Adobe Moon Page 8

  The railroad camp was filled with a rough lot, and though the backbone of the grading crew was a stout team of Belgian draft horses, still the daily labor was exhausting. Wyatt drew from his farming years and worked with an economy of motion. The laborers around him noted it—sometimes grudgingly and other times admiringly. Whenever the train whistle blew to signal the workday’s end, most went to the tent saloons to relax. Most often, Wyatt rode off over a hill to find some private time before the chow lines opened. If he could not nap, he set up empty food cans and practiced his pistol handling with the Remington.

  Every manner of man seemed to pass through the camps at some time, but only those with hard bark lasted more than one paycheck. Toughness, Wyatt learned in the railroad’s employ, had multiple definitions. There were men who could drive iron spikes with a thirty-pound sledge all day. Some carried tongs and, without complaint, lifted their share of the fourteen-hundred-pound rails in a team of twelve. There were others whose endurance showed at the all-night gambling tables.

  A remote rail camp on the move was the perfect arena for a skilled card player. The laborers—when they were not working—grew bored, and their pockets were filled with cash on a weekly basis. Not only was the average rail worker a novice with cards, but he lacked the skill to disassociate his emotions from his luck, be it good or bad. Ripe pickings for a professional.

  Before sitting in on a game, Wyatt followed his inherent credo to be nobody’s fool—especially where money was involved. From a distance he studied the methods of these sharps and engaged in the private tutorial of soaking up the education they unknowingly provided. That professionals of the green cloth cleverly turned the odds in their favor was a given. Sometimes it was by sleight of hand, other times a lookout or a “winner” was strategically planted in the crowd. There were more ways to mark a deck of cards than the average man could fathom. Even if a dealer never lost and his winnings were known to be illicit, he was generally accepted so long as his methods were not discernible. But if his shady dealings came to light, his only recourse might be a handy belly gun to hold the attention of his disgruntled customers while he made a hasty exit.

  Professional gamblers moved on after a night’s killing, to be replaced within a day or two by new ingratiating countenances. The camps, Wyatt came to understand, were stopping points on a circuit for such men. Wyatt bided his time, cutting a deck only with the laborers he knew.

  Inside a gaming tent west of the Medicine Bow Mountains, a loud-mouthed Swedish roustabout took a seat across from Wyatt and, on foolish bluffs, lost four straight hands to a line foreman. On the fifth hand, after lying low on the previous bets, Wyatt took the pot, and the big blond-haired Swede glared at him with a closed-mouth smile stretched across his face. As Wyatt raked the money toward him, two meaty hands clamped down on his wrists.

  “I vonder just vhat you boys godt going here,” the Swede challenged. Well-practiced in the art of intimidation, he stared at the foreman and then at Wyatt.

  “You saw the cards I laid down,” Wyatt said. “Now get your hands off me and my money.”

  The big man showed his teeth. “You sons of bitches vork togeder, yah?” He kept his grip on Wyatt. “You are cheater. You and—”

  Wyatt jerked his hands free and cracked the man’s nose with a slashing blow of his right fist. It happened so fast that the others at the table had no chance to react before Wyatt stood and landed another punch that burst the big roustabout’s lip and sent him falling backward off the crate on which he’d been sitting. Taking his time, the Swede rose up from the ground, paying no attention to the blood pouring down his chin. A demonic smile spread around the pink saliva glistening on his teeth, and in a methodical, fluid movement, he slowly circled his fists before him, like a man carefully coiling a length of yarn.

  “Now Stefgard teach you some-tingk about da fine ardt.” He circled around the corner of the table, his eyes hard and hungry.

  Wyatt lunged and threw a right, but the laborer’s meaty left forearm took the brunt of the blow. In the instant that followed, the Swede advanced, jabbing twice, making Wyatt’s head snap backward each time in quick succession, flashes of yellow-orange light filling his head. As Wyatt backed up to recover, Stefgard followed. Two more jabs, and Wyatt’s vision blurred again. Next came a right cross out of nowhere that put him down. He stayed there long enough to let his head clear. Surprisingly the man allowed him the respite.

  “You stay down, I take money. You get up, Stefgard give you more lesson.”

