The Last Woman Standing (9 page)

CHAPTER 11

FEBRUARY 1881

February found me cranky. Kitty hinted I might be pregnant, skeptical that I was still chaste after all those months. I wasn’t (with child) and I was (a virgin). We were spending too much time together in that little saltbox. I’d begun to pace, and she’d begun to pick. I hadn’t yet cast aspersions on her tufty flamingo red hair or that third roll of fat forming beneath her chin, but I was on the verge. Even in San Francisco, I had experienced more freedom, walking the streets with Nathan and Hennie, attending performances with Rebecca. Yet here, where cowboys roamed the streets spitting and cursing and shooting for sport, Kitty, now hardly the carefree coquette she’d been in San Francisco, expected me to behave like a hausfrau, too, baking biscuits to accompany her dreadful boiled beef.

Each day I awoke from my cot in the living room to the sight of Harry Jones, clad in red long johns, headed out to the privy, feeling I couldn’t ditch the Joneses’ house soon enough. I wanted to move into the home built with my father’s money and tuck Johnny in beside me. I wanted my life, my real life, to begin. How did it happen that I was again trapped in a domestic situation in which I had no control, and no father to protect me from Kitty’s relentless criticism?

But the winds disrupted my plans. The gusts were so fierce that building stopped: frame a house one day, discover a pile of lumber the next. I looked out the window and thought I saw a flying sheep. It might have been a tumbleweed. If I left the porch, filth clung to my skirt and
schmutz
to my skin. One afternoon a hen hit me in the side of the face. I wasn’t sure who was madder, me or my sister bird. Navigating the street, zephyrs slapped me sideways, making me nearly as cussed and cranky as cowboy Curly Bill Brocius.

Inside, the cottage beams creaked. Windows banged. I felt as if a great gust could have lifted the house off its foundation and flung it into the next yard like a plate pitched in anger. As for me, I could have thrown plenty of dishware, and a few teacups, too. I was restless—for marriage, for adventure, for my own place out from under Kitty’s critical gaze.

On this particular February afternoon, after a lunch of Tombstone a-town-so-tough beef stew, Kitty sat propped on pillows reading the
Nugget
. I flopped on the mohair divan opposite with the
Epitaph
,
having sent Johnny back to work. Now that the governor had created Cochise County with Tombstone as its seat, Johnny had begun slurping his share of the spoils. On February 10, Fremont appointed Johnny sheriff. He was now busier than ever, setting up a new office and hiring staff.

Johnny promised to bring home the bacon. I said I’d prefer lamb. The difference was lost on him.

Across from me sat Kitty, clucking whenever she read something of interest. “Well, I don’t say,” she said, sipping oolong tea she bartered from the Can Can’s Quong Lee.

“You did say, Kitty. Spit it out and get it over with.”

“The judge freed Curly Bill Brocius!”

“Impossible.”

“Marshal White must be rolling in his grave.” Kitty reserved her greatest sympathy for those already interred. “That fool judge acquitted Curly Bill of murder. White’s dying words were that the shooting was an accident, but, in my opinion, a mishap is tripping on the boardwalk and ripping my hem. It’s not blasting a pistol into a man’s stomach, however unintentional. If Curly Bill hadn’t been drunkenly shooting up the town, White would still be alive.” She shook her head. “Cowboys get away with murder around here. These outlaws and rustlers lack respect for decent society, and it’s only getting worse. They’re downright un-American.”

Kitty read on, then snorted. “Wait until you hear how that scoundrel celebrated his release—”

“I’m guessing it wasn’t singing ‘My Country, ’tis of Thee.’”

I recalled bumping into the bearlike bruiser Brocius with his haystack of wiry black hair the day I arrived. In general, I didn’t yet have a strong dislike for cowboys. The town was as divided in its opinion as the major newspapers: the Republican
Epitaph
criticized the lawless cowboy element and had ample ammunition to do so, while the Democratic
Nugget
was increasingly their apologist in slant, and continued to report news like Brocius’s misbehavior, because shootings sold papers.

