Epitaph (35 page)

“They'd be dead tonight,” Doc said, “instead of just startled.”

Virgil snorted. “Better them than Morg.”

“Better nobody dead,” Wyatt countered. He leaned back in his chair and lit a cigar. “Just remember, Morg. Anybody with a gun on you is likely drunk, or nerved up, or both. So take your time. Make a judgment.”

“I don't know, Wyatt. That was so, in Dodge,” Morg allowed, “but down here, it's not a bunch of liquored-up young drovers. Here, you got robbers laying for you. Come around the corner, and there they are, and it's them or you. Take your time . . .”

“. . . and it'll be you,” Doc supplied softly. He laid the price of his meal on the table, got to his feet, and coughed for a while. “Well, gentlemen, I do not envy you such decisions. A bad tooth can kill a man in the long run, but I never had to decide on the proper treatment between one heartbeat and the next. These days?” He gave them
that crooked grin of his. “Life is even simpler. I just deal cards on commission. And I am late for work. Evenin'.”

The brothers watched him go.

After a time, Wyatt broke the silence. “Go home, Morg. Get some sleep.”

Nodding, Morgan pushed himself upright and shuffled off, feet dragging.

“Hell of a day,” Virgil observed, watching Wyatt watch Morgan.

They looked out for one another that way. There were enough years between them that each brother could remember the day the next younger had been born. A sense of responsibility had lingered, long past when any of them believed he needed protection.

“You tell Morg yet?” Virgil asked.

“He had enough on his plate. Nothing to do with him anyways.”

At long last, Governor Frémont had announced his interim appointments for Cochise County's offices, and the news wasn't good. Frémont was a Republican presidential appointee, but the territorial legislature was dominated by elected Democrats. They could override anything they didn't like, so Frémont had threaded the needle. Until the formal election in November 1882, Democrat Johnny Behan would be the sheriff of Cochise County, with all the political power and immense income that entailed. Wyatt had always understood that this might happen. The blow came when Johnny Behan appointed Harry Woods to the position of undersheriff.

“My opinion? You're well out of it,” Virg told him. “It's gonna be a thankless job.”

Cochise County was sixty-two hundred square miles of bad land. Five mountain ranges to hide in, a desert in the middle, a convenient border to cross. If you didn't run a man down in the first few days, the wind would scrub the tracks away, and you'd lose him.

“Let Harry Woods bust his nuts patrolling this wretched slice of hell,” Virgil said. “You've got better things to do.”

Wyatt tapped ash off his cigar. “Behan gave me his word, Virg.”

“Yeah, well . . . he's a politician.”

Good one, too, Virg thought. Harry Woods was not just a Democrat, he was a member of the Arizona House of Representatives—so influential in the creation of the new county, he'd provided its name. Harry was also the editor of the
Tombstone Nugget
, so press coverage of Johnny Behan's tenure as interim sheriff would be lavish and fawning. When Behan ran for the office in the '82 election, Harry Woods would be an effective counterweight to John Clum's influence as mayor of Tombstone and editor of the
Epitaph.
You had to admire the thinking.

“Saw you and Behan this afternoon,” Virg said. “What'd you say?”

“Not much. Just told him I'll run against him next year.”

Virgil managed not to sigh. After his own loss to Ben Sippy, Virg was pretty sure Wyatt would never be sheriff of Cochise County, but Virgil wasn't going to be the one who told him so. Instead, he yawned and stood and stretched. “I gotta get home, or Pickle's gonna sic the dogs on me.” He clapped Wyatt on the shoulder. “Don't let it get you down, kid. A lot can happen between now and that election.”

Wyatt nodded and Virgil almost left, but then another thought struck him. He waited until his younger brother looked at him. “Wyatt, it's none of my business, but . . .” Virg jerked his head in the direction of Sixth Street. “Don't rush into anything.” Leave that girl alone, he meant. It'll only complicate things.

“You're right,” Wyatt said. “It's none of your business.”

