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  WYATT EARP

  MATT

  BRAUN

  ST. MARTIN'S PAPERBACKS

  WYATT EARP

  Copyright © 1994 by Matt Braun.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N Y. 10010.

  ISBN: 0-312-95325-9

  Printed in the United States of America

  St. Martin’s Paperbacks edition / June 1994 10 987654321

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  Wyatt Earp was the stuff of legend. Nowhere is this more evident than in the array of books and motion pictures devoted to “The Gunfight at the O.K. Corral.” Through the decades, from that autumn day in 1881, the O.K. Corral shootout has become the most widely celebrated incident in the mythology of the Old West.

  Yet there was far more to Wyatt Earp than a gunfight that lasted barely thirty seconds. A westering man, Earp roamed the frontier for the majority of his life. His career as a peace officer was relatively brief, encompassing the years 1875-1881. The Kansas cowtowns of Wichita and Dodge City were where he first gained notoriety as a lawman. There, policing the riotous Texas cowhands, he acquired a reputation for tough law enforcement. But it was in Tombstone, an Arizona mining town, where the man and the myth became one. Three men died at the O.K. Corral, and a legend was born.

  History, as well as myth, often proves to be oddly selective. The Gunfight at the O.K. Corral was swift and deadly, a face-to-face, kill-or-get-killed confrontation. For sheer drama, however, the aftermath of the O.K. Corral was far more compelling. Men were ambushed and assassinated, others were killed in gunfights, and the impact on those who survived was little short of tragic. Yet these events have been largely overlooked, particularly in the creation of the myth. Nor do the usual accounts portray Wyatt Earp as anything more than a lawman with a fast gun. The reality, once again, proves to be far more absorbing.

  The portrait rendered here of Wyatt Earp is neither history nor myth. This is a fictional account based upon chronicles, court records, and certain recollections of those who lived through that deadly autumn of 1881. Literary license has been taken with time, place and various characters who people the story. What emerges is a Wyatt Earp not so much larger than life as true to life. Not literal truth, but the personal story of a lawman who aspired to more than a badge. The untold story of a Western myth.

  1. Earp Brothers' House 2. Homes of Virgil, James Earp (to March '82); Morgan & Wyatt lived here July '81 to Oct. 26 '81 3. Vacant property;open stalls used in connection with O.K. Corral 4. New building; formerly part of O.K. Corral, yard scene of battle, Oct. 26 '81 5. O.K. Corral stable 6. Occidental Saloon 7. Alhambra Saloon 8. Cribs, rooms of Big Nose Kate and Doc Holliday 9. Jacob Meyers' Clothing Store; Virgil Earp was shot here 1881 10. Cabin where Wyatt & Morgan lived from 1879 to 1881.

  Chapter One

  THE RIDERS ENTERED TOWN IN A DUSTY WEDGE.

  They slowed their horses to a walk as they passed the blacksmith’s shop. The smith paused at his anvil and watched with open curiosity as they proceeded upstreet. A group of Mexicans, mounted on fiery ponies with Spanish rigging, was an unusual sight in Charleston.

  Located in southern Arizona, the town was less than a day’s ride from the border with Old Mexico. Yet there was little interchange, whether in commerce or custom, between the Anglos of Charleston and Mexicans from below the border. Stores were closing along the street as the sun dipped westward toward the horizon. On the boardwalks, townspeople stared as the men rode past.

  The one out front, an older man, was clearly the patrón. Though he wore range clothes, his bearing set him apart, and he was mounted on a prancing black stallion. His hair and beard were flecked with gray, and he ignored the stares of passersby with an imperious expression. The four men strung out behind him were vaqueros, easily tagged by their saddle trappings and the style of their clothing. All of them were armed, and like their leader, they stared straight ahead.

  Halfway through town, the older Mexican reined to a halt before Walsh’s Cafe. The vaqueros spread out on either side of him, halting their horses at the hitch rack. Lolling in chairs outside the cafe were six men whose manner of dress identified them as cowhands. Having just finished supper, some were picking their teeth and others were in the process of lighting roll-your-own cigarettes.