  “It ain’t yours to take,” Wyatt said, getting to his feet. He swung a roundhouse right only to feel the blow shunted by that big forearm again, just before the lights went out in his head.

  Three men were dragging him through the tent flap into the cool night when he awoke. They dropped him in the camp thoroughfare, and Wyatt lay there looking up at the blur of stars trembling against the boundless black of the sky, his face burning hot and cool at the same time. He raised his head enough to see that his shirt was torn and bloody, but the effort set the camp spinning, and his head fell back into the muck.

  “I’ll give you this,” said a voice from nearby, a clear Irish lilt giving the man’s words a mix of warmth and amusement, “you’ve the kick of a spike-hammer in that bony fist o’ yours, my friend, but your fighting skills? They’re about as crude as the Swede’s gamblin’.”

  Embarrassed to be seen as he was, Wyatt tried to prop himself up on an elbow. Standing in the doorway of the tent was a man thicker than the roustabout. The Irishman lifted his eyebrows and clamped a cigar between his teeth. Wyatt squinted as the man walked out to him. He had the swagger of a fighter himself.

  “That Swede in there, he’s got a big mouth all right, but, see, he knows a thing or two about the pugilistic arts. I’ve seen him in the ring a time or two, and . . . you’re not in the same class, boyo.” He offered his hand and lifted Wyatt to his feet.

  “I ain’t done,” Wyatt mumbled.

  The man winced. “You’re not going back in there, are you now?” He spread his hands before Wyatt’s shirt. “Look at you, son.”

  Wyatt set his teeth but would not look down at himself. “I won that money square.”

  “Aye, you probably did, but you won’t be taking it off him this way.” When Wyatt said nothing, the big man took on an expression of worry. “Look . . . I’m a fighter myself . . . John Shanssey . . . I know a little about this kind of thing, laddie. You left your mark on him with those first two blows. Why not leave it at that?” When the man offered a hopeful smile, his face widened, giving his chin the breadth of an iron bell.

  “He’s got my money,” Wyatt said, his voice a low gravelly hum. “I ain’t done.”

  Shanssey raised both palms and pushed gently at the air. “Whoa now, lad. I can see you’ve got the heart for it. And you do keep your wits about you. But this Stefgard . . . he’s had some training in fisticuffs.” The Irishman lowered his hands, produced a fresh cigar, and extended it.

  Wyatt ignored the offer. He touched two fingertips to his lip and then checked his fingers for blood. Wiping his hand on his trousers, he stared at the Irishman blocking his way. Shanssey stood no taller than the tent entrance, but he was almost twice Wyatt’s girth. The thick-necked boxer traded his easy smile for a look of inspection as he leaned closer.

  “I don’t see anythin’ damaged that won’t mend. We’ll need to close those cuts though. Come with me. Can you walk?”

  “I can walk.”

  Wyatt took two steps before his legs buckled. The last thing he remembered was trying to catch himself on Shanssey’s thick forearm.

  He awoke on a cot in a tent stitched together with mismatched colors of canvas. The cuts on his face had been patched, each one smarting like a bee sting. He looked down at his stocking feet, and then he leaned and spotted his boots standing side by side beneath the cot. By the chorus of crickets chirring lazily outside the tent, Wyatt knew he had not slept through to dawn. He threw his legs over the s
ide of the cot and sat up, and right away the expanded space inside his head warned against standing.

  Just then the Irishman pushed in through the tent flap carrying a bucket and a striped, bloody rag, which Wyatt recognized as a part of his shirt. “Look here now, son,” Shanssey said around the cigar clamped in his teeth. “You’ll want to let that patch-up job take.” He set down the bucket and, with a hand gently clamped to each of Wyatt’s shoulders, eased him back to the cot.

  Taking the cigar from his mouth, he poked it toward Wyatt. “I’ll tell you what. You get what sleep you can before breakfast. Then in a few days, when you feel up to it, I’ll teach you how to protect yourself and how to counter a man’s blow. You’ll find that most of it’s in the footwork. You’ll be helping me out in the bargain. I’ll be needin’ a sparring partner. What do you say?”

  From out in the night they heard the Swede’s big booming voice, complaining about the cards he had been dealt. Wyatt turned his head to the direction from which the sound had come, and he stared at the wall of the tent, the muscle in his jaw knotting.

