Promised Land Page 2

  That sounded about right to Wyatt. He took it all in and let his gaze settle back on the camp lying beyond the deep gulch, where the road appeared to have washed out. The town was already growing past the tent phase, more buildings having sprung up than he would have guessed. The distant bang of hammers and the grind of a ripsaw carried to his ears like an anthem of industry . . . and the hope of a man’s resurrection, his included. All Wyatt wanted was something to carry away from this prickly desert to sustain him the rest of his life in some other place with more favorable surroundings. A big chunk of silver would do fine.

  When they were rolling again, Mattie pulled her shawl more tightly around her narrow shoulders and leaned to be heard over the rumble of the wheels. “Wyatt?” she said, her small and timid voice even frailer here in the desert. “What about these Apaches? I overheard two men talking about them back at the station. Are they a danger to the people who live out here?”

  Wyatt kept his eyes on the road ahead. Life was going to be hard enough here for Mattie without her worrying about renegade Indians. He pushed his lower lip forward and shook his head.

  “If they do make any trouble, it won’t be in the town. It would happen out at the fringes where the numbers of settlers are small.”

  She continued to stare at him, her thin eyebrows lowered over fearful eyes. “Isn’t that where we’ll be? At first, I mean?”

  Wyatt looked at Mattie’s plain face, the skin on her pale forehead creased with worry. Then he nodded toward her belly.

  “We’ll be in close enough. You and that baby are gonna be safe in Tombstone. You don’t need to be worryin’ ’bout Indians.”

  Mattie turned back to examine the rough-hewn town that was supposed to protect her. She did not appear comforted by what she saw. Wyatt thought about patting her knee to smooth out the concern on her face, but when she began fitting her bonnet to her head and fastening the ties beneath her chin, he simply stared off toward the silver-laden hills that held all their futures within its domain.

  Virgil’s wagon started up again and jostled its way toward the dip in the road. James snapped his reins to follow. Wyatt spoke in a low, raspy whisper to his team, and the train resumed its rattling progress over the rock and sand toward this town with a graveyard name.

  CHAPTER 2

  Winter 1879–1880:Tombstone, A. T.

  They lived out of their wagons in the scrub at the west edge of town, close enough for the women to feel connected to the safety of numbers, but outside the grid of land lots that had been surveyed for identification and ownership. Among the three rigs Wyatt and Virgil tied up oiled canvas tarpaulins to cover a common place for meals. As a respite from the cold winds blowing in from the San Pedro Valley, they set up Virgil’s wood stove in this shared ground. Crates, trunks, and barrels were dragged into a cramped circle around the stove for seating. Two latrines were dug: one due west for the brothers, the other closer to town for the women.

  As it was with all boom towns that seemed to mushroom overnight, dead wood was absent from the fringe of desert bordering Tombstone. James bought a quarter cord of seasoned juniper from a dark-skinned Mexican boy who peddled his goods from a crude handcart he tugged along the streets.

  The Earp women banded together quickly out of necessity, preparing meals on the stove and laundering clothes in a washtub. Their personalities made for an odd alliance: Bessie’s dictatorial nature, Allie’s quick chatterbox tongue, and Mattie’s quiet drift at the gossamer edge of sanity.

  At sixteen, Hattie should have been the one most dispossessed from her intended life, but she seemed to thrive off the friction between herself and her mother. It was Mattie who found their new venture most disconcerting. For her this move was a test of nearly insurmountable odds. The desert’s inhospitable landscape—its invasive dust and hostile silhouettes of spiny plants—represented to her a disheartening step down from Kansas. Most troubling was her inclusion in this extended version of family. The Earp women frightened her. Even Hattie lorded over her when no one else was near to hear her do it. Wyatt could see Mattie’s despair, but there was nothing he could do about it. He could no more bolster Mattie’s resolve than he could take the bossy sass out of Allie and Bessie.

