Dear Reader,

Today and every Saturday for the next few weeks, I will be sharing, at no cost, several chapters of Book #1 in the Finding Billy Battles series on Substack.

My objective in writing the Finding Billy Battles series was to tell a compelling story by weaving fact and fiction into what I call “faction.” Therefore, many of the events, places, and people in Billy’s life are real, and I have attempted to be as accurate as possible with those facts.

I am proud to say that each book in the series has won several literary awards. You can read about some of those awards and read reviews of each book on my Amazon book page, https://www.amazon.com/stores/author/B001KHDVZI/?ccs_id=24ac3875-21a9-421b-9a04-ec9dcb645d14, or my website, https://ronaldyatesbooks.com/

If you choose to follow Billy Battles on his rousing and sometimes perilous journeys—and I hope you will—I welcome your thoughts about the book. Feel free to drop me a line at jhawker69@gmail.com.

Today, I am publishing Chapters Eight and Nine of Book #1 in the Finding Billy Battles series. During the ensuing weeks, I will post a new chapter each succeeding Saturday.

If you missed any of the earlier posts of the book, you can access them on my website at https://ronaldyatesbooks.com/.

I hope you will join Billy Battles on his incredible 100-year-long journey through life.

 

Finding Billy Battles: An Account of Peril,

Transgression and Redemption

(Book 1 of a Series)

Copyright © 2014 by R. E. Yates

Published by California Times Publishing,

Los Angeles

Library of Congress Control Number: 2013921605

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or using any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is an original work of fiction. However, some names, characters, places, and incidents described in this book are based on facts. The author invented others, and any resemblance to persons living or dead, actual events, locales, or organizations is entirely coincidental.

CHAPTER 8

Things went well for the first six months I was in Denver. True to his word, Mr. Hawes had sent a telegram to his friend James Harris in Denver, and I was given a job as a reporter on his newspaper, the Denver Sun.

As my mother had asked, about two weeks after I arrived, I visited Luther’s cousins and introduced myself. They lived in Denver’s Five Points area just north of the new and desirable Capitol Hill district. Five Points at this time was a diverse area where the city’s aristocracy lived in mansions alongside row houses and other modest dwellings. Germans, Irish, Jews, Mexicans, and a few Negro families all lived in the area and seemed to get along.

The day I picked to visit was an overcast, drizzly Sunday afternoon with gusty fall winds and lowering skies. When I arrived at the address Luther had given my mother, I stood before a two-story brick townhouse crowned by a gable roof. A small courtyard led to a broad veranda, and a large sash door flanked by two leaded windows that were taller than I.

A heavy iron knocker hung above the doorknob, and I must have used it to good effect because after I let it thump against the wooden door, I heard chairs moving and the sound of feet on wooden floors. As I waited for the door to open, I found myself fidgeting and rubbing my hands down my pant legs. I was nervous. After all, Luther’s kin didn’t know me from Adam, and they might not even want to have anything to do with me. For a brief moment, I thought about turning around and walking away.

Then the door opened, and there stood an opulent, bosomy black woman in her mid-fifties wearing a brown satin dress. She was obviously astonished to see someone like me standing at her door, and she looked at me guardedly with squinched-up eyes.

“Uh, Mrs. Longley?” I asked. My voice cracked and sounded almost twittery.

“Yeah-ess,” the woman answered in what was a pronounced Southern drawl. I cleared my throat. “Your husband is Parker Longley, brother of Luther Longley of Lawrence, Kansas?”

“Why, yeah-ess, he is.” She looked me up and down cautiously. “And who might y’all be?”

Just then, a stentorian voice boomed from another room. “Marthy, who’s at the door?”

The woman shot me a befuddled, perplexed look.

I cleared my throat again. “My name’s William Battles.”

Just then, the person behind that booming voice appeared. He was a man who looked about the same age as Mrs. Longley and almost the same size as Luther, with graying, closed-cropped, bristly black hair. He was dressed in a dark blue suit and a white shirt open at the neck. He glared at me with critical, almost-baleful eyes.

“Why, you are Luther’s friend,” the woman said. Then, turning to the man, she said, “Parker, this here is the boy Luther done wrote us about.”

Parker Longley looked me up and down as though he was inspecting a piece of lumber. Then his expression and demeanor changed abruptly.

“You best get on in here then and have a seat. Dinner’s gettin’ cold.” He extended a large, heavily calloused hand, and we followed Mrs. Longley into a dining room. To the right was a large bay window that looked out onto the veranda, and to the left a long table around which sat two younger women and three children.

As we entered the room, Mrs. Longley announced, “This here is Mr. Battles from Lawrence, Kansas. He and his ma are close friends of Uncle Luther’s.”

All eyes were on me, and I wasn’t sure what to do. So I nodded, smiled, removed my slouch hat, and said, “Pleased to meet you… Uh, I am sorry to interrupt your Sunday dinner.”

“Why, you ain’t interrupt’n nothin’,” Parker said. “We was just fixin’ to start eatin’, ain’t that right, Marthy?”

Mrs. Longley, whose name was actually Martha, was already putting another place setting on the table next to one of the two women and across from two girls who looked to be about ten and twelve, and a boy who was maybe seven. The woman I sat next to was Martha’s sister. The other woman was Parker’s sister—a widow and the mother of the three children.

“No trouble at all,” she said. “Now you just sit right down there and help us demolish all these here victuals.”

A large ham sat in the middle of the table surrounded by bowls of mashed potatoes, corn, green beans, gravy, newly baked bread, and freshly whipped butter. As ordered, I did my best to obliterate the cuisine Martha Longley and the two other women had prepared. During the meal, I explained how we had come to know Luther long ago in Western Kansas, how my mother had depended on him to keep me on the straight and narrow during my adolescent years, and how he had taken me fishing and taught me how to shoot and care for weapons.

“Sounds like Luther,” Parker said. “He never had no young ‘uns of his own. His wife passed on I ‘spect about the time ya’ll came to know him. He never got hitched up again.”

After dinner, all of us moved out onto the veranda. In the sky, large stratus clouds moved slowly to the northeast, leaving small patches of blue sky in their wake. We talked for another thirty minutes or so, and Parker explained that he owned and operated a small cabinetmaking business.

“Parker’s cabinets are in some of the best hotels and mansions in the city,” Martha said proudly.

As I stood to leave, Parker said, “We’ve been tryin’ to get Luther to come out here for a visit, but he is too pig-headed to hop on a train. Says he don’t trust those contraptions. Maybe you or your ma can talk some sense into him.”

I promised I would try. Then I thanked the Longleys for their hospitality and handed Parker my Denver Sun business card.

“You come back anytime, Mr. Battles,” Martha said. “You are always welcome here.”

As I walked away from the Longley house, the sun burst through an opening in the leaden clouds, and dazzling shafts of light irradiated the gold and yellow leaves of the deciduous trees that lined both sides of the street.

I was feeling better than I had in a long time. It was a relief to know that I had an ersatz family I could visit and talk to from time to time. Of course, there was Signore Difranco, who was proving to be a loyal friend. But I knew he had other things to do besides keeping me out of trouble.

That became apparent when Signore Difranco decided, like thousands of others, to trek into the mountains in search of gold and silver. He wound up in Leadville, which was still booming from the nation’s largest silver strike two years before. A couple of months before he left, the two of us had taken rooms in a boardinghouse a few blocks away from Larimer Street, which was where the Denver Sun office was located.

Denver was the most modern city I had ever seen. Not only were most of its buildings made of brick, as opposed to the false-front wooden structures in Dodge City, it had a population of thirty-five thousand in 1879 and was the first city in the west to have telephone service. I remember this fact very well because one of my first assignments was to write an article about the Denver Telephone Dispatch Company, which had opened for business just a few months before. The one fact I recall about that story was that the Denver telephone exchange was the seventeenth in the nation, opening just nine days after the Minneapolis exchange.

I was sure I was living in the most progressive city in the United States, and I remember writing my mother a letter to that effect. She answered with a letter pointing out that Kansas City also had telephone service and wondered if I had thought about moving there so I would be closer to her. Lawrence, she said, was only about forty miles from Kansas City, not the five hundred that Denver was. I had no intention of going to Kansas City, nor could I return to Lawrence to resume my education on Hogback Ridge—not without risking arrest and probably imprisonment.

I was sure I had found my niche in the world. The Denver Sun was doing well, the city was growing, and life was grand. It got even grander a few months later when I met and began courting a girl. Her name was Malvina Sophronia McNab, and I met her at a church social one Sunday evening.

Her father was a banker who also invested in real estate. In about five years, he had acquired a half-dozen town lots and was constructing commercial buildings.

“What brought you all the way here to Denver?” Malvina’s father asked me one evening when I had been invited to dinner in the McNab home.

I knew at the time he was not overly enthralled with my prospects as a newspaper scribbler, and of course, I had not acknowledged the corn about my shady past as a killer of men and their mothers.

“Well, sir, after spending two years at the university—”

“What?” Mr. McNab interrupted. “You were at university? I was not aware you come from the land of steady habits.”

“I have my mother to thank for that,” I said, looking over at Mrs. McNab, a handsome woman named Marguerita, who was about the same age as my mother. Mrs. McNab, it turned out, was of noble Spanish ancestry. Her family, which once had enjoyed substantial landholdings and political power in Mexico, had fled to the United States in the early part of the nineteenth century when Mexico, after three hundred years of Spanish domination, declared its independence from Spain.

