Epitaph (30 page)

T
HE YEAR-END HOLIDAYS OF 1880 WERE GLITTERING
in Tombstone. Hardly an evening passed without a choral concert or an ice cream social, a costume party or a dance. There were horse races and prizefights, and a shooting contest in which Doc Holliday tied for tenth in a field of fifteen. He blamed the abysmal showing on the cold weather but earned no mercy from the Earp brothers, who ragged him relentlessly about not being able to hit a barn door with a shovel full of horseshit. Then Dick Naylor came in dead last in the Christmas quarter mile. For that stunning defeat, Doc smugly blamed the jockey: Wyatt himself, who'd gained weight and lost another tooth owing to a dramatic increase of baked goods in his diet.

A variety of amateur theatrics debuted in December, but the Nellie Boyd Dramatic Company lit up the season when it came to town with costumes, sets, a four-piece orchestra, and a repertoire of twenty-two plays. The theater was packed for three weeks of riveting dramas and diverting comedies, but this entertainment paled in comparison to a dazzling display of sheer criminal audacity. Doing business as the Tombstone Townsite Company, Jim Clark and Mike Gray laid claim to the entire city's real estate. Even in a boomtown where survey lines were honored mostly in the breach, extorting “payment” for properties built before the village was incorporated was
pretty startling. Civic discord escalated when Messrs. Clark and Gray began to expand their property lines by sending men out at night to move fences. And occasionally an entire building. The practice was violently contested, most notably on the evening when a Nellie Boyd performance was attended by a large group of men who, not wanting to miss the show, carried loaded shotguns into the theater in anticipation of being called upon to defend their stores and houses at any moment.

Through it all, work at the mines went on, stopping only on Christmas Day. Glum geologists who'd predicted a speedy failure of Tombstone's limestone-embedded silver deposits were mocked by rich men who had every expectation of becoming even richer in the New Year. Why, the Contention alone had paid out $600,000 in dividends in its first seven months! Its stock was going for $80 a share, and if the silver veins were indeed pinching out, well . . . no one was inclined to spoil the fun by mentioning that to new investors.

In the privacy of boardrooms and drawing rooms, there may have been a moment or two when the wealthy wondered if they were lying or merely keeping their own counsel, but who was to say? Seven years after the Crash of 1873, many found it difficult to distinguish between canny business practice, sharp dealing, and plain deceit.

Do what works. That was the motto. Grab what you can when you can. That was the plan. It was not a golden age, as Mr. Twain had recently pointed out, but a cheap and flashy gilded one. A time of fakery and exuberant corruption, of patronage and cronyism and every species of shameless self-seeking. In such times, even honorable men give up trying to draw the line. It's different now, they always think. Everything is different now.

In spite of it all, because of it all, the work of government went on, from the corridors of power in Washington, D.C., to the dusty streets of Tombstone, A.T.

At church on Christmas Day, President-elect James Abram Garfield was a man besieged. Wherever he appeared, office seekers
crowded around, pressing requests for political appointments in the new administration. One strange little man in a threadbare suit stood out, even among such throngs. Approaching with an odd mixture of antique formality and modern intimacy, Charles Julius Guiteau took Garfield's hand and held it just a little too long for comfort.

“I have had a change of heart about accepting the ambassadorship to the Austro-Hungarian Empire,” Guiteau confided. “I think I should prefer Paris to Vienna, and I believe I shall be satisfied with a consulship.”

“Mmm,” the president-elect replied.

Mr. Guiteau withdrew, serenely certain that he was personally responsible for the pleasing outcome of the national election and that he'd soon be rewarded with a lovely apartment in France.

Two days later, and two thousand miles away, Wyatt Earp placed his hand on a bible in the Tucson Municipal Court and swore to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. He testified that he'd witnessed the shooting of Tombstone city marshal Frederick George White by the defendant William Brocius. Yes, he agreed, there was a rumor that Mr. Brocius had pulled a gun trick called the border shift on Marshal White, but it was his own belief that while attempting to disarm Mr. Brocius, Marshal White had given the defendant's pistol a quick jerk, causing the gun to fire. Counsel for the defense then called a gunsmith, who testified that the trigger mechanism of that weapon was damaged and liable to go off under such circumstances, whether Mr. Brocius intended to shoot or not. Taking into account the marshal's own deathbed statement, the court ruled Fred White's death accidental. Mr. Brocius was released after eight weeks in jail.

