by Mark Warren
“Bad news?”
Wyatt fired up the cigar. “My youngest brother, Warren, is coming in from California.”
“ ’Nother apple off the tree, huh?” Dodge said.
Wyatt nursed the smoke and nodded, but he was thinking less about an apple than a prickly pear cactus. Already he was putting together the verbal contract he would need to deliver to Warren for the sake of the Earps’ standing among the citizens of Tombstone.
“I reckon with Bob Paul as sheriff of Pima County,” Wyatt said, “Wells, Fargo stands to benefit more’n most.” He made a small turning motion with the hand holding the cigar, gesturing the obvious. “They got the most to lose from the road agents.”
Dodge laughed, but there was no humor in it. “I’d like to see Ike Clanton’s face when the election results are reversed.”
“You’re that sure we can turn it around?”
Dodge lightly slapped his palm to the desk. “With Wells, Fargo behind us? I’m damned sure of it.”
Wyatt turned his attention to the front window for a moment, staring through the shade as if he could see all the way across the county. “Good,” he said finally, thinking of a newly divided silver-rich county of which he planned to be sheriff. Then he looked back at Dodge and narrowed his eyes. “Why’d you bring me here? You could have told me all this in the alley.”
Fred held up the collection of keys by the loop of string that connected them. They clinked once and swung in a small circle, catching light from the oil lamp in quick blinks and flashes.
“Seein’ is believin’,” Dodge said and turned to nod at the floor safe. “And to ask you to help me—whenever you’re here with Williams—to keep an eye on how he operates in this office.” Fred looked back at Wyatt. “Can you do that?”
Wyatt’s thoughts drifted back to Missouri to a time when he, as constable, had rationalized skimming money from a fine he had collected from a violator . . . and from the county’s school funds. And then again he had done it as a deputy in Wichita.
Fred Dodge tilted his head to one side and stared pointedly into Wyatt’s eyes. “Wyatt?”
“I’ll keep an eye out,” he replied and stood.
Fred stood and offered his hand. The two men shook with a firm grip.
“I’m sorry if this cuts against your family ties, but you can’t tell anyone. Not even your brothers.”
Wyatt made no response, neither vocal nor by expression. He snugged his hat to his head and walked to the door. There he turned the latch and looked back at Dodge.
“You gonna snuff that lamp?”
Fred made no move for the lamp. He stared down at the desk again, and, when his head came up, his brow was furrowed and his skin flushed.
“Hell, I know you’ll keep it tight. It’s why I told you ’bout me in the first place. I just needed to ask.”
This time Wyatt nodded and peered out through the crack in the shade. When he heard Fred blow out the flame behind him, the room went dark. Opening the door, he stepped out on the boardwalk, quietly closed the door behind him, and walked west toward the Oriental to open his faro table.
CHAPTER 7
Fall 1880: Tombstone, A. T.
Within the week, the youngest Earp brother arrived by stage and moved into Wyatt’s house, as Warren would have it no other way. Taller and more filled out toward being a man, he carried a certain nervous energy that kept him in constant motion. For this reason, Wyatt gave him most of the menial jobs that had to be done for both households: sawing and splitting firewood, grooming the horses, hauling water from the Huachuca Company’s storage tank just outside of town, and packing in groceries for the Earp women.
On the night of the recount, as Wyatt ran his faro game at the Oriental, Warren appeared wearing a new black coat just like Wyatt’s. He stood across the table with his fists clenched and his boots spread, as if trying to root to the floor.
“I’m sick o’ all this women’s work, Wyatt,” Warren challenged, his face glowing with the heat that seemed as much a part of his identity as the dark hair that set him apart from his brothers. “I’m ready for somethin’ with more grit to it. Thinkin’ I might like to wear a badge.”
With just a glance Wyatt passed a mute apology to his lone customer and raked the chips toward himself from the layout. “Can we talk about this later?” he suggested.
Warren’s chin lifted. “I want to talk about it now.”
The customer—a portly miner who, judging by the half smile playing on his lips, must have claimed a younger brother, too—gathered up his chips and dropped them into his hat. “Think I’ll have a drink,” he said and lumbered off toward the bar. Warren took the vacated chair.
