Epitaph (28 page)

W
HEN DR. J. H. HOLLIDAY REGISTERED TO VOTE
in Tombstone in the fall of 1880, he handed the completed form to a deputy registrar for the Pima County recorder's office and muttered, “For all the good it will do.”

“Democrat?” the registrar asked, grinning.

“Born and bred,” Doc said with a sigh that ended in a cough.

Like all white southerners of his age and era, John Henry Holliday had grown to manhood when the very air around him was filled with loathing for Abraham Lincoln and the entire Republican Party. He himself was only thirteen when the war ended, so he had not been disenfranchised during Reconstruction, but Union veterans—Republicans almost to a man—had dominated the government for fifteen years of increasingly venal rule. At the age of twenty-nine, John Holliday had never yet voted for anyone who'd managed to win an office.

This state of affairs was not devoid of amusement. Back in June, for example, he'd followed press coverage of the Republican convention with a quiet, bitter glee. Hundreds of delegates and thousands of observers crammed into Chicago's Industrial Exposition Building and screamed themselves hoarse over which as-yet-unindicted criminal might best disserve the country in their name. In the end, the field narrowed down to two men who were disliked and mistrusted even by
their fellow Republicans. Ulysses Grant had left the White House three years earlier under a dense cloud of scandal; he was now ferociously backed by Roscoe Conkling, arguably the most corrupt politician in the nation. Which was saying something. Grant's opponent for the Republican nomination was James Blaine, a man so sensationally consumed by the desire to attain the presidency that even his friends admitted he'd sacrifice anything—including honor and his firstborn child—on the altar of his ambition.

After thirty-six ballots, the Republican convention remained deadlocked, whirling between corrupt Scylla and vainglorious Charybdis. Fistfights broke out on the convention floor. Baroque insults were traded. There were threats and deals, betrayals and reprisals, high dudgeon and low comedy. As entertainment, it was hard to beat.

Just when it seemed the Democrats would win the White House by default, James Garfield emerged out of nowhere as a candidate and was nominated by acclamation. “Who in hell is James Garfield?” people asked, and the answer was: a former college professor who'd taught Greek and Latin at Hiram College in Ohio and who'd risen to the rank of general in the Union Army. Quiet, ethical, and brilliant, Garfield tried repeatedly to dissuade the delegates, warning that he would do nothing to gain the office if they forced the nomination on him. He'd kept his word, too, traveling no farther than his own front porch during the campaign.

Instead of capitalizing on their opponents' disarray, the hapless Democrats sabotaged their first postwar opportunity to regain influence in national politics by nominating Winfield Scott Hancock, a man known primarily for his willingness to hang a woman for her very doubtful part in Mr. Lincoln's assassination. Which had left John Henry Holliday to wonder what he might have done if he'd had to choose between a well-educated, reform-minded Republican and the cynical, unprincipled mediocrity served up by his own party.

He was delivered from this extremity by circumstance. Arizona was a territory, not a state; its residents were barred from voting in the
national elections. Only Pima County and City of Tombstone offices would be on the ballot in November. The decision to cross party lines felt no less consequential, however, for men he knew were involved in the local elections. Virgil Earp was running for town marshal. Virgil's opponent was the late Fred White's deputy, Ben Sippy. Ben was a nice enough fellow, but he lacked Virgil Earp's experience in law enforcement, not to mention Virgil's sheer physical presence. For John Henry Holliday, it came down to this: If I were being beaten and robbed in an alley, which of the two candidates would I feel most relieved to see? The answer was clear, though he half-expected his hand to shrivel and turn black when he voted for a Republican. His X went next to Virgil Earp's name.

He was willing to go no further. James Earp was on the ballot for village assessor, but if James was going to win that office, he'd have to do it without a Georgian's support. John Henry Holliday had too many memories of kin and neighbors thrown off their properties when carpetbagging Yankees jacked up real estate taxes beyond the owners' ability to pay. He would not place that financial weapon in the hand of any Republican, not even a friend's.

Which left the Pima County sheriff's office. And that was his most difficult decision, for Morgan Earp was dear to him, but Wyatt . . .

Well, the truth was that Wyatt often seemed stupid. Or, more charitably, rigid in his thinking. Wyatt himself wasn't running for sheriff—not yet, anyway—but his support for Bob Paul was exactly what made Doc hesitate. Bob Paul and Wyatt Earp shared many strengths and weaknesses. Both had demonstrated admirable moral and physical courage, and Doc had no doubts about their competence and honesty, but they also shared a propensity to see the world in black or white. Charlie Shibell, by contrast, was more flexible in his thought, as demonstrated by his willingness to deputize a Republican like Wyatt Earp. Furthermore, a Democrat like Charlie Shibell understood that Pima County's ranchers and farmers would respond
to a Yankee push with a Confederate shove. Pin a sheriff's badge on Bob Paul—or Wyatt himself, one day—and you could end up with a shooting war like the one in Lincoln County.

Grateful for the sacred secrecy of the ballot box, John Henry Holliday cast his vote for Charles Shibell and did so in the knowledge that Wyatt would probably be out of a job if Charlie was reelected. That was regrettable, but Wyatt must have known that campaigning actively for his boss's opponent was a risk.

One vote won't make the difference anyway, Doc thought as he folded his ballot and tucked it through the slot. There were so many Republicans in the county now, the latest odds were on Bob Paul to win with a spread of sixty votes.

T
HOSE FIGURES ARE WRONG,” WYATT INSISTED
when Johnny Behan finished reading the newspaper to him a few days later. “The numbers don't add up.”

“I tried to warn you, Wyatt. I knew the race would be closer than you expected, but . . .” Johnny Behan shrugged his helplessness in the face of the younger man's stubborn disbelief.

