the doorway.
James stepped before his brother and squinted. “Well, you look like you’ll live.”
“I need some air,” Wyatt said and picked up his clothes to lead the way outside.
Standing in the cool night air, Wyatt handed his coat to James, and then he donned the new white bl
ouse. Tucking the shirttails into his waistband, he watched Peshaur’s friends help the groggy Texan down the boardwalk.
“All right, Wyatt,” James said, “would you tell me where in hell you learned to fight like that?”
Wyatt bent to inspect the knee of his trousers. The smooth new fabric showed a two-inch tear.
“Can any of those girls at your place sew?” he asked.
“That mousy one, Sally, she’d fall all over herself to do that for you. Good at it, too. Makes her own clothes.” He slapped Wyatt’s shoulder and laughed. “Why don’t you go over to the house and bed her. I think she likes you. Or, if you’re up for it, that Hungarian hell-cat, Kate.”
“My shift at the Gold Room runs till two,” Wyatt said and took back his coat.
James cocked his head with an impish smile. “You know, brother, for all that talk about making a fortune in the cattle business”—he nodded toward the cigar store—“maybe the truth is you’re just cut out for lawin’. Virgil always said you’d wear a badge.”
“This had nothin’ to do with a badge,” Wyatt said, giving James a look.
“Just keep tellin’ yourself that, brother.” James chuckled. He extended the revolver, butt first.
“That belongs behind the bar at the Gold Room,” Wyatt said. “Would you return it for me?”
“Where’re you going?”
Wyatt examined the knee of his trousers again. “Got to change clothes.”
James dropped the pistol into a coat pocket. “We ain’t all bound to get rich, Wyatt . . . but most men never even get the respect for being good at what they can do.”
Wyatt looked up the street. “Respect is good, but I want to make some money, too.”
James squeezed Wyatt’s upper arm. “Well, hell. We all want that, Wyatt,” he said and laughed again as he started up the street.
Cairns stepped beside Wyatt, and together they watched James walk away in his off-kilter gait up the middle of the road, his bad arm swinging out of sync with his stride. “I don’t reckon Smith’ll be payin’ you for this either,” Cairns said dryly. “But, hell . . . I’d’a paid five dollars for a front-row seat in that back room.” He turned and looked at the stillness in Wyatt’s profile.
“I got to go change clothes,” Wyatt said again and turned to cross the street.
“I’ll keep an eye on the Gold Room till you get there,” Cairns called to his back.
When Wyatt came out of the alley, the gibbous moon hung above the buildings to the east—an imperfect circle of stained and yellowed parchment held before a candle flame. The amber color was like a burning memory returning to the forefront of his mind. He thought back to a New Year’s Eve celebration in San Bernardino, just after his family had come west. There he had met the Mexican girl who had ushered him into manhood with her experienced hands. At the same time she had spoken words that had haunted him almost a decade later. Words that were meant to remind him that most men never fulfill their dreams. It was only human to wish for things, she had said, but in the end a man is lucky to fill his belly with food each day.
The orb of moon held him as it floated above the rooftops, its damning eye come to bear witness to the truth that the victory over Peshaur had been an empty one. He had known it from the moment he had arranged the fight. There was no money in it.
He looked down at the torn knee of his new trousers and hummed a low growl that served to sum up his evening spent with a few Texans hell-bent on making life hard for anyone who would suffer their bravado. The sound from his throat was reminiscent of his father’s gruff voice. Picking up his pace again, he strode across the street toward the silhouette of the Sedgwick House. Keeping his eyes straight ahead on the building, he decided to purge everything from his mind that did not involve making more money for himself. With his gait so deliberate, he began to loosen up from the tension of the fight. Still, he was careful not to look again at the judgmental eye of the moon.
CHAPTER 4
October, 1874: Wichita and south to Indian Territory
Autumn had swept across the Kansas plains, marking the end of the cattle drives for the season and ushering out most of the men who had driven stock from Texas. With all of their wages squandered on gambling, liquor, and women, these drovers had exited Wichita more humbly than they had entered. The town seemed to settle into a more respectable version of itself, but the merchants were already planning inventories and strategies to be employed come the next spring when the cowmen would return to stoke the economic fire on which the town depended.
Wyatt had little use for these men who broke the law for sport, but he would miss their contributions at his faro table. With so many unskilled card players gone south, his income at the Gold Room and the Custom House would take a steep decline. There was little chance that he could make up the difference by working for the law. Marshal Billy Smith showed no inclination to associate with the men who had handled Mannen Clements on the bridge. It was his way of saving face, Wyatt supposed. And, besides, there was little need for a special officer in the off-season. Like an old she-bear, Wichita was easing into its wintering den for the cold months, and Wyatt decided to settle in with her.