“Is that right?” she said. “Where might she be from?”

“Illinois country… but the family moved to Lawrence when she was very young. They were strong abolitionists.”

“Well, doesn’t that beat the Dutch?” Mr. McNab said. “My people come from Illinois, too.”

That short exchange broke a lot of ice at the table, and from that moment on, I was accepted in the family almost as an equal. At least I was not viewed as someone from the mudsill of society.

When I said as much to Mallie, the nickname she preferred, she told me not to worry, that in her parents’ eyes I was a “huckleberry above that persimmon.” Mallie had a way of expressing herself that I had never heard before. When we met, she was a striking eighteen-year-old girl. She had long amber hair that framed a delicate oval face of high cheekbones, luminous, large green eyes, and a small, straight nose. She was, in a word, the most beautiful girl I had ever seen.

I wrote my mother about Mallie and her family. She responded by hinting that she might travel to Denver to meet this girl I was so enthralled with. I quickly wrote back that the relationship was not that serious. Nevertheless, I spent every free day and evening with Mallie, and I knew things were getting serious when I celebrated the New Year with the McNab family.

“Now that we are in a new decade, my boy, I think it is only appropriate that I inquire as to your intentions regarding my daughter,” Mr. McNab said as we watched a fireworks display usher in the 1880s. “I have discussed your prospects with Mr. Harris, and he says you have a bright future at his newspaper.”

“Did he?”

“Indeed, he did. Furthermore, I believe he is ready to give you more responsibility by sending you off on a grand assignment.”

I wasn’t sure what to make of that last comment. What grand assignment? Why hadn’t I been told of such plans? And why was Mr. McNab poking his nose into my affairs? Then it occurred to me that Mr. McNab and Mr. Harris were both leading members of the Denver Businessmen’s Association and had many opportunities to discuss business and other less significant topics, such as me.

Still, I wasn’t exactly exultant at the idea of being checked up on by the father of the girl I was besotted with.

“Don’t be silly,” Mallie said one Sunday evening. “Papa is just looking out for me.”

As it turned out, it was a bit more than that. Nevertheless, for the first time in months, things were looking up. The 1880s were going to be a great decade for me. I could just feel it.

Six months passed, and Signore Difranco returned to Denver from Leadville a wealthy man. He didn’t make his money prospecting. Instead, he created an investment combine with three other local businessmen. They bought and sold several mines—the last one, which had a rich vein of silver, that the combine sold for $150,000 to a French consortium. As chief negotiator for the sale, Signore Difranco left Leadville with a $40,000 commission—a princely sum for 1880. [About $880,000 in 2015 dollars.]

“What a wonderful country this is,” he said one evening over dinner at Charpiot’s Delmonico of the West, one of Denver’s finest restaurants. “Just six months after leaving Dodge City, and I have made a fortune, and I never even got my hands dirty. I could never do this in France or Italy.”

Signore Difranco had taken a four-room suite in the new Windsor Hotel on the corner of Eighteenth and Larimer Streets. He insisted that I move into the hotel with him, although I wasn’t thrilled at the prospect, as I was enjoying my freedom, even though I was staying in a boardinghouse where privacy was impossible. I am sure that my every coming and going was monitored by the busybodies who were living there.

The suite in the Windsor Hotel was beyond anything I had ever seen. It had fifteen-foot ceilings and windows that went from the ceiling to the floor. The walls were covered with maroon flocked wallpaper. That was a bit heavy for my taste. There was a large living room and a parlor flanked by two bedrooms, each with its fireplace and bathroom. There were gold-leafed bathtubs in each bathroom. I had never experienced anything so opulent in my life. I immediately dashed off a letter to my mother telling her of Signore Difranco’s success in Leadville and describing my new lodgings in Denver.

My mother wrote back saying that she was thankful to Signore Difranco and Mr. Hawes for getting me out of Dodge City:

I should never have allowed you to go to that God-forsaken place. I am pleased, William, that you seem to be happy in Denver. But I am disappointed that you will not be finishing your education here in Lawrence.

About a week after I had moved into the Windsor, I was called into Mr. Harris’s office.

“My boy, how do you feel about an extended assignment out of Denver?” he asked.

I wasn’t sure what to say, so I repeated the heart of his question. “Extended assignment?”

“Exactly. The Sun is interested in preparing a collection of articles about the many boomtowns here in the West. I think it would make for capital reading. What do you think?”

“Boomtowns?”

“Yes, places like Leadville, Central City, Virginia City, and that place down in Arizona—you know, the one with the graveyard name… oh, what is it now?”

“Tombstone?” I offered.

“Yes, yes, that’s it. I hear they are taking millions of dollars’ worth of silver out of the ground there—almost as much as in Leadville.”

I guess I wasn’t showing the kind of gratitude that James Harris thought I should.

“Why, what is the matter, William?” he asked. He had moved from behind his desk and was standing at a window looking out on the street below. “I would have thought you would be as happy as a flea in a doghouse. Why, think of Henry Morton Stanley. I am sure he was as goggle-eyed as a bear with a new honeycomb when Mr. Bennett assigned him to go to Africa and find Dr. Livingstone.”

Well, I was no Henry Morton Stanley, and Mr. Harris was not James Gordon Bennett, owner of the New York Herald, and I wasn’t being assigned to go to an exotic place like Africa. I would be going to a string of muddy, grubby mining camps where you either found fortune, poverty, or a grave. And to top it off, I would have to leave Mallie for God knows how long.

Then it hit me. So that was the plan. Send me off on some wild goose chase of an assignment so the ardor that had developed between Mallie and me might cool down or be snuffed out entirely. The thought deposited an aching knot in my throat. I thought Mr. McNab liked me. In fact, he was trying to keep me away from his daughter.

“Nonsense,” Mallie said when I said as much to her one evening as we stood on her front porch. “Papa would never do such a thing. And even if he did, what does it matter? We know how we feel about one another. Do you think a few months apart will change that?” She came close, and I put my arms around her.

I hadn’t considered that side of the situation. “I guess not,” I said. Actually, now that I thought of it, I wasn’t sure just how I felt about Mallie.

We had only shared a few harmless kisses. There had not been any intimacy, at least not the kind that Ben Minot had introduced me to one evening south of the Deadline in Dodge City. He had taken me with him to a bawdy house called the Green Door and singled out a soiled dove who looked to be about twenty-five for me to learn the ways of the flesh.

Her name was Hannah, and she was as soft as a goose-hair pillow and as hot as a widowed coyote.

“There now, that didn’t hurt, did it?” she said after we had finished what she called our “squiggling.” I was exhausted from the horizontal gymnastics we had just engaged in and could only utter something like “Nope.”

She delivered me back to the Green Door’s parlor. To my relief, Ben Minot, who had paid for the evening’s adventure, had discreetly departed. And we never spoke of the evening again, though when we saw one of those calico queens of the night walking down Front Street, he was not adverse to shooting a wink my way, as if to say, Our secret, eh, Billy?

Now, standing there with Mallie in my arms, I wondered how she might stack up against Hannah between the bedposts. I wondered if she had ever been with a man. I was sure she hadn’t. I felt ashamed of the carnal thoughts that rushed through my brain as we stood there that evening. I pulled away from her as those thoughts became embarrassingly “physical.”

I sensed she knew what was happening and suggested we say goodnight. “And put that nonsense about driving us apart out of your mind,” she said as she slipped through her door. “You just be careful in those rough and unruly places. I expect to receive a letter every day. Don’t forget!”

The next day, I stopped by Mr. Harris’s office and inquired about when I could begin my new assignment. I asked about using the telegraph to send my stories back, but Mr. Harris said I should instead keep a journal and write the articles when I returned to Denver, whenever that was.

“No rush on these, William. Besides, the telegraph is an expensive proposition. Where first?” he asked.

“Tombstone,” I said. “I know some people there who will help me get a handle on the place.”

I knew a little about Tombstone because Bat Masterson, who had left Dodge City after he failed to win reelection as Ford County sheriff, stopped by the Sun to see how I was doing and to update me about the Bledsoes, who were outraged that I had slipped out of Dodge City and Kansas before they could have me arrested for murder.

Bat, Signore Difranco, and I went to dinner that evening, and Bat filled us in on what happened after I left Dodge City.

“The whole Bledsoe clan showed up in Dodge looking for you about two days after you left,” Bat said. “They were part of a posse formed in Topeka. Thing is, they didn’t have a warrant—just a note signed by the Kansas Attorney General that I should hold you for questioning.”

“What about Nate Kimble… er, Bledsoe? Was he with them?”

“He was, and his story is that the three of you ordered the family off your property, and when they asked why, you shot Matthew and then his mother in cold blood.”

At first, I was horrified by such a story, and then I just got angry.

“Lyin’ bastard,” I said, half under my breath. “If I hadn’t had that Winchester, why, Ben, Mr. Hawes, and I would be buried under the sod somewhere on the Kansas prairie. What about Ben and Mr. Hawes? Did they have any trouble?”

Bat explained that the letter they carried only listed me, but then Bat said something interesting.

“I asked Nate to describe you, and he really couldn’t,” Bat said. “Then I asked him how he could be so sure that you fired the shots that killed his brother and mother. That’s when Nate showed his intelligence. Why, that man couldn’t drive a nail into a snowbank. He is so dumb.”

“What happened? What did he say?” Signore Difranco asked.

Bat couldn’t keep from laughing. “He said it had to be Billy here who fired those shots because them others was tied up in the barn. Why, I thought Wyatt and Billy Tilghman were going to choke. They was laughing so hard.”

