Epitaph (27 page)

“Jesus,” Bill said again. “Why'd you hit me like that?”

HISTORY WOULD REMEMBER
John Philip Clum as the mayor of Tombstone who sent the Earps and Doc Holliday striding toward the O.K. Corral on the afternoon of October 26, 1881. On the night of October 28, 1880, however, Clum was merely the twenty-nine-year-old owner and editor of the
Tombstone Epitaph
, mortgaged to the top of his prematurely bald head and teetering on the brink of a second ignominious business failure.

He was in bed when he heard the gunfire down the street. Staring at the ceiling. Wondering how he was going to avoid yet another bankruptcy. He had, in fact, just told himself, firmly and resolutely, “The Lord will provide,” when the terrible eerie wailing began.

Two minutes later, he was dressed and out the door. Two hours later, he was back in the press room, composing as he set the type and working as fast as possible. The town marshal was unlikely to live past noon and John Clum intended to wring every penny he could from the poor man's death throes.

Twenty-four-point type for the headline, he decided. Back it down to eighteen for the second deck.

MARSHAL FRED WHITE

PERHAPS FATALLY WOUNDED!

Arrest of Shooter

and His Companions.

Pausing to wipe sweat from his face, the editor raised his eyes toward heaven, for this was the very sort of crime he'd been predicting for months. And he thanked God for it.

John Clum was not a callous man. He was a newspaperman,
which is similar but not identical. He was also dead broke—a related condition, but one he had reached as a result of a long series of unusually principled decisions. Dewy with idealism, he had come west when the elders of his Dutch Reformed congregation prevailed upon him to accept a post as Indian agent on the San Carlos reservation. Disastrously ethical, he failed to line his own pockets in that capacity and had resigned in protest of the government's ill treatment of the Chiricahua Apaches, whom he'd found intelligent, congenial, and worthy of respect. Still determined to serve the Indians, he borrowed money from relatives, bought the
Arizona Citizen
in Tucson, and used its editorials to demand fair treatment for the Apaches, to criticize the army, and to condemn the venality of the Bureau of Indian Affairs.

What he had not taken into account was the fact that very few Apaches bought newspapers. White folks, who did, were frightened of Geronimo's renegades and grateful to the army for its protection. They considered John Clum's screeds unpatriotic and wrongheaded. Not to say annoying. And stupid.

Subscriptions fell off. Advertising dried up. When he sold the
Arizona Citizen
to a less morally combative man in February of 1880, he cleared barely enough to pay his debts, but he had big plans for a fresh start in journalism in the silver boomtown that had sprung up seventy miles south of Tucson. This time, he vowed, he would avoid topics that antagonized people and pay more attention to advertisers. When he boarded the stagecoach, he already had a name and a wonderful motto for the newspaper he planned to found: “Every Tombstone Needs an Epitaph.”

God will provide, he told himself, and his faith was rewarded when Millville's ore magnate Richard Gird agreed to underwrite the venture with a $7,000 loan. A fellow New York Republican and an ardent anti-saloon reformer, Gird had admired John's crusading Tucson editorials and was happy to back an uncompromising Dutch Reformed nondrinker whose principles aligned with Gird's own.

The business did well for a few months. Then Frank McLaury
showed up with his screed about those army mules. The
Daily Nugget
benefited from John's refusal to print that, while John Clum's own newspaper lost subscribers and advertisers. This time, however, he understood what he needed to lure business back. Something to hammer on daily. Something that would make readers worry, so they'd feel compelled to protect their interests by being in the know.

Crime, for example.

Even before Fred White was shot, the
Epitaph
had played up Tombstone's wickedness: the drinking, the gambling, the prostitution, the violence. “A dead man a day, served up with breakfast every morning!” his editorial proclaimed in June. He was proud of that memorable phrase, though the town wasn't really that bad. Carousing was generally confined to the vice district out past Sixth Street, but his primary investor was an ardent prohibitionist, so it didn't hurt to emphasize the role of liquor in every form of criminal behavior, whether actual or potential. At the same time, he had to be careful not to criticize the nicer saloons, like the Oriental and the Crystal Palace, or they'd withdraw their ads. Day after day, he had walked this narrow line. Night after night, he prayed for the Lord's grace and mercy.