NOT FAR AWAY,
at that very moment, during a private dinner in a secluded room at the back of the Maison Doree, over a multicourse supper that included many delicacies described in bogus French, Mr. Richard Gird of Millville sat across a damask-covered table from John Philip Clum, the freshly elected mayor of Tombstone, discussing the ramifications of Governor Frémont's appointments to the offices of the newly constituted Cochise County. They had opinions about all of the appointees, but the conversation had primarily focused on the
Republican candidate with whom they hoped to replace Sheriff John Behan some twenty months in the future.

“No matter how you cut it, our man's going to help,” Mayor Clum said. “Wyatt has determination and integrity, but it'll take more than that to beat John Behan at his own game. It will take money and influence.”

“And yet, it is my firm belief,” Gird replied, “that if we yoke the power of the press to the power of finance, and harness both in the service of the public, there is nothing that men of good character cannot accomplish.”

Having delivered himself of this pronouncement, Mr. Gird laid aside his fork and knife, which had been unceasingly busy during the past two and a half hours, and lapsed into a thoughtful silence. Across the table, stuffed almost to insensibility, John Clum discreetly unbuttoned his waistcoat and eased back in his chair, while awaiting his patron's next utterance.

Amid a population of whip-thin, weather-toughened men, Richard Gird seemed as soft and ductile as the metal that had made him rich. His large, rounded body was testimony to the lavish diet that immense wealth afforded,
quod erat demonstrandum;
on an Italian barber's recommendation, his tightly curled and graying goatee was sharply trimmed to approximate a spade, though it failed to provide much definition to a bland and boneless face. What gave Richard Gird shape was his capacity for large-scale organization of money, men, and matériel; what gave him hardness were his principles and his insatiable intellect. He was also the most systematically ambitious person John Clum had ever encountered.

At nineteen, Dick Gird had left a good New York family during the California gold rush, but instead of panning or digging for the mineral, young Mr. Gird had learned assaying and apprenticed himself, as well, to mechanical and civil engineers. While still in his early twenties, he sought further experience with a mining concern in Chile, where he studied hydraulics and business management. When he returned
to North America a few years later, he took a relatively menial job preparing topographical maps of the Arizona Territory based on the geological studies of Professor J. D. Whitney. It might have seemed an odd choice at the time, but a year of hand-coloring such maps provided Dick Gird with an encyclopedic knowledge of the region's geological formations.

Everyone in Tombstone knew what happened next: One day, a half-starved prospector named Ed Schieffelin brought Gird a black lump of silver ore the size of a hen's egg.

When Ed and his brother Al returned for the assay results, Gird asked, “Where did you find this?”

“Oh, south of here,” Ed said, unwilling to say more.

Gird produced paper and pencil and began sketching little mountain ranges. “The Dragoons,” he said quietly. “The Whetstones. The Huachucas.” Within the space thus delineated, he drew a series of parallel lines, quickly shading them to look like wales of corduroy. “Long limestone hills, eroded and gullied.” He looked up. “This is where you found the float. Am I correct?”

Ed glared at his brother, who cried, “I swear, I didn't tell him!”

“I assure you, Mr. Schieffelin, your brother revealed nothing. Now, as to my results. At this morning's price for silver, this ore assays at better than two grand to the ton. That is exceedingly high. In my opinion, you will do well to return here”—he tapped the center of his little map—“to establish your claim without delay.” Gird held the piece of paper out to Ed. “Would you like to keep this as a memento, sir? Or shall I burn it? Either way, your secret is safe with me.”

That display of acumen and rectitude led to less guarded discussions. By the end of the week, the men had a handshake agreement. All three of them would journey to the source of the ore, a place so desolate and dangerous that soldiers warned, “You'll find nothing out there but your tombstone.” Two years later, the Tough Nut, the Goodenough, the West Side, the Defense, the Owl's Nest, the East Side, the Tribute, and the Lucky Cuss mines had made them millionaires.

