by Mark Warren
Wyatt walked back to the Wells, Fargo doorway and saw Williams strapping up the strongbox at a frenzied pace. Wyatt immediately ruled out using the office as a safe haven.
“I’ll need your shotgun, Marsh.”
Without interrupting the rhythm of his hands, Williams bobbed his head toward the back of the room. “Beside the desk. There’s shells in the bottom drawer. But before you run off with it, how ’bout making sure nobody robs me!”
Wyatt pocketed extra shells and carried the double-barreled ten-gauge out onto the street, where Virgil and the fidgeting prisoner waited. A small crowd had begun to gather to watch from the boardwalks.
“What’s your name, kid?” Wyatt asked.
“Rourke,” he replied eagerly.
“Which manager did you kill?”
“Schneider,” he said, turning testy. “That sonovabitch come askin’ for it. He—”
A swell of voices turned their heads to a cluster of men on horseback pouring into Allen Street several blocks to the west. They milled about, fronting pedestrians, and yelling into the liveries and shops that they passed.
“Don’t let ’em hang me, Marshal!” the boy whined, looking quickly from Wyatt to Virgil with a heightened anxiety flickering in his eyes.
“We ain’t the marshal, son,” Wyatt said, “but we won’t be allowing any hanging today.” He turned to Fred Dodge. “You’d better find Sippy.”
“To hell with Sippy,” Virgil interrupted. “Consider yourself a federal deputy.”
Wyatt pointed with the shotgun across the street. “Take him over to Vogan’s, Virge. The bowling alley is long and narrow and has got only two ways in. Tell James to put two men on the back door with scatterguns. Morg, go fetch us a wagon and team and bring it around front.” With a decisive jab of his index finger, Wyatt pointed to the curb in front of Vogan’s. “Park it right there, pointed west,” he instructed. “And do it quick! Sooner we get this boy started for Tucson, the better.”
Wyatt took up the reins of his racer and walked the horse across the street to Vogan’s, where he tied it to an iron hitching ring bolted to the tread boards. Cradling the coach gun in the crook of his left arm, he stood on the boardwalk, leaning his shoulder into an awning post, waiting and watching the crowd of twenty or so mill workers dismount in front of the Grand Hotel and advance toward him. From the sidewalks, others joined their ranks—curious onlookers mostly—swelling their number to fifty. Most were unarmed, but the ones in front carried pistols and rifles in their hands, openly defying city ordinance.
“Where is the little murderin’ sonovabitch!” a man yelled from the mob.
Wyatt remained as still as the post on which he leaned. He recognized Dick Gird, the owner of the mill works, shouldering his way to the front of the crowd and speaking to the men he passed in a low, angry tone.
When the mob crowded in close, stopping only a few yards from the boardwalk, Wyatt studied the men in front, appraising each one’s capacity to incite the others into action. Finally, when they saw he was not going to shy from the numbers, the men at the head of the mob went silent, and gradually the stillness worked its way to the back of the crowd.
“Bring him out!” ordered a broad-faced man standing in back. Wyatt set his gaze on the one who had spoken, and a graveyard quiet returned to the street.
“I’ll bring him out when I’m ready.”
The man appeared to be puzzled at this reply. When he started to speak again, Wyatt cut him off.
“But you boys are going to be in the way here.” Wyatt nodded across the street. “I want you to move over there to make room.”
“What the hell for?” challenged another of the mill workers. Wearing stained canvas coveralls, this man marched forward through the crowd, his hand gripping a heavy revolver stuffed in his pocket. “If that little bastard Rourke is in there, you’re the goddamn one needs to move.”
Wyatt straightened from the post, seated the stock of the shotgun to his shoulder, and raised the barrels until they bore down on the advancing man. The man’s angry face went slack, and his momentum stopped as if by some involuntary rebellion of his legs.
“Step back,” Wyatt ordered, his voice low and raspy.
The man hesitated only long enough to release his grip on the pistol, and then he edged his way backward into the crowd. Wyatt nodded to the narrow opening in the street before him.
“A wagon’s comin’ in here directly to take Rourke to Tucson, where he’ll stand trial.”
“Stand aside, Earp!” someone yelled. “You ain’t a sheriff’s deputy no more!”
