The Bisbee Massacre Page 2

  Clint shrugged.

  “I don’t know where he is now.”

  Dodge stared into his beer mug.

  “Eighty-one was bad,” he said, “bad for the Earp family.”

  “I can’t argue with that.”

  “Wyatt lost his mind there, for a while.”

  Clint nodded. It was true. Wyatt’s vendetta ride went on for a long time, until he’d tracked down all of the cowboys who were involved with the Clantons. After that, all the air seemed to go out of him. Then Doc died, and that seemed to take even more of a toll on him. Holliday was Wyatt’s best friend, pure and simple. He was a deadly killer, but he loved Wyatt, and Wyatt felt the same. It was a relationship Clint had never been able to understand. He had good friends—Wyatt being one of them, along with Bat Masterson, Luke Short, Talbot Roper. But they were all good men. Doc Holliday had the devil in him, right up till the day that he died.

  “What about you?” Clint asked.

  “What do you mean?” Dodge asked.

  “I mean . . . your situation. Still the same as it was in eighty-three?”

  “Oh yeah,” Dodge said, “still the same. Eighty-three.” Dodge shook his head. “Bisbee, right?”

  Clint nodded.

  “Bisbee was a nice town,” Dodge said. “Still is, in fact.”

  “What about Hatch?” Clint asked. “How’s he as a sheriff?”

  “Bob’s okay,” Dodge said, “better than ol’ J. L. Ward ever was.”

  “That’s for sure,” Clint said. “Fred, why didn’t you run for office?”

  “No, not me,” Dodge said. “My real job might take me out of here at any time. Deputy was as involved as I wanted to get. I could walk away from that, but I’d hate to just walk away from the sheriff’s job, leave the town in the lurch.”

  “What about being a constable?”

  “That’s even more of a sideline,” Dodge said. “Ike Roberts is still a constable, he takes care of most of those duties.”

  “Do you get over to Bisbee much?”

  “Once in a while,” Dodge said. “All my jobs take me there.”

  “Another beer?” Clint asked.

  “No,” Dodge said, “I got rounds to make.” He touched the deputy’s star on his chest. “I am wearin’ this, after all.”

  “You going to be in town for a while?”

  “Probably a few days at least,” Dodge said. “Gonna stick around?”

  “At least long enough for us to have a steak together,” Clint said.

  “Where are you stayin’?”

  “Sagebrush.”

  “That dump?”

  Clint shrugged.

  “I was meaning to keep a low profile.”

  “Okay,” Dodge said, standing up. “You want to meet up later tonight?”

  “Sure. Bird Cage?”

  Dodge nodded.

  “For a drink,” Dodge said. “Then we’ll go and get that steak.”

  “I’ll walk out with you,” Clint said. “Think I’ll have a bath and a haircut while I’m waiting.”

  He stood up and the two friends walked outside. Dodge slapped Clint on the back.

  “I’ll see you tonight at the Bird Cage,” he said. “It’s really good to see you.”

  “Yeah,” Clint said, “you, too, Fred.”

  Dodge walked one way, and Clint headed the other, in search of a bath.

  Clint had his haircut, then went to the rear of the barber-shop for his hot bath. As he entered the room and closed the door, the steam rose from the boiled water in the tub. That was good. It would take steaming-hot water to wash all the trail crud from his body. It felt as if it was baked into his pores.

  He undressed, pulled a chair over by the tub to hang his gun belt on, then tested the water with his hand first, and then his big toe. He lowered his leg into the water up to his calf, hissed at the intense heat and pulled it back. He closed his eyes, lowered his foot all the way, then stepped in with the other foot. Little by little he lowered himself into the tub until he was up to his neck in hot water.

  He closed his eyes and enjoyed the way the heat crept into his muscles. He used the soap and a cloth to vigorously scrub himself clean, then sat back again to just let his body soak in the heat. He didn’t know how much time he had before the water started to cool, and he wanted to enjoy it as long as possible.