Wyatt, watching the miner veer off to another table, stacked the loose cards onto the deck, shuffled, and loaded them into the box. When he closed the box, he looked pointedly at Warren.
“Badges are not so easy to come by these days.”
Warren frowned at the layout and fingered the painted king on the layout cloth. “Then what about Wells, Fargo? I could ride for them, couldn’t I?”
Wyatt surveyed the room and took in a lot of air. As he eased out the breath, he watched a slender, well-groomed man with a receding hairline enter the saloon and belly up to the bar, where he bought drinks for several men standing there. Even without having met him, Wyatt knew the newcomer was Johnny Behan, confirming it when the man draped back one side of his coat to slide a hand into his trouser pocket. On his vest he wore the same badge that had been pinned to Wyatt’s chest just a few weeks before.
“Warren,” Wyatt began, his manner relaxed, “b’fore you start workin’ with other people—outside the family, I mean—you’re gonna need to understand how to deal with ’em.”
Warren’s face flushed and closed down with anger. “What the hell is that s’posed to mean?”
Wyatt nodded toward his faro table. “Take right here, for example. You just cost me some money.”
The youngest Earp glared at the card icons imprinted on the cloth. He opened his mouth to argue but then only frowned at the layout. When he looked at Wyatt again, his heated face was wrestling with the first traces of contrition.
“I did?”
Wyatt nodded. “I figure you can pay me back tomorrow. My mare and my gelding need a washin’ b’fore it gets too cold.”
Warren’s shoulders sagged, and he cursed under his breath. Dropping an elbow on the table, he buried his fingers into his dark hair and then propped his chin in his hand as he stared into his brother’s eyes. Wyatt nodded to a chair two seats away.
“Sit over there and watch the game for a spell. See what you can pick up.”
Warren’s hand dropped to the table as he perked up. “You mean about faro?”
Wyatt shook his head. “About the people who play it.”
Warren pushed back the chair and stripped off his coat as he rose. “I’ll stand,” he said. “So you can give the seats to your customers.”
Right on cue, the stout miner was back, taking the chair Warren had vacated. Wyatt watched Johnny Behan conclude his social obligations at the bar, then talk pleasantly to each man he encountered on his way to the gaming tables. Finally, he stopped across from Wyatt’s layout and smiled.
“Mr. Earp?” Behan removed his hat and swept it toward an empty chair. “May I?” His Irish accent carried a lilt that was almost musical, delivered like an actor on a stage.
“Have a seat,” Wyatt invited. “We were just about to place bets.”
Behan widened his smile, stepped around the corner of the table, and offered his hand. “I’m Johnny Behan, the new deputy sheriff in Tombstone. I’ve heard good things about you.”
Wyatt took the man’s willowy hand and shook. “Wyatt Earp.”
A cloying, rose-scented pomade lifted off the deputy’s body, and Wyatt regretted that he now carried that scent on his own hand. When Behan took a seat beside the miner, he fanned open his coat to free the tails, and the badge flashed briefly like a teasing win
k. Digging into his inside breast pocket, Behan produced a long wallet and removed a sheaf of bills.
“Let me have twenty dollars worth of chips, Wyatt. Better make them dollar chips.” He smiled at the men sitting around him. “That way I can enjoy losing my money over a long stretch.” He laughed as if he had said something amusing. “You know, rather than all at once. It’s so depressing when you go broke on the first play, eh, boys?”
Behan’s silky voice elicited modest laughter from the miner. Warren studied the deputy but made no response. Two small-time bettors joined them at the table and stacked their chips before them. When Wyatt called for the bets to be laid down, Behan was the last to decide. He placed one chip on the king, then one on the queen.
“It’s an old tradition I’ve learned to be loyal to,” he said, his eyes already glowing at his newest performance. “If you’re going to lay down on a lady—” He paused to point to the queen on the layout. Then he tapped the chip he had laid over the king’s face. “Always cover up her husband’s eyes first.” He laughed and clamped a dry cigar between his smiling teeth. Everyone laughed this time. All but Wyatt.
