IT WAS CLOSE TO SUNSET AND SUPPER WAS NEARLY ready when Tom McLaury looked out the window over the stove and saw eight armed men approaching on horseback.
An army officer. Four troopers. Three civilians.
“Oh, Lord,” he whispered. “I knew this would be trouble.”
He moved the stewpot off to the edge of the stove top, wiped his hands on his shirt, and went outside to warn Frank with a shrill whistle that they had visitors. Frank straightened and put a hand to his forehead to shade his eyes. When he saw who was coming, he tossed the straight iron behind a shed, let the last mule up, and started toward the house, mad as hell.
“Goddammit! I know our rights!” he hollered. “They can’t come on our property—”
“Let me handle it!” Tommy yelled back.
Frank planted his feet and glared but did as he was told for once. Tommy was better at keeping his temper, and this might get ticklish.
A FEW HUNDRED YARDS AWAY, Virgil Earp watched a figure dog-trotting down a line of wagon ruts toward the fenceless gate that sketched the McLaury property line. Short. Slight. Head down, shoulders slumped. “Which one’s that?” he asked Morgan.
“That’s Tommy. He’s harmless. Frank’s the one working the iron. He can be a handful.”
“Your call, Lieutenant,” Virgil said.
Lieutenant Hurst swung off his horse and tossed the reins to one of his men. “Stay back,” he told the Earps. “I’ll handle this.”
Though Joe Hurst was a good soldier, he—like Tom McLaury—preferred diplomacy to conflict, and that was exactly why his superior had chosen him to recover the mules.
Just two years earlier, a dispute over who could sell dry goods in Lincoln County, New Mexico, had blown up into a shooting war. When cavalry troops were dispatched to restore order, one gang holed up in a store and refused to surrender, so the soldiers set fire to the building, expecting to smoke the civilians out and end the standoff. Instead, there was a fair-sized battle that ended with a lot of dead, burnt civilians.
The whole bungled mess stirred up a hornets’ nest of ex-Confederates who hated the federal government in general and anyone wearing a blue uniform in particular. An outraged Congress passed the Posse Comitatus Act, forbidding the army to have anything to do with law enforcement, and from the nation’s capital to the remotest frontier fort, standing orders came down to this: For the love of Christ, don’t make anything worse.
So when Tom McLaury arrived at the gate and shook hands with Joe Hurst in the pink-and-orange light of an Arizona sunset, the pair of them were quite possibly the two most reasonable men in Arizona, and they were united in their hope of working things out sensibly.
The facts were not in dispute. The mules were stolen; Frank McLaury had been seen tampering with their brands.
“I am barred by law from going onto your land,” Hurst admitted, “but Virgil Earp is a deputy federal marshal, and he has the legal authority to recover federal property. His brother Wyatt is a deputy sheriff who can arrest you and your brother, if I decide to press charges.”
“Please, don’t do that, sir,” Tom said. “Me and Frank just moved down from Iowa. Two of our brothers fought for the Union and one of them died, but we’re just about the only ranchers in this valley who weren’t rebels. We’re kinda caught in the middle here. We want to obey the law, but we gotta keep peace with our neighbors, and that’s not easy, sir. They are not peaceable men.”
After some discussion, an acceptable compromise was reached. The troopers and the Earps would withdraw. No one would be arrested, but Tom McLaury would see to it that the mules were returned to Camp Rucker in a few days. The matter would then be closed. No questions asked, none answered.
“LIEUTENANT, WITH ALL DUE RESPECT,” Virgil said when Hurst informed him of the terms he’d agreed to, “that might be the stupidest thing I’ve heard since Christmas. There is no way in hell that Tom McLaury can make good on that promise, and we’ll look like idiots for believing him.”
“We should go in there right now and enforce the law” was Wyatt’s opinion, but Morgan held up a hand. “Lieutenant, if we arrest the McLaurys now,” he said, “they can tell Old Man Clanton we caught them dead to rights, so they had to give the mules up. You can drop the charges later. Everybody wins. You get your mules back, and Tom and Frank’ll be off the hook with Clanton.”
