Epitaph (66 page)

Hooker did not descend the stairs, remaining eye level with the filthy, unshaven sheriff of Cochise County. “You're out of your jurisdiction, Behan. This is Graham County, not Cochise. Your warrants are no good here.”

“Are those men on your land, sir?”

“I don't know,” Hooker lied comfortably. “And if I did, I sure as hell wouldn't tell you.”

“Mr. Hooker, the men I'm chasing are outlaws—”

“I know Wyatt Earp, Behan. If he's an outlaw, then damn the laws. Damn you. And damn your posse.”

He was staring at Ringo when he said that. Ringo stared back, eyes glittering when he muttered, “Arrogant sonofabitch.”

That was when Hooker's foreman showed himself and the Winchester rifle he had aimed at Ringo's chest. “It's bad manners to ride into a gentleman's yard and call him names,” the foreman said. “More talk like that, and you won't need to find Wyatt Earp to get a fight. You can get one here, right now.”

As the foreman spoke, the rest of Hooker's men were emerging from the barn, the bunkhouse, the cookhouse, the blacksmith's shop, the dairy.

“A nice bunch of fellas you ride with, Sheriff,” Hooker remarked when the odds were visibly even. “Deputy Cutthroat. Deputy Horse Thief. Deputy Drunkard.”

Johnny Behan took off his hat, wiped his face with his neckerchief, and stared at the mountains beyond the ranch house. He thought about saying, “I'm only doing my job.” He considered asking, “Who else could I get for this posse?” If he was to have any future in Cochise County, he would have to swing public opinion again, to convince people that the Earp rampage was not a lawman's noble crusade against criminals who would never be brought to justice any other way. But on April 14, 1882, it came down to this: He was just too damn tired to argue with Henry Hooker.

“We need a meal and rest for ourselves and our horses, sir. Will you do me that courtesy?” he asked.

“Of course,” Hooker said coolly. “You can even come inside. Your posse can eat in the barn with the other animals.”

LATER THAT YEAR,
Johnny Behan would make one last halfhearted attempt to arrest Wyatt Earp, but as he sat down at Henry Hooker's table, he already suspected there was no point. And he was right.

In the autumn of '82, he would be denied his party's nomination for sheriff of Cochise County. He would never win another election, but in years to come, governors and presidents would appoint him to a
variety of offices. Before dying of syphilis in 1912, John Harris Behan would live a long and useful life of public service in places as far flung as Tampa, Florida, and Peking, China.

Even so, his reputation would never fully recover from his years in Tombstone. He would always be remembered as the man who was bested—in love and war—by Wyatt Earp.

E
LIZABETH HOOKER AND HER DAUGHTER-IN-LAW
Forrestine were used to saddle-weary visitors, and their hospitality was renowned throughout the territory. When the Earp party arrived at Sierra Bonita, they were all in bad shape, but one man was barely conscious. Indeed, if Jack Vermillion hadn't been there to lean on during those last few hours of riding, John Henry Holliday would have quietly slipped off Duchess and made a sincere attempt to die in the darkness.

While Forrestine oversaw meals for the men who were still on their feet, her tubby little mother-in-law took the sick man in hand, supplying a warm bath, fresh dressings for the sores on his legs, and a soft, clean bed. Twenty hours later, when Doc awoke at last, the little boy who'd been told to watch over him scrambled up and ran for his grandmother. Presently, the lady herself appeared in the bedroom door.

With reflexive courtesy, Doc tried to get up.

“Don't be silly,” Mrs. Hooker said. “We don't stand on ceremony here, and you shouldn't try to stand at all.”

“Where's Wyatt?” he croaked.

“They're all up on that ridge.” She opened the curtains to show him Mount Graham, which was covered in wildflowers and glowing in the late afternoon light. “I expect they'll be down in time for supper. You missed the excitement! The sheriff was here looking for you,” she told
him, tidying the room. “My Henry was all for shooting it out with Behan and his cronies, but Wyatt didn't want us mixed up with his troubles. He took his boys up the mountain last night. Henry and our hands ran Behan off.”

She stopped bustling and looked at him appraisingly. “Do you need help with the chamber pot?” He blinked. She laughed. “Like I said, son: We don't stand on ceremony here. And I've doctored a lot of boys.”

“I can manage on my own,” he whispered, “but you are very kind to offer.”

“Well, then, I'll leave you to it. I've got a roast going for Wyatt and the others, but I think you're better off with something less challenging. How do you like your eggs?”

“Over easy. Thank you, ma'am. If it's not too much trouble.”

“No trouble at all! I'll be back in a few minutes with your meal.”

He ate, and slept some more, and woke the next morning to the sound of voices he recognized. Wyatt, Sherm, and the Jacks were down off the mountain. And was that Big Dan Tipton? Yes, and Charlie Smith.

Allies from Tombstone. Morgan's friends.

