by Mark Warren
Approaching the bridge Wyatt heard his name called from James’s house. Turning, he spotted his brother leaning out of the same window through which he had expelled the hotelier, Black. James was waving him over, so Wyatt turned into the side yard and stopped by the spring wagon.
“I hear you ’bout shot your fool head off the other night,” James yelled over the wind.
Wyatt frowned at his brother. “You been talkin’ to Morg?”
James laughed. “I ain’t seen ’im.” He disappeared inside the room for a few moments. When he returned, he held out a rolled newspaper. Wyatt moved to the window and took the new edition of the Wichita Beacon. “Second page!” James instructed, trading his amused smile for one of brotherly concern.
Fighting the wind, Wyatt opened the paper and folded it by sections until he found the article. It was all there: the Custom House, the accidental discharge of his pistol, even a quote from one of the patrons, who thought the saloon was under siege. As he read, Wyatt felt the heat of anger rise in his blood. At the same time, some of his half-made plans began sinking in his gut, like a piece of bad food that would take its toll on him no matter what else he did.
When he finished reading, he looked up to see the window closed on its crude leather hinges. He slapped the paper against his leg and walked through the sparse weeds and desiccated grass of the front yard to stand on the bluff above the semi-frozen river. There he stood for a while, just listening to the water break around the bridge pilings beneath the erratic fluctuations of the wind. At the center of the current the water flowed swiftly, indifferent to the fringe of ice working its way from the shorelines. Across the wide swath of the river Delano spewed narrow flumes of smoke from the scattered chimneys and stovepipes of its sundry businesses—a barrage of white streams that angled sharply on the wind and spread into gauzy plumes that were eventually lost in the gray of the sky.
He looked back at the house, where James now stood on his front porch with a blanket wrapped around his shoulders. Unwrapping an arm free James cupped a hand to his mouth.
“To hell with ’em,” he yelled to Wyatt. “They ain’t got nothin’ else to write about, I reckon.” James stood for a while, flexing his knees and shivering. Finally he turned around and went back inside. When the door shut, Wyatt turned back to the water.
In time his blood cooled, and he settled his mind to accept what had happened. Some things could not be helped, he knew. Everything in the past was set in stone. There was nothing that could change it. But this was a mistake he would not revisit again in his lifetime. Even then, as he stood on the bridge, the hammer of his Colt’s rested upon an empty chamber.
“Well,” he said to no one and glanced at the article again. “They finally spelled my name right.”
CHAPTER 11
Spring, 1876: Wichita, Kansas
By the time city elections came around again, Billy Smith had repositioned himself into the public eye, fanning the hope of regaining his old post as city marshal. On a night with a cold wind blowing down from the north, Wyatt walked into the warmth of the Gold Room to find Smith loudly espousing his own virtues, asking the listeners to consider the prudence of having a police chief who was literate and adept at diplomacy when it came to negotiating with cattlemen and the city council.
Waving a beer mug before him, Smith drove home his points like a seasoned politician. Every man standing before him held an identical mug on the ex-marshal’s tab. Wyatt walked to the bar, propped a foot on the boot rail, and listened. Smith did not acknowledge him, but most eyes in the room cut to Wyatt, whose silent stare served as effectively as half of an impromptu debate. One by one the men shuffled off to the tables to drink among themselves.
Finally noticing Wyatt’s presence, Smith managed a congenial wrap-up of his speech, paid his bill, and walked out. Wyatt followed him to Rupp’s and waited outside as the politician bought drinks all around and began his oration again, at which time Wyatt repeated his silent interruption. Just like at the Gold Room, the audience retired to card games and private conversations. Not once did Smith look at Wyatt as he walked out of the establishment and headed for his home.
The next morning, on the eve of the election, when Wyatt checked in at the office, Meagher was waiting for him. “Don’t do me any good at the polls if people think we’re intimidatin’ my opponent. I want you to lay off Smith, you hear me? Let him dig his own hole.”
“You don’t mind being called ‘illiterate’ in front of the town?”
Meagher didn’t look up from the warrants he sorted. “D’pends on what it means.”
“Means you don’t read or write.”
