They Called Them the Fightin' Earps

By Jiri Cernik

Wyatt Earp and his brothers came to Tombstone to invest in recently opened silver mines and real estate, to get a share of newly discovered wealth and prosperity, and not to continue their law enforcement career. However, they soon realized that on one hand they cannot for long ignore the lawlessness of the

• Language: English
• Publisher: PTP Book Division
• Release date: May 31, 2023
• ISBN: 9781088098424

Book preview

Prologue

You’ll find there only your own grave, the lieutenant of the U.S. Cavalry told a dark-haired fellow who had accompanied his troop as mule driver and now wanted to split. If the Apaches don’t get you, the lack of water will. The man, whose name was Ed Schieffelin, shook his head, muttered something that it was his business and asked the officer to pay him for his services. The moment he had money in his pocket, Ed untied his mule and headed toward a bluish strip of the mountain range which on military maps bore the name of the Dragoon Mountains. Several weeks prior, when he had been passing with this unit through these mountains, he had noticed an unusually large outcropping of an ore vein stretching only several feet above the ground in one of the canyons. Here we have to say that Schieffelin was not a professional mule driver but an experienced prospector who hired out for this job just to get an opportunity to check out this part of Arizona under military protection.

The officer’s warning was not vain. It was hot summer, and daily desert temperature hovered between one hundred and one hundred twenty degrees. Those few creeks which existed in this area were gone, leaving only gray, bone-dry beds. Water could be obtained only in the mountains. Apaches, as a rule, kept leaving the reservation and raiding the local ranches to steal cattle. If they were in a bad mood, only burned ruins of buildings and mutilated bodies of the rancher and family members were left behind. Schieffelin kept hiding in ravines, and at night he slept up to half a mile from his campfire. At the beginning of August, he had found what he was looking for - a silver lode. Three weeks later, he returned to Tucson and registered two claims - Tombstone and Graveyard. Choosing these names obviously indicates that he had not only a great sense of humor but also a warm feeling of satisfaction that the lieutenant's predictions had not materialized.

There was nobody in Tucson, though, who could properly assay the value of the samples he carried in his leather pouch so he decided to visit his brother, Alexander, in the mining town of Globe. Using the money he had left, he had his mule re-shod, purchased a bag of Mexican flour and, with the remaining thirty cents, set out. When he arrived at Globe, his brother Al had a hard time recognizing him. Ed was dressed in rags; his pants were patched up by pieces of a flour bag, and his shoes were held together thanks only to leather strips cut from a rabbit skin.

He had a glimmer in his eyes when he was describing his discovery in the Dragoon Mountains. He placed two samples of the silver ore on the table and wondered who could assay them. Laughing, Al insisted his brother get a job and secure himself a more reliable livelihood than prospecting in the desert could offer. Then, just at the right time, Richard Gird, the official assayer who had recently opened his office in Globe, entered Al’s log cabin. Gird put both pieces of ore in his pocket and promised he would have the results the next day. Well, it did not take so long. Around midnight, Al woke his brother and told him amazing news. One of those samples contained a tremendous concentration of silver. About a ton of this ore would be worth two thousand dollars. After assaying the finds, Gird kept inquiring from where Ed had found the samples but he was silent.

All right, Gird said, you know where that lode is and I have money. I am willing to partner with you for one third of the profit. All three men shook hands. In February the next year (1879), when the snow disappeared from the canyons, they set out to the Dragoon Mountains. Ed led them to a large rock across which stretched a gray strip of ore about fifty feet long and eight inches wide. He pulled a half dollar out of his pocket and pressed it against the vein. Its surface was so soft the image on the coin was clearly imprinted. The men started to work. Al spent most of the time hunting so they had enough to eat; Ed kept prospecting, and Gird focused on extracting the ore. By the end of March, they had staked out three claims. Within several months, the Lucky Cuss, the Contention, and the Tough Nut became the richest mines in the area. 