Bat stopped his story for a moment to take a sip of his coffee. “Naturally, the next question everybody asked was why Hawes and Ben were tied up in the barn. And if they were, how could they have backed your play in ordering the Bledsoes off your property? Then I asked Bledsoe again to provide a description of you. And he couldn’t. So I said, ‘Boys, it appears to me that we just held Billy Battles’s trial here in my office, and it looks to me that the boy is innocent for lack of proof.'”

The Bledsoes were not convinced, however. The posse of nine men was led by Wilson Bledsoe, who apparently was Nate’s cousin as well as the skipper of the outfit.

“I opened the door so Nate Bledsoe could leave my office,” Bat said, continuing his story. “But Bledsoe wasn’t ready to leave.

“‘You tell that son of a bitch Battles that there is more than one way to die of hemp fever,’ he said, jabbing his finger into my chest. I was about to haul off and hit him when Wyatt stepped between us, grabbed the finger, and bent it back so hard that Bledsoe was suddenly on his knees yelping like a fresh-cut bull,” Bat said.

“‘Seems to me you’re all gurgle and no guts,’ Wyatt said as Bledsoe squirmed on the floor. Then he looked at the five or six other men who had crowded into the office. ‘That goes for the rest of you, too. Appears you are all heeled, and that is against city ordinances. I ought to arrest the whole crew.’

“Then, looking at Wilson Bledsoe, Wyatt said, ‘I advise you all to git back where you came from and drop this matter. Your quarry is long gone from these parts—Mexico, I heard. Ain’t that right, Bat?’

“I replied that I had it on good authority that you had gone to Mexico with Difranco here, and that the two of you had started a ranch down in Chihuahua,” Bat said. “I don’t think they believed me. The last I saw of them, they was headed northeast toward Topeka.”

“That’s a relief,” I said.

“Trouble is, Billy, I figure it is only a matter of time before one of those Bledsoes shows up here in Denver. Look how easy I found you.”

At that moment, it occurred to me that leaving Denver on an extended assignment might not be a bad idea.

I asked Bat where he was headed.

“Tombstone eventually,” he said. “Wyatt has part ownership of the gambling concession in the Oriental Saloon and has me set up with a faro bank there. But first, I am going to stop off in Gunnison, Trinidad, and Leadville.”

“Do you plan on doing any mining?” I asked Bat as he and Signore Difranco and I shared lunch together one afternoon.

“God, no,” he said. “Mining is not for me. But I will take the silver from the pockets of those who do at the faro and poker tables. That’s the only way to make easy money in a town like that.”

Signore Difranco nodded in agreement. “Mining is hard work and very seldom pays off in a big way. There are just enough people—a minority, mind you—who strike it rich to keep the throng encouraged and scrambling about the hills seeking their fortunes. At least that is what I found in Leadville.”

He then proceeded to tell Bat about his good fortune in buying and selling mining properties.

“You played the game the right way, Difranco,” Bat said. “I wouldn’t be caught on the blister end of no damn shovel either.”

Like most “sporting men’ of that era, Bat was an expert gambler who preferred cards to hard labor, or even guns for that matter, despite his reputation as a gun shark.

“Going around heeled can get you killed, whereas if you lose in faro or poker, it is seldom fatal,” he said.

Nevertheless, I never saw Bat when he wasn’t heeled, often carrying his persuader in a shoulder holster. At the time, I had no idea I would see him again quite so soon in Tombstone.

“I liked your friend Mr. Masterson,” Signore Difranco said one morning over breakfast at the Windsor. “He has a confidence about him without being a braggart.”

It occurred to me that that was a common trait among many of the men who made their way around the west in those days—men like Masterson, Wyatt Earp, Billy Tilghman, Charlie Bassett, Luke Short, and Doc Holliday. Up to that point, I had met only Doc Holliday once, and that was in Dodge City while Billy Tilghman and I were eating dinner with Wyatt Earp one evening.

Doc was a strange one. He had eyes that would chill a side of beef. They were piercing slate gray and set deep in an ashen face. The skin was pulled so tight over his high cheekbones that you thought bone might poke through anytime. I had heard stories about Doc Holliday—that he was hard as a whetstone and that he would jerk his man stopper from beneath his coat at the drop of a hat.

Yet here he was sitting with us at the dinner table, a man about five feet eleven, who was thin as a bed slat. He spoke with a thick Georgian drawl, and anyone who listened to him for more than a minute or two could tell he was an educated man. His use of the English language was impeccable—unlike Billy Tilghman or Wyatt, whose English grammar, while OK, would have had my mother pulling her hair out.

As we talked, I noticed that he was eyeing Signore Difranco. “Have I seen you somewhere before?” he asked.

“Have you ever been to Italy?” Signore Difranco responded. “Or France?”

“Not that I can remember,” Doc said. “Though I have met some remarkably lovely ladies from those lands.”

We talked a bit more. I asked Wyatt why he was giving up the life of a policeman.

“No future in it, and besides that, the law is tilted toward them with money. Why risk my life for laws that don’t seem fair to the least among us? Look what happened with Dora Hand. She was murdered, and that scum Kenedy got away with it because his pappy was the big sugar of a great Texas cattle spread.”

“Amen,” said Doc. “Glad to hear you are finally getting religion, Wyatt.”

“Do you practice dentistry?” I asked Doc.

“I do, on such rare occasions as a customer comes by my abode in the Dodge House. But I have to say, as Wyatt declared about law’in, there is not much bonanza in it.”

Doc looked at Signore Difranco. “Ever been to New Mexico? Las Vegas?”

“I have not… in fact, I have not been west of Dodge City. I am working my way to California.”

“For sport? Or do you have some business you are engaged in?”

Wyatt jumped in at this point. “That’s enough, Doc. Why the interrogation?” One of the cardinal rules of the Old West was never to ask too many questions of anybody because probably half of those who came west back then were running from something.

“That is quite all right,” Signore Difranco said, looking at Wyatt. “Actually, Mr. Holliday, I am, as you say, out here in the west, on the dodge. I am in exile for my political beliefs back in Italy.”

“An aristocrat who has leaked out of the European landscape,” Doc said. “Now isn’t that a daisy. And what political beliefs might those be?”

Signore Difranco looked Holliday in the eyes. “I was opposed to the monarchy and fought for Italian unification.”

“You mean the Risorgimento,” Holliday said.

Signor Difranco was obviously shocked by Doc’s knowledge of Italian history. “I am impressed. Not many Americans have such a grasp of my country.”

“Why, Signore Difranco, we may be among the great unwashed here in Kansas, but we are not entirely ignorant of worldly events,” Doc said. “I have read newspapers with religious vehemence since my twelfth birthday.” As was often the case with Doc, he fell into a short coughing fit—a result of the consumption he battled much of his life.

“I meant no disrespect—”

“None taken, I can assure you,” Doc said, clearing his throat and taking a swig from a small metal flask. Wyatt and Billy Tilghman looked at one another, as if to say, Did you get any of that? Then they gave me the same look.

Doc continued his interrogation of Signore Difranco. “Perhaps you can enlighten me further. If you fought for and won reunification of Italy, why are you on the dodge here in Dodge, if you will forgive my play on words?”

“When the Franco-Prussian War began—”

“In 1870, wasn’t it?” Doc interrupted, once again causing Wyatt and Billy Tilghman to exchange bewildered glances.

“Just so, just so,” Signore Difranco said. Before he could continue, however, Wyatt stood up.

“I think I will take leave of this history lesson,” he said. “Comin’, Billy?” he asked, looking down at Billy Tilghman.

“Why, Wyatt, shouldn’t you remain a spell and learn something about European history?” Doc asked, needling his friend in a way that only he could, and get away with it.

“Why? Will it help me keep those Texas drovers in line?” Wyatt said, pulling his hat from a hook on the wall. “We have two Texas cow crews in town tonight, and an education is the last thing them boys are thinkin’ about, unless it is the kind taught by one of Dodge’s painted cats.”

“You do have a point. Of course, you might offer up a homily on the Italian papacy and thereby lecture them to distraction,” Doc said. “Then, Billy Tilghman there could clock them on the skull. Who knows, some of that history might just remain in their vacuous Texas craniums.”

Wyatt looked at me. “Did you get any of that? If you did, you have my high regard, because Dick Naylor makes more sense to me than what I just heard, and Dick is my horse.”

Signore Difranco was laughing, as was I.

“Adieu, my untutored star toters,” Doc said to the retreating Wyatt and Billy Tilghman.

Following another short coughing fit, Doc and Signore Difranco traded a few stories. Doc told of his home in Georgia and how he came west for his health, not long after establishing a dental practice in Atlanta. Signor Difranco explained that he and many other Italians split with Garibaldi over his sudden support of the French in the Franco-Prussian War.

“The Italian public heavily favored the Prussians, and many Italians attempted to sign up as volunteers at the Prussian embassy in Florence,” he explained. “I did also, and received a commission in the Prussian Army. After the French garrison was recalled from Rome, the Italian Army captured the Papal States without Garibaldi’s assistance. Following the wartime collapse of the Second French Empire at the Battle of Sedan, Garibaldi switched his support to the newly declared French Third Republic. I wanted nothing to do with the French, and I remained with the Prussian Army until it defeated the French and entered Paris in 1871.”

Doc leaned back in his chair. “Hardly seems reason enough to go into exile.”