Wyatt cocked the hammers on the shotgun, and the clarity of the metallic clicks fixed the crowd into photographic stillness. In this sudden quiet, the wind pushed the sign in front of Hatch’s into a small pendulum arc, setting up a steady cadence—the sound like someone diligently working the handle of a stubborn pitcher pump.
“That’s right,” Wyatt said evenly, “but it doesn’t really matter what I am, does it? ’Cept I’m the one standin’ up here between you and the mistake you’re considerin’.”
For a time, no one spoke. Then a voice from the back broke the silence.
“He’s bluffing! Let’s go in and get Rourke. Earp can’t stop all of us.”
Shifting his aim, Wyatt trained the shotgun on Dick Gird, who had said nothing. “You’re right. I can’t stop all you boys . . . but I’ll kill these men up front. Then you’ll have to step over them to get to Rourke.” Wyatt kept his face empty. “Then there’s two more Earps inside.”
The door to Vogan’s opened, and Doc Holliday stepped out, his nickel-plated revolver in his hand, catching quicksilver light from the winter sky. Stopping beside Wyatt, he spoke loud enough for all to hear.
“I think I’ll start with that brave sonovabitch in the back with the big mouth.”
Just then, Marshal Sippy fast-walked up the middle of Allen from Fourth Street. He was hatless, and his overcoat hung askew where he had mismatched the buttons with their holes.
“All you men there!” he called out hoarsely. “I want you to disperse!”
“Stay out of this, Sippy!” someone replied. “We didn’t vote you into office just to protect a killer.”
Sippy slowed his walk and then stopped to turn at the sound of a wagon coming on hard and fast. Morgan slapped the reins on a team of walleyed bays harnessed to a utility wagon, and he charged recklessly past Sippy toward the crowd. Boots began to scuffle, stirring up clouds of dust from the cold street. The wagon skidded sideways as it carved a tight turn in front of Vogan’s, forcing the men closest to Wyatt to back away in undignified haste. When the wagon stopped with its team facing west, Holliday climbed up into the bed and swept his shining revolver in a wide arc, like a man at pistol practice choosing his target.
The crowd began a slow retreat, until Virgil stepped out of the bowling alley with Rourke in hand. James followed and walked quickly to the edge of the boardwalk, a Colt’s revolver in his good hand. The crowd now gravitated toward the wagon’s tailgate, and Virgil paused. Wyatt gathered the young gambler’s coat lapel in his left hand and forged ahead. With the shotgun extended before him in one hand, he walked slowly, parting a path to the rear of the wagon, letting his eyes convince each man of his single-minded intent.
The millworker in coveralls blocked his way, but Wyatt’s momentum was set. “Step aside,” he said in a low, even tone. “I’m bringing my prisoner through.” The challenger held a hostile glare but backed away, his pistol still filling his pocket. Marshal Sippy climbed up into the bed of the wagon and extended a hand to Rourke. Then Virgil climbed up, his pistol still holstered but his face set with purpose. Fred Dodge stood by the wagon with his hand inside his coat.
“I want all you men to get back to your work,” Sippy announced, but no one paid him any mind. Doc Holliday sat the prisoner down with his back to the driver’s box and stood in front of him as a shield. Wyatt worked his way through the milling bodies, mounted his racehorse, and rested
the butt of the scattergun on his thigh, the muzzle pointing to the cold, gray sky.
“Morgan, get that team movin’ up the street,” Wyatt ordered quietly. “Now.”
James remained on the boardwalk, nodding at Wyatt when their eyes met. The jingle of the harness and the roll of the wheels had the effect of energizing the men nearest the back of the wagon, and they followed as if they did not know what else to do. Wyatt insinuated his horse between the wagon and the crowd, reined the stud around to face the mob, then coaxed the racer into a shuffling reverse gait. When voices began to swell and a knot of men started to rush forward, Wyatt lowered the barrels of the shotgun to those inspired few and kept his mount back-stepping with the wagon.
“This ain’t worth you boys dyin’ over,” Wyatt said. “You’d best lay off.”
Most of the millworkers had lost the fire that had brought them to Tombstone. While scanning the crowd, Wyatt spotted Johnny Behan across the street in the shade of the Alhambra saloon’s awning. Behan still wore the sheriff’s deputy badge, as the official transfer of the shrievalty had not yet passed to Bob Paul. When Behan realized that Wyatt had seen him, he jumped into the street and began making broad gestures with his arms.