You could see it on everyone’s face. Damn. That’s a good solution. Even Lieutenant Hurst thought so, but it was too late now.
“I gave my word,” he said, “and that’s the end of it.”
THEY MADE CAMP IN THE DUSK and split up in the morning, the troopers heading back to Rucker, the civilians returning to Tombstone.
Virgil was polite enough when Hurst offered his hand and thanked the Earps for their time and aid, but as soon as the lieutenant was out of earshot, he muttered, “Pigs’ll fly before he sees them mules again.”
Morgan and Virgil finished the last of Allie’s sandwiches as they rode. Wyatt didn’t eat. “What’s going on with Behan?” Virgil asked, to take Wyatt’s mind off his tooth. “Why’s he sticking his nose into your business?”
“Offered me undersheriff if he gets sheriff.”
Virg snorted. “What makes Behan think Frémont is going to appoint a Democrat?”
“Not in the mood, Virg.”
Even if a crumbling molar weren’t sending lightning bolts of pain through his jaw, and even if he’d been allowed to arrest the McLaurys for a crime that anybody with a single working eye could see they were guilty of, Wyatt couldn’t have told his brother exactly what Johnny Behan was proposing, though it had mostly made sense to him while Johnny was talking. “Only about half of a sheriff’s job is law enforcement, Wyatt. That’s where your experience is,” Johnny had said. “The other half is administrative.” That half involved a lot of political horseshit. Going to parties, being chummy, making small talk. Which is what Behan was good at. “But, see, if we divide the work up,” Johnny told him, “we’ll each be playing to our strengths. I take care of the political end of things, you take over enforcement, and the sheriff’s office as a whole does a better job for the citizens. Make sense?”
“So far,” Wyatt admitted.
“Now, in my experience,” Johnny had told him, “the worst part of a sheriff’s responsibility is visiting every property in the county once a year and coming up with a valuation for taxes. Everybody wants county services, Wyatt, but nobody wants to pay for them. And since the sheriff keeps a percentage of what he collects, everybody figures you’re jacking up their taxes for your own gain. Mining companies have lawyers to fight every penny of their assessments. And when you show up on a man’s ranch, he hates you on sight! That part of the job means soft-soaping people—seeing their side of things. It takes finesse and patience.”
“But it pays,” Wyatt pointed out.
“Yes, indeed. It surely does.” Behan dropped his voice. “Did you know Sheriff Shibell is pulling in upwards of twenty thousand a year?”
That was news—and by the sound of Johnny Behan’s grim laughter, the look on Wyatt’s face must have shown it. Of course, Wyatt knew Charlie Shibell was making a good buck but . . . twenty grand?
Until that very moment, Wyatt had thought he himself was doing well. He was getting three times his salary as a Dodge City policeman. His house wasn’t much, but he owned it outright. He could feed and stable Dick Naylor and Roxana and their colt Reuben. He was banking faro games, and that was a steady stream of money, too, but . . . twenty grand a year!
Across the table, Johnny Behan had fallen silent. With the patience of a Missouri fisherman, he simply watched Wyatt Earp think about that big round number. Then he flicked the line just a bit. Twitching the bait.
“What are you making, Wyatt?” he asked. “Five hundred a month? I don’t call that fair! Do you?” He waited until Wyatt’s eyes met his. “Now, if I get the appointment, I’m prepared to make you—”
“No deals,” Wyatt snapped.
“—an offer,” Johnny continued, unruffled. “If Governor Frémont appoints me sheriff of the new county, we’ll split the responsibilities and the income. Fifty-fifty.”
Wyatt frowned and looked at Behan sideways.
Then he swam back, still drawn toward that nice big number.
“Now, then, if you get the appointment,” Johnny went on, “you could appoint me undersheriff, and we could still split the responsibilities, just the way I figured. You can pay me whatever you think is fair. I won’t hold you to fifty-fifty.”
“I don’t know,” Wyatt said cautiously, but he was thinking that even half was ten grand a year.
And that was when John Harris Behan set the hook, for he had learned something important from his father, that ex-seminarian from Kildare: To understand a man, you must identify his besetting sin. Wyatt coveted the wealth of the men who owned things and ran things, but what he truly craved was the deference accorded to those men. It was not greed or envy that drove him. It was pride.
