by Mark Warren
Anticipation of the coming cattle drives was high, and every merchant on both sides of the tracks worked diligently to be ready. This driving ethic suggested the town’s visitors held some kind of sway over the town councilmen, which was the very situation that favored a tough enforcer. Dodge needed Wyatt, depended on him to forge the balance that would make the symbiotic relationship work. If he could make a name for himself in the law, in time he should be able to parlay that reputation into a more profitable business.
Just as the cattle season was going full tilt, Wyatt looked up from his faro game at the Long Branch to see a lean, powerfully-built young man standing at the bar. Despite the newcomer’s surge into manhood, Wyatt recognized young Masterson from their days in the buffalo killing fields. Bat limped toward a table where a game of monte was in session, levering his every other step over a wooden walking cane with an ivory grip. Wyatt signaled for a dealer switch and excused himself.
Bat’s eyes turned by instinct to Wyatt’s approach, and when the moment of recognition flashed in his eyes, Bat’s face and neck flushed with color. Pivoting on the cane, he smiled and offered his hand.
“Mr. Earp!”
They shook hands, Bat pumping Wyatt’s arm with the warmth of an old friend. They moved consensually to an unoccupied corner of the bar, and there the two settled in for conversation.
“It’s still ‘Wyatt,’ ” Wyatt said and nodded to the cane. “Heard you took a bullet down at Sweetwater . . . and managed to give one back more effective.”
Bat’s face steeled at the memory. “Sergeant King,” he said through his teeth. “I had to kill the damned sonovabitch.”
“Had a run-in with him in Wichita,” Wyatt said. “He prob’ly needed killin’.”
Bat nodded, and gradually his features softened. “It was over a woman,” he said quietly. “She took a bullet for me. Stepped right in the way . . . on purpose, I mean. Can you imagine a woman doin’ that?”
Bat’s face seemed to fill with heat, and for a brief moment Wyatt saw what the ex-soldier in Sweetwater must have seen in Masterson’s eyes before his life was forfeit. Wyatt gestured with a hand toward the lame leg.
“How bad is it?”
Masterson shrugged off any complaint. “I can ride . . . and I reckon I can walk wherever my horse can’t go.” He looked down at his hip as if appraising a cut of meat at a butcher shop. “Stoves up sometimes, but a hot bath’ll get me goin’ again.” He looked up with a perverse smile. “I’d say I’m gettin’ ’round a lot better’n King is.”
“You got work lined up in Dodge?”
Masterson looked around the room and nodded at the table where a winner raked in his chips at a monte game. “Long as there’s cards and men who are lookin’ to lose some money, I reckon I’ll be satisfactorily employed.”
“I mean steady wages,” Wyatt said. “You interested in that?”
“That depends . . . on what I’d be doin’ . . . how much I’d be makin’ . . . and who I’d be working for.”
Wyatt leaned on the bar and lowered his voice. “You’ll be banging Texas heads, making fifty a month, and working for me.”
Bat leaned to study the metal scroll pinned to the front of Wyatt’s shirt. “You’re the marshal?”
“Assistant,” Wyatt corrected. “Marshal’s job is mostly behind a desk. Like I said, you’ll be working for me.”
Masterson gazed down at his game leg and pursed his lips. When his head came up, his pale-blue eyes were like steel.
“Hell, yes. And I got a brother in town.”
“Ed?” Wyatt asked.
Bat shook his head. “Jim. He’s one you ain’t met.”
Wyatt pursed his lips and studied the room. “Well,” he said, “let’s go meet him.”
They made a good team—Wyatt and Bat and Jim Masterson. Wyatt and Bat groomed the reputations that followed them by way of the town gossips. Wyatt for the stories of his face-offs with Ben Thompson in Ellsworth, and Mannen Clements and Big George Peshaur in Wichita. Bat for killing his man in Sweetwater and for his part as an Indian fighter at Adobe Walls. Such talk, both lawmen learned, was a helpful tool. No one doubted that either man would follow through on his threats to any challenger who tested the law. Reputation, the two friends agreed, was more than half the battle in backing down a troublemaker.