And that was why John Phillip Clum lifted his face to heaven and gave thanks to God when Curly Bill Brocius shot Fred White. The incident would crystallize the region's politics just days before an election. An honest Republican lawman had been gunned down while defending Tombstone's law-abiding citizens from the enemies at her gate: a few hundred Democrats, many of whom were known criminals and none of whom subscribed to the
Epitaph.

Hand flashing between the case and the chase at a veteran typesetter's thirty words per minute, John muttered to himself as he composed the article.

                             
Blame for the crime must be placed on a cowardly lot of drunken Texas Cow Boys
who disturbed the peace early this morning with gunfire. When Marshal Frederick White intervened to stop violation of town ordinances, he was ruthlessly shot by one of their number.

Here he paused, trying to remember how to spell Wyatt Earp's name. Was it W-I or W-Y? Eliminate the problem, he thought briskly.

                             
Deputy Sheriff W. Earp, ever at the front when duty calls, arrived in time to see the Marshal fall and knocked the assailant down with the man's own six-shooter. With the assistance of his brothers Virgil and Morgan, Deputy Earp arrested the shooter's companions. All five were jailed.

                             
Much praise must be given to our fallen Marshal White for his gallant attempt to arrest the outlaws, and to Deputy Sheriff Earp and his brothers for the energy displayed in bringing the murderer and his accomplices to arrest.

John paused there. Technically, the crime was still assault with a deadly weapon, but nobody ever survived a wound like Fred's. Let it go, he thought. It'll be murder soon enough.

AS JOHN CLUM LOCKED THE FORM
and inked up for his next edition, events in town moved quickly. At nine
A
.
M
., the Tombstone Village Council met in emergency session. Assuming that Fred could not survive, Council called for a special election to decide on a new town marshal. In the meantime, Deputy Federal Marshal Virgil Earp would serve in that capacity. Sworn in, Marshal Earp urged immediate passage of ordinances forbidding the carrying of guns within city limits, citing precedent in Dodge City. No action was taken.

Council adjourned to Judge Michael Gray's courtroom for arraignment of the five men arrested in connection with the shooting of Fred White. Amid rumors that vigilantes were preparing to lynch Curly Bill Brocius as soon as Fred White died, Virgil Earp deputized his brothers Wyatt and Morgan as city policemen, along with several other townsmen he considered game to stand against a mob. The suspects were brought before Judge Gray under heavy guard.

Four were accused of misdemeanors, and their pleas were heard first. Each defendant expounded in turn on the general theme of “We was just having some fun, Your Honor.” Their testimony was consistent. They'd become rowdy under the influence of liquor. Curly Bill Brocius told them to behave themselves and had in mind to take them down to Chinatown. It was somebody else, down the street, who starting shooting at the moon. Fred White just thought it was the defendants, which wasn't so, honest to God, Your Honor. Fred getting shot was a pure accident, and they were all real sorry.

Judge Gray imposed fines on the first four defendants for being drunk and disorderly. Leaving open the question of who had started the trouble, he ordered them released. The fact that the judge's son was friendly with several of the Cow Boys became the subject of vigorously expressed commentary. This discussion was gaveled into silence. With decorum reestablished, the court turned its attention to the felony case.

The charge against William Brocius remained assault with intent to murder. Fred White was still alive and might recover—though that notion persisted only among those who had not seen the hole blown in the man's abdomen a few hours earlier. Mr. Brocius asked several times why he was in court. He was reminded that he'd shot Fred White in the gut and that he was accused of attempted murder. He seemed surprised each time and said, “I guess I better get me a lawyer.”

The court ruled that Mr. Brocius would be given time to secure an attorney and that the case would be moved to Tucson. Any jury
impaneled in Tombstone would likely convict regardless of the evidence presented in Mr. Brocius's defense, assuming that the Cow Boys didn't show up sooner to bust Bill out of jail before he could be tried. The prisoner was therefore to be transported without delay to the new railway terminus in Benson, some twenty-five miles northwest of Tombstone, and thence by train to Tucson.