“Like Garibaldi, I was born in France,” Signore Difranco said. “In fact, I am still technically a French citizen, though I carry Italian papers. When my affiliation with the Prussian Army was discovered, all of my family’s properties in the south of France were confiscated by the French government. I was given a choice: face a charge of treason or leave France forever. Luckily, my family had deposited funds in Switzerland, and I was able to use those to come to America.”

“The guillotine or the life of the political émigré,” Doc said. “Of course, that was, I take it, an easy resolution.”

“I thought about fighting the treason charge, but I was advised by my family attorney that there was no chance of winning a favorable verdict in a French court. So here I am.”

“Indeed, so you are,” Doc said. “Tell me, Difranco, do you partake?” Doc had produced a deck of playing cards.

“Occasionally. However, I fear I am not very skilled at such games.”

“Perhaps you would care to join me. I plan to sit in on a game or two at the Alhambra.”

“Perhaps I will,” Signore Difranco said.

The three of us walked to the Alhambra, where several faro and poker games were in progress. Doc and Signore Difranco joined four men at one table, and for the next two hours, I watched in amazement as Signore Difranco relieved everybody at the table of their cash.

“I commend you, sir,” Doc said after the two had joined me at the bar. I had been nursing a beer for the past hour. “Your skill at this particular diversion is admirable.”

“I think I was lucky,” Signore Difranco said.

“Luck has a peculiar habit of favoring those who don’t depend on it,” Doc replied. “And as Seneca once said, “Luck never made a man wise, or as you say in Italian, ‘Fortuna non ha mai fatto un uomo saggio.'”

Signore Difranco shot Doc a look of pure shock. “Why, Dr. Holliday, you speak Italian?”

“I am afraid not,” Doc said. “I learned a speck at Dental College in Philadelphia. One of my good friends there was a student from Italy. I am afraid I have already exhausted my knowledge of the Italian idiom. And now I shall bid you two fine gentlemen good night. ‘Abiit, excessit, evasit, erupit,’ or as they say here in Dodge, ‘He has left, absconded, escaped, and disappeared.'”

Now, several months later, sitting in the Windsor Hotel in Denver, I reminded Signore Difranco of that evening.

“How did you do it?” I asked. “Cleaning out the table the way you did. Doc is a notorious gambler and doesn’t lose very often.”

“Yes, he is a professional man with the cards,” Signore Difranco said. “The game that night was just to, how do you say it in English, set me up for a bigger fall at a later date.”

“Did it work?”

“Yes, it did. He won almost $1,000 from me, and he would have won more had I remained at the table.”

Then Signore Difranco winked. “But you know, William, sometimes defeat is the better part of valor.”

“Don’t you mean discretion?” I corrected, recalling the classes in Shakespeare and classical literature I had taken on Hogback Ridge. That, I remembered, was the phrase uttered by Falstaff in Henry IV.

“Not at all. By the time the second game came around, Doc had remembered where he had seen me. It was in Atlanta about 1873. We were both guests at the home of one of Atlanta’s wealthiest men—a banker, I believe. I looked a bit different then, much thinner than I am now. That may be why he didn’t recognize me immediately in Dodge City. In any case, I believe I angered him that evening in Atlanta when I said that the best thing that could have happened in the War of the Rebellion is precisely what happened.

“Dr. Holliday asked me what that was, and didn’t I mean the War of Northern Aggression? I said that the victory of the North over the South was the best thing that could have occurred, and that calling the conflict the War of the Rebellion was perfectly accurate. At the time, Mr. Holliday was not the accomplished sporting man or gunman that he is today. I knew he was angry about my comments, but he retreated to another part of the room, and we never talked again until that evening in Dodge City.”

Signor Difranco stopped to light one of the thin cigarillos he carried in his suit coat. Then he smiled and said, “So you see, William, my defeat at the table in Dodge City was simply a reciprocation of sorts for Dr. Holliday’s retreat in Atlanta so many years ago. It was a way for me to make amends for the perceived slight I caused him that night in Georgia.”

“Perceived slight?”

“Indeed, perception is often the mother of conflict, and I had no intention of engaging Mr. Holliday in a—how do you say it, a powder-burning contest.”

“I am sure he would have killed you if you had,” I said.

“You are probably correct,” Signore Difranco said, though I wasn’t sure he believed it himself.

I explained to Signore Difranco that Mr. Harris had given me an extended assignment and that I would be traveling to several so-called boomtowns to write a succession of articles about them.

“Well then, we best get packed, hadn’t we?”

“You mean you will be coming with me?” I had not counted on that.

“Indeed, I shall. I promised your mother I would keep an eye on you, and the places you are heading will require me to be exceptionally diligent in that labor.”

As it turned out, he was correct. And then some.

CHAPTER 9

The journey from Denver to Tombstone was more than 800 miles. We traveled with the Denver & Rio Grande to Pueblo and then the Atchison, Topeka and Santa Fe to Las Vegas, New Mexico. The rest of the way was on horseback. It was a long, rough ride that took us south through Albuquerque, the Bosque del Apache, Socorro, Deming, Lordsburg, and finally into Arizona and the Chiricahua Mountains. Riding past the eroded volcanic pinnacles of the Chiricahuas and other strange rock formations made us feel we were on a different planet.

Once through the Chiricahua Mountains, it was a thirty-four-mile ride to Tombstone. I wasn’t sure what to expect in Tombstone. I had heard quite a bit about it in Denver, but as was the case in Dodge City, you couldn’t believe everything you heard. Dodge City, which was once called the Wickedest City in the West, was, I determined, no more wicked than Denver.

Tombstone had a population of about 5,000—certainly as large as Dodge City, but not nearly as developed. It had been in existence for barely a year in 1880, and most of its buildings were still a combination of wood, adobe, and some brick. The streets were broad avenues of dirt and rock, and when the wind blew, which it often did, dust created an amber canopy over the city.

Unlike Dodge City, Tombstone wasn’t suffused with the strong, caustic smell of cattle urine or the overpowering odor of drying buffalo hides. Instead, the air was thick with the acrid scent of stamping mills, steam engines, and mounds of discarded tailings.

There were two hotels in town that offered decent accommodations: the Grand and the Cosmopolitan. Both were newly constructed. We opted for the Grand Hotel, and with good reason. I still have the clipping from the Tombstone Epitaph that described the Grand Hotel in great detail:

“Through the courtesy of Mr. H. V. Sturm an Epitaph reporter yesterday paid a visit to and made a brief inspection of the new hotel christened the Grand which will be formally open for dinner this evening at five o’clock. The general size and character of the structure have been mentioned so often during the course of construction that further mention would be superfluous, and we will confine ourselves to a description of the interior appointments of it.

“Passing into the building by the front entrance, the first thing that strikes the eye is a wide and handsome staircase covered by an elegant carpet and supporting a heavy black walnut banister. Thence upstairs to the main hall, and turning to the right, we are ushered into a perfect little bijou of costly furniture and elegant carpeting known as the bridal chamber. This room occupies half of the main front and is connected to the parlor by folding doors, through which the reporter passed. Upon entering the parlor, they were more than astonished by the luxurious appointments.

“A heavy Brussels carpet of the most elegant style and finish graces the floor. The walls are adorned with rare and costly oil paintings. The furniture is of walnut, cushioned with the most expensive silk and rep, and nothing lacks, save the piano, which will be placed in its position shortly. On down through the central corridor peeping now and then into the bedrooms, sixteen in number, each of them fitted with walnut furniture and carpeted to match: spring mattresses that would tempt even a sybarite, toilet stands and fixtures of the most approved pattern, the walls papered, and to crown all, each room having windows. All are outside rooms, thus obviating the many comforts in close and ill-ventilated apartments.

“Returning, we pass down the broad staircase and, turning to the left, we are in the office and reading room. Here, we met Mr. R. J. Pryke, the affable and polite clerk, so well-known to Yosemite tourists in California. The office fixtures are as is common in first-class hotels and entirely in keeping with the general character of the house. The dining room adjoining next invites inspection. Here we find the same evidence of good taste in selection and arrangement that is such a marked feature of the whole interior. Three elegant chandeliers hang from the handsome centerpieces, walnut tables, extension, and plain, covered with cut glass, china, silver castors, and the latest style of cutlery are among the many attractions of this branch of the cuisine.

“Thence into the kitchen, where we find the same evidence mentioned before: an elegant Montagin range, 12 feet in length, with a patent heater, hot and cold faucets, in fact, all the appliances necessary to feed five hundred persons at a few hours’ notice are present. The bar occupies the east half of the central front and is in keeping with the general furnishings. A lack of space prevents more than a cursory glance at the Grand and its amenities for the comfort and convenience of guests.”

The Epitaph reporter was not exaggerating. Though much smaller than our Denver hotel, Tombstone’s Grand was a match in terms of elegance. We took two of the hotel’s sixteen rooms and then headed for the Russ House on the corner of Fifth and Toughnut Streets for dinner. We had been told about the Russ House restaurant by a fellow passenger on the Santa Fe train.

When we walked in, we were pleasantly surprised to see Wyatt and Morgan Earp, Bat Masterson, and Doc Holliday. They had just sat down for dinner, and when they saw us, they called us over.

“Why, if it isn’t the Italian count and Mr. Battles,” Doc Holliday said. “Won’t you join us, gentlemen? You have found the best restaurant in town, and you certainly won’t find better company.”

“I fear I am not a count, Dr. Holliday, just a lowly baron without a castle or a fiefdom to call my own,” Signore Difranco said.