  When the brothers set out to size up the town, twice they were mistaken for bankers appraising the various establishments going up. They wore black suits and vests, and their trouser cuffs hung loose outside their boots. They carried no guns. Their sandy-blond hair and moustaches were an eye-catching contrast beneath dark, straight-brimmed hats. Between the lapels of their long, black coats, their starched shirts shone like white flames burning in the Arizona sun.

  James was naturally drawn to the saloons and disappeared into each one he encountered. Wyatt concentrated his efforts on the mine superintendents to get a feel for the manpower needed to work a claim. Virgil checked into water rights and introduced himself to the owners of the buildings on Allen Street, the most important business thoroughfare in the camp. When he deemed it time to pay a visit to the mayor, Virgil asked Wyatt to accompany him.

  In front of the city offices on Fremont Street, a man about Wyatt’s age held the door open for them. Virgil stopped suddenly when he spotted a shield of inscribed metal on the man’s overcoat collar.

  “I reckon we oughta meet,” Virgil said in his affable way. “Would you be city or county law?”

  “Fred White, chief of police . . . or, as we used to say, ‘town marshal.’ ” White, with the soft, rufous-tinted cheeks of a woman, shook each brother’s hand in two stiff pumps. His words knotted his stiff jaw and were delivered with restraint and precision.

  “I’m Virgil Earp, down from Prescott. Dake appointed me a federal deputy for the Tombstone district.”

  “Good,” White said. “It’s just me right now.” He cut his inspecting eye to Wyatt.

  “This is my brother,” Virgil said, “Wyatt.”

  White narrowed his eyes at Wyatt, as though trying to remember him from some occasion of his past. “You boys putting down roots here?”

  “We aim to,” Wyatt said.

  White looked from one to the other, noting their likeness, and then raised his chin to Wyatt. “You in the law work, too?”

  “Businessman,” Wyatt replied.

  White nodded, waiting for more, but Wyatt turned to observe the traffic along the thoroughfare. The wide road was like a river in constant motion, eddies of construction crews swirling at the edges. Craftsmen were everywhere, erecting, nailing, and sawing. Every townsman’s face appeared rapt with some blueprint for an improved life.

  “Did Dake tell you the situation down here?” White said, turning his attention back to Virgil.

  “Told me nothin’.”

  White frowned. “Well, we’d better go have us a drink and let me show you the lay of the land.” He touched Virgil’s elbow, and with his other hand made a guiding gesture up Fourth Street toward the heart of the business district.

  “Come on, Wyatt,” Virgil said and winked conspiratorially at White. “He’ll need to hear this, too.”

  In the back of a large tent saloon, they sat around a wide plank spanning two crates set on end. Wyatt ordered coffee, the others warm beer.

  “So, what kind of business are you in, Wyatt?” Fred White asked.

  “Lookin’ at the minin’ end.”

  “As an investor?”

  “Some. More an initiator. I’ll file some claims, organize some crews, and try my luck.”

  White offered a wry smile. “Well, make sure your claims are tight. There’s a lot of disagreement on that around here. With the town incorporating, there are men who are already making plans to renegotiate who owns the rights to what.”

  “How many folks in this burg?” Virgil said.

  White pursed his lips and stared out the open doorway. “Going on a thousand, I’d say. Probably over a dozen coming in on the stage lines every day. And half that riding in on their own steam.”

  Virgil laughed. “Sounds lik
e this town might bust at the seams b’fore long.”

  White sipped his beer and shook his head. “It is fast growing, but there’s plenty who won’t stay. Right now Tombstone looks like the answer to everybody’s prayers, the economy being what it is everywhere else in the country. They’ll come here and go bust or get so rich they don’t have to stay.” He raised his mug and swirled the contents. “Most men would rather live in a place where they can buy a beer that’s cold.”

  A stagecoach rumbled down the street, and someone yelled out to clear the road. A gunshot popped in the thoroughfare, a pistol aimed high by the sound of it, the sharp percussive crack quickly swallowed up by the wide desert sky. Wyatt watched White’s expressionless eyes flick toward the tent entrance and immediately dismiss the misdemeanor.

  “Got to choose my battles with care,” White said through a self-deprecatory grin. “A stage messenger firing his weapon to clear the street is not on my list of worries.”

