RANDOLPH DEAR, YOU HAVE A RIVAL!” PAULINE observed with a sad gaze that might have seemed sympathetic but wasn’t.
The stagecoach depot was surrounded by gray sand flats with low mounds of shattered brown rock in the distance. The entire dismal landscape was disfigured by Arizona’s unholy trio of vicious cacti. Wire-wool barrel cactus, like squat satanic footstools. Spiky bouquets of ocotillo, like hell’s daisies. Giant saguaro with weirdly human arms that reached toward heaven like the souls of the damned. The heat was demonic as well, without the slightest breeze to dissipate the ammoniac stench of a nearby corral into which months of horse piss had soaked without benefit of dilution. In the meager shadow of a palo verde shrub, a famished little coyote pounced on a scorpion and crunched it up with evident satisfaction, but Randolph Murray’s eyes rested instead on the dashing frontiersman who had been paying court to young Josie Marcus since the troupe’s performance in Prescott.
“Every living thing in the Arizona Territory has thorns, spikes, or fangs,” the actor muttered. “Or pistols.”
“Mr. Behan is very attractive,” Pauline murmured, relishing it.
“Yes. Quite!” Randolph admitted airily. “Pity about his hairline.”
Suddenly feeling rather gay, Pauline dabbed a handkerchief at her throat and waved a languid hand toward the unlovely landscape. “Dear God, do the Indians actually want this back?”
“Yes, unlikely as it seems. The Mexicans do as well.”
“Whatever for? Really, what is the point?”
“Hearth and home. National pride. Silver. Lots and lots and lots of silver.”
“There must be nicer places to find silver. Tiffany’s, for example.” Fanning flies from her face, she noted, “You look weary, Randolph dear.”
“Kind of you to notice, Pauline darling.”
He was, in fact, sweating, underslept, and in an exceptionally bad temper. The Pauline Markham troupe did not bear his name, but Randolph Murray managed the enterprise and he was responsible for herding, housing, feeding, and transporting—by sea and by land—a cast and crew of eighteen along with luggage, sets, and costumes, all while arranging new bookings, collecting fees, and doling out the payroll. Not to mention singing six numbers in two acts of a comic opera he loathed, seven nights a week with matinées on Wednesdays, Saturdays, and Sundays.
The travel conditions were appalling, but the response from these Arizona audiences to a British musical about sailors had been astonishing. There were week-long sellouts in Prescott and Phoenix and packed houses for one-night stands in half a dozen other little settlements. They’d just closed in Tucson and were moving on to their biggest booking yet: the lugubriously named but famously wealthy Tombstone, where the dashing Mr. Behan was evidently prospering along with his town. A man of many parts, Mr. Behan had given them to understand. Moving with the times. Full of gumption and enterprise.
Pauline sighed and took Randolph’s arm. “Poor thing!” she murmured. “It’s harder to be left than to leave, isn’t it.”
“Don’t,” he warned, but Pauline was always curious about her successors.
“How was our rosy little Josie?” she asked archly.
“Eager. Enthusiastic,” Randolph replied blithely. “And very . . . athletic.”
The actress blinked. The actor smiled. You asked for it, he meant.
JOHNNY BEHAN CERTAINLY WASN’T in the market for a wife in the spring of 1880. In April he’d traveled from Tombstone up to Prescott to sign the papers that would finalize his divorce from the former Victoria Zaff, and he was in no hurry to replace her.
While he was in town, he took the opportunity to see what all this H.M.S. Pinafore fuss was about, and by the end of the first act, he had his eye on a couple of girls in the chorus. When he found out the Markham troupe would be coming to Tombstone at the end of their Arizona tour, he leveraged good looks and good tailoring with good humor to get backstage, where he introduced himself to the manager.
“John Behan,” he told Randolph Murray, “and I must warn you at the outset that I am a member of that most loathed and feared breed of man: the Irish politician.” The actor smiled, so Johnny followed that disarming confession with a few recommendations about Tombstone’s best hotels, nicest restaurants, and finest stores, along with a hint or two about where to find the prettiest and most accommodating girls, while letting slip—subtly, of course—that he himself was a mover and a shaker in southern Arizona’s exciting new boomtown.
“Just mention my name,” Johnny urged, an inherited Dublin lilt adding interest to Missouri’s more prosaic tones. “The proprietors will do their very best to make you feel that Tombstone has treated you well, sir. And if you decide to stay at the Grand Hotel, I’d be happy to arrange for an accommodation on the fees. The owner is a friend of mine.”
“How very kind,” Randolph murmured. He was aware that he was being worked but didn’t mind, for it was useful to develop a connection with a local businessman before the troupe arrived in a town. He was also enjoying Johnny’s ingratiating performance, for actors and politicians are members of allied professions and often impress one another. “Mr. Behan, we’re having a little celebration this evening for Miss Markham’s birthday . . .” He dropped his voice before adding, “Though no one would think of mentioning the passing of the years within the Glorious Pauline’s hearing.”