“You are welcome regardless of your lower station,” Doc said. “Here, pull up a chair. And that goes for you too, Mr. Battles, lowly plebian Kansan that you are.”

A few moments later, a stunning woman arrived at our table. It was Nellie Cashman, the proprietress of the Russ House. Nellie was Irish, born in County Cork around 1845, and immigrated to the United States with her family in the late 1860s.

“Well, now if this isn’t the finest collection of manhood I have ever seen,” she said, standing behind Wyatt and eyeing us individually. Nellie had dark brown hair that was parted in the middle above her forehead. Dark, full eyebrows framed her deep-set, dark eyes, giving her a piercing countenance that told you this was a woman who suffered no fools. When she spoke, it was with a decided Celtic brogue.

“And who might you two be?” Her eyes settled on Signore Difranco and me. Before anybody could answer, Doc spoke up: “You will be delighted to learn that Signore Difranco here is a fellow European, and Mr. Battles here is a man of letters.”

“Is that right?” Nellie said. “But I fear I must correct you, Dr. Holliday. I am no European. I am Irish. Europe is across the channel from my birth home.”

“My mistake,” Doc said. “I do hope you will forgive me for making such an egregious geographical error.”

She gave Doc a look that could have stopped a clock. Then she returned her gaze to Signore Difranco.

“I am Antonio Difranco of Italy, and this is William Battles of Lawrence, Kansas,” Signore Difranco said. “We—that is, Mr. Battles, is a newspaperman who has come to write about Tombstone.”

“Has he now?” Nellie said, her dark brown eyes flashing. “Well, I wager these fine gentlemen here have a tale or two to tell ya—especially this overeducated oral scientist here.” She nodded at Doc.

Bat Masterson laughed out loud, started to put his arm around Nellie’s waist, and then thought better of it when she backed away in anticipation of his boldness. Nobody would ever confuse Nellie with one of the soiled doves who worked the gambling halls and whorehouses, and God help the man who made that mistake.

Nellie not only was a prominent and influential citizen, she earned the reputation of “Angel of Tombstone” for her charitable work—especially with down-and-out miners. A lifelong, devout Catholic, Nellie convinced the owners of the Crystal Palace Saloon (one of whom was Wyatt Earp) to allow Sunday church services there until she had helped raise enough funds for the construction of the Sacred Heart Catholic Church. That prompted Doc to begin calling Wyatt “Deacon Earp.”

She was also active in raising money for the Salvation Army, the Red Cross, the Miners Hospital, and amateur theatricals staged in Tombstone. She was famous for collecting donations to help those who had been injured or fallen on hard times. Nellie never judged people, and for that reason, she found the members of Tombstone’s red-light district sympathetic and charitable to her causes, relying on their generosity to help others in need.

“I am on assignment for the Denver Sun,” I said, looking up at Nellie. “I would be pleased if you could spare some time to talk with me.”

“Well, now I imagine I can find the time. How long will you be stayin’ in our little village?”

“As long as I need to.”

“Then how about this Friday?”

I agreed, and Nellie walked away after taking our orders. The Russ House served a variety of meals, but was especially famous for its fifty-cent daily special, cooked by Nellie herself. In one of her advertisements, she asserted that “there are no cockroaches in my kitchen, and the flour is clean.”

“Well, I’ll be damned. I ain’t never seen anything like it,” Morgan said. “What do you mean?” I asked.

“What do I mean? Why, boy, you just wrangled a one-to-one meetin’ with Nellie Cashman, and nobody in these parts does that.”

Bat Masterson looked at me. “Another reason to join the ranks of newspaper scribblers. Doors swing open faster than those on a saloon when you are in the newspaper business.”

Of course, Bat would go on to become a famous New York journalist in his own right, and later we would trade stories at Delmonico’s. He was right, however, about doors opening. Naturally, there were enough times when the same doors slammed in my face.

“I been meanin’ to ask you, Billy, whatever happened with those Bledsoes and that trouble you had in Dodge City?” Wyatt asked.

I explained that after leaving Dodge for Denver, I never heard a word— except for the news that Bat Masterson brought me in Denver several months back.

“You best be on the lookout in any case,” Wyatt said. “Those Bledsoes are a tetchy clan of bushwhackers and ne’er-do-wells, and they don’t forget or forgive a grievance or an injury to one of their own. I have had my share of run-ins with them.”

“Good advice, Wyatt,” Bat said. “You best pay it some heed, Billy.”

“Even here… in Tombstone?” I asked.

“Especially here in Tombstone. Why, this place is a magnet for scum and brigands of every stripe,” Bat said.

I looked at Signore Difranco with some trepidation. I wasn’t eager to relive any of the violent activity that had occurred at Battles Gap.

“Are you heeled?” Wyatt asked.

“No, neither of us carries a sidearm,” Signore Difranco said proudly.

“Well, inside the city limits, that’s fine. In fact, it’s the law, but if you leave the city, you best be carryin’,” Wyatt said. “You might want to stop by the Spangenberg Gun Shop on Fourth Street. He has the best selection in town.”

The next morning, after breakfast at the Grand Hotel, I did just that. Spangenberg’s had a broad array of weaponry—from rifles and shotguns to all manners of side arms. I was examining several revolvers when someone behind me called my name.

“Billy Battles, you son of a bitch…”

I turned around, and there was Charley Higgins. I had gotten to know Charley in Dodge City. He was actually my cousin. His father was my uncle Vernon on my mother’s side. Vernon Higgins had married one of my mother’s three sisters. Charley was a kind of black sheep in our family—a man with a rather questionable background and always about two jumps ahead of the sheriff. Until I met him in Dodge City, I had only heard stories about him from various relatives.

My first meeting with him took place one evening in Dodge, as I was making the rounds delivering the newspaper. Three Texas drovers spotted me as I made my way along Front Street and decided to have some fun. First, they ripped the canvas bag from my shoulder, in which I was carrying my papers, and began shoving me like a beanbag between them.

One of them had just knocked me down with a punch that missed my chin and hit my shoulder. That was when Charley Higgins stepped in.

“Don’t seem right three of you pickin’ on just one like this,” he said. He was the only one of the group who was armed, but he didn’t need to yank his hog leg. Instead, he had produced a Kansas neck blister—or what folks today call a Bowie knife—and was waving it at the three drovers.

“I ‘spect this evens things up a bit, don’t it?” he said.

The three Texans moved away. “We was just funin’ with him, is all,” one of them said. “Hell, can’t nobody in this dung-filled cow town take a lark?”

I had regained my feet and was picking up my newspapers when, for some reason, I hauled off and socked the drover who had knocked me down. Whether it was from the power of my punch or from his total surprise at being hit, the drover fell backward and onto the dusty street.

“You dumb son of a bitch,” I screamed at him. The two other drovers took a step toward me.

“I wouldn’t if I were you,” Charley said, stepping in front of me with his big blade. “I think the boy is in a sod-pawin mood. I suggest you boys roll your tails outta town.”

The three drovers mumbled something about not being heeled and moved away toward the south part of town.

“Charley Higgins is the name,” he said, sticking his hand out for me to shake.

“William Battles,” I responded, shaking his hand. “Much obliged for the help.”

Higgins then headed for the Long Branch Saloon, and I continued my paper route. At the time, I didn’t make the connection. I saw him again a few days later and several times over the next several weeks. Finally, on one occasion, after my mother had written me that Charley was kin, I brought up the fact that his father was my mother’s brother.

“You don’t say… Well, I’ll be damned,” Charley said. “Good thing I didn’t let them drovers hammer you into the dust. The family woulda never forgave me.” Charley had grown up near Ellsworth, Kansas, and spent time driving supply wagons for the Santa Fe Railroad as it laid track west. He had also been a buffalo hunter until the great herds that once roamed the plains were annihilated. He was about ten years older than me. He stood about six feet tall, but unlike me, he carried a lot more bulk, and he had deep-set pale blue eyes that would make an icicle feel feverish. Charley was another of those men not to be trifled with.

One day, after Higgins and I had spent a few minutes talking outside the newspaper office, Bill Tilghman took me aside.

“You know Charley Higgins?” he asked.

“Guess I do. He’s my cousin, and he got between me and some Texas drovers a while back, otherwise they would have folded me up like an empty purse.”

“Uh-huh… well, he’s spent most of his time ridin’ the coulees,” Bill said. “I ain’t sayin’ he’s a long rider, but he knows what the inside of a hoosegow looks like.”

“Seems OK to me,” I said.

“Well, you best be careful with that ‘un, cousin or not,” he said. “Fair warnin’ is all.”

Charley Higgins left Dodge City a few weeks later, and I didn’t see him again until he called my name in Spangenberg’s.

“When did you get to Tombstone?” Charley asked. I explained what had happened at Battles Gap and how I had left Dodge City for Denver.

“You a scribbler? Well, I’ll be damned to hell,” Charley said.

“What about you? What are you doing in Tombstone?”

“I hired on with the Hooker outfit over in Sulphur Gap,” he said, referring to the Sierra Bonita Ranch owned by Colonel Henry C. Hooker—a 250,000-acre spread that ran some twenty thousand head of cattle.

As we were talking, I was holding a .32 caliber Smith & Wesson revolver. “You fixin’ to buy that pea shooter?” Charley asked.

“I was thinkin’ about it.”

“You don’t want that little dewey,” he said. “You best get you one of these.” At that, he pulled a Colt Single Action Army revolver from his holster. “This is what you need. It’s got a seven-and-a-half-inch barrel and holds six beans in the wheel.”