As Curly Bill passed Wyatt Earp on the way out of the courthouse, he spat at the lawman's boots. Which surprised Wyatt, for he hadn't expected thanks, exactly, but he sure hadn't see
that
coming.

The next morning, a young man named James Johnson took the oath in the Pima County Superior Court and testified that he was
the mysterious “Henry Johnson” who'd certified 104 predominantly fictitious votes for Charles Shibell in Precinct 27. On the basis of this testimony, Robert Havlin Paul was ruled to have won election as sheriff of Pima County. Mr. Johnson took the first train out of town and was not seen in the Arizona Terrority again.

Charles Shibell immediately filed an appeal of the decision overturning his election, which would require some months to work its way through the courts. In the meantime, Bob Paul took a job with Wells Fargo, riding shotgun on stagecoach runs carrying silver bullion and company strongboxes, splitting shifts with Morgan Earp.

Down in Tombstone, John Philip Clum announced his intention to run for mayor in the January 4 municipal election. His platform was to “defeat corruption while bringing peace and prosperity to our city by taking on the audacious depredations of the Townsite cabal of Clark and Gray.” With clean government, Clum promised, Tombstone's underground riches would attract the investment capital needed for continued growth. “Tombstone,” he wrote, “will become the city upon the hill: a beacon as bright as ancient Rome.”

Reading this declaration in the
Epitaph
, Dr. John Henry Holliday was heard to murmur, “Ah, the glory that was Rome! Tiberius. Caligula. Nero. Domitian. Commodus. Elagabalus . . .”

This sally was met with blank stares.

Kate would have gotten that joke, he thought.

THE GAIETY OF NEW YEAR'S EVE
often feels a little forced. After six weeks of parties beginning in late November, a general weariness of festivity sets in, replaced by a yearning for plain food and a more ordinary routine. When he reserved the Cosmopolitan's music room for December 31, Doc had modest expectations for the evening. He simply meant to give the Earps' ladies a chance to dress up and step out on the town. He would play piano for them and see the New Year in with friends.

In retrospect, his last-minute decision to include Josephine Marcus
might have been more carefully considered. He had noted Deputy Sheriff Behan's departure from town on the thirtieth, realized Miss Josephine would be alone the next night, and hoped that she might renew her study of the piano. So he'd invited the young woman and Sheriff Behan's son without anticipating the attitude of the other ladies at the party. The results were mixed. Allie was a bit stiff, but Morgan and Lou were always taking in orphans—Doc himself among them—and Lou seemed pleased to spend time with someone new and interesting. She and Josie passed much of the evening talking and giggling in the corner, apparently unaware that Mattie Blaylock was looking daggers at them.

Josie and Wyatt rarely came within three yards of each other, though at one point, Doc noticed them approach the buffet table at the same time.

Standing at Wyatt's side as she lifted an hors d'oeuvre, Josie turned away to face the rest of the room. “Suppose I were to leave Johnny . . .”

Wyatt's eyes remained on an assortment of sweets. “There's still Mattie,” he said, his voice quiet with resignation.

At midnight, a magnum of champagne was shared around. Josie asked for her cloak a few minutes later. Morgan and Lou said they'd walk her and Albert home, and left with their hands entwined, a more private celebration on their minds. Virgil and Allie went home as well, similarly inclined, followed by Wyatt and Mattie, who were not.

Alone again, John Henry Holliday played half a nocturne, paid the bill, and made his solitary way back to Molly Fly's boardinghouse. There, he lowered himself onto the front stoop to catch his breath before he climbed the stairs to his room.

The cacophony of the steam engines down at the mines and the routine carousing east of Sixth Street were occasionally loud enough to be heard out here on the northwest corner of town. Most of the time, however, wind carried city sounds away. Pay attention to the hush of a breeze passing through a nearby stand of palo verde, and
there was a certain solace to be found. Gaze at the glittering intensity of the Milky Way in this desert air, and a useful clarity of thought could sometimes be attained.