  They inspected the horsemen, noting the wide-brimmed sombreros and heavy rowled spurs.

  A moment passed as the Mexican patrón examined the men on the boardwalk. Then he nodded quizzically, looking from one to the other. His English was thickly accented. “Señor Brocius?”

  One of the men straightened in his chair. “That’s me.”

  “You are William Brocius?” the Mexican asked. “Jefe of the Clanton Ranch?”

  Bill Brocius rose to his feet. A large man, tall and wide through the shoulders, he had thick curly hair and full mustaches. He arched one eyebrow in question. “I run the Clanton outfit,” he said. “Who’s askin’?”

  “Señor, I am Don Gonzalo Ortega, of Sonora. You are familiar with that name?”

  “Ortega.” Brocius repeated it, rubbing his whiskery jaw as though puzzled. “No, can’t say as I recollect hearin’ the name.”

  Ortega smiled. “Perhaps I can refresh your memory, señor. My ranchero lies eighty kilometers south of Nogales, on the Rio de la Concepcion River.”

  The men seated around Brocius exchanged sideways glances. They slowly unfolded from their chairs and stood, positioning themselves on either side of Brocius. The Mexicans stiffened, suddenly tense, and there was a moment of silence as the two groups stared at one another.

  Brocius shook his head. “Don’t recollect you or your spread. Why d’ya ask?”

  “Think back to six nights ago, señor. You and your men visited my ranchero, and the next morning I found myself poorer by almost two hundred steers.”

  “Mister, do I understand you’re accusing me of rustlin’ your cattle?”

  Despite his aggrieved tone, Brocius looked anything but innocent. To the townspeople of Charleston, he and his men were known cattle rustlers. They stole cows in Mexico, trailed them to Arizona, and sold them to ranchers who turned a blind eye to brands from below the border. Everyone, including the townspeople, benefited by the trade.

  The practice had originally started under the leadership of a rancher outside Charleston, known universally as Old Man Clanton. His chief lieutenant was Bill Brocius, amid the principal members of the gang were his two sons, Ike and Billy, the McLaury brothers, Tom and Frank, and Johnny Ringo. A year ago, when Old Man Clanton had been killed in a raid south of the border, Brocius had assumed leadership of the gang.

  Don Ortega took his time answering Brocius. He calculated the odds, six guns to five, and found them less than favorable. At length, he waved his hand in a dismissive gesture.

  “Please, señor,” he said, “let us not speak harshly of such things. I merely state that my steers were thoughtless enough to follow you across the border.”

  Brocius grunted., “You’ll play hell provin’ it.”

  “I regret to say that is so. The trail was difficult to follow at times, and when we arrived at your ranch, my steers had once again disappeared.”

  “You’ve been to our place?”

  “Si,” Ortega informed him. “We have just come from there. Your cook—I believe his name is Clyde—told us you were taking dinner in town tonight.”

  “Sorry sonovabitch,” Brocius said gruffly. “He’s gonna be lookin’ for a new job.”

  “Your men are your concern, señor. I am concerned only with the return of my steers.”

 
“Goddamn, Bill!” Ike Clanton pushed forward, his voice raised to a strident pitch. “Are you gonna let this greaser stand up in front of the whole town and make us out to be rustlers?”

  Johnny Ringo, who appreciated unintended irony, chuckled aloud. Everyone in Charleston, not to mention southern Arizona, was all too aware of their occupation. Brocius gave him a dirty look, then turned back to Ortega.

  “Señor, it appears to me your cows have got some mighty bad habits. Now just supposin’ them cows did follow us across the border. Exactly what’d you have in mind doing about it?” Brocius paused, swept the town with a broad motion. “I mean, this here’s the United States, not Mexico.”

  Ortega nodded agreement. “A point well taken, Señor Brocius. But then, men like ourselves have no use for legal technicalities, is it not so?”

  When Brocius seemed to ponder the question, the patrón decided to elaborate. “Clearly, you can understand that as a man who protects what is his own, I have no choice but to demand payment for my steers.”

  “And if I’m not of a mind to see it your way?”

  “We are reasonable men, señor. Rather than spill blood, is it not better to choose some less costly way?”