“It’s not just money, is it, Wyatt. It’s freedom. It’s a future. It’s respect,” Johnny said in a low, tight voice. “I’ve seen how those big shots look right through you. They pass you on the street and don’t even say hello. Uppity sonsabitches walk around town like they own the place, but if anything happens? Who do they come running to? Whose help do they want then, eh, Wyatt?”
“You got that straight enough,” Wyatt muttered.
“I’ll be honest with you, Wyatt. I am an ambitious man. I see the sheriff’s office as a stepping stone to bigger things. I want to show Washington that I can work with Democrats and Republicans, and that there are federal appointments I might be worthy of. Now, then . . . what does all this mean for you?”
Wyatt waited, and the Missouri fisherman readied the net.
“It means,” Johnny said, “that no matter which of us Governor Frémont appoints, we can work together for the first twelve to eighteen months. I’ll teach you what I know, and then I hope to move on to bigger things. And that leaves you free to run for sheriff unopposed in 1882.”
Wyatt frowned. “I don’t know . . . If I’m appointed, I’d probably go with Virg or Morgan for undersheriff. I have to look out for my brothers.”
“I understand, Wyatt. I come from a big family myself,” Behan said easily, letting the line play out a bit. “But my offer stands. I believe we’d make a good team that could serve the county well. And I believe both of us would benefit in the long run. Just think it over.” He smiled then and sat up straight. “You haven’t eaten yet, have you? Why not come on over to the house for lunch? My little Josie is quite a cook, and my son, Albert, would love to meet you.”
WYATT WAS STILL THINKING IT OVER on the way back to Tombstone from the McLaury place. Truth be told, he hadn’t understood how much went into sheriffing until Johnny Behan explained it. Assessing property values. Dealing with appeals and lawyers. It probably made sense to learn that part of the job from Johnny. In the meantime, he’d still make a real good buck as undersheriff.
He’d keep the little house on the edge of Tombstone, he decided, but maybe rent it out and buy something nicer in the good part of town. And he could invest some cash in the mining claims he’d won from idiots who’d put their properties on the faro table. Silver didn’t lie around waiting to be panned out of a riverbed. It had to be extracted from the ore. That required a lot of equipment and men who knew how to run it . . .
Prolly oughta sell off the mines, he decided as he rode. Use the cash to buy a spread right here in Sulphur Springs Valley.
The land east of Tombstone was green, with streams and lakes. Best grazing in Arizona, everybody said. He’d always wanted to own a horse farm. Most of the racehorses down here were thoroughbreds. He could buy breeding stock right here. Build on what Dick Naylor and Roxana and Reuben had in them . . .
He could use some experience, he guessed. And he liked what Behan said about the two of them showing how Democrats and Republicans could work together. “It’s up to our generation, Wyatt. Men who fought in the war—they’ll never lay down those old grudges. We don’t have those memories, and it’s our responsibility to make the nation whole again.”
By the time he and his brothers got back to Tombstone, he’d pretty much decided to throw in with Behan. Even so, he told himself it might be better to wait a couple of days before he said yes to Johnny. Could be he wasn’t seeing everything he should. Because that molar was killing him. He hadn’t slept well in weeks. He was stupid with fatigue, but Doc was in town now. The tooth would be out soon and he’d finally get some good rest.
A stable boy came over to take the horses off their hands when they dismounted at Dexter’s. The kid was new. Wyatt shook his head when the boy reached for Dick Naylor’s lead.
“I take care of him,” he told the kid. “He bites.”
He was unsaddling Dick when Fred White came jogging over and started talking to Morgan. There was something apologetic about “I was at the office when it happened.” Morg was frowning, but Wyatt finished brushing Dick down and then called to the kid, “You can feed and water him. Go easy on the grain.”
He was carrying his saddle to the racks, trying to decide if he’d go see Doc Holliday about the tooth right away or try to get some sleep first, when he heard Morgan give a shout of dismay.
Hell, it’s always something, Wyatt thought, but he was not prepared for what he heard next.
“He’s dead?” Morg cried. “Doc is dead?”