The Bisbee Massacre (2 page)

Whatever kind of sheriff Bob Hatch was, he had to be better than Ward.

“Well, congratulations,” Clint said. “Who are your deputies?”

“You know 'em,” Hatch said. “Charley Smith and Fred Dodge.”

“Dodge is still around?”

“He is,” Hatch said. “He's not only a deputy, but a constable, as well. The man is a hard worker, Clint.”

“I know it,” Clint said. “Do you know where he is now?”

“Not exactly,” Hatch said, “but he should be in here shortly. Why don't you let me buy you another beer while we wait?”

“Sure,” Clint said. It would save him the trouble of trying to find Dodge, himself.

Over fresh beers they discussed what had happened to them each in the past three years, where the Earps were, mutual acquaintances like Doc Holliday and Bat Masterson. Hatch finally finished his beer and turned down a second.

“I need to do my rounds,” the man said. “Tombstone ain't the home for hellers it used to be, but I still like to keep my eye out.”

“Sounds like a good idea,” Clint said. The two men shook hands.

“Gonna stay long?” Hatch asked.

“A day or two,” Clint said, “now that I know Dodge is here. Like to catch up with him.”

“Stick around here,” Hatch said. “He'll show up.”

“Okay, thanks.”

Hatch started away, then stopped and said, “Oh, almost forgot why I came in here.” He waved the bartender over. “You seen Riggs?”

“Old Bannock or Young Barney?” the bartender asked.

“I'm lookin' for Barney,” Hatch said, with a shrug, “but either one would do.”

“Ain't seen hide nor hair of either one,” the barman said.

“Then why'd you ask me which one?”

The bartender shrugged.

“You didn't say which one.”

Sheriff Hatch gave the barman a hard look, then looked at Clint and said, “See you later.”

“All right.”

The sheriff left and the barman smiled.

“Giving the sheriff a hard time?”

The bartender looked at Clint. The man behind the bar was in his early thirties.

“Just havin' a little fun. Besides, Barney Riggs is a friend of mine.”

“What'd he do that the sheriff is looking for him?”

The bartender shrugged.

“Hell if I know. Barney lives outside of town with his wife and Pa, Old Bannock Riggs.”

“You think much of Hatch as a lawman?”

“You his friend?” the man asked.

“Not really,” Clint said.

“Hatch ain't much,” the barman said, “but I only got to town a few months ago. I hear he's better than the old sheriff.”

“Ward,” Clint said. “He wasn't worth anything.”

“Hey, did he call you Clint Adams?”

“That's right.”

“The Gunsmith?” the man asked. “That Adams?”

“Right again.”

“Hey . . .” the barman said, but nothing else.

“What's your name?” Clint asked.

“Bascomb,” the man said. “Carver Bascomb.”

“Really?”

“What's wrong with it?”

“Kind of fancy,” Clint said.

The man shrugged.

“That's my name.”

“Hey, it's a fine name,” Clint said, “just a little . . .”

“Fancy?”

“Yes, fancy. Can I call you Carver?”

“Yeah, if I can call you Clint.”

“Deal.”

They shook hands.

“Another beer while you're waitin' for Dodge?” Carver asked.

“Sure, why not?”

Carver drew him another beer and set it in front of him.

“You friends with Dodge?” Carver asked.

“Yes,” Clint said, unequivocally. “Why? What's your opinion of him?”

“Truthfully?”

“Carver, when I ask you a question I want the truth. Always.”

“Dodge is okay,” Carver said. “So is Charley Smith. It's just Hatch I don't like.”

“That's fine,” Clint said.

“And I'm not sayin' that because Dodge is comin' through the door,” Carver said, with a smile.

Fred Dodge had not seen Sheriff Hatch since that morning, so he knew nothing about Clint Adams being in town. When he walked into the Crystal Palace and saw Clint standing at the bar it was a complete surprise.

 

It was almost two o'clock when Dodge walked in the door. There were a few more patrons in the place, but not so many that Dodge couldn't spot Clint at the bar as soon as he came in. Clint could see the look of surprise on his face, and knew that Dodge either hadn't seen Hatch, or Hatch simply hadn't told him.

“What the hell—” Dodge said. He rushed forward and grabbed Clint's hand, pumped it warmly. “What the hell are you doin' in Tombstone?”

“Came to see you,” Clint said. “Heard you were probably in trouble again, thought I'd help you out.”

“Yeah, right,” Dodge said. “What's the real reason?”

“To buy you a beer?” Clint asked.

“That's as good a reason as any,” Dodge said. “Beer, Carver.”

“Comin' up, Deputy.”

Dodge accepted the beer and then said to Clint, “Let's go sit down and catch up.”

“Deal.”

“Want me to freshen that for ya, Clint?” Carver asked.

“No, that's okay,” Clint said, and followed Dodge to a back table.

 

As he'd done with Hatch, Clint traded recent histories with Dodge, only there was much more concern and warmth involved.

“Hear anything from Wyatt? Virgil?”

“I saw Virgil a while ago, working as a private detective in Colton, California. Don't know if he's still there.”

“And Wyatt?”

Clint shrugged.

“I don't know where he is now.”

Dodge stared into his beer mug.

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

“I can't argue with that.”

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

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

“What about you?” Clint asked.

“What do you mean?” Dodge asked.

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

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

Clint nodded.

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

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

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

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

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

“What about being a constable?”

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

“Do you get over to Bisbee much?”

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

“Another beer?” Clint asked.

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

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

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

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

“Where are you stayin'?”

“Sagebrush.”

“That dump?”

Clint shrugged.

“I was meaning to keep a low profile.”

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

“Sure. Bird Cage?”

Dodge nodded.

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

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

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

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

“Yeah,” Clint said, “you, too, Fred.”

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

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

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

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

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Excuse me,” Clint said.

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

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

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

“He doesn't?”

“He left town after the election.”

“Did he leave Arizona?”

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

“And what's his name?”

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