Bat’s apprenticeship as a lawman was a short one. Wyatt’s method of aggressively keeping the upper hand on the Texans made sense to Masterson. When there was trouble, one officer backed up the point man with a shotgun from an angle visible to the offender but distant enough to allow the arresting officer room to operate in an independent fashion. The appearance of one-on-one confrontation was less likely to agitate the spectating Texans.
When point man, Bat employed vitriolic intimidation, heaping a spate of crude epithets upon his antagonist. Wyatt’s way was quieter, letting the unspoken certainty of his unyielding rule make its own statement. Both methods proved effective. Wyatt insisted that, whenever possible, a deputy consider his revolver a club for buffaloing offenders. Among the town merchants there was some criticism about slamming a gun against a man’s skull, but Wyatt’s response was always the same: “A man would rather have a sore head than a gravestone. And besides, he’ll be back to spend his money the next day.”
CHAPTER 13
Summer, 1876, through spring, 1877: Dodge City to Deadwood, Dakota Territory, and back
In midsummer Morgan arrived from Wichita and served out the rest of the season as a deputy. He was every inch of Wyatt’s six feet, and as soon as he let his moustaches grow, he was often mistaken for his older brother on the streets—a mix-up that never failed to bring a smile to his boyish eyes.
At the end of summer when the drover population dwindled, the two brothers declined the off-season pay cut and struck out for the Black Hills, where the latest gold strike had heated the northern plains country to a grab-what-you-can fever. For Wyatt, prospecting held the potential to put lawing behind him and to lift him up to the successful business status he craved. And the time away from Mattie might do some good for both of them. When she tried to argue the point, it eventually narrowed down to one immutable fact. With her frail constitution, Mattie could not endure a harsh winter in the Black Hills, where the temperature commonly plummeted below zero.
Before he left town, he paid the hotel manager an advance rent to cover four months, and he left Mattie enough money to keep from whoring. Finally, he encouraged her to find work as a seamstress, telling her she needed to see people, to expand the limits of her world. He mentioned nothing about her habit with whiskey and laudanum. There were some things about which he could do nothing, and this was one.
Sitting at the window, she had appeared to listen to every word as she mended one of his shirts. At last she looked up, and, speaking in the breathy, dreamlike voice that had become an anthem of her resigned ways, she offered only four words.
“I’ll be here, Wyatt.”
With few claims available in Deadwood, the two Earp brothers adapted by reviving Wyatt’s old profession of cutting and delivering firewood, this time in several feet of snow. Split wood was “gold” in the camp, and with the inflated economy of the strike, Wyatt could charge three times what he’d made in the Indian Territory. Converting a cheap wagon into a sled, the Earps did more than survive. They turned a handsome profit.
When the spring thaw began a steady drip from the roof of their rented shed, Wyatt returned from feeding the horses and found Morgan still lazing under a pile of blankets on the pallet he had dragged close to the wood stove. Wyatt nudged his brother with the toe of his boot.
“How’d you come out last night?”
Morgan stretched and smiled. “Lost forty at the Number Ten, then went down to the Red Bird and won back forty-two.” He laughed. “I think that’s what a dog calls ‘chasin’ your tail.’ What about you?”
“Picked up a hundred supplyin’ wood for a private game.”
Morgan sat up, his eyes
alert beneath a veil of disheveled hair. “A hundred!”
“Those boys were serious about their game. Winners didn’t want the losers leavin’ on account o’ the cold. After that I hunted up a game at the Shingle. At the end of the night I sold our sled to a butcher.”
Morgan’s gaze remained glued to his brother as Wyatt shed his heavy coat, scarf, and mittens. “So how’n hell’re we gonna haul firewood without the sled?”
Wyatt opened the firebox and added split sticks of spruce. The resinous aroma of the evergreen sap had permeated everything they owned over the last months.
“How’d you like to head back to Dodge and make good wages just for the travelin’?”
Morg snorted. “I can’t leave this ice box soon enough.” Then he frowned. “Who’s payin’ us to leave?”
“Cheyenne and Black Hills Stage Company. They’re runnin’ bullion to Cheyenne and want you and me to guard it.”