For the better part of an hour, Johnny Behan lost all but two of his bets, taking his failures as good-naturedly as a man awaiting his dinner at a fine restaurant. He handed out smokes until his silver pocket case was empty, then he bought more chips as though his pockets were bottomless.
“Well, let’s have another go,” Behan laughed. “My luck can’t get any worse.”
“Hell, Johnny,” Warren said, “there appears to be no limit as to how bad you play this game.”
Behan turned and smiled, as though it were impossible to raise his dander. “Don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure,” he said, offering his hand.
“Warren Earp,” Warren said and hitched his head toward Wyatt. “Brother to the man that’s taking all your money.” Warren’s face glowed with pride.
Behan affected a dismissive laugh and winked for the other men around him. “Well, now, I don’t see how you can be an Earp, friend. Not with that dark hair.”
Wyatt looked up from loading a new deck into the faro box. Warren’s face had flushed red again, and his jaws knotted as he stared at the side of Behan’s face.
“He’s the youngest,” Wyatt said. “Just come in from California.”
Behan pretended to inspect Warren more closely, his gaze traveling the length of him. “I don’t know. Just doesn’t have that Earp look about him, you know? Those unforgiving eyes that can make a man think twice about what he says.”
Wyatt held his gaze on Warren as a warning, but it was too late. “I ain’t met a man yet I couldn’t look eye to eye,” Warren huffed. “There ain’t none of us Earps met that man.”
Wyatt’s hands lay idle on the table, nothing about his expression changing, yet the onlookers standing around his table were focused on him. “Warren, go find Morgan, will you, and tell him the three of us need to ride out to the Huachucas tomorrow to map some water rights.”
Warren frowned and glanced at the other men, but no one would look at him. “All right,” he said. “I’ll be back in a few minutes.”
“No need,” Wyatt suggested. “I’m about done here. I’ll see you at home.”
The youngest Earp sniffed sharply and began thrusting his arms into the sleeves of his new black coat. All the while he held a smirk on his face and glared at Behan.
“You just keep on throwing that money away, Deputy.”
Behan smiled at no one in particular. Warren shrugged his shoulders to adjust the hang of his coat. He looked around the room once and strode out as if he had broken the bank.
The men at the table were quiet as Wyatt swept cigar ash off his layout and called for bets. Behan laid down chips on the nine, jack, and queen.
“When I was a young pup,” Behan began in his melodic storytelling voice, “my papa said I used to sing louder than anyone else at mass. He told me years later, it used to embarrass the hell out of him. So I said, ‘Well, that’s why I did it, Papa, to get the hell out of you.’ ”
While everyone else laughed, Wyatt tended to business. “All bets in,” he announced. He drew a card from the box and set it aside. The second card went face up. Behan had lost again.
“I believe you are imperturbable, Wyatt,” Behan said, propping his elbows on the table as though settling in to study the man before him. Wyatt drew the next card, another disappointment for Behan, who didn’t seem to care if he won or lost. “Well, gentlemen,” he said, laughing, “I think that’s enough punishment for me.”
“Reckon it’s time for me to call it a night,” Wyatt announced.
The players and spectators shuffled away to another table, leaving Wyatt and Behan alone. Losing his smile, the new deputy struck a match to relight his cigar. Baring his teeth, he talked around his hands cupping the flame.
“Too bad about Virgil not taking the chief of police post. He did a fine job as a temporary.” Behan tilted his head thoughtfully. “I’m sure you boys were counting on the money.”
Wyatt racked his chips and rolled up his layout. “We’re doing all right,” he said. He opened a tally book and penciled in the night’s profit. “You hear about the re-count for sheriff?” Wyatt said idly. “There were over a hundred fraudulent votes cast in the San Simon district. Bob Paul is in as sheriff. Looks like you and Charlie Shibell will be out of a job.”
Behan offered an amused smile, showing that this was not news to him. “Shibell will still hold the position a few more weeks until the courts make it official. Besides, I’m not worried. I’ve got other irons in the fire.” He blew on the coal of his cigar and then tried to suck life back into it.