  Shanssey managed a grim smile and shook his head. “If you go back there, son, I can fairly promise you the same outcome.” He leaned to put his face in Wyatt’s line of sight. “Why not learn to do it right?” Clamping the cigar between his teeth, he brought up his arms and performed a smart flourish of strokes with a speed that belied his bulk. His blocky fists whipped through the air like flying bricks. Then he smiled around the cigar and held out his hand to seal the deal.

  Wyatt searched the man’s beseeching eyes, wondering about the goodwill that could be packaged inside such brawn. When he gripped the fighter’s meaty hand, Shanssey’s smile expanded, slicing across his wide face like a split melon.

  “We’ll train together, and we’ll both benefit from the work.” He nodded in earnest to the cot. “For now you get some rest. We’ll think about the Swede later. Agreed?”

  In this man’s gracious presence, Wyatt relaxed and let his eyes close. Suddenly his body felt like dead weight, and his need for reprisal with the Swede freefell into the void of sleep.

  In the late afternoon of that same day, Wyatt found Shanssey behind the supply tent where he had roped off a square of sod for training. It was the business end of camp where the engineers and surveyors had set up a forward outpost for the next day’s progress. Wincing at the crescents of purple pooled beneath each of Wyatt’s eyes, Shanssey tried to cover his smile by idly scratching his broad chin. Wyatt stopped outside the rope.

  “This ain’t goin’ to work,” he said, “if you plan on insultin’ me.”

  Shanssey dropped his hand and chuckled. “Easy there, lad. I’m smiling at your pluck. Damned if there isn’t at least a little Irish blood running through those ice veins of yours.” Wyatt’s set jaw refused to relax. The brawny pugilist walked to where he stood. “It’s a hard case you are, boyo, that’s the God’s plain truth of it. I didn’t expect you so soon . . . that’s all.”

  “Reckon I’m ready to get started,” Wyatt said.

  Shanssey’s face took on the earnest glow of a child. “You’ve some hard bark on ya. Not a bad way to be out here.” He threw a hand toward the camp. “But, lad, you’re going to have to learn to recognize a friend when you see one.” The Irishman stooped under the rope and pointed to a crate, where a small leather case sat on top. “Sit down there, and I’ll treat those cuts for you again. Then we’ll get down to business.”

  The training began with footwork. After an hour Shanssey was able to coax Wyatt off his flat feet onto his toes, but he could not persuade him to dance.

  “You’ve got to stay mobile, Wyatt. Make your opponent unsure of where you are and where you’re going to be.”

  “I can move when I need to,” Wyatt said.

  “Can you, now?” Shanssey raised his fists, and his torso and head began to bob like something rising and falling on the waves of a river. “Then show me!”

  Wyatt assumed the stance, his left foot in front, his fists raised before him. Rocking forward and back, forward and back, he rotated stiffly to follow Shanssey’s effortless circling. The Irishman’s left arm flashed, and a brisk slap stung Wyatt’s cheek above his damaged lip.

  “See, I followed your rhythm,” Shanssey explained. “You told me right where you’d be.”

  Wyatt began to bend his knees and weave.

  “That’s it. Now mix it up. Get your head movin’. Surprise me.” Shanssey unleashed another jab that only partially connected. “That’s it, that’s it!”

  Wyatt himself threw a quick punch, but Shanssey blocked it, and, stepping inside it, pulled a straight right a half inch from Wyatt’s chin. Both men stopped as still as a photograph, with the tacit understanding that the blow, had it been delivered, would have sent Wyatt sprawling.

  “A man will instinctively back away from a fist coming at him. Learn to use your opponent’s momentum against him.” Shanssey repeated the move in a slow, dreamlike performance. “Slip inside. Hit him while he’s coming at you. Like this. Hit me!”

  Wyatt threw a halfhearted jab, and the big man weaved his way inside to pull another punch. Again they froze together for an instant as the lesson burned into Wyatt’s consciousness. Shanssey lightly patted Wyatt’s cheek and backed away, and the training continued.