Johnny himself had seen the results coming from a mile away. James Garfield would be the next president. Sheriff Shibell was reelected. Virgil Earp's defeat was decisive, and James had lost by an even wider margin. The prospect of two Earps holding two important city offices had galvanized the opposition. Democrats all over the county—and even some Republicans in town—were deeply opposed to putting so much power in the hands of one family, especially when a third brother was a deputy sheriff who didn't seem to recognize that his badge was a political gift, graciously bestowed. Democratic turnout was heavy, particularly in Sulphur Springs Valley.

His brothers' losses stung, but it was Bob Paul's defeat that had stunned Wyatt—a state of mind evidenced by the cruller left untasted on a plate next to the coffee Josie had poured for him.

“Anyway, the election's over,” Johnny said. “We have to accept the results.”

Wyatt shook his head mulishly. “The numbers from Precinct Twenty-seven can't be right. A hundred and four ballots cast, and all
but
three
of them for Charlie Shibell? That precinct don't have more than thirty registered voters, total!”

Josie paid very little attention to politics, but she came out of the kitchen when she heard that, wiping her hands on a dish towel and frowning.

“Wyatt,” Johnny was saying, “the votes have been certified.”

“It's fraud,” Wyatt snapped, and without another word or so much as a glance at Josie, he left the Behans' house.

Johnny shook his head and reached across the table for the abandoned cruller. Josie went to the doorway, watching until Wyatt was lost to view.

“You knew Bob Paul would lose,” she said. “Didn't you.”

Chewing, Johnny brushed crumbs off his waistcoat. “Everybody knew Bob Paul was going to lose—except Wyatt, I guess.”

“But you told Wyatt to support him!”

“I did no such thing.” Johnny wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and swallowed. “Wyatt was going to support Bob no matter what I said. I just told him he oughta talk to voters and find out what they were thinking. It's not my fault if Wyatt can't read people any better'n he can read a newspaper.” Josie was staring at him, mouth open, and he laughed—gently—at her innocence. “Wyatt has many fine qualities, honey, but he's smart about politics only on Tuesdays and Fridays in months that begin with Q. The sooner he figures that out, the better off he'll be. Sometimes people have to learn their lessons the hard way.”

“What do you mean, ‘the hard way'?”

“He gambled and lost.” Johnny cleaned his hands on a napkin and pulled a piece of flimsy yellow paper from his pocket, holding it out to her. “Charlie Shibell is going to replace him.”

She read the telegram and looked up. “With you.”

“I've got the experience. I've got the skills. And
I
didn't campaign for Charlie's opponent.”

“But if it hadn't been for that one precinct, Bob Paul would have
won. And if those results are fraudulent, then Bob Paul did win.”

“The results are whatever the Board of Elections says they are, and the board says Charlie Shibell was reelected by forty-two votes.” Johnny sat back in his chair, crossed his arms over his chest, and smiled with pure satisfaction. “Pick out your wedding dress, honey, and start thinking about the big new house we're going to build! This's going to mean forty grand a year—”

“Forty . . . But, Johnny, you told Wyatt his half would be ten.”

“And he'd be happy to get it, too. Anyway, it was only an estimate. A lot depends on how Charlie and I assess the mines.”

“But if there's a new county . . . does your offer to Wyatt stand?”

“Of course,” Johnny said comfortably. “If Frémont appoints me sheriff, I'll make Wyatt undersheriff. The deal still makes sense for both of us.”

She was frowning at him, trying to put it all together. He could see that she suspected he was pulling a fast one on Wyatt. Which would be—God knew—easy enough. “I know you like Wyatt, Josie. So do I, and I'll do what I can for him, but he's his own worst enemy and dumb as shit to boot.”

“At least he's
honest.
”

Refusing to rise to the bait, Johnny reached for another cruller.

Josie snatched the plate away. “Those are for Albert.”

It was that coldness that did it. The contempt. She had hardly spoken to him since the night Fred White was shot. Day after day, he had been conciliatory and understanding.

“Put that back,” he said.

The threat was clear: in his voice, his eyes, his fist. But Josie never gave in, and she was still child enough to fling the plate against the wall rather than do as she was told.

The noise of his chair hitting the floor came an instant after the plate shattered. What happened next was over quickly, almost before the powdered sugar had settled out of the air. He gave her the back of his hand. Spun her around with the force of it. Clamped a hand over
her wrist. Twisted her arm behind her. With the ancient anger of men defied, he pushed her face-down over the table, shoved her skirt up, and taught the brat a lesson she needed to learn.

When he was done, he leaned close to her ear and said in a voice soft with warning, “You will do well to keep in mind who's buttering your bread, princess.” Then he left the house.

ALONE IN THE SUDDEN SILENCE,
shocked, almost disbelieving, she looked around her. A table she'd served meals on. Plates she'd washed. Curtains she'd ironed. The familiar, weirdly changed.

Shuddering now, reaction setting in, she went to the kitchen, worked the pump, washed her face. Her first impulse was to go straight to the Cosmopolitan. Collect that fifty dollars and leave town, but . . . there were practicalities to face.

Johnny hadn't used a French letter. What would she do if she got pregnant? Go home? Face her parents?

Break their hearts. Shame them.

Go to Chicago! Try to brazen the situation out. Bernhardt got away with it, but the Divine Sarah was famous and rich and adored. The Unfortunate Miss Marcus was unknown and talentless. Fifty dollars wouldn't last long. What would she do when the money ran out?

Johnny was on her night and a day. How much harder could whoring be? At least she'd get paid, but how long would that last? Who'd want a pregnant whore?

All right, an abortion then. But where would she get one? Chinatown?

Or . . . or maybe she should just pick out a wedding dress.