“Wyatt,” Behan said, letting his voice soften with a personable melody, “I know you’re interested in the sheriff’s job when the new county is formed.” Behan lowered his chin and raised both eyebrows to look up at Wyatt. “I think we might consider working together on that.”
“How do you mean?” Wyatt said, his voice clear and in sharp contrast to Behan’s conspiratorial whisper.
“Well, you see,” the deputy said and pushed out a nervous laugh, “I’m interested in the job, too.” He pointed at Wyatt with the cigar. “I appreciate a man like you. Your expertise could be useful alongside mine.”
“What would yours be, Mr. Behan?”
“Oh, call me ‘Johnny.’ All my friends do.” He drew on the cigar again, but it was dead.
“What kind of record have you built up since you became deputy?” Wyatt asked.
Behan had a way of broadening his smile, even when it seemed to have reached its limit. “A sheriff’s station is political, Wyatt. A man has to know his way through the channels in the territorial office. I’ve got a background there. To be honest, I think that gives me an edge over you.”
Wyatt watched the man’s performance and then let quietness gather around them. Behan used the time to speak to two men leaving the room. He seemed incapable of discomfort.
“Here’s the way I see it,” Wyatt began. “We got a Republican president. Territorial governor is Republican. On this first go-round, the sheriff’s post will be an appointment. Not an election. You’re a Democrat; I’m a Republican. I see that edge the other way.”
Finally acknowledging that his cigar had expired, Behan laid it aside. “It’s not so clear as you think, Wyatt. I’m telling you this as a friend.” He looked from side to side and leaned in closer. “Back out of the running, Wyatt. My appointment is a done deal, all right? But I want you for my undersheriff.”
When Wyatt started to rise, Behan half stood and raised his hands, palms forward, and gently pushed them toward Wyatt. “Now wait; hear me out. I’m good at administrating. You’re good at enforcing. Hell, I’m betting you’d hate administrating . . . just like I’d hate the enforcing.” He shrugged and sat back in his chair. “It’s a perfect combination.”
“If it’s such a done deal,” Wyatt said, settling back in his chair, “why’re you so set o
n me pulling out?”
“Wyatt, if you look like you’re going after the office and you lose”—he dipped his head to one side and smiled an apology—“well, you’ll look like a loser. And, frankly, I don’t want that for you. Or, more to the point, I don’t want that for the man who would be my undersheriff.” Behan’s eyes took on the warmth and steadiness of an earnest man. “That’s the God’s truth.” He leaned closer and lowered his voice to a whisper. “I don’t want you embarrassed, Wyatt. I want you with me. Withdraw your application and agree to sign on with me as undersheriff. That way we both win.”
“How is that?” Wyatt said, his voice deep and relaxed in contrast to the deputy’s secretive mumbling. “The sheriff stands to make a lot more money than the men under him.”
Behan shook his head. “The big money comes from the tax collecting. And that, you and I can split right down the middle. Plus, we’ve got our regular salaries, and you, as undersheriff, would have bonuses on travel time, arrests, and court appearances. That would even us up pretty square. You’d be doing what you do best.” He opened his hands and smiled again. “And so would I.”
Wyatt stood and cradled the faro box and layout under one arm. “I’ll think on it.”
Behan stood and offered his hand, but Wyatt filled his free hand with the tray of chips and balanced it between them. “Any businessman would,” Behan said agreeably. “I like a man who thinks things through.” He patted Wyatt’s upper arm. “You think on it, Wyatt.”
Johnny Behan strolled out, speaking to the owner and to the man sweeping up. Wyatt looked down at Behan’s cold cigar in the glass tray. The man just couldn’t keep the thing burning.
At the bar Wyatt counted out the house share of his winnings and stacked the bills beside the manager’s till. Virgil appeared beside him and leaned on the countertop.
“Just passed Johnny Behan when I came in,” Virge said and nodded at the money. “Some o’ that his contribution?”
“Most of it,” Wyatt said.
Virgil’s quiet laugh narrowed his eyes. “He make you his best friend yet?”