  “What about the mines?” Wyatt inquired. “Are they payin’ out?”

  White hitched his head to one side. “Some. We’re sitting on a rich lode, but it’s the few big operations pulling out most of the ore. A lot of the smaller mines have played out. Some never strike a vein.”

  Wyatt nodded, considering his options. “I reckon the gambling has followed the money. Seems to be enough gaming houses here to keep a full police force busy.”

  White nodded in agreement. “I’ve got my hands full, there’s no denying. But the real problem out here will fall to the county.” He nodded to Virgil. “And to you.” When he drank from his mug again, he used the time to look around the tent. Then he carefully set down the mug and leaned in closer. “There are men who have cattle ranched here since long before the strike. But now with so many people here, and the demand for beef up, a lot of them have adopted new methods for increasing their stock. Hooker’s the big one out here. He’s legitimate. And Ayles, too. They lose cattle by the week to a crowd that’s getting pretty damned well-organized. People call ’em ‘the Cowboys.’ Mostly Texans run out of their state by the Rangers. And now they’re raiding here and down into Mexico on a regular basis.”

  “Why ain’t it stopped?” Virgil asked.

  “The sheriff’s situated in Tucson. It’s a damned big county. Even bigger when you consider that these Cow-boys move in and out of New Mexico and Sonora at will.”

  “Why do the citizens stand for it?” Wyatt said. “Why don’t they organize, too?”

  “Like I said, it’s a damned big county. And the honest ranchers don’t have the manpower to fight it. And these people in town here?” White swept a hand vaguely toward the street. “It’s cheap beef . . . and it’s Mexican. What do they care?” He turned to Wyatt. “Best business you could go into would be town butcher.”

  Virgil smiled into his beer. “He done that in Wichita and Dodge.”

  White looked back at Wyatt, his eyes narrowed as if trying to recall a face.

  Virgil set down his mug, and his voice took on a serious tone. “Do you know who these Cow-boys are?”

  “Everybody knows. The Clantons, the Patterson outfit, the Redfield and McLaury brothers. They’re the ones who are settled enough to look like established ranchers. Then there must be thirty or forty others—just saddlers, really—questionable characters who practically live on their horses. Half of them have outstanding warrants from other states. Tough crowd. Only thing they’re good for is keeping the Apaches out.”

  “What about the army,” Wyatt said, “if these boys are raiding into Mexico?”

  “Both armies—ours and the Mexicans’—are going through the motions. It’s just too damned big a territory.” White’s forehead wrinkled. He pointed at Wyatt and poked a forefinger toward him three times. “Dodge City,” he whispered. “I think I have heard your name.”

  Virgil made the deep laugh that rumbled up from his chest. “Good or bad?”

  White frowned. “I think I heard it from some of the Cow-boys. You know a man named Brocius? Goes by ‘Curly Bill’?”

  Watching Fred White gather his memory of a half-forgotten conversation, Wyatt drank his coffee and set down his cup. “Dark hair and freckles on his face.” It wasn’t a question.

  “That’s him,” White said. “So, you know him?”

  Wyatt recalled the embarrassment in Dodge City when he had tried to pull Mattie from Frankie Bell’s line of whores in a crowded saloon. Brocius had just paid for Mattie, and Frankie had put up a fuss that quieted the room.

  Pushing the incident from his mind, Wyatt laid down coins on the rough counter to cover the drinks. Then he nodded casually to the marshal.

  “We’ve met,” Wyatt said.

  It was dusk, the evening meal over and the dishes and cookware cleaned up. All the Earps were gathered in the adobe hut James had found to rent. The men had settled on rough benches hacked out of pine by a Mexican woodworker. There around the wood stove they smoked cigars and waited for Bessie to finish her diatribe on their living conditions.

  The dust, the cold, the hauling of water—all of it was several notches down from the brothel life to which she had become accustomed. Although Allie had roughed it with Virgil for some time, she was nodding and throwing in her “amens.” Mattie never spoke when more than two people were gathered. She was lost in a pent-up way, like a fawn taken from the wild to wander wide-eyed through the small rooms of the abode.