The clerk at Spangenberg’s didn’t miss a beat. “Here is what you want, young man,” he said, producing the same revolver Higgins was carrying. I took it and noticed right away how much heavier it was than the smaller .32 caliber I had handed back to the clerk. The revolver was a full thirteen inches long and weighed almost two and a half pounds.

“How much?”

“I’ll give it for $20, and for another $5, I will throw in the rigging—all genuine cowhide leather,” the clerk said. “For $2 more, I will provide a box of cartridges.”

“You got a rifle?” Charley asked. “Not here, why?”

Charley looked at the collection of rifles behind the counter. “You best get one of them while you’re at it. A Colt won’t do you much good outside of town, especially if you run into any renegade Apaches.”

The clerk pulled a new Winchester off a rack. “Here, feel the heft of this. It’s a model 1876… bigger and longer than the model “73 and chambered for a .45-60 cartridge.”

I took the rifle and was immediately reminded of the last time I held such a rifle in my hands. It was the day I shot and killed Mrs. Bledsoe. I shuddered momentarily; then not wanting to betray anything, I sighted down the barrel and worked the lever action.

“Nice… how much?”

The clerk looked at Charley and then at me. “I can let you have it for $25.” “Bullshit,” Charley bellowed. “You tryin’ to euchre my cousin? Why, I only paid $17 for my Model ’76 back in Kansas.”

“This ain’t Kansas. Things cost more out here,” the clerk said. “But I will make a special price for you, seein’ as how you already bought a Colt.” He thought a moment. “OK, make it $20, and the rifle’s yours.”

I accepted the offer, paid the $20, and left the gun shop with Charley. We walked back to the Grand Hotel and into the bar. Higgins, it turned out, was in Tombstone to ask for help in locating some missing cattle from the Hooker spread.

“We suspect some local cow thieves are responsible,” he said. “We know they run cattle over by the San Pedro River.”

“What local cow thieves?” I asked.

Higgins went on to describe the so-called cowboy element that rustled cattle, horses, and mules around the Tombstone area as well as in Mexico. As he was talking, neither of us noticed several men walk into the hotel and take up positions at the bar.

Suddenly, one of the men walked over to our table and said, “Mighty interesting conversation you are having here.”

Charley looked up and at the same time moved his right hand onto the handle of his Colt, which he carried butt first on his left side.

“I don’t recall invitin’ you to join in,” he said, not a quiver in his voice. That got the attention of the other men at the bar.

“Everything OK, Ike?” one of the men asked. “You know you shouldn’t go buttin’ into other folks’ conversation.”

At that moment, for some reason I will never fully understand, I cocked my still-unloaded Colt that had been resting in my lap, along with the holster and belt. The sound of the Colt’s hammer being pulled back from under the table definitely got the attention of the man at our table, as well as the four men at the bar.

“Take it easy, Billy. No need for any lead chuckin’,” Charley said. “These gents is just bein’ neighborly, ain’t that right?”

I was staring straight at the man called Ike and never took my eyes off him. I was remembering something that Wyatt Earp had told me back in Dodge City: “When you are facing down a man, look him in the eye until he looks away. Most cowards and bullies will look away first, and then you can make your move. If he doesn’t look away, then you best be damned accurate with your first shot.”

I had no intention of making any move—not with an unloaded revolver in my lap and a similarly unloaded Winchester leaning against the wall next to me. Of course, these men didn’t know both weapons were unloaded, and a few seconds later, Ike looked away toward the bar at his compatriots.

“I ain’t seen you fellers in Tombstone before,” said another man, who had walked over to our table. “Where you from?”

“New Mexico,” Charley said. “My name’s Higgins, and this here is William Antrim. Some folks call him Billy the Kid.”

I could have fallen out of my chair. What was Charley doing? Billy the Kid was a notorious gunfighter and outlaw over in Lincoln County, New Mexico. Charley looked over at me as if to say, Shh. Keep quiet.

I leaned back in my chair while the assembled men looked me over. I was about the same age as the real Billy the Kid, and my name was Billy. So I played along.

“That right? You him?” the man called Ike asked.

“Maybe, maybe not. Depends on who wants to know.” I looked at the two men standing nearest our table. Then I looked at the three other men standing at the bar. In keeping with the law in Tombstone, all the men had already checked their side arms at the hotel desk.

“Bullshit,” said yet another man at the bar. “You ain’t no more Billy the Kid than I am.”

At that, Charley stood up and faced the man who had just challenged his identity.

“You talk awful big for someone who ain’t heeled,” Charley said, his hand resting on the butt of his .45. I remained seated. In the meantime, I had managed to load five cartridges into my Colt, which I now placed on the table.

“Take it easy, Charley. Hot words only lead to cold slabs,” I said. “Besides, I ain’t had breakfast yet, and you know it ain’t good for the disposition to burn powder on an empty stomach.”

I stood up, and Charley and I made our way out of the bar toward the front door. I still had not put on my belt and holster and had draped them over my shoulder. I stuck the Colt in the waistband of my pants and rested the Winchester on my shoulder.

“We hear the Russ House is the place to get a good meal,” I said as we walked past the men. “That right, gents?”

A couple of the men nodded.

“You ain’t him, are you?” Ike said as we walked away.

“Nah, not by a long shot,” I answered.

“Oh, come on, Billy,” Charley said, putting his arm around my shoulder. “I’m starvin’.

As we walked out onto Allen Street and turned left toward Nellie Cashman’s restaurant, another man who had followed us out of the Grand Hotel Bar ran up from behind us.

“You fellers know who you was jawin’ with in there?” he asked, grabbing my arm. I twisted away from him.

“No, should we?” I asked.

“Those were the Clantons and McLaurys, along with John Ringo. There are no more rotten apples than them in these parts. You are lucky they weren’t armed.”

“Thank you for that news,” I said. “And who might you be?”

“Name’s Clum, John Clum. I am the publisher of the Tombstone Epitaph and the mayor of Tombstone.”

“Pleased to meet you,” I said. “I am William R. Battles, and this here is Charley Higgins. We’re both from Kansas, and I am here on assignment from the Denver Sun.”

“Ahh, a fellow journalist. Excellent. I didn’t think you were that New Mexico outlaw. Mind if I join you? I was on my way to Nellie’s place too when I saw that crowd wander into the Grand. I followed them in. Never know what might happen when that mob congregates in town.” I recalled seeing Clum standing at the end of the room, watching the conversation we had with the group at the bar.

“We don’t mind if you don’t mind having breakfast with Billy the Kid,” Charley Higgins said, slapping me on the back with a loud guffaw that echoed down Allen Street.

Over breakfast, I learned that Mayor Clum was a good friend of the Earp brothers, especially Wyatt, whom he had great respect for. He also explained the political situation in Tombstone. The Democratic Party was strong in Cochise County, with its sheriff, Johnny Behan, at the helm of a bad ship. The Earps were Republicans and, as such, were bitter political enemies of Behan and the group he represented, namely the “Cowboy” faction, the core of which we had just run into at the Grand Hotel.

“There’s a lot that isn’t right in Tombstone, and Behan and the gang of ruffians he protects are at the center of the problem,” Clum said.

I explained that I was on an extended assignment from the Denver Sun to write about the so-called boomtowns of the West, and my first stop was Tombstone.

“You couldn’t have picked a better town to begin with,” Clum said. At that moment, Nellie Cashman walked up to our table.

“Well,” she said, looking at me, “I see you have already met our illustrious mayor. And who might you be?” Her eyes were inspecting Charley Higgins from top to bottom. “And why would you be bringing armaments into my restaurant?”

“Sorry, ma’am,” Charley said. “I am a cattle detective from up north a ways down here looking for stolen cattle.”

“Uh-huh, and what about you, Mr. Battles? Why are you carrying that big lead chucker in your midriff?”

I explained that I had just purchased the Colt and rifle at Spangenberg’s and hadn’t had time to put it them in my room. Nellie looked at Clum.

“Well, if the good mayor believes that story, then who am I to be disputin’ it? What can I be gettin’ you gentlemen this fine mornin’?”

We ordered three breakfast specials, and after finishing our meal, I stayed behind to talk with Nellie. Charley and I promised to meet up the next day after he took a ride east in search of Colonel Hooker’s stolen cattle. Clum invited me to use the Epitaph’s office as I gathered material for the story I was writing.

Nellie Cashman was a remarkable individual. A lot of women back then came west to shake their loops at some lonely cowpoke. But Nellie was different. Mayor Clum told me she was a woman of strong character and marked individuality. Some thought she had a saintly quality to her, and in fact, she was often referred to as “the saint of the sourdoughs.”

“Have a seat over at the corner table,” she told me. “I’ll be with ya as soon as I sort out a few things in the kitchen.” I did as I was told. When she emerged from the kitchen, I couldn’t help but notice what a tiny woman she was. Perhaps a half inch taller than five feet, she nevertheless moved about her restaurant with energy, and you knew if you got in her way, she would likely bowl you over.

“What brought you to Tombstone?” I asked after she had joined me at the table with two cups of coffee.

“I’m not one for stayin’ put in one place for long,” she said. “I like a challenge, and of course, what’s more challengin’ than a place like Tombstone?” Nellie explained that she, along with thousands of other poor Irish, left Ireland in 1860 and arrived in Boston. “In Ireland, a lass like me had no choice but to go into service or get married. I didn’t want either—not that I am one to shy away from hard work, mind you, or that I have anything against holy matrimony. I just am of the opinion that if I am goin’ to be workin’, I had best work for myself.”