The cowboys’ mayhem largely occurred outside the saloons or on the range. In town, these rough-riding men, when I saw them, seemed intent on a good time and had money to spend. They were lively and extroverted, colorful in dress and speech, and unlike anyone I’d seen in San Francisco. Since I was usually on Johnny’s arm when we encountered them, their outlandish presence didn’t threaten me. I was a tourist, then, and they were part of the sights, like rowdy sailors in the port of San Francisco. Their roughness—they didn’t bow to anybody or abide by standard social conventions—was part of their appeal.

Johnny influenced my opinion by praising the ranchers and
cattlemen
(the less incendiary term for
cowboys
). He appreciated their potential to expand his tax-collecting plans to the far reaches of Cochise County, where he couldn’t safely travel. To him, these men meant money and votes, which were as valuable as any banker’s, as Johnny would need to seek reelection. Since the cowboys skewed Democratic and Southern, he considered them allies. But my man was to belatedly discover that, whether approached in friendship or enmity, the loosely associated cowboys were human dynamite.

“Are you listening?” Kitty asked, and then continued to read aloud: “On Saturday night, Curly Bill and Pete Spence snuck into a Mexican fiesta in Charleston.”

“Isn’t that Marietta’s husband?”

“Marietta who?”

“That sweet little Mexican woman who traveled with us on the stage from Tucson. I’m sure she said she was marrying Pete Spence.”

“Oh, the smelly one with that awful mole? Well, she knew how to pick ’em. According to the paper, Spence and Brocius pulled their pistols and halted the band. Then Curly Bill said, ‘Strip, every one of you. Now strike up a tune.’”

“And did they remove their clothes?”

“What choice did they have? They were as naked as pigs in a sty.”

“That’s disgusting.” The shocking prank inspired nervous, inappropriate laughter in me.

“That’s an understatement. You wouldn’t find it funny if it was you and Johnny at the dance,” she said, snapping the paper. “I bet he still hasn’t seen you in the altogether.”

“You know he has not! Not until after the wedding.”

“Don’t wait too long.”

“What do you mean by that?” I asked, swinging my feet off the divan and planting them on the floor. I hated Kitty poking her nose in my business just because we shared a roof.

“I mean nothing at all, Josephine.”

“Like
what
nothing?”

“Settle down. I said and meant even less.” She raised her eyebrows at me with a look that contradicted her words. Raise her eyebrows at
me
—really. Maybe if it wasn’t February, with those irritating high winds that put me in a foul mood, I could have ignored the gesture. But she made my stomach turn like food poisoning. I looked at the teacup she set down on the table and imagined the lovely sound it would make smashing against the wall.

“This shack is too small for this discussion.” Kitty was not one who liked the taste of her own tongue when bitten. “I’m going to mind my own business for a change, and leave it to Curly Bill to strip people naked.”

I simmered in silence for a while, reading about Mr.—now Mayor—Clum and his plans for Tombstone’s future. Kitty couldn’t let it go: “Just so you know, one married woman to another not yet wed, I wouldn’t wait until June to become a bride.”

“What makes you say that?” I folded my newspaper once, then again in a way I knew bothered Kitty. Who knew there was a wrong way to fold a newspaper? Kitty.

“For men and loose women, Tombstone is an all-night town. A lot happens while we’re tucked under the eiderdown. Of course, Harry gives me no cause for worry. He’s as true to me as he is to his fork and knife.”

“Mr. Jones may be true, and he may like his food, but he doesn’t seem to enjoy your company any more than I do.” I regretted the words the minute they flew from my lips. I still needed a roof over my head—not the canvas of Johnny’s tent and half of a bedroll. “Now, out with it. What about Johnny? Who are these women?”

“I declined to mention them the first time, so let me politely decline again,” Kitty sniffed. “But someday you can ask your white knight what destroyed his marriage and listen to the answer he serves you with a rich sauce.”

“Don’t provoke me, Kitty. I’m in no mood. That whipping wind has got me crawling in my skin. Tell me. What broke up Johnny’s marriage?”

“Oh, honey, that’s not for me to say.” I could tell she was desperate to gossip.

“Say it anyway.”

