Epitaph (47 page)

Later, when she stooped to take the cobbler out of the oven, Josie said, “You know you're in Arizona when the oven is cooler than the kitchen!” But she and Lou had fun.

IT WAS STILL HELLISHLY HOT IN LATE AUGUST,
but the thunderstorms gradually became less frequent and the cloudbursts shorter. Road crews were able to make repairs and on September 1, supplies
began to reach Tombstone again. Everyone's mood lifted, though drinking remained the town's most popular pastime.

At the Alhambra, a drunk named Howell Creevey entertained the entire saloon by taking bets that he could put a live tarantula in his mouth.

“Saw it myself,” Morgan told Doc. “He did it three times without getting stung.”

“Self-preservation,” the dentist murmured. “I have seen . . . Mr. Creevey's mouth. The tarantula . . . would have died.”

That was the first real sign that Doc had turned the corner. He could say only three or four words at a time, but the fever had abated. The chest pain had diminished. He was quiet-eyed and calmer now.

The president's condition, by contrast, continued to deteriorate.

“If Mr. Garfield's . . . doctors had left that poor soul alone,” Doc told Josie one afternoon, “he'd be up . . . and walkin' by now.”

“And so would you be, if you'd stop talking and eat more—
Oy, mein Gott!
I keep hearing my mother's words coming out of my mouth. ‘Eat! Eat! You're too thin! I made this just for you!'”

“Tell me about her,” Doc suggested. Stop shoving food at me, he meant.

“She's too boring to talk about.” Then, struck by a thought, Josie sat still. “It just now occurred to me that she moved from Prussia to New York to California. Across Europe, and across the Atlantic, and around the Horn to the Pacific . . . No wonder she wanted life to be boring! She'd enough adventure already.”

“When did you . . . see her last?”

“Goodness! Almost three years. I should write more often, but . . .”

“You're not sure . . . what to tell them.”

She shrugged and changed the subject. “There was another telegram from Kate this morning.”

Stopping as she did to get the latest news from Washington, it was natural for her to take delivery of the telegrams and bring them to Doc. This morning's message was in Latin:
SINE AMOR NIHIL EST VITA STOP
.

“What does that mean?” Josie asked.

“Without love, life is empty. My own words . . . comin' back to haunt me.”

Josie sat back in her chair and crossed her arms. “Doc,” she said, “be honest. Do you still love Kate?”

He looked away, his face hardening in the effort to stop tears that still lay near the surface.

“I thought so,” Josie said. “Listen, what Kate did was awful, but Johnny Behan put her up to it. And believe me—when that louse wants to be charming, he is impossible to resist.”

They were both thoughtful for a time. Then Josie put her hand on Doc's. “Yom Kippur's coming,” she told him. “On the Jewish calendar, it's a day to ask forgiveness but . . . also a day to grant it.”

THAT WAS WHAT WYATT AND LOU SAW
through the front window on their way in for lunch: that moment of quiet intimacy.

“A match made in heaven,” Lou murmured, not realizing how deep those words would cut.

“I just remembered something I gotta do in town,” Wyatt said. “I'll eat over at the hotel.”

Hell, he meant. I waited too long, and now I've missed my chance.

ONCE THE ROADS WERE DRY AND SOLID,
the ore wagons began rolling again and the mines and mills returned to full capacity. Stagecoaches were back on schedule by early September. Robberies resumed.

The Bisbee coach was the thieves' first target. They got away with jewelry and cash from the passengers, along with a strongbox containing $2500. Deputy Sheriff Billy Breakenridge, Deputy Federal Marshal Virgil Earp, and special officers Morgan and Wyatt Earp, promptly tracked down robbers, who turned out to be none other than Deputy Sheriff Frank Stilwell and a friend of his named Pete Spence.

“Shall I tell Sheriff Behan you've resigned?” Billy B. asked Stilwell.

“Go to hell,” Frank said.

Bail was set at seven thousand dollars. Which should have been enough.

The summer heat moderated from lethal to merely brutal. The worst seemed to be over for Doc Holliday, and he had made his intentions clear. He would begin a careful exercise regime and go back to work at the Alhambra as soon as he'd regained some stamina. The moment he had any kind of income, he'd stop imposing on Morgan and Lou and move back to Mrs. Fly's boardinghouse. Morgan had his doubts about the wisdom of this plan, and despite her eagerness to get some privacy back, Lou fretted about a relapse. But when Doc told Josie, she said, “Good! Because I've been working on a surprise for you, and you have to walk all the way to Sixth and Allen to find out what it is.”

And that, he realized, was Josie's most endearing trait: She approved. Whatever you wanted to do, she believed that it was good and that you were right to do it.

By September 5, Doc Holliday was seen again on the streets of Tombstone, leaning on his cane, visibly weakened but walking a little farther every morning on those broomstick legs of his.

“Hey, Doc! I thought you left town!” the tactful would say, while the more bluntly honest might admit, “Damn, Doc! I thought you was dead.”

“Not far from it,” he'd tell them. And yet, all odds against, he'd lived beyond his thirtieth birthday, and now he had two simple goals: add distance to his walk each day and find out what Miss Josephine was up to. Often she accompanied him on these walks, a tiny dynamo, chattering and cheerful.

So many new buildings had gone up since the fire in June, he hardly recognized the town, but when he finally rounded the corner of Sixth and Allen, he stood still, startled to see that a large two-story building being constructed on the very spot where Fred White had been shot.

“It's called the Bird Cage, and it's going to be a variety house!” Josie told him. “Billy Hutchinson is an impresario. He and his wife, Lottie,
are going to bring all the best touring performers to Tombstone. The main floor's not done yet, but there'll be a stage on one end and a three-piece orchestra.”

