Epitaph (40 page)

“Wyatt,” Doc said softly, “if you want me to go, now is as good a time as any. I will pack up, buy a ticket, and leave tonight.”

“No,” Wyatt snapped. “‘The wicked flee when no man pursueth, but the righteous are bold as a lion.'” He stood, wincing when his weight settled onto his feet. “I can fix this, Doc.” And he sounded confident, like it was a harness that needed mending, or a sprung plank in a boardwalk.

“What's the plan, Wyatt?” Doc asked warily.

“Find the real killers and shovel this shit right back onto Behan.”

Doc and his brothers watched him leave.

“Gentlemen,” Doc said when the door had slammed, “correct me if I am wrong, but didn't y'all just spend two weeks tryin' to do exactly that?”

“NEVER CONFUSE STUPIDITY WITH MALICE.
It's nearly always a mistake, and it'll get you into useless feuds.” That's what Johnny Behan would have said, had Wyatt Earp bothered to ask him why Luther King had been allowed to escape from the county jail.

In point of fact, it was Undersheriff Harry Woods who decided that it would be in Johnny Behan's best interests if Luther were unavailable to be prosecuted for a variety of felonies in connection with the attack on the Kinnear stagecoach. When Johnny Behan came to the office after a badly needed night's rest and found out that his chief deputy had simply let Luther go . . .

Well, no one can curse like the Irish.

For the next hour, the undersheriff was informed at length and in detail that his presumption in this matter was in error. It would have been a political triumph to send Luther King to prison, if not to the rope. Holding at least one man accountable for the crimes would have gone a long way toward dispelling the
Epitaph
's ugly insinuations that the sheriff himself was in league with the county's outlaws. Furthermore, that desirable outcome would have been accomplished without stirring up trouble with Old Man Clanton, Curly Bill Brocius, Johnny Ringo, or anyone else, because Luther King really was just a hanger-on and none of the Cow Boys would have given a good goddam if he'd been convicted as an accessory to murder, attempted robbery, and horse theft. Now it was going to look like Johnny gave an order to let Luther escape in order to appease the Cow Boys and to prevent unsavory allegations of collusion from coming out at Luther's trial.

Only when his boss's initial fury had been spent did Harry try to say anything, and all he got out was “Hell, Johnny. I'm sorry. I didn't think—”

“No! You didn't, God damn you! And that's the trouble! Nobody thinks! Nobody ever
thinks
!”

That observation became an additional tirade on the general theme of being surrounded by fools and bunglers until worldly realism and saddle-sore exhaustion set in. Sitting at his desk, his wind-chapped, sun-scalded face in his hands, Johnny eventually muttered, “Well, goddammit, what's done is done,” and began to assess his situation with as much dispassionate composure as he could muster.

He had not intended to make enemies of the Earps but when they found out Luther King had escaped, there would be hell to pay. Which was a pity. Johnny and the brothers had worked well together on this posse, and that was how he liked things to be: cordial, professional. Sure, he and the Earps would be on opposite sides as the '82 election came closer, but there'd have been be no reason for hard feelings, if not for Harry's imbecilic initiative.

Sighing, he stared out the office window, his mind blank, until his eye was caught by a thin, bent figure wrapped in a blanketlike cloak, moving slower than the foot traffic around him.

“Harry,” he said quietly, “when Billy and I brought Luther in, you said folks were talking about Doc Holliday being the lunger who was involved with the holdup, right?”

“Yeah, but Luther said that was Bill Leonard, not—”

“Shut up,” Johnny snapped. Face still, he took a piece of paper out of his desk drawer and began writing. “This,” he said, handing it to his undersheriff, “is what you are going to publish in the next edition of the
Nugget.
”

Harry frowned when he got to the last sentence and read, “‘King was an important witness against Holliday'?”

“Yes. Against Holliday.”

“Johnny,” Harry said cautiously, not wanting to set off another tongue-lashing, “Luther didn't say anything about Doc Holliday.”

“No, you idiot! I'm saying it. We're saying it. The
Nugget
is saying that Luther said it. Jesus
Christ
, Harry!”

Getting a grip again, Johnny stood and went to the office window.

“I warned Wyatt that Holliday was trouble,” he said softly. “He should have followed my advice. And maybe I'll be doing him one last favor now . . . If Wyatt Earp has any brains at all, which is questionable, he'll tell Holliday to get out of Tombstone on the next stage. But he won't. Wyatt will stick with that obnoxious, dangerous, venomous drunk because they're
friends.
”

He turned then to his undersheriff. “I'm not going to fire you, Harry, but from this day forward—now and forever, amen—you and your newspaper are going to make Wyatt Earp carry Doc Holliday on his back, exactly the way John Clum and the
Epitaph
have saddled me with the Cow Boys.”

IT WAS NOTHING PERSONAL, EVEN THEN.
Using John Henry Holliday against Wyatt Earp was a simple act of political pragmatism. That's how it would have remained, if not for Josie Marcus.

SHE'D SELECTED HER CLOTHES
CAREFULLY,
seeking just the right balance between charming and desirable. Her dress was dove gray and peach pink, very becoming against her skin. Barely visible at the top of the neckline: black lace, a subtle hint about what lay beneath.

Inspecting her tinted cheeks—color subtly applied—she rehearsed her lines as she set off for the Cosmopolitan. She would take her cue from Wyatt. If he was still exhausted, she would look concerned and say, “I've been so worried about you. I hope you won't think me too forward, but I just had to see how you were.” On the other hand, if she saw what she hoped for when he opened the door—surprise, pleasure, yearning—she would give that shy, silent man a knowing smile and lead him to the bed herself.

“Miss Josephine!” Mr. Bilicke said when she entered the lobby that morning. “What can I do for you today?”