  Brocius hooted laughter. “Godalmighty!” he said, glancing around at his men. “Boys, here’s a man after my own heart. Willin’ to go whole hog and let you call your own tune!”

  The gang watched Brocius closely, waiting for a cue. His moods were mercurial and they were never certain what his laughter meant. Still grinning, his gaze shifted back to Ortega.

  “Why don’t you and your men climb down off of them horses? We’ll walk across to the saloon and get ourselves a bottle. Settle this thing like—what was it you called it—like reasonable men.”

  Ortega studied him for a long moment. Brocius’s face was twisted in an amiable smile, and the rest of the gang stared at the Mexicans with neutral expressions. At last the patrón nodded and shifted in his saddle to dismount. The youngest of the Mexican riders spurred his horse forward, blocking Ortega from stepping down.

  “Mi padre, he said hotly, “no haces cuento delos perros gringo! Elios sueiren tomar tragos para matar les.”

  Ortega brushed aside the warning. He looked at Brocius with an apologetic shrug. “Pardon, señor, my son is young and mistrustful of americanos. He believes you wish to cloud our minds with liquor, so that you might more easily kill us.”

  Brocius appeared wounded. “Well, I don’t know how it is in Mexico, but hereabouts it’s an insult to refuse a man’s drink. I reckoned you’d accept the offer the way it was meant.”

  There was a beat of hesitation, then Ortega motioned to his men. “No hablan mas! Nos vamos con estos hombres para tomar.” He nodded to Brocius. “We will accept your offer, señor.”

  Ortega started to dismount, and the vaqueros reluctantly followed his lead. Brocius waited until the Mexicans were trapped with one leg over the saddle and suddenly jerked his pistol. He stepped off the boardwalk and shot Ortega from a distance of only a few feet. The patrón went rigid, the front of his jacket aflame from the powder flash of the pistol. He slumped sideways, losing the stirrup, and tumbled to the ground.

  Only an instant behind Brocius, the rest of the gang drew their guns and poured a volley into the Mexicans. The McLaury brothers, positioned to the left, fired simultaneously, wounding one vaquero and killing another. Ike and Billy Clanton fired too quickly, their snap shots hitting the patrón’s son in the left arm and creasing his hairline. Johnny Ringo, always a deliberate killer, blasted the last vaquero from his saddle.

  The wounded vaquero and young Ortega were now in the street, backing away from the pitching horses. They managed to pull their pistols, but the shots went wild, thudding into the cafe wall and shattering the window. Brocius yelled, scattering the horses, and brought his gun arm level. He took careful aim and shot the Ortega boy in the head. As though struck by lightning, the youngster stood bolt upright, then fell dead in the street.

  Ringo and Billy Clanton fired on the wounded vaquero. One shot struck him in the shoulder and the other punched into his chest. He stumbled backward from the impact of the slugs, then dropped to his knees and tried to bring his gun to bear. Ringo calmly thumbed the hammer on his Colt, centered the sights on the Mexican’s breastbone and touched the trigger. The vaquero’s arms wind-milled as a dark splotch of blood spread over his shirtfront. He toppled face forward onto the ground.

  An abrupt stillness settled over the street. Brocius waved the gang forward, watching while they nudged each of the bodies with booted toes. Townspeople began edging onto the boardwalks, reappearing from where they had taken cover when the shooting commenced. They were drawn by morbid curiosity and a certain sense of admiration for their own. While none of them knew the cause of the gunfight, they found nothing to criticize in the killing of Mexicans who rode so boldly into their town.

  Don Gonzalo Ortega lay crumpled at Brocius’s feet. The dead man’s clothing continued to smolder as the sun vanished westward and dusk slowly fell over the grisly scene. The gang members gathered around Brocius, holstering their guns, and followed his gaze to the fallen patrón. Finally, unable to contain himself, Ike Clanton broke the silence.

  “What you lookin’ at, Bill?”

  “Damn fool,” Brocius said, staring at the body. “Should’ve known a white man wouldn’t drink with a greaser.”

  “Bought it, though!” Clanton crowed. “You fooled him slicker’n spit!”