  “We’re gonna build some houses, Bessie,” Virgil assured her, “on those properties we bought at the corner of First and Fremont.”

  As usual, the timbre of appeasement in Virgil’s voice made all the women feel better about their situation. Even Bessie knew that when Virgil said they would do something, somehow they got it done.

  “Separate houses?” Bessie asked, a little excitement slipping through her abrasive front.

  “You and me and Hattie will find our own place closer to the business district,” James said, taking over as diplomat between his wife and his brothers. “But we’ll be sharing for a while, Bessie.”

  She sat heavily on the bench next to James. “Well, we’ve sure got in the damned practice for that, haven’t we?”

  James made a dismissive grunt. “We’ll make do, pretty lady.” He spoke as he always did to his wife—in a singsong fashion that would have little effect on her mood. But when she started to say more, James sat forward and interrupted her. “It’s gonna take time, Bessie, so let it go.” This time he put something cold in his voice to let her know that she was wearing thin on everyone.

  For a moment the fire burned copper-green through the open door of the stove, but in the strained silence no one remarked on it. Allie made the face that Virgil called her “Irish pickle.” She turned to face the stove, held her hands out to the radiant heat for several seconds, and then she slapped her palms to her bony knees.

  “Well, let’s get to building somethin’,” she carped. When no one responded she turned a silent ultimatum on Virgil.

  “We can’t start building yet,” Virgil explained, staring into the fire. “Our money’s tied up.”

  “Well, untie some!” Allie shot back.

  Virgil studied his cigar, so Allie glared at Wyatt.

  “It’s invested,” Wyatt said. “Mines and real estate. There’s no sense in pullin’ out now.” Wyatt’s deep, raspy voice, on the surface, was not unlike Virgil’s, only drier and with little melody to it, all of which lent it the ring of no-nonsense. When they listened to Wyatt, there was a look in their eyes that suggested they were learning something that only he knew, something they were counting on him to know. Whenever Wyatt spoke, even Virgil turned to look at him.

  “If we play it smart,” Wyatt continued, “we’ll come out better than we come into this place.”

  “Takes money to make money, right?” James said and laughed as he poured himself a drink. “We’ll bring some money in from these mines before too long.”

  Bessie scowled at James, but he was so absorbed with filling
his glass, she had to lean forward to let him see the challenge on her face. “So what do we do while we’re waiting to get rich?” She leaned her forearms on her thighs and stubbornly waited for an answer.

  “There’s a hellava lot of canvas going up in this town,” James said. He avoided Bessie’s stare by leaning forward to sort through the stack of firewood. “We thought you ladies might do some sewing to pull in a little extra income.”

  Bessie met Allie’s eyes, and their female solidarity knitted together on the spot—something new for them.

  “Hell, I got something better than canvas to sell,” Bessie laughed dryly.

  Wyatt looked up sharply, and James put some hardness into his voice. “There’s to be none of that. We’re makin’ names for ourselves here with the folks that count. I’ll be servin’ drinks at Vogan’s.” He jammed a stick into the fire and turned a hard glare on Bessie, who set her face in a rare pout.

  “I’d rather be making money off my business instead of just sittin’ on it,” she mumbled.

  “No,” Wyatt said.

  He had not raised his voice, but his resolve brought a chill to the room that invited no discussion. In this stillness, Virgil’s short-legged dog abandoned his place by the stove and stood hopefully before Allie, who picked it up, nestled it in her lap, and began stroking the cur’s head and ears. With each pull, the dog’s eyes narrowed to contented slits, then widened, reflecting the light from the fire.

  Wyatt glanced toward the back room, where Hattie had gone to bed, and for the first time since he had left the slums of the Peoria waterfront, he thought about the price he had seen young girls pay while growing up in a brothel. Hattie’s life had been no different with James and Bessie, except that she had been spared falling into the occupation. This by Bessie’s mandate. Wyatt looked squarely at Bessie and, as well as he could, delivered his own pronouncement on how the Earps would operate in Tombstone.