“I was hoping to see Mr. Earp,” she said casually. “Is he in?”

“I'm afraid you just missed him. He left about half an hour ago.”

“Kwand meem,”
she said, miming mild disappointment with an insouciant wave of her small, gloved hand. “It was nothing important. I was passing and thought I'd pay a call.”

“Would you care to leave a card? Or shall I tell Mr. Earp that you're looking for him?”

If she said yes and Wyatt didn't return the call, it would be a silent message she didn't want to receive. “No, thank you,” she said. “I'm sure I'll run into him later.”

She stepped to the door and paused for a moment on the boardwalk to pop open her parasol. That was when she noticed Johnny Behan.

Their paths had crossed before. Tombstone was big, but not that big. In the past two months, Johnny had seen her with other men—important men, rich men—at the Maison Doree, at the Schieffelin Theatre, at the Can Can Café. She would glance at him with a defiant little smile. He would pretend she was invisible.
I'm glad to be rid of you
, they told each other wordlessly.
I wouldn't take you back if you begged.

“Mr. Bilicke? On second thought . . .” she began quietly. Then she raised her voice. “Tell Wyatt I'll be back this afternoon.”

Why did she do it?

Because she was young and in full bloom, witlessly willing to exercise the brief destructive power of beauty. Because there was still no sign from Wyatt that he knew she was free, and she wanted to give him a little push. Because Johnny's indifference annoyed her. Because she wanted to wound him and believed—rightly—that this would do the job. Because of what he'd done to her on the kitchen table.

She had seen the word “slut” on Johnny's lips before and read it there now. She lifted her head and narrowed her eyes and flounced her curls. Believe what you like, she thought as she brushed past him.

And he did. Oh, he did.

All along
, he was thinking. That hypocritical, two-faced, self-righteous bastard! He was screwing you behind my back, all along.

“WHAT'S THIS?”
Johnny asked Virgil Earp, a couple of days later.

“Expenses,” Virgil said, pushing a piece of paper across Johnny's desk. “The federal marshal's office is covering part of my salary, but the rest is county.”

Brows knitted, Johnny read the neatly itemized list.

Salaries: V. Earp, $32; W. Earp, $72. M. Earp, $72; F. Leslie: $72.

Provisions: $26.

Losses: Frank Leslie, one horse; Virgil Earp, one horse.

Johnny looked up, all innocence. “This doesn't come out of my budget, Virg.”

“It was your posse,” Virgil pointed out.

“Well, Billy Breakenridge is on my payroll,” Johnny said, “and I'll pick up Frank Leslie's salary, as far as the Cochise County line. I can't pay him for the time in New Mexico, but I might be able to get the county to cover his horse if it died in Cochise. Morgan and Wyatt were your deputies, so their salaries are a federal expense. And your horse would be, too.”

There was a long silence.

“I guess you might be right about that,” Virgil said. You miserable little chiseler, he meant.

“You could try billing Wells Fargo if the feds don't cover everything,” Johnny suggested helpfully. Go to hell, he meant, and take your brother Wyatt with you.

VIRGIL LEFT THE SHERIFF'S OFFICE
and walked a few steps away from the window so Behan couldn't see him stop and stare at the boardwalk with his jaw set and his breath coming deep and hard. “That sonofabitch,” he said softly. “That son of a
bitch.
”

Still fuming, he looked up just in time to see Wyatt leaving the alley behind the Oriental. Which was strange. Because the
other
news
they'd gotten after chasing Bill Leonard, Henry Head, and Jim Crane around the desert was this: Milt Joyce had refused to renew the contract for Wyatt's quarter interest in the saloon's gambling concession.

The Oriental had been a reliable source of income and one that would be hard for Wyatt to replace. Worse yet, that income would now go to Johnny Behan, to whom Milt had leased the gambling concession a few days later at a nice discount—one Democrat to another, you understand. City councilman to sheriff.

Bastards, the two of them.

So what in hell was Wyatt doing out behind the Oriental?

Virgil was about to call out to his brother when he saw Ike Clanton, of all people, leave the same alley and hurry off in the opposite direction.

“Wyatt!” Virg yelled, dogtrotting across the street to meet his brother down at the corner. “What's going on? What were you doing with Ike?”

“Nothing,” Wyatt lied.

Because that's what politicians have to do.

I
T'S A LOT TO THINK ABOUT,” IKE SAID, THE DAY THEY
made the deal.

“You want me to go over it again?” Wyatt asked.

“Go over it again.”

“Wells Fargo is offering a reward of twelve hundred dollars apiece for the men who attacked that stagecoach. That's thirty-six hundred dollars for the three of them.”

Ike nodded. “I just gotta tell you where to find 'em.”

“And I'll do the rest.”

“You'll do the rest,” Ike said. “And I get the reward.”

“You get the reward.”

Ike frowned. “Why don't you want the reward?”

“I'll get the credit for bringing them in, and that'll be better than money.”

Ike frowned harder, suspicious again. “Better than money?”

“Yes, because I'm running against Johnny Behan for sheriff next year. If I arrest Bill Leonard and Henry Head and Jim Crane, it'll look real good to the voters. And Doc Holliday will be in the clear.”

“Doc Holliday,” Ike said. “I don't like him.”

“I know, Ike, but I do. He's a real good dentist. He'll fix you up if you get a toothache.”

“He talks too fast. No. He talks slow, but he says . . .”

“Too many words,” Wyatt supplied, for he, too, found Doc wordy and confusing.

Ike looked over his shoulder, getting nervous about one of the Cow Boys seeing him with an Earp. “Thirty-six hunnert. For the three of them.”

“It's a lot of money,” Wyatt said. “You could use it to get away from your old man. Go back to California. Maybe open another café.”

“I'm a good cook,” Ike said, confident about this. “I can open another café.”