“What about marriage?” I asked.

“You got anybody in mind?” she replied, her black eyes flashing at me. I looked away out of embarrassment and took a sip of coffee.

“I’m just joshin’ ya, Mr. Battles,” she said. “I have yet to find a man who can keep up with me, and besides, men are just grown-up boys. I have no time to be tendin’ to boys. Too much to do.”

In addition to her business interests, she was an active member of the Irish National Land League, which supported the families of Irish miners in need. She raised money for Tombstone’s first public school and even converted her hotel/restaurant into a hospital on occasion.

We talked for another hour or so, and she filled me in on Tombstone’s contentious political environment.

“A lot of good-for-nothin’s, woolybacks, layabouts, and the like are in town doin’ nothing but takin’ money from the hardworkin’ silver miners,” she said. “And nary is a word spoken about the corruption that is everywhere. Why, our noble sheriff, John Behan, is so crooked he can sleep on a corkscrew—and probably does. There is no doubt that he is in league with the cowboy element, and almost all of them are either rustlers or road agents.”

“What about Mayor Clum?” I asked. “He seems like he is on the up-and-up.” “Oh, Clum’s OK, but he has no control over the likes of Behan because he is a county sheriff,” Nellie said. “The one bright spot in this whole rotten affair is the Earp brothers. And even, they are mostly sporting men, working at the faro tables in the Oriental Saloon. Virgil is the city marshal and a decent man. Wyatt and Morgan are gentlemen, even though I don’t abide their sporting lives.”

I explained that I had come to know Wyatt and Morgan while they were in Dodge City and that they were considered first-class policemen there. Nellie took a sip of coffee.

“Their older brother James is a cut below the others, given his choice as a saloonkeeper and his so-called business interests with some of the town’s painted cats, if you know what I mean. But I don’t believe any of them are a match for the much larger cowboy element. I fear no good is going to come of the ill feeling that has grown between the two sides.”

Of course, Nellie was right. A little more than a year after we talked in the Russ House, that antipathy came to a head in a vacant lot behind the OK Corral. A few months later, Virgil Earp was ambushed at night by several men firing shotguns—an event that left his left arm useless. And a few months after that, Morgan Earp was shot in the back and killed by somebody who fired at him through the rear window of Campbell & Hatch’s Billiard Parlor.

All of these events turned Wyatt and Doc Holliday into legendary figures as they and several others embarked on a vendetta ride throughout Arizona, meting out instant justice to those involved in the attack on Virgil and the murder of Morgan. At the end of that ride of retribution, word was that they handed seven cowboys over to the great majority. That episode marked the end of Wyatt Earp’s career as a lawman. He never wore another star after that.

After Nellie and I finished talking, I walked back to the Grand Hotel. On the way, I met Wyatt and Morgan Earp. They were headed to the Russ House for a late breakfast.

“Are you findin’ all you need to know about this hellhole?” Wyatt asked.

“I’m gettin’ there. Things are a lot more complicated than I thought.”

Morgan looked at Wyatt. “What’s complicated? You draw a line in the dirt. On one side, you got the highline riders. On the other, you got folks mostly on the straight and narrow. You just have to know what side to walk on.”

“I think Charley Higgins and I met some of those on the wrong side of the line in the Grand Hotel this morning,” I said. “One was named Ike, and the other they called Ringo.”

“You best avoid them boys if you can. They are about as bad as they come,” Wyatt said. “Where’s Higgins? I hope he isn’t going to cause Virg any trouble while he’s in town.”

I explained that he had ridden east looking for some of Henry Hooker’s stolen cattle. Wyatt knew Higgins from Dodge City and, in fact, had locked him up a few times for brawling with Texas drovers and discharging his guns in town.

“He workin’ for Henry Hooker now?” Wyatt asked. “That’s a surprise. He must have impressed the hell out of old Henry to be ridin’ circle on the Sierra Bonita spread.”

“I think Charley has turned over a new leaf,” I said.

“Well, he best be alert out there,” Wyatt said. “Higgins may be thorny as a cactus, but that crowd is snaky as they come. How much longer you goin’ to be in town?”

“Maybe another three days.”

“And you’re stayin’ at the Grand?” I nodded.

“Watch yourself over there. The Clantons and McLaurys just about own that place.”

When I got back to the Grand, I found Signore Difranco sitting in the lobby. He noticed the Colt, the rifle, and the rigging I was carrying.

“Do you think that is necessary?” he asked. “In my experience, carrying firearms seems to invite trouble.”

I reminded him of what Wyatt had told us the day before.

“I have been out walking all over Tombstone this morning, and I have experienced no unpleasantness at all,” he said.

“I didn’t get it for in town,” I said. “It’s for when we leave town. That’s when things can get risky.”

“Are you planning on leaving town? I thought—”

“I may take a ride out with Charley Higgins,” I interrupted. “He’s here on some business with the Henry Hooker ranch up north.”

“Charley Higgins! Why isn’t he on the wrong side of the law?”

“Not exactly… he’s kind of an outrider for Henry Hooker, down here looking for stolen cattle.”

“Damnātio,” Signore Difranco half shouted. It was a Latin word meaning “everlasting divine punishment,” and he often used it rather than the English “damnation.”

“Your mother would be angry if she knew you were consorting with such a person as this Higgins man,” Signore Difranco continued. “It puts me in a bad way.”

I stood up from my chair in the lobby. “I appreciate all you have done for me, Signore Difranco, but I am now twenty years old and am able to take care of myself. And if I want to take a ride out of town with Charley Higgins, who happens to be kin, then I guess I will do it.”

Signore Difranco got to his feet. “I understand, William. I am just worried about you.”

“Don’t be. I will be fine. In fact, Wyatt Earp may be going with us. And he is a deputy U.S. marshal. One of the problems in this region is cattle stealing, and this is an opportunity for me to learn more about that trouble.”

Signore Difranco grabbed my shoulders with both hands. “Look, William, I have to go to Tucson for a few days. When I return, I hope you will have finished your business here and we can move on. I have a bad feeling about this town and prefer not to spend any more time here than necessary.”

“I think another three days here will allow me to finish my work,” I said. “Then, before we leave, I plan to send a telegram to Mr. Harris at the Sun with my travel plans. Why don’t you wait for me in Tucson? I will take the train from Benson.”

Signore Difranco was not fully supportive of my plan, but he could tell I was determined to carry it out. So we agreed finally to meet in Tucson once I had finished my reporting in Tombstone.

“Where will you go next?” he asked. “Leadville, maybe,” I said. “I will decide later.”

I know the attitude I exhibited had upset Signore Difranco, and I was not happy about that. He had been a true friend and benefactor, after all. But I also knew that he was behaving like a detective for my mother, who was convinced that I would come to no good. I needed to get loose from my mother’s apron strings, and it seemed as if Signore Difranco was nothing more than an extension of them.

The next morning, Signore Difranco left for Tucson, and I met up with Charley Higgins at Smith’s Corral, where I rented a horse for the day. As I was adjusting the stirrups (they were almost always too short for me), Wyatt Earp walked into the corral and began saddling his horse, a sixteen-hand-high chestnut thoroughbred stallion.

“Guess I’ll be ridin’ along with you boys, if that’s OK,” he said. “Old man Hooker raises beeves for the army, and if any were stolen, that makes this a federal crime.” He pulled aside his black coat to reveal a federal deputy marshal’s badge.

“Fine by me,” Charley Higgins said.

“I expect neither of you boys has ever been down to the Clanton place,” Wyatt said.

Charley and I shook our heads.

“Just so you know, it’s about thirteen miles south of town, and to get to it, you have to cross a wide-open range of scrubby prairie mescal,” he said. “So it’s damned hard to Indian up on whoever’s in the adobe the Clantons call home.” We rode west out of town and then turned south toward the San Pedro River Valley. I don’t think Charley felt at ease with Wyatt along. After all, Wyatt had locked him up a few times in Dodge City. I wondered how I might break the ice, given that we were going to be riding together for several hours.

“Charley’s an outrider with old man Hooker’s outfit,” I said.

“I heard,” Wyatt replied. “Not on the scout anymore, eh, Higgins?”

Charley shifted in his saddle. I think he preferred not to speak at all, but thought better of it.

“Guess I did kick up a row a few times back in Dodge,” Charley said.

“So why’d you shin out of Kansas?” Wyatt asked.

“Didn’t have no difficulty with anybody, if that’s what you’re drivin’ at.”

“Didn’t say you did. Just wondered what brought a sand cutter like you to Arizona.”

“I guess that’s my business,” Charley said.

“Guess so,” Wyatt said.

We rode on in silence for the next hour or so. Charley had his bristles up over Wyatt’s questioning. I moved my horse between the two men and tried to make some light conversation. Neither was interested, so I shut up.

One thing I knew about Wyatt was that he was not much of a talker, even on his best day. He had a way of studying people that made them uneasy. No, Wyatt was no backslapper like Sheriff Behan. And for that reason, he was a terrible politician. People respected him, but they didn’t exactly want to spend a lot of time in his company. I think he made them nervous. He had a way of looking at you that made you want to step aside.

If he ever strung more than three sentences together, I never heard him. Maybe if he had been a drinker, but Wyatt was not one to bend an elbow, unless it was with a cup of coffee. Some say he had reformed himself from his younger, wilder days and vowed to stay away from the awful tonsil varnish most whiskey mills served in those days.

