Bloody Season by Loren D. Estleman

Author:Loren D. Estleman [Estleman, Loren D.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Historical western
Publisher: Crossroad Press
Published: 2014-12-01T23:00:00+00:00

Chapter Twelve

John Charles Fremont, arithmetic teacher-cum-Northwest explorer-cum-soldier-cum-senator-cum-gouty and doting governor of Arizona Territory, stepped down, spurs clanking, from that position on October 15, 1881, under relentless encouragement by President Arthur to do so. John J. Gosper was appointed to fill the gap until a permanent successor could be chosen, but as no portrait of Gosper was forthcoming, the framed likeness of a bilious Fremont clutching a sword and a rolled map remained on the wall behind the justice’s bench in the Cochise County courthouse on the street named for its model. As in life the old eagle’s eyes were directed beyond that room and its contents, out past the Whetstones to where glory lay, and with it something more fitting than the custodianship of a rocky desert inhabited by roadrunners and wild Indians.

Beneath the portrait, looking like an unworthy heir, Justice Wells Spicer scratched his head and left the hair standing. His small eyes followed the scribbled lines on the sheet before him and his voice ground on, inflectionless and soporific, an aural projection of his putty-faced dowdiness in gray collar and lopsided cravat and baggy coat with stains on the lapels. In appearance and manner he gave no indication of the jurist who since June 1880 had stood like an iron post between the grasping Towniot Company and the disputed property fronting on Tombstone’s three principal streets. Paintings lie; so too do personal impressions.

“Witnesses of credibility testify that each of the deceased, or at least two of them, yielded to a demand to surrender,” droned Spicer, turning to a fresh sheet. “Other witnesses of equal credibility testify that William Clanton and Frank McLaury met the demand for surrender by drawing their pistols, and that the discharge of firearms from both sides was almost simultaneous.”

Outside, the wind was blowing, rattling hard early snowflakes like dried peas against the windows and fluting around the panes through spaces where the chinking had dropped out, causing the hanging lamps to sway and glow fiercely with each gust. Nevertheless the room was warm, even hot. Deputy Jim Campbell kept the parlor stove charged with mesquite and cottonwood, and spectators jammed the benches, exuding body heat. Rank with wool and sweat, it hung like an invisible cloud over the proceedings.

“There is a dispute as to whether Thomas McLaury was armed at all, except with a Winchester rifle that was on the horse beside him. I will not consider this question, because it is not of controlling importance. . ."

Behind the railing, on the same bench occupied by Ike Clanton on the day of the fight, Wyatt Earp sat plank straight with a high collar supporting his round chin and his hands resting on his thighs, cuffs showing. Doc Holliday slouched on his spine next to him, wearing a pale yellow shirt under dark gray flannel, hands in pockets, boots crossed, the indolent younger prince with no hope of ascending. His eyes were moving, counting the house. On Wyatt’s other side, Tom Fitch, the pair’s attorney, sat with his chin on his chest and his feet flat on the floor, staring at the boards between them.

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