  His mind floated back three years, to the day he first rode into Bisbee . . .

  FOUR

  BISBEE, ARIZONA TERRITORY

  1883

  As many times as Clint had been to Tombstone—the last in 1881 for the Earp-Clanton feud—he had not ever been to nearby Bisbee. Twenty-four miles to the southeast, Bisbee was also a town that was thriving on mining. Bisbee was easily larger than Tombstone, and thriving.

  Clint had been returning from Mexico and when he realized he was so close to Bisbee he decided to stop and have a look.

  He rode into Bisbee at midday, and the streets were busy. People were crossing the street in front of wagons from the mines, folks going in and out of the stores, a line of men in front of the assay office, waiting to have their metals weighed. Clint knew that the hills around Bisbee were filled with gold, silver, and copper, and that one of the biggest mines around was the Copper Queen Mine. He knew that the Copper Queen had been staked in 1877 by George Warren, but he didn’t know who owned it now.

  The horse, wagon, and foot traffic was heavy in the center of town. Clint decided to rein Eclipse in, dismount, and find himself a cold beer. He knew Fred Dodge owned a saloon in town, so he figured to find that one.

  He left Eclipse with his reins looped around a hitching post. If the horse backed up and pulled hard enough, he’d be able to get loose. Clint liked to leave the horse in charge of his own destiny. The animal would never wander away for no reason, and if he pulled loose there’d be good cause.

  Clint started walking, occasionally stopping short so he wouldn’t be run into by someone rushing in or out of a store. He reached a small saloon just as a man staggered out from between the batwing doors.

  “Excuse me,” Clint said.

  “Yeah?” The man stopping, blinked, stared at Clint blearily. He was no kid, probably in his forties, so Clint figured he’d know every saloon in town. “Whataya wan’?”

  “I’m looking for a saloon owned by Fred Dodge,” Clint said.

  “Across the street,” the man said, pointing. “Only he don’t own it no more.”

  “He doesn’t?”

  “He left town after the election.”

  “Did he leave Arizona?”

  “Naw, he lives in Tombstone now,” the man said. “Fact is, he got hisself appointed a deputy sheriff by the new sheriff.”

  “And what’s his name?”

  “Ward,” the man said, making a face. “Already can tell he ain’t worth a damn.”

  “Okay,” Clint said. “Thanks.”

  “I’m goin’ over there now,” the man said, “only I can’t walk so straight and I might get run down in the street. Wanna help me out?”

  “Sure.”

  Clint walked the man across the street, holding him by the elbow, steering him that way. It was warm for December, but there were puddles in the street from recent rain. Clint not only kept the man from being run down, but from falling down face-first in some puddles. When they reached the saloon the man said, “Obliged,” and went in ahead of Clint. Clint looked up and saw the name “Lily’s” above the door.

  Clint walked in, found himself in a small but well-appointed saloon. They were running a few games, had two girls working the floor. He walked to the bar.

  “Help ya?” the barman asked.

  “Beer, cold.”

  “Comin’ up.”

  When he handed Clint the beer Clint said, “I hear Fred Dodge sold out.”

  “Yep, right after last month’s election.”

  “You the new owner?”

  “Naw, I just work here. New owner’s name is Lily Farmer.”

 
“A woman owns the place?”

  “Yep,” the bartender said, “and some woman.”

  “Good-looking?”

  “Oh, yeah.”

  “Interesting.”

  Clint turned and leaned against the bar, working on his beer. He watched the two pretty girls work the floor, running it very competently between them. The dealers working the tables seemed to be legit.

  He finished his beer, turned to face the bar. The bartender was right there, good at his job.

  “ ’Nother?” the man asked.

  “Later,” Clint said. “I’ve got to get myself a hotel room.”

  “Well, you come back later on,” the man said. “Lily usually comes down around nine to see how we’re doin’.”

  “I’ll check back,” Clint promised. “Thanks.”