Morgan rousted himself from the blankets and began pulling on his trousers. “This is about those holdups we been hearin’ about, ain’t it?”
Wyatt nodded. “Company can’t afford to have this shipment waylaid.” He picked up his brother’s boots from under the stove. “Still wet,” he said and propped them on the bench to better receive the heat.
Morg rubbed at the sleep in his eyes, pulled a blanket from his bedding, and wrapped it around his shoulders as he huddled near the stove. “Shit, it’s cold as hell!” He gathered the dank wool tighter to his throat. “So when are we leavin’?”
Wyatt stepped outside and scooped snow into the kettle. When he returned, Morgan was still waiting for an answer.
“Three days,” Wyatt said and set the kettle on the stove, where for a moment it sizzled like a hot branding iron pressed into a cow’s hairy hide. “We need to start sellin’ off the rest of our gear . . . axes, ropes, pulleys, and extra blankets . . . anything we don’t wanna carry with us. We’ll tether our horses to the stage.”
Morgan stretched his arms and arched his spine. “Well, then . . . I’ll see can I sell this damned ache in my back from sleepin’ on this goddamned cold floor.” He stopped the motion and looked at Wyatt with the same twinkle in his eye he had used as a boy when he was up to no good. “You interested?” he quipped and patted his own back. “Bein’ family and all, I’ll give you a good price.”
Wyatt cracked half a smile. “Already got one.”
On the second day out from Deadwood, Wyatt caught sight of five men paralleling the stage route off from the main road in the trees. When the horsemen remained steadily just behind and on their right side for a full hour, Wyatt instructed the driver to stop in the next clearing that afforded a view in every direction. Then he leaned off the side, taking a grip on the luggage rail, and spoke into the coach to Morgan.
“We got five riders been doggin’ us for as many miles. Keep your eyes open to the north, ’bout sixty yards out. We’re gonna stop up ahead and see what happens.”
On the rise of a barren knoll the stage rolled to a stop. Wyatt watched as the distant party emerged from a boulder field, stopped, and then backed their horses into a coulee.
“See that, Morg?” Wyatt called just loud enough to be heard inside the coach.
“I saw it,” Morgan replied.
The stage stayed put for a full minute. Finally, the nervous driver turned an anxious face to Wyatt.
“Can we get the hell outta here now?”
Wyatt held up a finger for the man to wait. After a few seconds one of the riders showed himself but then circled back to disappear behind the rocks.
“Take ’er forward a little and stop the coach where your team is standing now.”
The driver’s face tightened with confusion, but he did as he was told. After easing the horses on, he pulled up again on the reins.
As soon as the stage came to its second halt, all five horsemen came into view and immediately reined to a halt themselves. Wyatt leveled his Winchester and shot into the boulder nearest the group. Pieces of rock shattered and sprayed into the air as the bullet whined off into the distance carrying the sharp whistle of a ricochet. Pumping the lever of his rifle, he sent five more rounds into the same boulder, the air seeming to fill with a sustained explosion. Dust and shards flew off the rock like fireworks. The riders milled about in a small chaos for a time, until they got their mounts under control and sought the refuge of the rocks again.
When the quiet gathered back around the stage, Morgan yelled from the coach, “How the hell’d you miss like that?”
“Didn’t,” Wyatt replied. “Hold quiet a minute. Maybe that’s the end of it.”
They waited another two minutes but never saw horse nor rider appear again.
“Can I go now?” begged the driver.
“Go!” Wyatt said.
Picking up momentum again the stage rumbled down the trail. Morgan crawled out of the coach and climbed onto the luggage rack.
“Why in hell didn’t you shoot one o’ them jaspers?” Morg said as he lay low on the bucking top.
“Didn’t need to,” Wyatt replied. “I reckon they’re sufficiently persuaded to wait on the next coach.” He turned to look at his brother. “Wouldn’t you be?”
Morg craned around to inspect their back-trail. There was not a soul in sight as far as the eye could see. When he turned back to Wyatt, Morg’s eyes crinkled with good humor.