In the fall of the same year, hundreds of miners, prospectors, and land speculators began to stream to the foothills of the Dragoon Mountains. The Schieffelin brothers and Gird attached to their original three mines half a dozen other diggings, and rich industrialists from the East offered money and modern technology, including ore crushers. At the beginning of the following year, a crude collection of tents and shacks was being slowly transformed into a town. Dozens of mule drawn wagons kept bringing lumber from the mountains along the Mexican border, and soon the four main streets of Safford, Fremont, Allen, and Tough Nut began to take shape on an elevated plateau known as Goose Flats. On Fremont Street, one could see a two-story building bearing the name Schieffelin Hall. Elegant hotels and saloons such as the Cosmopolitan, Grand, Occidental, Crystal Palace and Oriental, whose interior showed off crystal chandeliers and bars made from mahogany, were built on Allen Street. Tough Nut Street was lined with modest homes of local miners and Chinese laundries and ran next to the mine of the same name. The food offered in the upscale restaurants and goods available in some stores could compete with quality and assortment of similar establishments in large cities such as Tucson, Prescott, or even Phoenix. The most notable, however, was the name of the town—Tombstone.

The new arrivals, dead tired after the long trip in the uncomfortable stagecoaches and by a monotonous view of the gray desert, considered Tombstone a real oasis. George Parson, a young prospector and later a successful businessman, allegedly said, when stepping out of the stagecoach the only thing this place needed was good people and water. An old nearby standing prospector, Yeah, that’s exactly what hell needs, too.

This human anthill where everybody tried to grab as much as possible from the newly discovered wealth became the scene of a drama whose central actors were a young lawman and his brothers. Wyatt Earp, having had law enforcement experience in the two Kansas cattle towns of Wichita and Dodge City, originally wanted to invest in the mining activity and real estate. Shortly after his arrival, however, he was drawn into the whirlpool of events which not only changed his plans but also deeply affected his relatives and eventually secured him indelible place in the history of the American West.

The book I am presenting to the readers is not an accurate historical narrative but rather, creative non-fiction. Most of the characters are real and the episodes are based on true events; however, their sequence and description had to be modified to better fit into the literary version of the story.

The Author

Chapter 1

The dawn began to break. In the east, the jagged peaks of a distant mountain range were looming in the morning twilight, while in the eastern and southern direction an undulating plain became clearly visible. After a while, when the rising sun illuminated the gray inhospitable landscape covered with sage and heart-shaped leaves of cacti, four riders appeared on an open rise. For a few moments, they looked around, and, when they had convinced themselves there was not a living soul far and wide, they spurred the horses and headed south. Judging by their equipment, one could be quite sure they were a bunch of local cowboys looking for some stray cattle. In addition to the coiled ropes, each of them also had a scabbard with a Winchester strapped to his saddle which, however, in this part of Arizona was not considered unusual. The men wore long winter coats because, even though it was only the beginning of October, the nights in the Sonoran Desert could be considered cold. The horses traveled at steady, brusque walk and only an occasional sound of a horseshoe hitting a rock or creaking of the saddles disturbed the dead stillness.

Suddenly, the first cowboy, a lanky fellow with sharp facial features and black curly hair sticking out from under his hat, raised his right hand and pointed at the border marker. Two nodded, but the last rider, a sullen looking man, barely looked up. Let’s ride next to each other now. We could use four pairs of eyes, the black-haired man said. "One never knows who we might run into on the Mexican side. Don’t care for scraping with ‘Patches or Rurales¹ today."

The other three riders moved forward and a short, stocky man with a mustache and trimmed goatee responded, Not to worry. The savages will run. All it takes is a couple of shots and they will hightail for the mountains. Here, Billy Claiborne and I already had the honor to tangle with them at Skeleton Canyon. Just ask ‘im how it turned out. Ike, the mustached man, pointed with his thumb to a young guy approximately twenty years old.

Yep. We barely fired three shots and them Indians evaporated. Now, as far as I am...