“It’s all over, boys!” Behan announced. “Let’s clear off the street now and let the law take care of this.” He nodded and smiled at a few faces he seemed to recognize. “Come on now, gentlemen, let it go!”
Behan strutted backward down the street, like a bandleader called up to lead the parade in reverse, but by the time the wagon was passing the Grand Hotel, he hurried past Wyatt and climbed aboard the wagon bed, taking his place with the other lawmen.
When the wagon had gained enough distance from the angry crowd, Wyatt reined the spirited stallion around and held it to a walk behind the prisoner and his entourage of protectors. Fred Dodge walked beside the right rear wheel like a man participating in a funeral cortege.
Now, away from the crowd, Johnny Behan launched into a flowery speech about the prudence of settling affairs like this one in the courts. When the wagon turned down Fourth Street, Wyatt eased down the hammers of the shotgun and watched Rourke hold his fearful gaze on the corner at Hafford’s. Finally, the young gambler’s eyes settled on Wyatt, and he offered a sheepish nod of gratitude. When Wyatt looked at Holliday, Doc made a wry grin.
“We missed a fine opportunity back there, Wyatt. We could have gone out in a blaze of glory.”
Wyatt said nothing, but Morgan twisted in the driver’s box and crinkled his eyes. “Maybe next time, Doc. Fred Dodge owes us too much money for us to cash in now.”
Dodge only shook his head at the banter.
On Fremont Street John Clum came running from the Epitaph office in an ink-stained apron, his shirtsleeves rolled to his elbows, his hands blackened with the dark pigments of his trade. He looked from Virgil to Wyatt.
“What’s happened?” he said excitedly. He studied the face of young Rourke, who sat in the wagon bed hugging his shins, his chin wedged between his knees. When the prisoner did not offer an explanation, the editor singled out Sippy. “What the hell happened, Ben?”
The marshal appeared flustered. He took in a lot of air, inflated his cheeks, and exhaled in a rush, like a man who had just surfaced from deep water.
Morgan kept the wagon moving, and Behan yelled over the rumble of the wheels. “It’s all under control, John. Just a little scare with a lynch mob.”
“Lynch mob!” Clum chirped up. His eyes snapped to the young prisoner balled up behind the driver’s seat.
Sippy cleared his throat and found his voice. “They say this boy killed Schneider at Gird’s mill in Charleston.”
Clum looked back at Virgil and Wyatt for confirmation, but neither spoke.
“What’s your name, son?” Clum asked the boy.
“Rourke,” he replied quickly. “Michael Rourke.”
Matching his walk to the wagon, Clum pulled a small notepad from his apron pocket and found a stub of pencil behind one ear. “Why did you kill him?”
Rourke pointed to the notepaper and frowned. “I go by ‘Johnny-Behind-the-Deuce.’ That’s how people know me.” Then his blue eyes narrowed. “Schneider, the uppity bastard, he needed killin’.”
At the rear gate of the O.K. Corral, Holliday stood to climb down from the wagon, so Morgan halted the team. “I believe my services are no longer needed, gentlemen,” Doc said, cocked his head at Clum, and smiled. “Just leave me out of your story, if you don’t mind.”
Sippy cleared his throat. “Mr. Holliday,” he said, his voice now deeper, “how is it you are carrying a weapon inside the town limits? Were you deputized for this?”
Holliday turned a cold stare on the marshal. Then he smiled and nodded toward Wyatt.
“My friend needed help, Marshal,” he said, as though the logic of it was obvious. Sippy looked at Wyatt, then at Virgil, but he said nothing more.
When Doc walked toward Fly’s boardinghouse, Clum directed his focus on Behan. “Did they try to take him by force? Were they armed?”
“Most were,” Behan answered.
Clum began scribbling. “Was anyone hurt? Who was in the crowd?”
Behan climbed down from the wagon and dusted off his trousers. “It was a modest attempt, I’d say. The millworkers are just upset, John, that’s all. We’ve got it under control.”
“Prob’ly fifty . . . sixty men,” Sippy volunteered. “I’d say about a third were carrying guns.” He hopped down to the street to talk to Clum. “But no shots were fired. There was plenty just come to watch. All in all, by my estimation, the town kept its order. But damned if it weren’t a powder keg for a minute there.”