  Brocius traded a look with Ringo. Neither of them held the Clanton boys in high regard. But business was business, and the Clanton Ranch, now owned by the brothers, was well-situated for their forays into Mexico. After a moment Brocius shook his head, gesturing as though to an overly excited schoolboy.

  “Ike, go fetch the undertaker. Tell him to come collect hisself a spade flush. Get this trash off the street.”

  Chapter Two

  HOLLIDAY AWOKE FULLY ALERT, HE LAY PERFECTLY still, listening. His pistol was on the nightstand, beside the bed, within easy reach. A noise had penetrated his sleep, and he wouldn’t move until he’d identified the source. Then, out in the hall, he heard the voices of two men fading toward the stairway. He relaxed, let the tension melt away.

  Often as not, Holliday was awakened by noise. Drunks on the street, voices outside, the footstep of a maid on creaky floorboards in the hallway. Whenever he’d camped at trailside on a trip, surrounded by wilderness noise, he hadn’t slept at all. But he never chided himself for being easily spooked, too cautious to sleep. On more than one occasion his ingrained wariness had saved his life.

  Tossing the covers aside, he sat up on the edge of the bed. He took his pocket watch from the nightstand and checked the time. Going on noon, and he’d got to bed sometime after five in the morning. An all-night poker game had been suitably profitable, but routinely boring. Lately it seemed there were no challenges, for the other players were too predictable, too easily read. Perhaps, in the end, that was the curse of a professional gambler. No one to pit himself against, put him to the test.

  A sudden spasm wracked him with a fit of coughing. He reached for a bottle on the nightstand, popped the cork and took a long pull. The whiskey was raw, almost molten when it hit his stomach. But on the way down it stopped the coughing, and he was able to collect himself without a second drink. He rose, quickly dressing against the chill of the room, and moved to the washstand. Since arriving in Tombstone, he’d discovered that autumn nights in October could be uncomfortably cold. All the more so for a man with consumption.

  Ten minutes later, freshly shaved and his mustache neatly trimmed, he walked from the room. Today he wore a swallowtail coat and a black cravat, with a gold watch chain looped across his vest. Along the hallway he stopped at a room and rapped lightly on the door. He waited a moment, listening for a response, then proceeded downstairs. The lobby of the Occidental was appointed with a grouping of leather chairs that looked out through a broad window onto the street. As he passed the
desk clerk, he saw that the town was bustling with activity. He noted, not for the first time, that people could be drawn anywhere, even the desert wastes of Arizona, by the scent of money.

  In early 1878 a bedraggled, footsore prospector struggled along the jagged mountain slopes east of San Pedro Valley. His name was Ed Schieffelin, and quite literally, he stumbled upon one of the richest silver strikes in frontier history. With ore assaying at twenty thousand dollars a ton, the discovery sparked the greatest mining boom ever recorded in the southwest. Schieffelin named his strike Tombstone, and within a matter of months the mile-high camp had mushroomed into a carnival of speculation. A stagecoach line was established across the seventy-mile stretch of desert to Tucson. Men and machinery began pouring in, followed closely by merchants and tradesmen, gamblers and saloonkeepers, and the finest assemblage of whores ever gathered in the Arizona barrens. From a few hundred whiskery desert rats, huddled in tents and squalid shacks, Tombstone burst upon the map as a riproaring boomtown. Within three years the population leaped to six thousand, and still growing. A town, complete with all the civilized vices, was spawned in a land previously thought inhabitable only by Apaches and scorpions. It was a dusty helldorado, vitalized by the mother lode, and it ran wide-open day and night.

  Holliday wouldn’t have changed a thing. As he entered the hotel dining room, it occurred to him that he’d made a life for himself in the mining camps and cowtowns of the West. Not the life his genteel ancestors would have envisioned, but one that admirably suited his own needs. He crossed to a table where Earp was seated alone, eating breakfast.

  “Good morning, Wyatt.”

  “Mornin’, Doc.” Earp speared a bite of ham on his fork. “All set for another day?”

  Holliday took a chair at the table. “One day’s like any other. I take ’em as they come.”