Shut up. The frowning man, who obviously didn’t have much understanding for the bragging of his comrades, sharply cut them off. You scared away a bunch of Indian beggars from the reservation. If it were the Chiricahua warriors, your scalps would be dryin’ in their wickiups.

Barely hiding their offended feelings, Ike and Billy made a face and stopped talking. For some reason they did not dare to argue with him. The black-haired cowboy, who because of his curls had the nickname Curly, just waved his hand and muttered to himself, Hope Florentino didn’t mess up the dates. If he did and Cardenas is gone, we’re wastin’ our time.

After about an hour of mostly a silent ride, the men spotted a broad strip of fresh green. There was no doubt. The tall cottonwoods lined a creek or a small river. As soon as they entered the shady area, they dismounted. Curly, who made the impression he was in charge of this group, allowed a fifteen-minute rest. The cowboys stretched their legs. Because it was warming up, they took off their coats, rolled them up and tied them behind their saddles next to the blankets. Then only in shirts, worn leather vests and, with an indispensable six-shooter at their belt, they mounted again.

Curly looked at his companions and curtly informed them, Another eight miles along the creek. That’s where the ranch is.

The ranch owned by Pedro Cardeñas was located on both sides of the San Bernardino River, approximately twenty miles south of the Arizona border. There were about one thousand acres recorded at the Fronteras land office in his name but, out of this amount less than a quarter would consist of decent pasture, which could feed his herd of fifty or so longhorns. The grassland was stretching primarily along the river yet, in the summer when the San Bernardino turned into a muddy trickle, even those fifty cows had a hard time finding enough spots to graze. The other Mexican farmers considered him an eccentric hombre. For generations they all had lived together in little villages and raised beans, corn and pumpkins but Pedro Cardeñas wanted to be a rancher as were the gringos in the north. He had laughed it off when warned no one could come help when trouble arose. He used to say both his sons were good shots and he got along with the Apaches just fine. When they showed up, he gave them an old cow and they didn't bother him for another year. The rustlers didn’t worry him too much either. During the day, the herd was near the river, so he could keep an eye on it. At night, when it wandered away into the desert full of cacti, thorny bushes and rattlesnakes, only a crazy or desperate person would try to drive a herd away. Above all, Pedro Cardeñas did not have an enemy in the whole county. Today, as every Sunday, he was getting ready to go to Cabullona, a small village, not far away from his ranch. He planned to listen to a sermon in the church then ask his patron, Saint Pedro, for an unusual favor. Tomorrow he’d be driving thirty head of cattle to market in Nacozari and, needless to say for this almost one-hundred-mile trip, needing any help he could find, particularly if it came from above.

In his Sunday poncho, Pedro was strolling in front of an adobe house while he smoked a pipe and squinted his eyes in the sunlight. From the bottom of his heart, he delighted in an image of siesta at the end of the market. The thoughts of goodies the Nacozarians prepared for their guests made his mouth water. Moreover, this year El General, his favorite rooster, would accompany him because a siesta without a cockfight was just as unthinkable as a siesta without tequila, mescal and baked beans. Pedro stepped up to a wooden shack where he kept his champion, looked lovingly at its rich tail and its almost two-inch-long spurs, throwing him a handful of crushed corn. He talked to the rooster for a while then closed the door and headed toward the river. There, a bunch of young heifers, steers and handful of older cows with calves, altogether thirty head received him with loud bellowing, expressing their displeasure they were penned up and not grazing with the rest of the herd. They were now all milling around near the gate and kept raising dust. Pedro obviously didn’t want to run the risk some of them would wander into the desert and delay his departure, so he had driven them into the corral. Before sunrise the next day, the whole herd would be on its way to Nacozari.

Pedro was convinced the drive would be successful. Only one thing worried him - Florentino Cruz, a half Apache and half Mexican. The gringos called him Indian Charlie. He had been here last week. Jobless and a worthless character, he loitered on both sides of the border. He was hanging around Pedro’s place for two days, looking at the herd and inquiring when he planned to drive it to market. Why did I tell him that? Pedro thought with obvious misgivings. Then it occurred to him the cows needed hay, or they might break out. He slowly walked back to the house to ask one of his sons to take care of it.