“Impressive,” Doc said, trying not to remember Fred's screams. He concentrated on breathing for a few moments before he admitted, “I am not sure . . . I understand why you wanted . . . me to see it.”

“It's a surprise!” She giggled and danced a bit, wrapping small hands around his bony arm. “Now that I'm sure you can get here, I'll tell Lottie to let us in on Sunday morning. Do you need to rest a while, or shall we go straight home?”

He could still see Fred. Bleeding in the street.

“Let's go on back,” he said.

T
HERE WAS NOTHING INAPPROPRIATE ABOUT TOM
McLaury's note.
Mrs. Earp
, he'd written,
you might think after all that rain, there should be Flowers again in your garden. Do not worry the plants are not Dead. They need some cold before they come back next Spring. Respectfully, T.M.

Lou had nothing to hide, and yet . . . she never mentioned the note to Morgan. She folded it and kept it tucked into an apron pocket.

Sometimes she took it out to read again when she was alone. That might have seemed suspicious but in all honesty, she wasn't tempted by Tom McLaury. Not really. His boyish face and those beautiful, earnest, yearning blue eyes—they put her in mind of her brothers when they were little. That's all. A few minutes of conversation with Tom were all she'd needed to size him up. She knew instinctively that he was not the kind of man who could protect her and maybe that was what she found so hard to shake off: the idea of a life in which she wouldn't
need
to be protected.

So, yes, she saved that note, though she kept it to herself.

Because she loved Morgan Earp. She did. He was as decent a man as Lou had ever known. He had a talent for happiness and a sunny, even temperament that made each day with him a pleasure. She loved his curiosity and how tickled he was when he learned something new. She loved his tenderness at night. The joy was still there. The affection.
The daily satisfactions. To her surprise, things had actually gotten better between them after she yelled and cried. Maybe Bessie was right. “Honey, the Earp boys mean well,” she'd told Lou, “but sometimes you have to hit them with a shovel to get their attention.”

Morg worked in town now. He came home every evening and when she saw him round the corner with that big grin on his face, her heart still rose. “Wait'll you hear what happened today!” he'd call. The stories he told were always funny, never mean-spirited. While Lou would not have chosen to live in Tombstone, she had a three-room house of her own here and a discreet gold ring on one finger. She understood the seasons better and despite the harshness of the landscape, she knew that Arizona would provide bright blue days and pleasant weather in the spring and fall. She hardly heard the noise from the steam engines down at the mines anymore. She had learned to pay attention to the flute and twitter of nearer birdsong.

Even so, sometimes—sitting out on the front porch, listening to the buzz and squabble of a tiny darting mob of hummingbirds and watching Higgs chase lizards with clumsy puppy zeal—she would take that note out of her pocket and allow herself to wonder what her days and her nights might be like with the shy, thoughtful, sweet-faced farmer who had brought her a wagonload of spring beauty and a puppy's exuberance to ease her loneliness and to make her smile.

Different, she decided. Not necessarily better. Just different.

“Bitch! Slut!” Mattie shouted, announcing Doc and Josie's return.

Lou slipped Tom's note back into her apron pocket and gave Doc a steadying arm as he climbed the veranda stairs.

“It's official, Lou,” Josie announced. “Sunday morning, nine o'clock, at the Bird Cage. You and Morgan are invited, of course. Tell Morgan to get Wyatt to come. If Virgil and Allie would like to attend, that would be very nice, too.”

Winded but pleased with himself and his progress, Doc asked, “Miss Louisa, do you know . . . what this . . . is about?”

“No, she doesn't,” Josie said, “so don't waste your breath asking her.”

“She's been working on something,” Lou told him, “but she won't say more than that. Are you going to dance for us, Josie?”

“It's a
surprise
!” Josie cried, exasperated. “‘Surprise' means you don't know what it is until it happens. I'll see you at nine on Sunday.”

“Jew slut!” Mattie yelled, standing in her doorway across the street. “I know what you're doing. You have to have them all, don't you! Wyatt, Morgan, and now Doc.”

“Good mornin', Miss Mattie,” Doc called as loudly as he could. “I hope . . . you feel better . . . soon.”

“Go to hell!” Mattie yelled. “And take those bitches with you!”

IT WAS A DAY FOR SURPRISES.
That's what Wyatt would remember about September 18, 1881.

First off, Virgil and Allie showed up at the Bird Cage that morning. Wyatt hadn't expected them to come, for Allie had been slow to warm to Josie.

Then Albert Behan joined them, noticeably taller than the last time Wyatt had seen him. No surprise there—kids grew like weeds in the summer. The round freckled face was still that of a little boy, but Al shook hands like a grown man with the Earps and their ladies. When he was introduced to Doc Holliday, he said, “Josie and my father have both told me a lot about you. I'm inclined to believe Josie.” Which made everybody laugh. “I'm supposed to be at church,” Al said, “but Josie and me have breakfast every Sunday instead. It's not lying. It's just not telling. Anyways, my dad sleeps in, so he doesn't know the difference.”

“Nice to know the sheriff is up on events in town,” Virgil murmured.

“No wonder he can't seem to arrest anybody,” Morgan said, spitting into the street. “Doesn't even know what's going on in his own house.”

“Doc, you all right?” Wyatt asked, for the dentist looked kind of peaked.

“Certainly,” Doc said. “Certainly . . . Just . . . a little . . . out of breath.”

“I'll be right down!” Josie called from her hotel window across the street. When she emerged at street level a minute later, she had sheet music in her hands. Doc went still, and her face lit up. “Don't expect much,” she warned him, “but I'll do my best!”

Lottie and Billy Hutchinson arrived to let them in. “The Bird Cage will be the finest building in Tombstone when we're done,” Billy bragged. “Two stories aboveground and a cellar below. This open area in the center here will be general audience, but we're running galleries along both sides with box seats.”