WHEN DR. J. H. HOLLIDAY REGISTERED TO VOTE in Tombstone in the fall of 1880, he handed the completed form to a deputy registrar for the Pima County recorder’s office and muttered, “For all the good it will do.”
“Democrat?” the registrar asked, grinning.
“Born and bred,” Doc said with a sigh that ended in a cough.
Like all white southerners of his age and era, John Henry Holliday had grown to manhood when the very air around him was filled with loathing for Abraham Lincoln and the entire Republican Party. He himself was only thirteen when the war ended, so he had not been disenfranchised during Reconstruction, but Union veterans—Republicans almost to a man—had dominated the government for fifteen years of increasingly venal rule. At the age of twenty-nine, John Holliday had never yet voted for anyone who’d managed to win an office.
This state of affairs was not devoid of amusement. Back in June, for example, he’d followed press coverage of the Republican convention with a quiet, bitter glee. Hundreds of delegates and thousands of observers crammed into Chicago’s Industrial Exposition Building and screamed themselves hoarse over which as-yet-unindicted criminal might best disserve the country in their name. In the end, the field narrowed down to two men who were disliked and mistrusted even by their fellow Republicans. Ulysses Grant had left the White House three years earlier under a dense cloud of scandal; he was now ferociously backed by Roscoe Conkling, arguably the most corrupt politician in the nation. Which was saying something. Grant’s opponent for the Republican nomination was James Blaine, a man so sensationally consumed by the desire to attain the presidency that even his friends admitted he’d sacrifice anything—including honor and his firstborn child—on the altar of his ambition.
After thirty-six ballots, the Republican convention remained deadlocked, whirling between corrupt Scylla and vainglorious Charybdis. Fistfights broke out on the convention floor. Baroque insults were traded. There were threats and deals, betrayals and reprisals, high dudgeon and low comedy. As entertainment, it was hard to beat.
Just when it seemed the Democrats would win the White House by default, James Garfield emerged out of nowhere as a candidate and was nominated by acclamation. “Who in hell is James Garfield?” people asked, and the answer was: a former college professor who’d taught Greek and Latin at Hiram College in Ohio and who’d risen to the rank of general in the Union Army. Quiet, ethical, and brilliant, Garfield tried repeatedly to dissuade the delegates, warning that he would do nothing to gain the office if they forced the nomination on him. He’d kept his word, too, traveling no farther than his own front porch during the campaign.
Instead of capitalizing on their opponents’ disarray, the hapless Democrats sabotaged their first postwar opportunity to regain influence in national politics by nominating Winfield Scott Hancock, a man known primarily for his willingness to hang a woman for her very doubtful part in Mr. Lincoln’s assassination. Which had left John Henry Holliday to wonder what he might have done if he’d had to choose between a well-educated, reform-minded Republican and the cynical, unprincipled mediocrity served up by his own party.
He was delivered from this extremity by circumstance. Arizona was a territory, not a state; its residents were barred from voting in the national elections. Only Pima County and City of Tombstone offices would be on the ballot in November. The decision to cross party lines felt no less consequential, however, for men he knew were involved in the local elections. Virgil Earp was running for town marshal. Virgil’s opponent was the late Fred White’s deputy, Ben Sippy. Ben was a nice enough fellow, but he lacked Virgil Earp’s experience in law enforcement, not to mention Virgil’s sheer physical presence. For John Henry Holliday, it came down to this: If I were being beaten and robbed in an alley, which of the two candidates would I feel most relieved to see? The answer was clear, though he half-expected his hand to shrivel and turn black when he voted for a Republican. His X went next to Virgil Earp’s name.
He was willing to go no further. James Earp was on the ballot for village assessor, but if James was going to win that office, he’d have to do it without a Georgian’s support. John Henry Holliday had too many memories of kin and neighbors thrown off their properties when carpetbagging Yankees jacked up real estate taxes beyond the owners’ ability to pay. He would not place that financial weapon in the hand of any Republican, not even a friend’s.
Which left the Pima County sheriff’s office. And that was his most difficult decision, for Morgan Earp was dear to him, but Wyatt . . .
Well, the truth was that Wyatt often seemed stupid. Or, more charitably, rigid in his thinking. Wyatt himself wasn’t running for sheriff—not yet, anyway—but his support for Bob Paul was exactly what made Doc hesitate. Bob Paul and Wyatt Earp shared many strengths and weaknesses. Both had demonstrated admirable moral and physical courage, and Doc had no doubts about their competence and honesty, but they also shared a propensity to see the world in black or white. Charlie Shibell, by contrast, was more flexible in his thought, as demonstrated by his willingness to deputize a Republican like Wyatt Earp. Furthermore, a Democrat like Charlie Shibell understood that Pima County’s ranchers and farmers would respond to a Yankee push with a Confederate shove. Pin a sheriff’s badge on Bob Paul—or Wyatt himself, one day—and you could end up with a shooting war like the one in Lincoln County.
Grateful for the sacred secrecy of the ballot box, John Henry Holliday cast his vote for Charles Shibell and did so in the knowledge that Wyatt would probably be out of a job if Charlie was reelected. That was regrettable, but Wyatt must have known that campaigning actively for his boss’s opponent was a risk.
One vote won’t make the difference anyway, Doc thought as he folded his ballot and tucked it through the slot. There were so many Republicans in the county now, the latest odds were on Bob Paul to win with a spread of sixty votes.