A few minutes later, fifteen-year-old Jorge, the youngest of Pedro’s sons, stepped out of the barn carrying an armful of hay. He threw it over the corral fence and repeated this process several times until the cattle calmed down and began munching the hay. When returning back to the barn to saddle up his father’s horse, he heard the sound of hooves. Curious who wanted to pay them a visit, he turned around and saw a rider at the river. His hat and the leather vest indicated he was not a Mexican. In his right hand, he held a gun and a red bandana covered his face, except for a pair of gray eyes. At the corral gate, the man stopped his Paint, making him almost sit down then he bent over to pull the gate open. In no time another two riders appeared and fired their six-shooters into the air while galloping around the corral. The frightened cows forgot about the hay and began stampeding out of the corral, while the fourth rider with black curly hair sticking out from under his hat blocked their escape to the river. Jorge stared at the strange men for several seconds then turned and ran toward the house. He never made it. The man with the red bandana readily raised his gun, his gray eyes turning expressionless and pulled the trigger. The boy staggered, spread his hands and fell to the ground.

Pedro had stepped out of the house immediately after the first volley. Only seconds later he realized those masked bandits were trying to steal the results of two years hard work. He raised both hands and was about to rush while cursing at the invaders when the humming of a bullet froze him on the spot. Suddenly, his older son, Alejandro, holding a rifle, appeared at his side. Quite excitedly, he kept looking at all four men uncertain at who to aim first. Judging by his indecisiveness, he was obviously accustomed to shooting coyotes, rattlesnakes and other vermin but it would be the first time he was supposed to fire at a human being. Then the fourth rider spurred his horse forward, pulled a rifle from a scabbard and fired. Alejandro fell as if struck by lightning. Then the killer turned around and followed the other three who were pushing the herd upstream.

Pedro’s knees gave out. Tears were streaming down his cheeks and his eyes were filled with pain and horror. He gently embraced his son’s bloodied head and, in a shaky voice, began to recite the Lord’s Prayer.

The space in front of the house fell silent. An old man wearing the Sunday poncho was sitting on the ground and, with a blank expression, kept staring at the dead bodies of his sons. The corral was gaping while in the distance a cloud of dust raised by a herd of longhorns driven north was slowly reaching the tops of the cottonwoods.

Newman Haynes Clanton, known practically among everybody in the area as Old Man Clanton, got out of the rocking chair and walked from the porch of his one-story house toward two men who were standing next to a corral leaning against the top rail. He stopped not far away from them, spat out the tobacco juice and looked north toward Charleston. He was looking for a while at the horizon above the road then pulled out his pocket watch and growled, Where the hell are they? They should be here by now.

Both men shrugged their shoulders. One of them, a handsome fellow, reached into his pocket for a tobacco pouch, rolled a cigarette and struck the coarse surface of the fence post with a match. He lit the cigarette, blew out the smoke and slowly remarked, If they’re still on the Mexican side, we won’t see ‘em today. If they ran into the Injuns, they’d be in real trouble. The other man, still a youth perhaps eighteen years old, seriously nodded his head. Then he added, According to the cowboys from the San Simon ranch, a band of Apaches was on their way to Mexico. They had traveled through Skeleton Canyon and driven away a bunch of their cattle.

Hearing about the Indians, Clanton just scornfully snorted and was about to turn and walk back to his favorite chair when a horse in the nearby corral neighed. All three men looked at the road. In the distance they saw a silhouette of a rider. It was hard to tell who he was but he had barely covered a hundred yards when they heard mooing of cattle then on a small rise against the evening sky, they could recognize distinct outlines of long, pointed horns. A few minutes later, the whole herd, driven by three men, came into sight. The youngster took several steps toward the road, took off his hat, threw it into the air and gave out a yell which could easily compete with any Apache war cry. Several minutes later, the rider came close enough and everybody recognized Curly. Clanton’s mood rapidly improved. Well, it looks like Indian Charlie was right about Cardenas’ herd, he thought. He has earned his reward for sure. If the cattle are in good shape, a thousand bucks is practically in the bank.