Sitting in the kitchen at Bessie’s house, James and Wyatt sipped their respective drinks by the wood stove as James regaled his brother with reminiscences of the war. These stories had been locked inside the crippled Earp for a decade; but now, in the quiet of his home and with his tongue loosened by an excess of whiskey, James confided in Wyatt, baring all the privations, worry, and gore that comprised a soldier’s life.
“Prob’ly a damned good thing Pa caught you when you tried to run off to the war,” James summed up, rotating his glass on the table as he gazed into the amber liquid that tried to turn in a slow eddy. His mouth tightened to a crooked smile as he looked up. “Bein’ so young as you were, they’d ’a prob’ly had you carryin’ a flag, and every last one o’ them damned Rebs woulda been wantin’ to take a potshot at you.” He nodded once. “I seen it happen twice to two young’ns barely big enough to boot into a stirrup.” James’s smile slackened, and he glanced at his bad shoulder. “Them damn Southern boys could shoot, too,” he added and allowed a quiet alcoholic sigh to escape his lips.
Wyatt tested his coffee and set it back on the wood stove. “Least you made it back,” he said.
Sally appeared in the doorway and stood quietly until James looked at her.
“There’s a man at the door,” she announced in her mousy voice.
James laughed. “Well, darlin’, I think you know how to handle that, don’t you?” He leaned toward her and spoke slowly, as though mouthing the words for a deaf-mute. “That’s why you’re here, Sally. Go get Bessie to collect the money, and then get to it.”
Her cautious eyes seemed to hold a question. “He wants to see your brother,” she whispered and allowed herself only a guarded glance at Wyatt.
James pulled his pocket watch from his vest and opened the cover. “Who comes lookin’ for Wyatt at three o’clock in the morning?”
Sally stared at James with three lines cut across her pinched forehead. “Said his name was ‘Burns’ or ‘Barnes.’ I’m not sure which.” She pulled in her lower lip with her upper teeth, and her eyes darted from side to side like she was watching an insect fly in a tight circle. “Kinda short and stout,” she said and wrinkled her nose. “He smells like tar.”
Wyatt smiled. “John Behrens. Why don’t you ask him to join us?”
When Behrens entered the warm room, Wyatt was pouring coffee into a new cup. James started to rise but thought better of it and offered his hand from his chair.
“How you doin’, John?” James said, coming alive now like an actor given his cue. “We don’t usually have men show up here at night looking for an ugly ox like my brother. Mostly our late visitors are after the milk cows.” He smiled and pointed down the dark hallway toward the cribs.
Behrens shook hands and nodded a greeting to Wyatt. When Wyatt offered the coffee, Beh
rens took it. Wyatt retrieved his cup and both men sat. Sally hovered in the doorway, staring at Wyatt, until James shooed her back toward the front room.
Behrens tried the coffee, set it down, and looked directly at Wyatt. “How’d you like to help me recover a stolen wagon?”
Wyatt narrowed his eyes. “I didn’t expect any more work comin’ from Smith’s office.”
“Won’t be workin’ for Smith. We’ll be workin’ for Moser . . . that fruit farmer who opened the wagon shop on Main Street. Pay’s good. You and I can split it right down the middle.”
“How much?” Wyatt said.
“Seventy-two dollars, fifty cents . . . each.” For several seconds Behrens watched Wyatt weigh the fee against the trouble. Then he laughed quietly. “The wagon costs a hun’erd forty-six. Moser’s keepin’ a dollar for himself ’cause, he says, he’s a businessman.” Behrens’s smile disappeared as quickly as it had come. “Burns him up that these boys skinned out on ’im like they did.” He leaned his forearms on the table and narrowed his dark eyes. “But we might stand to make a lot more out o’ this. These same skunks put it over on some of the other merchants, too.” His face went hard with the possibilities. “Could add up to a handsome re-ward, so says Moser.”
When Wyatt did not answer, James leaned closer to Behrens and frowned. “How is it you smell like tar?”
Behrens shrugged. “I been doin’ some roofin’ to pick up some cash.” He carried his embarrassed look to Wyatt. “That’s why I wanna go after this wagon. My back is ’bout broke in half from bendin’ over on a damned sloped roof.”
“Who did the stealin’?” Wyatt asked.
“Who else? Texans. That outfit workin’ for Higgenbottom.” Behrens sat back and smirked as he shook his head. “I’d say Texas credit is gone to hell in Wichita.”
“Why doesn’t Smith go after ’em?”
John Behrens’s mouth curled in disgust. “They’re out o’ town limits now. He says it falls to the sheriff.” Behrens snorted a whispery laugh through his nose. “Sheriff figures they’re out o’ the county. Meagher is the only federal deputy in town. Hell, I know he’d go after ’em, but he’s in Topeka. It’s why I wanna go now . . . before Meagher can get wind of it.”