“A slip of a girl,” Johnny agreed solemnly. “Hardly out of ringlets.”
“Precisely! Perhaps you would care to join us?”
“Well, now, that’s real friendly of you, sir. It’ll be my pleasure—sometime after midnight, I expect!” Johnny said with a wink.
Randolph smiled back indulgently. They were men of the world, after all.
WHEN YOU’RE ONE OF FOURTEEN CHILDREN, you learn to make an impression fast if you want to be noticed at all. Number three in the Behan brood, John Harris Behan did indeed crave notice, but he and his sisters and brothers had all been sternly taught the perils of getting above themselves. Take momentary pleasure in a small triumph and you’d hear, “There’s joy in the spring but sadness in the fall.” Brag and you’d be warned, “There’s a spoon you’ll sup sorrow with yet.”
It was better to be discovered than to push yourself forward, so at dinner with the Markham troupe that first evening in Prescott, Johnny listened to the theater stories with quiet appreciation, merely tossing a witty aside into the conversation now and then. Asked a question, he responded with self-deprecating remarks calculated to arouse curiosity. It was only after dessert that he let himself be persuaded to tell the troupe about his frontier adventures.
“Well, I did serve as sheriff of Yavapai County for a couple of years,” he admitted, pausing for murmurs of approbation around the table. “That was a lively sort of job, but nothing compared to the time I spent as a representative in the territorial legislature. In Arizona, Republicans and Democrats fight like Kilkenny cats—till there’s nothing left but the yowl.” He waited for the chuckles to subside. “Now, I’m a Democrat myself,” he continued, “but I reckoned there had to be a few things we could all agree on. Better roads—” Enthusiastic affirmation. “Education . . .” Insincere murmurs of concurrence. “Keeping the Apaches in check.” Shudders, all around. “Everyone thought I was crazy to try to work with the Republicans, so I played to my strengths,” he said with a cocky grin. “Got a bill passed for the humane care and treatment of the insane!” He allowed only a moment before he smothered his smile, almost, and said, “Obviously a madman’s self-interest.” Which got a laugh from everyone except the girl who was sitting across the table and a few seats down.
Of course, he’d been working hard to remain becomingly modest, but damn if she didn’t seem to be ignoring him on purpose. He himself was finding it impossible not to stare at her. What role did she play in the production, he wondered, and why didn’t I notice her before? She wasn’t conventionally pretty, but she was slim and lively with vivid features and extraordinary dark curls that sprang out around her face, but only grazed her shoulders. He’d never seen a woman with hair so short. It suited her, he decided.
Just then, she raised her eyes and met his own for a moment.
“I see you’ve noticed Jo Marcus,” Miss Markham murmured, leaning close and placing a hand on his thigh. “She dances as Tommy Tucker. The cabin boy?” When his eyes grew round, the Glorious Pauline added, “Yes, she’s a wonder, our little Josie. So . . . athletic!”
Before she could say more, Randolph Murray interrupted to ask about Geronimo. Yes, Johnny confirmed, Apache raids were a constant threat. They were serious trouble when they occurred, and he told three stories to illustrate the point. Admittedly, he might have played the danger up a bit, for the Apaches were cunning about international politics, living quietly on Arizona reservations while raising merry hell on the Mexican side. Given American attitudes toward greasers, the Indians were welcome to steal livestock in Sonora as long as things stayed peaceful north of the border. Still, why not give the theater folks a thrill? It was just having a little fun. Telling a few stretchers to make the actresses flutter. Sure enough, one of them—though not Jo Marcus—insisted that the gallant Mr. Behan keep her “safe” that night in Prescott. The next morning, the troupe left for Phoenix. Johnny cut overland and waited just north of town. Staying out of sight, he whooped like an Apache and fired off his pistols before riding over the ridge: a one-man cavalry, ready to take credit for saving the girls from a fate worse than death.
His little pantomime worked like a charm on everyone except the Marcus girl. Aloof, she watched him with a small cool smile. Like she knew that he was picturing the way she looked in boy’s clothing.
He shadowed the Markham troupe for miles, attending every performance as the show moved south toward Tombstone. He was going that way anyhow, of course, and tried to match the girl’s teasing indifference, but he wanted her and bad. Why? he asked himself, and he had no answer except that it was his nature. From the time he was twelve, in any company, he had always ranked the girls: which he’d have first, then second, then third. The world was filled with desirable women. Hell, nearly all of them were desirable! Plump or thin, white or black or brown, young or experienced. Most could be had for a kind word, or a sweet gesture, or a silver dollar. But not this one. Not Jo Marcus.
