“And if the sonofabitch gets killed like Ed did?” Chalkie asked. “We’ll give him a fine funeral. Fifty bucks says he’s dead before the Fourth!”
“I’ll take that,” Dog said comfortably. “I don’t like him, but Wyatt gets the job done.”
“How much should we pay him in the meantime?” Deacon asked.
Bob said, “Ed got a hundred a month, and three bucks for every arrest.”
Chalkie said, “Make it seventy-five salary, and two bucks for the arrests. The lower the fee, the more chances he’ll take.”
Dog shook his head. “Can’t see cuttin’ the pay like that.”
Bob let them argue a while before suggesting a vote on Wyatt’s salary. Dog lost. Deacon Cox made a motion that the meeting be adjourned. Chalk seconded. The men stood. Dog’s greyhound rolled off his bony back and rattled himself all over in preparation for departure.
“What do you think, Dog? Will that horse of yours win on the Fourth?” Chalkie asked as they made their way toward the stairs.
“Fastest quarter-miler in Ford County,” Dog said.
“I lost money on him last month,” Bob lied.
“Like hell you did,” Dog said over his shoulder, without even doing Bob the courtesy of glancing back. “You never lost a nickel in your life, Bob.”
“Hey, fellas?” Bob called, before they got down the stairs. “I heard something else at the store you might be interested in.”
This time, they turned to look up at him, and Bob Wright knew exactly what they saw. Good ole Bob. Simple, uncomplicated Bob.
“There’s probably no truth to it,” he said, “but people are saying maybe George Hoover paid somebody to start that fire in the Elephant Barn.”
“Why in hell would he do that?” Dog asked. There were a few more of his damn greyhounds circling at the bottom of the staircase, and Bob sighed inwardly.
“Well,” Bob said, “I guess maybe he couldn’t wait to get elected fair. Maybe he figured if Reform couldn’t close the businesses south of Front legally, he could burn ’em out. Maybe he figured the fire would spread on that side without touching his place on this side of the tracks.”
“Why start a fire in Ham Bell’s place?” Chalkie objected. “Ham’s Reform, too.”
“Throw off the suspicion,” Deacon said shrewdly, and Bob almost laughed.
They clomped down the staircase and patted Dog’s hounds, who whined and curled under their hands. Bob let them out, cleaned up some dog shit and a puddle of piss, locked the store doors, and went home satisfied by the evening’s accomplishments.
Nobody even noticed that he’d won close to $800.
“How was the game, Daddy?” Belle asked when Bob got home.
“Fine,” he said. “You didn’t have to wait up, honey.”
“Oh, but I wanted to, Daddy.”
The words were nice as pie, though there was something about the niceness that seemed false. Like father, like daughter, Bob thought. The notion did not please him.
“How much did you win, Daddy?”
“Oh, more than I lost, I reckon.”
She laughed, a shimmery musical sound. Like crystaclass="underline" brilliant and brittle. It broke his heart, the chill between them now. Why, just last year, she was happy to be his little angel.
“Did you hear the news?” Belle asked. “Mr. Eberhardt killed himself.”
Bob stared.
“His son Wilfred—you remember Wilfred, Daddy. Eight years old? A little towheaded boy? So serious at his mother’s funeral, taking such good care of his sisters while his poor father sobbed! Wilfred heard the gunshot and found his father’s body in the barn. He walked the girls down to the Krauses’. Poor things, all that way, crying … Mr. Krause rode over and buried the body. Isn’t it sad, Daddy?” Belle asked, but she seemed almost … satisfied, somehow. “Mr. Eberhardt was about to go bust, I guess. He just didn’t have the gumption to go on, after his wife died. I suppose he never should have come out here. Kansas isn’t quite the agricultural Eden all those advertisements make it out to be.”
“You can’t blame me for that, Belle! It’s not my fault when—”
Her large, dark eyes widened. “Why, Daddy! I never said it was your fault,” she protested. “What would I blame you for?”
“Go to bed, Belle,” Bob said.
“Of course, Daddy. Whatever you say, Daddy. Good night, Daddy.”
She started up the stairs, then paused and turned, one delicate, perfect hand on the carved oak newel post he had shipped in from St. Louis, special.
“Mother and I said we’d take the Eberhardt children in,” Belle told him. “That’s all right with you, isn’t it, Daddy?”
She didn’t wait for his reply.
In the Dodge City Times of June 8, 1878, it was reported that the regular meeting of the city council had been held the prior Tuesday from seven to nine P.M., Mayor James H. Kelley presiding. Councilmen Colley, Anderson, Straeter, and Newton were listed as present. The minutes of the previous meeting were said to have been read. Some new city ordinances had been approved. A salary of $75 per month was allocated for the new deputy marshal, Wyatt B. Earp. There was no mention of Bob Wright, Chalkie Beeson, or Deacon Cox.
“Look, Wyatt,” Morgan said. “Your name’s in the paper. Spelled right, too.”
Morg handed the Times across their breakfast plates and pointed out the notice. The waitress brought the coffeepot over and refilled their cups. Morgan smiled at her. Wyatt glanced his thanks.
When he finished reading a while later, Wyatt said, “Charlie Bassett’s getting a hundred as undersheriff for the county, and he does even less than Bat. What’re you making, Morg?”
“Seventy-five. Same as you.”
“So why does Charlie get a hundred?”
“Politics, Wyatt.”
It was late afternoon. They were expecting Richard Rasch’s Flying-R crew to come across the river this evening. Wyatt wiped up the last of his eggs with a piece of toast and finished his coffee. “Well,” he said, “we’re all going to earn our pay tonight.”
“Sworn in yet?”
“I’ll stop by Dog’s on the way to the bridge.”
Wyatt was about to hand the newspaper back to Morg when he noticed the advertisement headlined DENTISTRY.
“J. H. Holliday very respectfully offers his—What’s that word?” Wyatt asked.
“Professional.”
“—professional services to the citizens of Dodge City and the … surrounding county—”
“Country,” Morg said quietly. “See? There’s a r.”
“Country,” Wyatt said. “Office at Room No. 24, Dodge House. Where—” He pointed to another word.
“Satisfaction.”
“Where satisfaction is not given, money will be re … refunded.” Wyatt looked up. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Wyatt had a good memory and he wasn’t stupid by any stretch, but he had a hell of a time reading. The words never seemed to add up for him.
“It means,” Morg told him, “Doc knows he’s so damn good, you won’t mind paying. You should go see him,” Morgan urged then, because what had happened to Wyatt was Morg’s fault, really, and he still felt bad about it, all these years later. “Doc fixed a tooth for me a few weeks back. Didn’t feel a thing!”
“Gone is gone, Morg. Some things can’t be fixed.”
“Just ask, is all I’m saying.”
“Maybe.” Wyatt stood and dropped fifteen cents on the table. “Wake up John Stauber and Jack Brown and Chuck Trask,” he told Morg. “I want everybody on tonight. Bat and Charlie, too. Meet me at Dog’s in half an hour.”
It is human nature to notice differences. Mothers are only human, so it’s not unusual for one child among many to be a mother’s favorite. Commonly a woman will favor her youngest: the babe in arms who reminds her of the others when they were small and milky sweet and sleepy, before they walked and talked, and made noise and trouble. On the other hand, the oldest is often appreciated for being a sort of vice-parent, providing companionship and practical help in raising the younger children.