Curly slipped from his bay which was covered with cakes of sweat and dust and led it to the corral. In the meantime, the herd had smelled water and rushed toward a stream flowing about two hundred yards away from the ranch buildings. Clanton could not help himself and, followed by the other men, walked to the stream to personally check out the quality of this loot. Satisfied with the results of his inspection, he went to the house and returned shortly with a bottle. The red label bore the sign Old Popskull, a brand of not only cheap but also strong whiskey. The cowboys, having taken care of their horses, sat down on the rocks near the house and waited for the ranch owner to pass around the bottle. After several swigs, their tongues loosened and Ike began to describe the day’s operation, Billy Claiborne, as always, kept chiming in while Curly occasionally added something but the fourth man, whose name was Johnny Ringo, just silently stared ahead and frowned. Only when he felt the bottle in his hand did the cold, absent expression on his face disappear for a couple of seconds but then he scowled again. Looking into his eyes, one would have the impression those were eyes of a rattlesnake rather than of a human being.

An’ then that young greaser ran out of the house with a rifle. I was just reachin’ for my gun to teach ‘im some respect but Curly dropped him for me. I also got a drop on old Cardenas but then a bunch of cows ran toward the river, so I couldn’t pay ‘im ‘nough attention, Ike bragged.

Indian Charlie mentioned some calves, Clanton changed the subject. What happened to them?

Curly put aside the bottle and, with pretended sorrow, responded, Yeah, poor dogies, they didn’t make it. Then he grinned and explained, They couldn’t keep up. They were holdin’ the herd back, so I shot ‘em. Them few bucks we could get for ‘em wasn’t worth spending the night on the other side of the border.

Clanton muttered that was OK because most of the herd looked fine, so no harm was done. But tomorrow we’ll rebrand ‘em and get ‘em the hell out of here, he emphatically added.

Well, I’d let ‘em graze a bit, so they gain some weight, Curly remarked. It’s a five-day drive from here to Fort Bowie, and...

They’re not goin’ to Fort Bowie, Clanton curtly interrupted him. Then he pointed at the handsome fellow who was also inspecting the stolen cattle. Frank here brought us bad news. There’s a new cattle inspector at the fort. He’s in charge of purchasin’ livestock, and rumor has it he studies every damn brand with a magnifyin’ glass. If he don’t like it, he won’t buy. We’ll put Frank’s brand on ‘em. All we have to do is burn M in front of C. Who can tell they don’t belong to Frank McLaury? And once the burn is healed, we’ll drive ‘em to Tombstone. The miners don’t know what to do with money and there’s a shortage of meat there. For them steers we’ll get at least thirty bucks a head. They don’t have a deputy sheriff either and the local butchers buy anything looking like a cow.

The cowboys received the boss’ decision with mixed feelings. On one hand they cursed to hell the fort inspector but on the other hand the image of visiting Tombstone saloons seemed to be appealing enough to forget about the new order the newcomers from the East tried to impose on them.

Chapter 2

At the beginning of December 1879, a covered wagon stopped in front of the livery stable on Allen Street. The man sitting on the box pulled up the hand break, climbed down and stepped to the rear of the wagon. There he patted on the neck a black gelding which had trotted all the way from Benson while tied up to the vehicle. Once he made sure the knot on the rope was not going to loosen, he walked into the office. He looked around the room, and his eyes stopped at a red-haired guy napping on a chair next to the stove. He stepped closer, rubbed his cold hands over the warm metal top, and, for a while, watched the snoring sleeper. Then it occurred to him that several people sitting in the wagon were waiting for him, so he gave the chair a good kick. The redhead first stopped snoring then opened his eyes. When he realized the stranger standing next to him was probably a customer, he rose to his feet and lazily said, Howdy. What can I do for you?

'Need to leave a wagon and three horses here for several days.