“I don’t care if people think I don’t spend my day gawkin’ at a goddamned book. What I care about is doing my job. Let it go, understand? Finish collecting the taxes in the business district.”
That night in front of the post office Behrens passed Wyatt on his rounds. “Smith’s over at Rupp’s flapping his jaw. Best not go over there.”
“Got him a crowd?”
“Oh, yeah. As many as he can buy a beer for. Your brother’s over there.”
“Well, he works there.”
“No, I mean Morgan.”
Wyatt went very still for a few seconds and then started down the street, already imagining the catcalls Morg might contribute to the meeting. He stopped just inside Rupp’s doors and looked over the crowd. Morgan sat in a card game, none of whose participants were listening to Smith’s discourse at the bar. Still, Wyatt saw the prudence of removing his brother from the room, so he stepped through the door and walked past Smith to his brother’s table.
“Morg,” Wyatt said leaning to Morgan’s ear, “I need to talk with you . . . outside.”
Morgan looked up and feigned surprise, his deputy badge flashing on his vest. “What! And miss this pretty speech?” He said it loud enough that Smith faltered for a moment. “B’sides,” Morg went on, keeping up a performance, “be hard to throw in a hand like this.” He turned his cards for Wyatt to read: a pair of fours, a six of spades, a ten of hearts, and a diamond queen. But for the twinkle in his eye, Morgan’s face was as somber as a preacher’s.
“I’ll be outside,” Wyatt said. “Come on out after this hand.”
On the boardwalk Wyatt leaned against the wall and lipped a fresh cigar. Billy Smith’s ardor seemed to intensify after Wyatt’s exit. Morgan walked out, laughing.
“I don’t know who’s the bigger bluff: me with a pair of fours or Smith and his silver-tongued lies.” He frisked Wyatt’s coat and copped a cigar. Wyatt cupped a match for both of them.
“Meagher wants me to steer clear of Smith until after the election. I reckon that extends to you, too. Smith has a way of saying things that get under my skin. Probably go the same with you.”
Morgan struck a pose of mock surprise and flattened a hand to his chest. “You’re saying I need more restraint as a lawman?”
Wyatt ignored the theatrics and watched the wind whip up wisps of snow from the edge of the street. “Why don’t you make the rounds with me?”
Before Morgan could answer, both brothers heard the name “Earp” ring clearly from the nimble lips of Billy Smith. In unison, they turned their heads and stood very still.
“Seems we got a lot of these Earps on the city payroll,” Smith continued. “Then there’s the one who runs the brothel down near the river on our side of the bridge. It would seem this Earp family has charmed our present police chief.” So captive did Smith’s charismatic gift of oratory hold the room that Wyatt could hear every nuance of the man’s dainty speech. “If Meagher wins this election, who do you think will be his deputies? Which whorehouse will be exempt from the laws on this side of the river? Say, maybe we should just start over here . . . and rename our town ‘Earp City.’ ”
As the theme veered into the moral uplifting of a growing Wichita, Wyatt re-entered the room and walked straight to Smith, who was leaning toward his listeners, chopping both hands in the air like cleavers to emp
hasize a point. When he noticed Wyatt, his hands lowered, and he straightened. The silence in the room was a sound unto itself.
“You’re mighty damned loose with the names of my brothers and me.”
Smith pasted on his congenial smile. “Do you deny, Wyatt, that Meagher would hire your whole clan full-time if reelected?”
“I can’t speak for him, but if he did re-hire us, in my estimation, it would be to the benefit of Wichita.” Wyatt’s deep, sandy voice was unruffled, but his ice-blue eyes were cold as the night.
“Well, that might be a matter up for debate,” Smith countered with an irritating chuckle, “unless Wichita is planning to expand its whore market. Your brother James is in violation of the law as we speak.”
Wyatt held his hard stare on Billy Smith’s know-it-all smirk. “Same thing he was doing when you were marshal.”
Smith’s smile broadened, and he cocked his head toward the floor as though the statement amused him. “Well,” he purred, “at least he’s supplying some of the town with respectable wives.” He grinned and winked at someone in the front row.