  They worked for a week before sparring. To spare his hands any damage, Shanssey produced pairs of padded gloves for these sessions. Though the gloves provided protection to knuckles, they allowed a man to hit harder at his opponent’s head. Wyatt took his blows, but he learned from them. Shanssey said he was quick to learn the things new to him . . . if not nearly so quick to let go of old habits. Soon Wyatt became adept at turning a defensive move into an aggressive offense, and a few of the surveyors began to while away their twilight hours by watching the two fighters at work, pulling up crates and barrels to form a makeshift spectators’ section. It wasn’t long before proper crowds began to gather, and all privacy was lost. Even Stefgard, the braggart Swede, stopped by once or twice to spectate, but he never stayed long.

  Adopting the new Queensberry rules that were slowly making their way into American boxing circles, Shanssey prepared for his future as a professional fighter, giving Wyatt a unique opportunity to learn the ropes. The Irishman was clearly the more accomplished boxer, but the Earp name went around camp as a raw-boned fighter who could take a lot of punishment and deliver a vicious blow. He had sand. Hell, nobody else volunteered to climb into the ropes with John Shanssey. Not even Stefgard.

  The jewel of Wyatt’s reputation was his unshakable coolness. Onlookers never failed to note it. This and an acquired knowledge of the Queensberry rules ushered Wyatt into the role of referee for the Sunday matches set up by the gamblers. He presided over seven bouts, only one of which required settlement by a decision. Those on the losing end of the wager predictably grumbled, but no one challenged Wyatt’s word.

  “Well, Wyatt,” Shanssey exhaled as he climbed out of the ring after a victory over a German spike-driver. “Did you learn anything from this one?”

  As they walked, Wyatt unrolled the cuffs of his sleeves to his wrists and secured the buttons. “I reckon if he’d connected more’n that one time, you’d a got into some trouble. Fella could hit.”

  “Aye . . . bugger had the kick of a mule.” Shanssey looked at Wyatt and waited.

  “Them men tauntin’ you to stop circlin’ and go to fightin’,” Wyatt went on, “I reckon you had to teach them something about choosin’ your moment.”

  “Indeed, lad. But it weren’t the crowd I was teaching. It was the damned German.” Shanssey laughed. “Did you see how he let the crowd egg him on to be more aggressive?”

  Wyatt nodded. “Didn’t help him none when he charged you.”

  Shanssey slapped Wyatt on the back and squeezed the sloping muscle that ran from his neck to his shoulder. “I do believe you are acquiring an education, Wyatt.”

  CHAPTER 10

  * * *

 
Spring, 1869: Southern Wyoming with the Union Pacific Railroad

  When the east and west grading crews finally met in Utah and the rail lines connected to span the country, Wyatt considered the points of the compass. He could stay on and work on the spur-lines, but the fact was, he was tired of the camp. And he was not going to get rich gambling with men who squandered the better part of their money on liquor and whores. He was ready for a change. Something with a more substantial future.

  As the grading and survey crews loaded their instruments and gear into a boxcar, Crisman’s foreman beckoned Wyatt aside where the draft horses were picketed. The man stood looking off at the horizon with his hands slipped into the rear pockets of his trousers. Wyatt stepped in front of him, and one of the Belgians stretched its neck forward and blew air on Wyatt’s shoulder.

  “Earp, you done a fine job for us . . . especially with the horses. You know how to handle a team.” The foreman smiled at his boots. “Hell, they seem to wanna work for you.” When he looked up at Wyatt’s face, his smile broke off. “I’m done with these rail camps and ready for something a bit tamer . . . something that don’t involve a warm beer and a cold tent at night. There’s plenty of freightin’ needed in the rail towns poppin’ up along the line. I’m hopin’ you might wanna take a run at it with me.”

  When Wyatt did not reply, the foreman shrugged. “Well, think about it. I won’t leave for a few days.” From inside his shirt he pulled out two envelopes. “Here, this come for you.”

  Wyatt took the offered envelope, stamped and postmarked. He recognized Virgil’s handwriting and slipped it inside his shirt.

  “And this . . . this here is for you,” the foreman said, shaking the envelope by his ear as if it might rattle. “A little bonus I’m giving to only a few.” The man made a crooked smile and shook his head as though he had been caught in some petty crime. “Aw, hell . . . it’s a flat-out bribe to get you to stay on with me. Wages will be better freighting into the bigger towns.”