  FIVE

  Clint got Eclipse situated at the livery stable, and himself set at the Copper Queen Hotel, then went and found a place to get a good steak. He knew the Cochise County Sheriff’s Office was in Tombstone, the county seat, so he didn’t bother looking for a lawman to check in with. He passed a few restaurants, but waited until he came to one that was doing a brisk business before going inside.

  When the steak came it was worth the wait, cooked to perfection and large enough to fill the plate. The vegetables and onions were draped over the steak, the beer was cold. He ate it at a leisurely pace, taking the time to study the people at the other tables. They were mostly townsfolk, and he heard snatches of conversation involving cattle and mining, and even some concerning politics. Only a few tables seemed to be taken up by families, or married couples.

  After he finished with his excellent supper he left and walked back over to Lily’s saloon. The bartender’s comments about the owner had raised his curiosity and he wanted to see if the man had been exaggerating.

  He found the place jumping, but was able to secure a place at the bar for himself. The two girls who had been working the floor earlier had been joined by a third, and they all seemed to be working well together.

  “You came back,” the bartender said.

  “I told you I would. A cold beer.”

  “Comin’ up,” the man promised.

  When the man put the beer down in front of him Clint asked, “Boss around?”

  “Not yet, but she will be.”

  “Hope she makes it before I finish my beer.”

  “If she don’t I’ll give ya another one on the house,” the bartender said. “Believe me, it’ll be worth the wait.”

  “Well, you’ve got me curious,” Clint admitted, “and I never turn down a free beer.”

  The bartender went to wait on somebody else, and then another customer, and then two more. Clint watched him and saw that he was very good at his job, easily handling the work of two men.

  He turned to watch the floor and the games. There was one roulette wheel, one faro table, a few poker games going on. There were some other tables in the back of the house, but he couldn’t see what the games were—probably blackjack.

  The girls came to the bar to pick up their drinks, gave Clint a flirtatious look each, then went back to the floor with their tray of drinks.

  And then he saw her.

  This had to be Lily, the woman whose name was above the door. The woman whose name made the bartender’s eyes brighten.

  She was tall, with lots of black hair piled atop her neck so that her long, graceful neck was in view. The low-cut deep blue dress showed off impressive cleavage that was creamy and smooth. As she came closer—although he knew she was simply walking to the bar, and not to him—he could see that she was breathtakingly beautiful. She had blue eyes—made even bluer by her dress—a strong nose, full lips, and a strong jaw. He’d started guessing her age at twenty-eight, but as she got closer he revised his estimate until he stopped at about thirty-eight.

  “Larry,” she called to the bartender. The men at the bar parted to allow her access, but they also turned away from her, averting their eyes. Clint wondered what that was all about.

  The bartender leaned over the bar and the two of them had a brief conversation. Then he backed up and she turned around. Her eyes caught Clint’s and held them, as if she was waiting for him to turn away, like the others. When he didn’t she squared her shoulders and stared directly at him. He still didn’t turn away, but neither did he approach her, or try to speak to her. In the end she looked away, then walked away, back into the crowd, which parted and then closed back up behind her until she was hidden from sight.

  “What was that all about?” he asked the bartender.

  “Oh, she wanted to know how we were doin’—” the man started, but Clint cut him off.

  “No, I mean, nobody looked at her, except for me, and then she seemed to be trying to stare me down.”

  “Oh, that,” the man said, grinning. “Was I wrong about her?”

  “No, you weren’t wrong.”

  “Well, almost every man in this place has tried to speak to her, get near her, gain her interest—something,” the man said.

  “And?”

  “She cut them down,” he said. “Made it so none of them even want to look at her.”

  “Why not?”

  “They’re afraid of her,” he said. “She’s embarrassed most of them, and they don’t want to be embarrassed again.”

  “Does she have any friends?” he asked.

  “Not that I know of,” Larry said.

  “Are you her friend?”

  “I work for the lady.”

  “What about the other girls who work here?”