“I have said enough, even if their divorce made the Tucson papers and is a matter of public record. Remember, you remain here by my generosity, not because of any perceived charm you may have to Mr. Behan. I’ve lived a good sight longer than you. If I can read the inexperience on your face like a newspaper headline in the
Nugget
, imagine what that shrewd Johnny can see there. He might be blinded by your pretty airs for now, but he will soon discover what a lazy, nasty piece of work you are.”

My last nerve scraped, I hopped off the couch. I had perfected my chokehold on my brother Nathan, and now Kitty’s fat throat was calling out to me. Horse hoofs pounded outside, interrupting my rage, their rhythm punctuated by pistol blasts and their riders’ hoarse, triumphant yelps.

“Curly Bill!” Kitty cried with the exaggerated fear of a child interrupted by a sudden noise during ghost stories. As I approached the window, Kitty warned me away; she was not so angry as to wish me gunshot. She yanked me beside her on the floor, and we took refuge beneath the dinner table. I grasped Kitty’s hand, wrapped her in my free arm, and rocked her. Our differences disappeared with the gunfire of unknown origin. I was afraid, true, and exhilarated. Something was happening, and it wasn’t just in newsprint. Meanwhile, I realized lonely Kitty, despite her barbs and innuendoes, required my company more than I hers.

After lunch the following day, once I’d dropped Albert at school, I stopped by Johnny’s office as I frequently did since he’d set up shop in a little room behind the tobacconist. I interrupted him entertaining a group of fellow Democrats celebrating his recent appointment by Governor Fremont. After they left, showering me with compliments, Johnny sat me down beside him at a partner’s desk too big for the room. I was studying building plans and thumbing through the Montgomery Ward’s catalog when Wyatt entered an hour later, a pair of Colts strapped to his hips.

“Miss Josephine,” Wyatt said, removing his hat. He turned to Johnny—as much as any big man could in that tiny office—and said, “Now that you’re sheriff, it’s time for us to settle up. I held up my end of the bargain. I dropped out of the race and didn’t oppose you. When do I start my job as undersheriff?”

“Good of you to come,” said Johnny.

“Nothing good about it. I’m busy over at the Oriental, so let’s hammer out the details. I’m ready to start today. Curly Bill’s back in town.”

“Drink?”

“Don’t indulge.”

“I’m not sure I trust a man who doesn’t drink.”

“You’ll have to get over that.”

“Mind if I have one?”

“I’m undersheriff, not judge.”

“Well, my good man, the deed is done.” Johnny retrieved a bottle from his top drawer and poured three fingers of whiskey. “We can say
hasta la vista
, Pima County, and
buenos dias
to seven thousand square acres of new Cochise County. It’s a gold mine in silver country. But, Wyatt, can you give me some time to get myself sorted? What with the tax collecting and the law enforcement and the lack of infrastructure, I have to crawl out from under this pile of paperwork first.”

Wyatt just stood there looking at Johnny and letting some quiet hang between them. I wasn’t sure what game Johnny was playing; I’d seen him promise Wyatt the job. The lawman was just there to collect a debt, and it made me uncomfortable to see him dangle. I was sensitive to such dangling, given that Johnny had promised to follow my engagement ring with a wedding band, and here I was sitting beside him without either ring on my finger.

“Right,” Johnny said, cracking the silence. “I suppose I’ll get back to work. I’ll be in touch, Wyatt, don’t you worry about that.”

“I’m not worried,” Wyatt said. But I was.

Johnny turned to me. “Now, Josie girl, isn’t it about time you pick up Albert?”

“Sure thing, Johnny.” I shuffled the house plans and placed them on an empty corner of his desk in hopes that he might review them later.

“Aren’t you forgetting something?” Johnny asked.

“I don’t think so,” I said, reaching for my bonnet. “I’m leaving the plans for you.”

“Those aren’t the plans I had in mind.” Smiling with a side of wicked, Johnny drew me into his arms—pulling back the bonnet I’d so carefully secured—and kissed me long and hard, as if the Sahara and a band of raging nomads had separated us. I tasted whiskey and cigars—which are not nearly as flavorful secondhand on a whisker. I flushed with embarrassment as Wyatt stood nearby, breathing up most of the air in that small room behind the tobacconist’s.