His first four months in Tombstone had gone well, apart from that early unpleasantness at the Oriental. As the effects of the concussion dissipated, he had established a sensible daily routine. Mrs. Fly served up regular meals and he was getting enough rest in her house, for she was strict about noise and selected her boarders with an eye to their manners. He was dealing faro on commission at the Alhambra, and John Meagher was kind enough to allow him to break the work into three-hour stretches. He took short walks to stay limber and practiced piano to stay sane.

At Wyatt's urging, he'd begun riding again. His stamina was improving, though his damaged hip gave him trouble—a problem that would recede as his legs strengthened. Wyatt wanted him to buy that sorrel Duchess, but it made more sense to rent her for a few hours a week. Miss Kate would be proud of me, he thought, for Mária Katarina Harony had always been the one to keep expenditures in check when she and Doc were together. With a fairly reliable income from faro, he was building up a decent stake. At this rate of savings, he could retire to a sanatorium at the end of '81, though he'd begun to wonder if that was really necessary.

His breathlessness was permanent—once cavitated, lung tissue is gone forever—but it wasn't getting worse. His cough was drier. With the chest pain diminishing, he was drinking less. Why not settle in Tombstone? The winter climate was close to ideal. Sunny, pleasant, with occasional rain that kept the dust down. Why endure the sterile boredom of a sanatorium if he could stabilize his health right here? He had friends in Tombstone. He had music and books. He had even accepted a few patients who could be helped with quick extractions; there was a great deal of satisfaction in that, though hardly any money.

Objectively, it was as good a life as he'd managed to construct for himself since leaving Dodge City. And yet, as 1880 drew toward its
close, he had grown increasingly melancholy. Emptied out. Hollow at the center.

Easing to the edge of the stoop, he gripped the porch rail with one hand, pulled himself to his feet, and let himself in. The stairway to the second floor was steep, but he was not yet reduced to pausing with both feet on each tread.

Once inside his room, he lit the oil lamp and sat on the edge of a narrow monastic bed. Only then—when he was settled and calm—did he lift the latest letter from his cousin Martha Anne from its place on his bedside table.

               
Congregation of the Sisters of Mercy

               
St. Vincent's Convent

               
Savannah, Georgia

The return address wasn't a surprise. She had entered the novitiate some time ago. He had thought himself accustomed to the idea, but until this letter, there had always been a possibility that . . .

That
what
? That he would find a cure and go home someday? That Martha Anne would still be there, waiting for him? That the life he'd left behind when he was twenty-two would somehow resume, as though seven years had not passed for anyone but himself?

“Idiot,” he muttered. “Sentimental, self-important, self-deluded fool.”

Even if the progress of his disease stopped tomorrow, there was nothing left for him in Atlanta. There would be no marriage, no children, no prosperous dental practice to support a growing family. That ghost life had been consigned to its grave by an unfamiliar signature in a dear and familiar handwriting:
Sister Mary Melanie.

From the day he left home in 1873, loneliness had been nearly as constant as his cough, and it now felt just as permanent. The only time it had ever lifted was when he and Kate were together.

Was that it? he asked himself. Was that what all this enervated
despond came down to? He tested the idea like a man with a broken tooth, tonguing the jagged surface, and . . . Yes. He missed Kate.

He missed the intimacy of their partnership, the way she found a town's best poker games for him, and rolled his cigarettes, and kept his shot glass filled with honeyed tea while he was playing well and with bourbon when the cough was bad enough to break his concentration. He missed her childlike glee when he won, her tough confidence when he lost, and even her snappish annoyance when he played poorly. He missed the husky contralto rasp of her voice when she tossed off a Greek quotation or a Latin proverb, or murmured French in bed. He missed the back of her neck, the ripe-peach softness of her hips. He missed her energy and her impatience, her decisiveness and her practicality. She was difficult, profane, abrupt, and unsettling, but she gave his days and nights color, shape, taste, surprise.