“You reckon they’re back there buryin’ that damn boulder? ’Cause you sure as hell killed that damn rock.”
Because the trip went without further incident, the Earp brothers found themselves in good standing with both the stage line and Wells, Fargo Securities Company. They received handsome wages and a standing offer at employment, which, because Wyatt turned it down, Morg also declined.
Returned to their saddle horses, and with their pack mounts trailing behind, they were four days out of Denver just coming into the Smoky Hill country of west Kansas when Morg turned the conversation toward his disdain for cold weather. He slipped a boot from his stirrup, studied it, and cursed the Black Hills.
“I reckon my toes can stand to never see another drift of snow in this lifetime. I don’t know how people live up there in winter.”
“People will tolerate a lot to get rich,” Wyatt said.
Morg laughed. “Then there’s us, a day late and a dollar short, sloshin’ ’round in the cold to keep the stove pipes smokin’. These toes o’ mine have tolerated a hell of a lot without the gettin’ rich part.”
“We came out better’n most,” Wyatt said. “We packed in there too late, that’s all.”
Morg nodded, but Wyatt could see in his brother’s face that there was more to it. “Wyatt, you gonna stick with lawin’? We ain’t exactly getting rich in Dodge.”
“Lawin’ can lead to other things. You get to know the right people.”
“So, why’d you walk away from the Wells, Fargo’s offer? They got ‘the right people,’ too, ain’t they?”
“I don’t care to be a target settin’ up on a coach box every day. The odds are bad for a shotgun messenger.”
Bouncing in his saddle like a greenhorn, Morg led the way across the Smoky Hill River, making a point to raise his boots up high. He was smiling on the other side, while Wyatt let his horses drink in the middle of the stream. When they were back into their rhythm on the trail, Morgan grew pensive again.
“So, you’re figurin’ on stayin’ in Dodge?”
Wyatt combed a wayward strand of the chestnut’s mane to fall on its natural side. “I still got some things I need to work out there.”
Morgan’s face was dead earnest now. “Business dealings?”
Wyatt nodded, but it was Mattie he was thinking about.
CHAPTER 14
Spring, summer 1877: Dodge City, Kansas
When they rode into Dodge at mid-morning, Wyatt and Morgan stopped at the Long Branch saloon and found the room almost empty. Chalkley Beeson, the owner, was pulling down spider webs from a corner of the ceiling wit
h a long-handled broom in one hand and a billiards cue in the other.
“Chalk,” Morgan greeted, “break out the band. I’m back!”
They shook hands all around. Morgan stepped behind the bar and began checking the kegs on tap. Beeson leaned on his billiards stick and shook his head at the younger Earp.
“I haven’t forgot what you like, Morg.” He prodded Morgan with the stick. “Coffee, Wyatt?” When Wyatt nodded, the saloon man crossed to the stove and returned with a pot. “Let me catch you boys up on what’s happened.” He poured two coffees and a beer, and they sat at a table near the bar.
The only other customer sat in a back corner slumped over a table, the flattened crown of his hat serving as a pillow as he snored through his open mouth. An empty bottle stood at his elbow, an empty shot glass still cupped loosely in one hand.
“Well,” Chalk began, his smile like that of a man trying to hold back the punch line of a joke, “Kelley beat out Hoover for the mayor’s office, but he kept Deger as marshal.” Beeson looked from one Earp brother to the other, smiling, waiting for a reaction.
“Kelley is thinkin’ about the next election,” Wyatt said. “Tryin’ to lock up the German vote.”
Beeson pointed at Wyatt and winked. “That’s the way I read it, too.” The saloon keeper spewed a stream of air through pursed lips. “Why else would he keep the big elephant? Deger can’t hardly get out of his bed in the morning as I hear it.”
Morgan wiped his upper lip with the sleeve of his blouse. “Aw, don’t be too hard on the old German,” Morg said straight-faced. “Not many men could hold down that office as well as he does.” When Beeson took on a bewildered look, Morg laughed. “Three hundred fifty pounds worth o’ holdin’ down!”
Chalk gave Morgan a sidewise glance but couldn’t keep from smiling. He turned his focus on Wyatt.