Smith might as well have used Mattie’s name. Wyatt slapped him across the face, and Smith stumbled back into the bar, where he steadied himself and touched the back of a hand to his lip.
“Is this some of Meagher’s campaign plan, Earp? To quiet me with your roughshod ways?” His voice trembled beneath an attempt at laughter. “You couldn’t have made my point for me any better, now, could you?”
“You speak of my personal life again, and I’ll make your points even clearer.”
“Are you threatening me in front of these men?”
“You’re goddamned right I am.”
Smith swallowed and lifted his chin. “This is about you living with a whore, isn’t it?”
The air in the room seemed to crack when Wyatt slapped him again. The sting of this blow purged Smith of all rational thought, and he lunged at Wyatt. Wyatt brushed aside the oncoming arms and drove his fist into Smith’s face before someone grabbed him from behind.
“That’s enough, Wyatt! Goddammit! Back off!” Marshal Meagher’s commands carried the iron ring of authority. Wyatt glared at the bleeding Smith, who managed a look of vindication. Meagher turned his deputy to face him. “Get down to my office and wait on me.”
Wyatt ran his fingers through his hair, picked up his hat, and walked out the door, not speaking to his brother on the boardwalk. Morgan grinned and watched his brother march down the street.
“Don’t you worry, Wyatt,” Morg called to his back, “I’m gonna work on that self-restraint.”
When Meagher entered the city offices, Wyatt stood with one boot on the bench and stared out the window as he sipped from a cup of coffee. The marshal hung up his coat, racked his gun belt, and sat down at his desk, never once looking at his deputy.
“You don’t leave a man much choice, Wyatt. You and Behrens are the best I got, but there’s a hellava lot more to lawin’ than being a hard-ass.” He swiped a newspaper off his desk, and the paper fell to the floor. The tendons in Meagher’s jaw stood out like pulsing chunks of stone. “I’d like to slap the silly son of a bitch around myself, but now if I don’t come down on you, this won’t go right for me.” The marshal punched a finger down on his desk. “Lay down your badge.”
Wyatt’s face remained impassive. He crossed the room, unpinned his deputy’s badge from his vest, and set it down on the desk. Meagher jerked open a drawer, threw the metal shield inside, and slammed the drawer shut. The two men stared at one another for a time, before Meagher took a cigar from the jar on his desk and bit off the tapered point. The matches sat right in front of him, but he only chewed on the cigar and glared at the desktop. Finally he removed the cigar and stuffed it into his shirt pocket.
“Shit,” he said, stood, and walked to the coat rack. “Now I got to go tell somebody with a loose tongue that I suspended you.” He stabbed his arms through his coat sleeves and marched back out into the night.
Meagher won the election handily. After a time he deemed appropriate, he put Wyatt back on the police force. But after Wyatt’s thirty-dollar court fine for slapping Billy Smith and lost pay over the last weeks, there was a palpable tension in the office. While Behrens and Jimmy Cairns tiptoed around it, Meagher ignored it. Wyatt did his work, and that was all Meagher cared about. As long as there was the trust to be backed up if he got into a corner, Meagher could cohabitate with a rattlesnake. This had been the defining nature of their tacit pact from the beginning. Both were men of business.
The city council was not so forgiving. In their meetings, the names of cattle barons like Mannen Clements took on the resonance of financial saviors of the town. Anticipation of the coming season’s commerce was high; the city fathers put out of mind the downside of being taken over by the rowdy cattle crews that spread their money all over Wichita. When a council majority vote declared that Earp must go, Meagher sat down with Wyatt and told it straight.
“I don’t think you should write it off completely,” the marshal explained. “They voted three times, and each time the vote was more to your favor. I’m going to do what I can for you. The force needs you, Wyatt. If you can hang loose a little while, we might can get you reappointed.”
Wyatt’s face betrayed no emotion. He had expected this. When he laid down his badge this second time, Meagher looked him in the eye.
“You understand this has got nothing to do with you and me. This is all about city business . . . and those fat jaspers that pay our salaries.”
“I know that,” Wyatt said.