Clum looked up at Wyatt, who sat unmoving on the racer. “Wyatt? Anything to add to that?”
Wyatt’s face showed nothing when he met Clum’s eyes. “They wanted at him,” he said, nodding toward the prisoner. “But they didn’t get ’im. That’s all there was to it.”
“That damned Schneider pulled a knife on me,” Rourke blurted out. “The sneaky sonovabitch! Always thinkin’ he’s better’n the rest’ve us. You can ask anybody works over on the San Pedro. He wouldn’ hardly talk to you. ’Less maybe you’re Dick Gird! Or God!”
Morgan snapped the reins once, and Clum walked alongside the wagon, taking notes from the boy, who seemed now ready to relate his story at length. Wyatt handed the shotgun to Dodge.
“Fred, will you get that to Marsh Williams for me?”
Dodge took the Wells, Fargo ten-gauge. “You bet,” he said but hesitated and lowered his voice. “If nobody else is gonna say it, Wyatt, that was a hellava thing you done back there. Why did you do it?”
“Somebody had to,” Wyatt said and nudged the stud forward to follow the wagon.
CHAPTER 10
Spring 1881: Tombstone, Drew’s Station, and Redfield Ranch, Cochise County, A. T.
In the gambler’s hours of a frosty March night, Virgil stepped from the cold into the Oriental. Wyatt looked up and watched his older brother march straight to his faro table, his face set hard with a no-nonsense look. When he stopped at the end of Wyatt’s table, every player looked up at him.
“Bob Paul just telegraphed from Contention. He was riding shotgun on the stage to Benson. Some road agents stopped them, and Bud Philpott and one of the passengers were shot dead.”
Without apology to his customers, Wyatt closed his game and began gathering his cards. “Where did it happen?”
“Inside the new county. Just this side of Drew’s Station. Behan wants you, Morg, and Marsh Williams in his posse. Meet at the Gird block in a half hour.” Virgil watched Wyatt gather up his faro layout. “Looks like it’s time for the new sheriff of Cochise to show his cards.”
Wyatt looked up at Virgil. “Are you pulling together a federal posse?”
Virgil shook his head. “I’ll ride with you boys. Wasn’t nothin’ taken off the stage: no mail, no strongbox . . . nothin’. Paul opened up on the sonzabitches with his scattergun. T
hinks he hit the one who killed Bud.” As Wyatt stood with his hands full, Virgil peeled open Wyatt’s coat by the lapels and searched his vest. “Johnny ain’t given you a badge yet,” he said, more an observation than a question.
“Pending,” Wyatt replied.
Virge pursed his lips and nodded. “And you’re still countin’ on it?”
Wyatt met his brother’s eyes. “We shook hands on it.”
Virgil nodded again and stuffed his hands into his overcoat pockets. “You know Warren’ll be wantin’ to go with us,” he said in a flat tone.
Wyatt only shook his head as a reply. Then he walked past his brother to the bar.
“Well . . . he will,” Virgil argued as he watched Wyatt reach over the bar to store the accoutrements of his gambling trade. “You wanna tell ’im?”
“I’ll tell ’im,” Wyatt said.
The posse members met outside the new county offices—eight men sitting their horses in the dark street, each sufficiently armed, lightly provisioned, and dressed for the cold of the high desert night in early spring. The new sheriff of Cochise County came through the door and stood before the somber group of horsemen, spreading his boots on the boardwalk, and repeatedly referring to a two-line telegram in his hand. Behan wore a long, gray dress coat with a burgundy strip of velvet sewn onto each lapel. His hat was new—pearl gray like the overcoat—and perched on his head like a colorless rooster’s comb.
“Boys, you know my new deputy, Billy Breakenridge.” Behan lifted the telegram toward his deputy hurrying around the corner as he led two horses. Dressed in new trail clothes, Breakenridge cradled two repeater rifles against his chest with one arm. He stopped before Behan, who relieved him of one of the rifles, then looked out upon the group, his eyes darting from one face in the posse to the next, as if seeking someone’s approval.
Wyatt waited for Behan to acknowledge him as new under-sheriff, but the sheriff’s attention was again riveted to the telegram. When Behan’s head came up, his eyes panned the posse in an all-encompassing arc as if he were about to deliver a speech.