Ed and Al sold their thirds early on. They were prospectors with no interest in organizing the complex interlocking industrial processes that transformed raw ore into progress and wealth. Richard Gird by contrast, had spent his life preparing to do exactly that. He brought California investment capital into the business. He initiated logging in the Huachucas to provide lumber for company buildings. He recruited, hired, and housed hard-rock miners from Pennsylvania and Cornwall. He found experienced managers to oversee the daily operation of the mines. He negotiated with suppliers of steam engines, explosives, hammers, bathtubs, canned goods, and coffee. He had a road to the San Pedro River graded, established Millville, and supervised the construction of a two-hundred-foot dam that would funnel thirteen million gallons of river water over a one-thousand-foot flume that powered twenty-five massive reduction stamps to crush the ore for smelting. Finally, he retained Wells Fargo to ensure the delivery of payroll cash for thousands of employees and the export of millions of dollars in silver ingots to the New Orleans Mint.

All that, barely three years after Ed Schieffelin's lump of ore was dropped into Richard Gird's palm. All that, in jeopardy now because of a rootless gang of thieves who called themselves Cow Boys.

The editor of the
Tucson Star
had wasted no words on subtlety when he wrote, “These outlaws are worse than Apaches. They should be hunted down and shot.” Throughout Arizona, newspapers were calling for a territorial police force like the Texas Rangers. Unlike Geronimo's Chiricahuas, the Cow Boys no longer confined their depredations to the Mexican side of the border. They were stealing from American ranchers now. Shooting up small towns. Taking whatever they wanted from stores and restaurants. Taunting local lawmen, daring them to do something about it. Scaring off investors.

“Civilized society requires law and order,” Gird said, dabbing at his lips with a heavy linen napkin. “We cannot tolerate drunkenness and thuggery and violence on our streets. And Sheriff Behan is, I fear, a tolerant man.”

“Too tolerant,” John agreed.

“He is playing a long game, Mr. Clum. Behan wants to be governor one day. Perhaps even president . . . In the meantime, he thinks the sheriff's office will serve his ambitions. I myself believe he will find his new job a mixed blessing. We have a year and a half before the first election. That is plenty of time to hold Sheriff Behan accountable for every unsolved crime in Cochise County.”

“I'll do my best,” John promised.

Mr. Gird smiled mildly. “I'm sure that you will.”

John Clum still owed him $5,720, and they both knew it.

Gird nodded to their waiter, who snapped his fingers at a boy, who rushed to retrieve the gentleman's topcoat from the cloakroom. The mayor stood and steadied the chair as the mining magnate hurled himself onto small, neat feet with a grunt and a shove. Gird was helped into his coat and handed his hat and walking stick.

John waited deferentially as the fat man lumbered toward the door. There was always one last thing at the end of such a meal. One last order, one last remark. Sure enough, Gird paused before leaving the room.

“John,” he said with the kind of quiet delicacy that meant something unpleasant was about to be discussed, “it has come to my attention that there are certain of Wyatt's associates who do not reflect well on him.”

John cleared his throat. “Yes. That unfortunate woman he brought here from Kansas . . . I believe Wyatt has broken with her.”

“But . . . there are others. That Holliday fellow, for example. He has been seen in Charleston lately. He is a southerner. A Democrat. A notorious troublemaker. Even if he isn't in Charleston to make common cause with the Cow Boy element, he will harm Wyatt's chances.”

“Yes, sir. I understand your concern,” John said. What he didn't understand was what Richard Gird expected him to do about it.

I
T SNOWED ON THE IDES OF MARCH THAT YEAR: A LIGHT
frosting of white that made the desert landscape glitter. By John Henry Holliday's Georgia-bred standards, it was bitterly cold when he set off on Duchess for that big poker game down in Charleston, but it was nothing compared to what Bob Paul remembered from his New England childhood. Standing at a café window that evening, warming his hands with a tin mug of coffee while waiting for the stagecoach team to be changed, Bob could still recall thigh-high snow in temperatures so low, your lips thickened and the hairs in your nostrils froze together.