Charley, on the other hand, had kept the double doors swingin’ in Dodge City. There is no doubt that he had spent some time looking over his shoulder.

“I got in with a wild bunch when I was pretty young,” he once told me. “I learned a lot from them boys. Ridin’ with them gave me plenty of savvy, but I also learned that if I didn’t change my ways, I would end up garglin’ on a rope somewhere.”

Just what Charley had done in his past was never mentioned. Folks back then didn’t talk much about their history, and it wasn’t considered polite to ask many questions about what they had done or what they had called themselves.

“Out here, nobody cares what you call yourself,” he told me once. “It’s what you call others that lets you stay healthy.”

I liked Charley. He was a salty rider, no doubt about that. I knew he was the kind of man who would back you all the way to hell’s back door. Wyatt, on the other hand, was a more suspicious sort—a trait that no doubt came from his days as a star toter. It clearly served him well because he managed to leave places like Dodge City and Tombstone standing up. And that was saying something in those days. You either liked Wyatt or you didn’t. He was not easy to get to know, and one of the most puzzling things was how he and Doc Holliday became such good companions. They were as different as snow and sand.

Finally, Wyatt broke the ice. “How many head did old man Hooker lose?”

“Close to two hundred or so,” Charley said.

“Don’t expect to find them around here,” Wyatt said. “If the Clanton boys rustled them, I am sure they didn’t move them this far south. I expect they sold them up north or over by Tucson.”

Charley nodded. “Then why are we ridin’ this way?”

“I’m looking for some stolen army stock and figured to start with the Clanton place. Then I figured we might circle northwest, then back east toward Contention.”

We continued riding the hardscrabble terrain. It was strewn with a variety of desert vegetation, including mescal, palm, yucca, soap plant, mesquite trees, sawgrass, and prickly pear cacti. I wondered out loud how anybody could raise cattle in such a barren land, and then we came upon a valley filled with grama grass. Like most such valleys suitable for raising cattle, the grama grass was fed by a wet, marshy area called a cienega. Water in these areas bubbles to the surface and evaporates.

“It ain’t exactly Kansas or Nebraska out here, but Colonel Hooker’s place up in the Sulphur Spring valley is smack in the middle of some of the finest cattle growin’ country you will ever see,” Charley said. “The Sierra Bonita spread is in the middle of a valley that’s about twenty miles wide and maybe one hundred miles long. It has the best grass I ever seen.”

“What kind of cattle is Hooker runnin’ up there?” Wyatt asked. “We best know what we’re lookin’ for.”

Charley explained that Hooker was slowly restocking his range from the scrub stock he used to run on the open range to Durham cattle and a few Herefords.

“So are we looking for Durhams and Herefords?” Wyatt asked. “Those will be easy to spot down here, where most of the cattle are native scrub stock from Texas and Mexico.”

“That’s what I’m hopin’ for,” Charley said.

We rode another mile or so and then came upon a slight rise. Wyatt pulled up.

“There’s the Clanton place just ahead,” he said.

Before us stood an adobe house and a few smaller outbuildings. A small corral was off to the left with a few horses in it. There were no cattle anywhere in sight.

“We best ride in easy like,” Wyatt said. “I don’t have a yearning to get picked off by somebody with trigger itch.”

As we approached the house, I couldn’t help thinking about the way Mr. Hawes, Ben Minot, and I had ridden up to the house at Battles Gap. I have to admit I was jumpy, and I put my right hand on the butt of my Colt. I looked over at Wyatt. He had already laid his Colt Single Action Army .45 on his lap, just behind his saddle horn. Charley had his left hand on the butt of his Henry repeating rifle.

We stopped at the front door of the house, and Charley dismounted. Wyatt and I remained on our horses. As Charley walked toward the door, it was suddenly flung open, and Ike Clanton stepped out.

“Why, if it ain’t Billy the Kid,” he shouted, looking up at me, “and his gang.”

Wyatt shot a puzzled look my way.

“It’s a long story,” I said in a barely audible voice.

“You boys lost?” Ike continued.

“We’re looking for some cattle from the Sierra Bonita spread,” Charley said.

“Why are you looking down here? This is a long way for cattle to wander from old man Hookers place.”

“I don’t think they wandered away. I think they were stolen from the south range of the Sierra Bonita, and Colonel Hooker has sent me down here to find them,” Charley said.

At that moment, Billy Clanton stepped onto the small porch.

“What’s the problem, Ike?” he asked. “These boys are looking for some lost…”

“Stolen!” Charley interrupted.

“Cattle,” Ike said, finishing his sentence.

“We ain’t seen ’em,” Billy Clanton said. “But we will sure let you know if we do.”

“Like you did when you had my horse?” Wyatt said. He was staring at Billy Clanton because Wyatt had found his horse in Billy’s possession a few months before.

“Why, I told you that I found that horse wandering through the scrub and brought him here for safekeeping.”

Wyatt looked away from Billy. Neither Billy nor Ike was heeled, and I relaxed a bit.

“Ike, I am looking for some government mules… You seen ’em?” Wyatt asked.

“Why would I see them? I hate mules. I would never ride one. I like ridin’ a different kind of ass.”

Billy slapped his knee and let out a loud guffaw. “That’s a good one, Ike.”

“You mind if we take a look around?” Wyatt asked. He moved his horse off to the right and toward a couple of the outbuildings. Charley and I moved off to the left.

“Be my guests, boys,” Ike said. “And if ‘n you find any of old man Hooker’s cows or any of them mules, you be sure and let us know.” With that, he and Billy walked back into the house and slammed the door shut.

Charley rode past the corral and farther out from the house, all the while looking at the ground for signs of cattle tracks. He found none, and after a few minutes, we rode northwest for about two miles.

“If there’s any cattle down here, they will be up that way,” Wyatt said, nodding to the northwest. “As for me, I plan to head east and see if I can find those army mules.”

Charley and I watched Wyatt ride away, and then we kicked our horses and headed northwest.

“Kinda glad we parted company,” Charley said. “That man makes me as jumpy as a bit-up old bull in fly time.”

“Why? He has always done right by me.”

“I don’t know… it’s just his way… he’s about as hard to pin down as smoke in a bottle, if you get my meanin’.”

“I don’t,” I said.

“Ever notice the way he looks at you? Kinda bores a hole right through you. And I ain’t never seen him smile, not once since I first knowed him back in Dodge.”

“It’s just his way. He is not much of a talker. I guess he is more of a doer. And besides, you may hold a grudge because he locked you up in Dodge a few times.”

“Twice, is all,” Charley said.

“All I know is that he seems to be the kind of man you want watchin’ your back in a scrap. I never heard of him backing down from anybody.”

Charley had had enough. He kicked his horse into a steady trot. “OK, you convinced me. Let’s get a move on. Unless you want to spend the night out here in the brush.”

We rode north toward Benson for the next two hours, but we saw no signs that a herd of a hundred head of cattle would make. We had just turned toward the east with the idea of returning to Tombstone when we noticed three men on horses riding southeast toward Tombstone. We stopped our horses behind a stand of scrubby western hackberry and salt cedar trees. As the riders came closer along the Benson-Tombstone road, we moved our horses farther backward until we had entered a shallow gully.

The men, all wearing cattlemen’s coats, rode three abreast at a slow trot and, for a few minutes, disappeared behind a small hillock and into a shallow wash. We waited for them to reappear, and when they did, I couldn’t believe my eyes. The man in the middle was Nate Bledsoe. I didn’t know the other two.

“Son of a bitch!” I said, my voice muted.

“What’s wrong?” Charley whispered.

“It’s Nate Bledsoe, that lick finger bastard,” I hissed.

“You sure?” I hadn’t told Charley about everything that happened in the confrontation at Battles Gap.

“Hell yes. I’d recognize that face anywhere. The son of a bitch tried to kill me.”

We watched the three men ride on past us. About a hundred yards down the road, they kicked their horses into a fast gallop and disappeared from view. For a fleeting moment, as the men rode past us, I pondered pulling out my Winchester and shooting Bledsoe. I regained my sanity quickly, however.

“What do you want to do?” Charley asked.

“Let’s head on north and then circle back toward Tombstone. He might not even know I’m in town.”

The ride back to Tombstone took another hour or so. I returned my horse to the stable while Charley decided to ride through town to see if he could spot three worn-out horses tied up to a hitching post.

“Those boys were ridin’ like the clatter wheels of hell, and one of them horses was a piebald,” he said. “They’re all sure to be lathered up. I’ll come get you if I find ’em.”

I walked back to the Grand Hotel and stopped by the reception desk to inquire about a bath. There was a steel tub in my room, but in those days, hot and cold running water was a luxury.

“I will have the maid prepare your bath,” the clerk said. Thirty minutes later, I was soaking in a steel tub of hot water. When I finished, it was already after six. I was thinking about where to have dinner when there was a knock at my door. It was Charley. I had just put on a clean shirt and pants and was still polishing my boots.

“My, my, don’t you look purdy,” he said. “Got all gussied up, did you?”

“I washed off the trail dust. You should try it sometime.”

Charley shook his head. “Nah, my idea of a bath is to snort into the washbasin a few times to get the sleep out of my eyes.”

“Did you find that piebald?”

“Nope, there was nary a lathered horse anywhere. But I plan to make the rounds of the whiskey mills to see what I can see. You game?”

“Guess so,” I said. “Where to?”

****

Next Week: Chapter 10

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