  “They’re afraid of her, too. She’s on the town council, though. Knows pretty much all of the other merchants and businesspeople in town.”

  “Is she friends with any of them?”

  “Not that I know,” the bartender said, with a shrug. “Could be. Like I said, I just work here. I don’t know much about her personal life.”

  “So there’s no man in her life?”

  Larry shrugged.

  “I ain’t seen one, but that don’t mean there ain’t somebody.”

  “Let me have that free beer, will you?”

  “Comin’ up,” Larry said.

  Clint didn’t catch another glimpse of Lily once the crowd closed in around her. He took his fresh beer and decided to stroll the room, take a closer look at the games before he decided if he wanted to gamble or not.

  SIX

  Clint had decided against playing poker with a house dealer, so he played a little roulette, just to while away the time. He had decided to check out of his hotel in the morning and go to see Fred Dodge in Tombstone. However, while he was seated at the roulette table—even over the din in the saloon—he and the others heard the shots from outside.

  He had just about lost the chips he’d purchased when he felt a tap on his shoulder. He turned, found himself looking into the eyes of the bartender.

  “Can I—” he started, but the man cut him off.

  “Miss Farmer would like to see you in her office.”

  “Farmer?”

  “Lily.”

  “Really?”

  The bartender nodded.

  Clint took the rest of his chips—about twenty dollars— and put them on number eight. When the wheel stopped spinning the white ball came to a stop on number eight.

  “Eight a winner,” the dealer said.

  Clint stared. That was over seven hundred dollars.

  “I’ll have your chips cashed in for you—sir,” the bartender said.

  “Fine. Lead the way.”

  The bartender led Clint through the crowded casino to a door in the back wall. He knocked, and then opened it.

  “Mr. Adams, Boss.”

  Clint slipped through the doorway past the bartender, who closed the door from the outside.

  “Mr. Adams,” she said, “I’m Lily Farmer.”

  Up close to her in the office, her beauty knocked him off balance.

  “Mr. Adams?”

  “I’m
sorry,” he said, “but you should be used to having your beauty make men speechless.”

  She stared at him for a long moment, then smiled. It lit up her entire face, made her impossibly beautiful.

  “I see I’ll have to watch out for you,” she said.

  “Why’s that?”

  “You seem to be a man who knows just what to say.”

  “Not always.”

  “Yes,” she said, studying him, “I have a feeling it’s always.”

  They stood staring at each other and the tension in the air was palpable. He had a feeling they were going to end up naked on top of her desk, and then the door slammed open.

  “Sorry, Boss,” the bartender said. “Something’s goin’ on outside. Shots fired. A lot of them.”

  Clint looked at Lily. Now he had a feeling they were not going to get back to this point in their lives.

  “Go,” she said to both of them.

  There was a rush to get out the door. The shooting was still going on by the time Clint got outside, and seemed to be coming from one end of town. Clint ran that way, as did a few other men. Clint quickly realized what had happened when they reached the place. The bank and several stores had been held up. There were injured and dead people in the street, including a pregnant woman.

  “That’s Bob Roberts’s wife,” somebody said.

  “This here’s Johnny Tappinier and D. T. Smith.”

  “Are they dead?” somebody asked.

  “Yeah.”

  “I got Joe Nolley and Indian Joe over here, both dead,” someone else said.

  Clint leaned over the pregnant woman. She was dead, shot twice, once through the heart, and another shot in the belly. Her unborn baby was surely gone.

  A few men came out of the bank and the stores, and said, “We got hurt people in here.”

  “Here, too.”

  One of the men was Larry, the bartender.

  “Is there a doctor in town?” Clint asked him.

  “No, in Tombstone,” he said. “Doc Goodfellow.”

  “Somebody’s got to go to Tombstone for the law and the doc,” a voice called.

  “I’ll go,” Clint said. “I’ve got a fast horse.”

  “I’ll go, too,” Larry said. “My horse is at the stable.”