Meagher sat and picked up a sheaf of papers. “I got to get a telegraph off,” he said, but he remained at his desk. It was the first time Wyatt had seen him tap papers on their edges to straighten them. Meagher did it three times on three different edges, and then he stood and walked out.
For a time Wyatt stared at the badge lying on the desk. Then he donned his coat and walked out into the growing dark, where John Behrens stood on the boardwalk as if he had been waiting for him.
“Got a minute, Wyatt?” John asked.
When Behrens turned, Wyatt followed him across the street into the dark alley beside the billiards parlor. There they stopped just past the lighted window and faced one another, Behrens leaning against the clapboard wall and Wyatt standing before him straight as an awning post. Behrens pushed his hands into his coat pockets and stiffened his arms so that his shoulders shrugged up near his ears.
“I know what Meagher told you, Wyatt. But the town ain’t gonna renew your appointment. Not ever. Billy Smith’s got too many friends in the council. I’m just tellin’ you this ’cause we’re friends.”
Wyatt looked deeper into the alley where the darkness was as complete as the bottom of a well. “So I ain’t got much future here . . . not in lawin’ anyway.”
Behrens’s eyes widened like an apology. “Maybe not in any business. Smith ain’t much at runnin’ a town, but he’s got his fingers pretty deep in the big pie. Merchants listen to what he has to say.”
Wyatt nodded and kept staring into the boxed end of the alley.
“There’s more, Wyatt,” Behrens said and stepped in front of him. “The mayor of Dodge City put out word through a friend of mine that any time I wanted a job there on the force, it’s mine.” Behrens’s words poured out faster now, carrying a new energy that held Wyatt’s attention. “Word is, he likes his lawmen tough. Hell, most o’ what I done here worth talking about, I done it with you. We made a damned good team. So, if Dodge wants me, it’s the same as sayin’ they want you. The fact is, I don’t care to leave Wichita right now. I got other prospects here. But if you’re interested, I figure I can write a letter for you.”
“I was in Dodge a while back. Mostly just a hangout for buffalo hunters and sharpers in the gambling houses.”
Behrens snorted. “Well, it’s the mother of all hell now, is what I hear. With the Santa Fe rail runnin’ right through its main street, Dodge will draw more Texas long
horns this season than Wichita ever did. You want to bang some heads, Dodge City is your place. Half the state of Texas will be there come a coupl’a months from now.”
“What’s the pay?”
Behrens snorted again. “Ain’t nobody gonna get rich wearin’ a city badge, Wyatt, you know that. Meager only makes half again what us deputies do. Only lawman pullin’ in any money is the fat-cat sheriff, collectin’ taxes from all over the county”—John raised his right hand between them and rubbed the pad of his thumb against his fingertips—“and keepin’ a good goddam percentage of it. But you got to get elected to that post. To get elected, you got to put in the time, let people get to know you, shake a lotta hands, and take a lotta guff off the city fathers.” Behrens made a sour face. “But that ain’t you, Wyatt . . . ’specially here in Wichita with people like Billy Smith to poke a stick into your wheel spokes.”
Wyatt listened to the click of billiard balls through the wall and thought about a town still wild and wide open, a place he could start fresh again. After putting in so much time trying to establish himself in Wichita, he was mildly surprised at the appeal of a new town and a new start in lawing.
“I’ll think on it, John.”
“There’s one more thing,” Behrens said and dug a hand into his trouser pocket. Bringing out a wrinkled envelope, he opened the seal and peered down at its contents. “Town council’s withholding your pay for the time when Meagher brought you back on the force. This should cover it.”
Wyatt took the envelope and inside it found a half-inch stack of bills. “Where’d this come from?”
“That includes the thirty dollars you had to pay for slappin’ Smith around,” John added with a smirk.
Wyatt stared at his friend until Behrens’s smile dissolved. “You didn’t answer my question, John.”
Behrens ran his tongue over his teeth. “It’s from the city taxes we collected.” He pushed back the brim of his hat and frowned at Wyatt. “Don’t git righteous on me, now. If you don’t take it, it’ll prob’ly go toward a new spittoon for the mayor’s office . . . that or line some damn councilman’s bottomless pocket.”