Deputy Sheriff Wyatt Earp now swore in his brothers Virgil and Morgan as county deputies, along with the other townsmen who'd guarded Curly Bill on his way to Judge Gray's courtroom. Armed to the teeth and determined to thwart any attempt—by a lynch mob or the Cow Boys—to interfere, this party left immediately for the Benson depot.

NOTHING MUCH WAS SAID
during the railway journey from Benson to Tucson. Wyatt Earp was never much of a talker. Curly Bill Brocius, who was, had a hellacious headache.

“I feel sick,” Bill announced after a while, rubbing his face with hands held close by iron shackles. “Jesus! Why did you hit me like that?”

The answer was still “Because I decided not to shoot you,” so Wyatt didn't bother repeating it.

About an hour later, Bill asked, “Can you recommend a good lawyer in Tucson?”

“James Zabriskie,” Wyatt said.

“Zabriskie's in Arizona now?” Bill cried, eyes scrunched up against the light. “Damn. He prosecuted against me back in Texas.”

Wyatt shrugged. “That's who I'd go to.”

THEY COULDN'T HAVE KNOWN IT,
but even before they reached the Tucson jail, Curly Bill had been exonerated.

When Fred White failed to die as soon as expected, a delegation from the Tombstone Municipal Court went to his bedside to take a deposition from him. Fifteen hours into his ordeal, Fred was too
weak to scream and too strong to die, but he was still clear-headed and confirmed that the shooting was an accident.

“My own damn fault,” Fred told them. “Never shoulda . . . grabbed his gun like that. Shoulda told him . . . throw it down.”

Sobered and shaken by what they'd seen, the delegation filed out of the dying man's room. It was Judge Gray who asked the doctors, “Can't you fellas do anything for him? Whiskey? Laudanum, maybe?”

“He can take nothing by mouth,” Doc Matthews said regretfully.

“It would only leak into his belly,” Doc Goodfellow explained, “and that would make the torn tissue even more painful.”

“Jesus,” Judge Gray said.

“Yeah,” the others agreed.

FREDERICK GEORGE WHITE'S SUFFERING
ended at ten
A
.
M
. on October 30, 1880, some thirty-three hours after Curly Bill's pistol discharged.

An autopsy performed by Dr. Henry Matthews revealed extensive immediate damage to the large and small intestines caused by the passage of a .45-caliber bullet through the abdomen. After traveling through the soft tissue, the bullet's path led it to a particularly dense region of the pelvic bone, which deflected the slug downward, destroying one of the organs of generation upon its exit from the deceased's body. The cause of death was judged to be acute infection, widely spread throughout the abdominal cavity, with consequent heart failure.

“I don't know how he lasted as long as he did,” Dr. Matthews said.

POOR FRED, JOHN CLUM THOUGHT,
but the Bard was right: It's an ill wind that blows nobody good. In just three days, John had published and sold out five special editions, picking up over two hundred new subscriptions. Back aching, legs stiff, feet swollen, hands battered and blackened, John Philip Clum was an exhausted but happy man as he typeset coverage of Fred's funeral.

                             
The services were held in Gird Hall, a spacious building crowded to its utmost capacity. The cortège following our murdered marshal to the grave was the largest ever seen in Tombstone. It embraced all classes and conditions of society, from the millionaire to the mudsill, and numbered fully 1,000 persons.

By then, of course, Fred's deathbed testimony had made it clear that the shooting was unintentional, but John couldn't resist the alliterative allure of “murdered marshal,” especially when he could hammer that beauty home with a phrase like “millionaire to mudsill.”

Tomorrow he'd begin coverage of the presidential election with the
Epitaph
already decisively solvent. And the contest for sheriff was of great interest locally, so sales would remain good, even with Fred White in his grave.

Lord, John prayed that night, Thou hast made me glad through thy work. I will triumph in the works of Thy hands.