Listening, he noticed a pile of clothing that had been cleaned, mended, and ironed while he slept. He briefly considered getting up, but the conversation in the next room was staccato and decisive. Far more than he felt ready for. He closed his eyes and did not open them again until the door hinges creaked.

“WE'RE LEAVING IN TWENTY MINUTES,”
Wyatt had just told the others.

“What about Doc?” Creek Johnson asked.

“He's not coming.”

Before they could argue, Wyatt turned and went down the hall to the room where Mrs. Hooker had Doc. He eased the latch open, trying not to wake the dentist, and was counting off twenties when he heard Doc ask, “What in hell are you doin'?”

“We're leaving. It's five dollars a day for riding with the posse. You're out of pocket for your expenses, and—”

Doc sat up, bony chest pale in the daylight, those stick arms propping him up like tent stakes. “You're goin' to
pay
me?”

“Well, yeah. You lost income taking care of my brothers, and you need a stake to get started again in Denver, so—”

“So you were goin' to put cash on the bureau and leave me lyin' here, like some wretched woman you're done with.”

Wyatt frowned and shook his head. Doc could be so strange. His mind just worked different, and you could never figure what was going to crank him up.

“You're as broke as I am, Wyatt. Where'd you get all that cash?”

“That's none of your—”

“Where did you get it?”

“Dan Tipton brought it.”

“Damn you!” the dentist cried. “Where did
he
get it, then?”

“Wells Fargo. E. B. Gage. Richard Gird.”

“And what—precisely—are they payin' for?”

Doc was pulling on his trousers now, easing them over the bandages. Wyatt tried not to see the muscles, thin as rope, that ran along the bones.

“Doc,” he said, explaining as patiently as he could, “not one Cow Boy has ever been convicted of anything. Not even the judges believe any of them will ever go to jail. All the decent people in Cochise County want me to finish this. They want those outlaws wiped out—”

Doc was sitting still now. Slate-blue eyes in a skull-white face. “So that's your plan. Deliver us from all evil.”

“There are still killers out there, Doc!”

“There are killers right in this room.”

“I've got backing from the governor on down. The president, even. Mr. Gage says there'll be pardons when it's over and—”

“And you
believed
him,” Doc said, sounding like Mattie when she was amazed by how dumb Wyatt was being. “Wyatt,” he warned, “if
you take that money, you're bought. Take that money, and you're nothing but a hired killer. There won't be any pardon at the end. You'll do what the politicians and the businessmen want, and when you're finished, they will sell you down the river like a troublesome field hand.”

He wanted to leave. He wanted to be outside, on his horse. Moving. Not talking, not hearing.

“Wyatt, I am beggin' you in Morgan's memory! Don't do this. I know what you've lost. I loved him, too. I can hardly bear to think of this miserable world without Morgan in it. What you've already done, that was vengeance. But
this—
This is
commerce.
Wyatt, they are paying for your soul!”

Too many words. Always. Too many words. And Doc was crying now.

“I don't have time for this,” Wyatt muttered, tossing the cash on the bureau.

“All right then, go!” the dentist cried. “Go, and be damned to you. Go, and take that blood money with you!”

“MOUNT UP,”
Wyatt told the others. “We're leaving.”

“What about Doc?” Creek Johnson asked again.

Wyatt picked up his saddlebags. “I didn't want him to come in the first place. I told him it would be too hard.”

Creek frowned. “You mean, leave him here?”

“Hooker'll get him to Colorado.”

“Wyatt,” Jack Vermillion said, “Doc damn near killed himself for you.”

“Not for me,” Wyatt snapped. “For Morgan.”

“Well, hell! That's why we're all here, isn't it?” Danny Tipton asked. “For Morgan, right?” It was an innocent question, but no one would meet his eyes or speak to him. Confused, Dan looked from face to face. “We're all here for Morgan, ain't we?”

It was John Henry Holliday who answered. Standing in the
doorway. Half-dressed and haggard. His eyes reddened by fresh grief. “Tell them, Wyatt. Tell them why
you
think we're here.”

They listened, and then they argued. Nobody believed in the promised pardons. Nobody was willing to leave Doc behind either, for you could see death in him now, not just illness. They wanted to get him to the Colorado mountains, where he'd have some kind of chance.

“Let things settle down, Wyatt,” Jack Vermillion said. “You can come back for the rest of them later, if that's what you need to do. And I'll come with you. But let's get out of Arizona and lay low for now.”

He would remember how it felt: like a fire went out. Like he'd burned so hot for so long, there was nothing left inside him but cold, dead ash.

Watching his face, Doc murmured something in a foreign language before saying it in English. “Enough. Done is done. No man can rage forever.”

“All right,” Wyatt said, not caring anymore. “All right. We'll go.”

HENRY HOOKER PROVIDED AN ESCORT
across his land and a buckboard so Doc didn't have to ride any farther. When they crossed the New Mexico line, they rested for a time in a border town, then moved on to a railroad depot where Doc could catch a train to Denver.