It wasn’t until they got to Benson that he finally broke through and the funny thing was, he’d quit trying by then. They were just passing the time, hiding from the heat in the shadow of the livery stable, trading stories about their families while they waited for fresh horses to be harnessed for the final push into Tombstone.
Her father was a banker, she told him. Her mother was a society lady, active in the community, doing charity work. Theater was just a lark, she said breezily. She loved to dance but expected she’d return to San Francisco and settle down once she’d gotten a craving for adventure out of her system.
“My mother thought you could burn in hell for dancing,” he said.
She blinked. “That’s absurd. Anyway, Jews don’t believe in hell.”
His father would have told her, “You’ll believe in hell right enough when you get there, missy!” but Johnny said, “I don’t believe I ever met a Jew.”
“You have now,” she said. “Why would anybody think dancing is a sin?”
“Dancing is the devil’s snare,” he told her sternly, pulling a long and serious face. “You can’t dance without going to a dance hall. You can’t go to a dance hall without drinking. You can’t drink without sinning.”
His mother’s folks were teetotal Missouri Baptists who considered fancy meals and store-bought clothes a sinful extravagance but owned slaves who cooked and sewed and cleaned. His father was a Kildare Catholic. “An ex-seminarian, no less, who saw no harm in a drop of whiskey of an evening,” Johnny said, briefly mimicking his father’s brogue. “Being a drinker was bad enough, but my dad was an abolitionist, too. That was real trouble in Missouri back then.”
To her Baptist parents’ enduring dismay, young Miss Harris defied them to marry the mick. Fourteen children attested to the couple’s passionate love, but the Mason-Dixon Line ran through the middle of the Behan home: a domestic armory packed to the rafters with explosive politics, with a lit fuse concealed in every corner. And it wasn’t just slavery or drinking Mr. and Mrs. Behan fought over.
“Christ, but I hated Sundays,” Johnny said, bitterness and Ireland creeping into his voice. “No matter where you went to church, you were a heretic for one parent or t’other. And you came home to more strife over the beef—roasted versus corned, y’see. Then there was the potato battle! Mashed with milk and butter or plain boiled? They even argued about how to thank heaven for the food they fought over.”
When the larger war broke out, in 1861, John Harris Behan was just nineteen. “Which side did you join?” Josie asked, and she seemed genuinely interested in his dilemma, so he was honest with her. He’d had his fill of rancor. Rather than enlist in either of the armies that were making Missouri a bleeding battlefield, he lit out for California, and he’d done his level best to get along with people ever since.
“I can find common ground with anyone,” he told her, and he meant it, though the country was more divided after the war than before it. “There’s always a way to make a deal work. Just see to it that everybody gets something and nobody gets everything.”
The stage teams were hitched to the wagons by then. Randolph Murray was herding everyone into the coaches, and Johnny helped Josie climb up. He never quite understood what finally brought her around. Whatever the reason, she kept hold of his hand after she settled onto the bench. Then she leaned over and kissed him full on the mouth.
Right there. In front of everyone.
Damn, but she was something! Wire-thin, with an energy that seemed almost . . . What? He had no words for her. Electric, maybe? A glowing face, vivid with mischief, as though she were daring him—
She wants it, he realized. He could see it in her. The excitement. The hunger. He sounded courteous, but he could feel his blood rising when he asked if he might visit her in Tombstone that evening after the performance.
“Maybe,” she allowed, eyes sparkling. “If no one more interesting takes my fancy.”
When he came to her room that night, she pulled him inside, shut the door, and met his need with a bright eagerness undimmed by holy virgins and the threat of everlasting torment. Ten minutes later, stunned and breathless, John Harris Behan truly believed that a lifetime of searching had ended.
At last, he thought. A girl who could go toe to toe with him. A girl who could match him, day and night, and round for round.
SEVENTY-TWO HOURS LATER, the glorious Pauline Markham was quietly gleeful as she informed the rather grumpy Randolph Murray that rosy little Josie had resigned from the troupe in order to move in with the dashing Mr. Behan.
Her delicious news was greeted with disappointing aplomb, for it had been anticipated. During the balance of their Tombstone engagement, Mr. Murray informed her, the part of Tommy Tucker the Cabin Boy would be played by the lovely Miss May Bell, a chorus girl who had been consolingly eager to step into all of Miss Marcus’s roles.
A week later, the Markham troupe concluded its triumphant Arizona tour and set out for the Pacific coast to do a series of return engagements in San Diego, Los Angeles, and Santa Barbara. By that time, everyone in Tombstone was talking about H.M.S. Pinafore, excepting only Wyatt Earp.
Wyatt never talked much, but even he had gone to see the operetta twice. Early in the run.