Now fully awake, the stable employee nodded his head and pointing at an open book on a table said, Just sign in. When the signing procedure was over, both men stepped out the office. The red-haired fellow instructed the customer where to leave the wagon and showed him stalls for the horses. Then he stuck the money for three days boarding into his pocket and was about to slip back into the warm office when the customer asked for some more information. Where could we get decent accommodations in this town?

Try the Cosmopolitan, sounded the answer. Go straight on Allen. It’s on the left. Can’t miss it. Before he settled again in his chair next to the stove, he peeked into the registration book. The new entry read, Wyatt Earp. Instead of a full address, there was only one word, Tombstone. No street, no house number. The red-haired guy just cut a face and thought, A new arrival, huh; but he certainly don’t look to be someone who wants to make a living by digging dirt in the mines.

In the meantime, two other men had stepped down from the wagon. Both James and Virgil were Wyatt’s brothers. James, the oldest one and a veteran of the Civil War, had decided to make a living either as a saloon owner or a bartender. A bullet from a Southern rifle had gone right through his left shoulder, leaving him unable to do any hard work. Virgil used to drive a stagecoach, deliver mail and, recently when in Prescott, he had opened a sawmill. When the sheriff needed a reliable helper, Virgil was always ready. Now he was dreaming of pinning a lawman’s star on his chest for good.

The tarp got pushed away and four women gradually appeared on the wagon steps. First was Bessie, James’ wife, a tall blond with tight lips and an unusually strict facial expression. Right behind her appeared their daughter Hattie. Young and shapely, the sixteen-year-old girl could attract attention among old as well as young men folks. Then, from the dark wagon interior emerged the tiny figure of Virgil’s wife Allie. Allie, whose wild temper revealed Irish origin, was the only one who considered the move to Tombstone sheer madness. She had to leave behind a comfortable log cabin, a cow and a flock of chickens only now to face an uncertain future. She never tried to hide her feelings, particularly when Wyatt was within the close proximity of her sharp tongue. It was he who came up with the idea to try their luck in this new mining town and, on top of it, he was the leader of the Earp clan. Allie could not get over that Virgil quite often listened to him and not to her. The last passenger who joined the rest of the Earps was Wyatt’s common-law wife, twenty-two-year-old Celia Ann Blaylock. Mattie, as everybody called her had met Wyatt in one of the Fort Worth dance halls when he had some business in Texas. She begged him not to leave her behind and assured him she would be a good wife. At first, Wyatt didn’t think it was a good idea but then he agreed. Now, wearing a warm winter coat and rabbit fur hat, she was nervously looking at the town, which was supposed to become her new home.

Wyatt drove the wagon into a large yard. While the men were unhitching the horses and leading them to the assigned stalls, the women removed all valuable items and placed them in baskets and bags. About the same time, three cowboys appeared at the yard entrance. Curiously, they looked inside and one of them, a short guy with a goatee, remarked, That’s them all right. They come with bundles like a bunch of beggars an’ won’t take long, and they wanna order us around.

Wyatt, who was returning from the stalls, only overheard the last words, but, since they didn’t make much sense to him, he just waved his hand and paid attention to the growing pile of bags they were having to carry to the hotel. The Earps stepped out of the stable yard and looked around Allen Street. Two blocks to the left, Wyatt noticed a brand new, black and white billboard printed, O.K. Corral. Then, seeing the tired and gloomy faces of his relatives, he decided to cheer them up a little. You see. That’s a good sign. We’ve picked the right place. We'll also be OK.

I’ll be judge of that, Allie spitefully remarked and quickly bent to pick up another bag to avoid Virgil’s disapproving look. Walking along the street they saw through a large open space the Dragoon Mountains, whose peaks were covered by snow. When they were crossing Fourth Street, they heard a strange noise and, seconds later, they spotted on the parallel Fremont Street a large wagon pulled by a team of ten mules. The rattling of large wheels with broad iron tires was accompanied by the occasional crack of a whip. Right behind it, other wagons followed. Only later did the Earps find out it was the silver ore being transported to the town of Contention where large ore crushers were located.

Then a line of women holding wooden or metal buckets drew their attention. Coming closer, they realized they were waiting behind a large, wooden cistern on wheels. The horses were unhitched and kept munching hay while a short, stocky fellow was filling the buckets, five cents a fill. Yeah, we’ll be OK, sarcastically muttered Allie, at the same time thinking about the crystal-clear water in the creek, which ran next to their former cabin and never froze in the coldest winter and never dried up in the hottest summer.

Mattie didn’t say much, just looked at the stores. When she spotted a sign announcing there was a pharmacy in the building, she stepped up to Wyatt. Honey, there is a pharmacist over there. Be a darling and get me another bottle of laudanum.

Didn’t I buy you one in Prescott? What happened to it? Wyatt wondered.

Yeah, I know, but I’ve had a splitting headache all the way. I used it all up. See. Mattie pulled out a small blue bottle from her handbag and held it in front of Wyatt’s eyes. Wyatt hesitated, thinking, It should have lasted her at least two weeks, and she used it up within three or four days. It was a powerful opiate and, lately, the frequency she had been taking it as well as the quantity was getting him worried.

Just buy it for her, Bessie interfered, otherwise we won’t be able to put up with her. We’ll go ahead and meet you at the hotel. Wyatt grabbed the bottle, put it in his pocket and walked to the store.

The Cosmopolitan Hotel made an unusual impression on the Earps. Originally, they thought it would be some sort of a simple wooden structure, probably built out of freshly cut boards but instead, they stood in front of a solid, two-story adobe building. Moreover, each room had a small balcony facing Allen Street. The interior of the lobby astounded them. The walls were covered by tapestry and decorated by oil paintings and the staircase in the middle of the room had carved mahogany railings. All this beauty was complemented and topped off by a large gas chandelier as in an opera house somewhere in the East.

The desk clerk looked at the dust covered Earps in a rather suspicious manner and, seeing their bundles and baskets, his voice got a condescending overtone. Only when Virgil and James were willing to prepay their stay for several days was he willing to produce keys for three rooms on the second floor. Wyatt arrived at the hotel when both brothers and their wives were ascending the staircase.

Where’s Mattie?

Already in her room. Couldn’t wait till you bring them drops, answered James.

Wyatt frowned and ran upstairs. His and Mattie’s room was next to Virgil and Allie’s at the end of the hallway. He opened the door and entered. Mattie lay on the bed in her coat and with a cold compress on her forehead. Seeing Wyatt, she rose up and, without saying a word, just stretched out her hand. Wyatt fished from his pocket a six-ounce bottle and placed it on the night table. Mattie then measured five drops in a glass of water and took a long gulp. Then saying, Now I’ll feel much better, she placed the half empty glass back on the table.

Wyatt, in the meantime, looked around the room, glanced out of the window and suddenly, as if something had occurred to him, walked to the door. I have to take care of something in town. I’ll send somebody up here to make fire in the stove and you’d better stay in bed. I’ll be back toward the evening.

Mattie leaned forward and carefully listened. Once she no longer could hear the sound of Wyatt’s boots she quickly grabbed the bottle, measured another five drops in the glass, and then eagerly drank the rest.

Wyatt ran downstairs, asked the bellboy to heat up room number seven then inquired where he could find the Wells Fargo station. Fremont and Third, sounded the curt answer. Wyatt thanked him and walked out the lobby. He stood a couple of minutes in front of the hotel watching the bustle in the street and, when he heard the sound of a piano coming from a nearby saloon, he grinned. This town in many ways reminded him of Dodge. The only difference was instead of cows and cowboys, the streets were full of miners in muddy boots and blue uniformed cavalrymen from nearby Fort Huachuca stood in front of the saloons. Wyatt strolled along both sides of Allen Street then turned onto Second and to Toughnut. He looked at miners’ shacks interspersed with empty building lots, noticing some of them