“How about my brothers?” Wyatt said.

Behan didn’t hesitate.

“Certainly,” Behan said. “It’s going to be a big county. There will be enough for everybody.”

He put out his hand, and Wyatt, still looking at Josie, shook it briefly. Behan smiled with pleasure and thought about what he’d said, and liked it so much that he said it again.

“There will be enough for everybody. Everybody.”

Behan was probably lying, Wyatt thought, still looking at Josie. Johnny didn’t always mean what he said, and sometimes he didn’t even know he didn’t. But Wyatt didn’t care. Wyatt knew why he had agreed to it. Later that day, he wrote a one-line letter of resignation: “I have the honor herewith to resign the office of deputy sheriff of Pima County.”

Fifteen

Allie was cooking bacon and biscuits for all of them.

“How could anybody vote for Ben Sippy ’stead of you, Virgil?” she said.

Virgil drank some coffee, and put the cup down and wiped his mustache.

“Ben Sippy’s a good man,” he said.

“Not as good as you,” she said.

Allie put a plate of biscuits on the table and began to fork thick slices of bacon out of the frying pan onto another platter. Virgil took a biscuit.

“Don’t matter whether he’s any good or not,” Wyatt said. “Vote was three hundred eleven for Ben, two hundred nine for Virgil. It’s done.”

Allie put the bacon on the table.

“And Wyatt ain’t deputy anymore, and Morgan plays pool more than he works.”

Morgan took a piece of bacon in his fingers and ate it.

“And damn it, use a fork and knife at my table,” Allie said.

Morgan grinned at her.

“You cook too good, Allie. I can’t take the time.”

She pretended to hit him with her big serving fork.

“So what are we going to do, Virgil?”

“Right now we’re going to eat breakfast,” Virgil said.

“I can see that,” Allie said. “But I want to know what we’re going to do for money.”

“Make some more biscuits, Allie.”

“You ain’t finished them.”

“But we will,” Virgil said, “and then we’ll want some more.”

Virgil’s voice didn’t change, but Allie stopped talking and began to cut flour and lard together. She knew how far Virgil could be pushed. Which was farther by her than by anyone else. She wasn’t afraid of his anger. She knew he wouldn’t hurt her. But she loved him, and she didn’t want to make him mad.

The men were quiet for a while, eating.

Then Morgan said, “So how come you resigned, Wyatt?”

Wyatt finished his coffee, and Allie brought the pot over from the stove and poured him some more. It was November and overcast. There was a wind coming off of the Dragoon Mountains to the east, and it drove a fine rattle of grit against the back windows of the kitchen.

“They’re going to break up Pima County,” Wyatt said. “Make a new county with Tombstone in the middle of it. Means there’s going to be a lot of politics going on, and I kind of wanted to stop working for a Democrat before that happened.”

“You think Bob Paul will make a run for sheriff?” Morgan asked.

“I think he will, and he’s a Republican and we should be supporting him. Won’t hurt us with John Clum either.”

Virgil nodded.

“And that quarter interest in the Oriental is bringing in some profit,” he said. “And the five hundred leasing our share of the Comstock mine to Emmanuel. And we got the north extension of the Mountain Maid claim.”

Wyatt knew all of this, and so did Morgan. They knew that was for Allie’s benefit. All three of them knew, also, that the share of the Oriental and the lease on the Comstock share were Wyatt’s. But the brothers never distinguished ownership among themselves. And all three of them knew that. And so did Allie, who appeared to be totally absorbed in rolling out the biscuits.

“Still, you being deputy sheriff might have been helpful,” Virgil said.

Wyatt said nothing.

“John Clum likes you,” Virgil said. “Says he wants a two-gun man for sheriff. I know he’s talking to Fremont about you.”

“He can talk to Fremont whether I’m deputy sheriff or not,” Wyatt said.

Virgil stirred sugar into his coffee, nodding his head slowly while he did it.

“True,” he said.

They were quiet again. Allie brought the new batch of biscuits to the table. The men ate. Virgil looked at Wyatt thoughtfully.

But all he said was, “That new woman of Behan’s is pretty good-looking.”

“Can’t say what she sees in Johnny,” Morgan said.

“From San Francisco,” Virgil said. “Heard her father’s got money. Heard he bought that house for her and Behan.”

“So what’s she see in Behan?”

“No accounting for the man a woman’ll take up with,” Virgil said.

“Ain’t that the truth,” Allie said from the stove.

And Virgil reached over and gave her a slap on the backside. He and Morgan laughed, and Wyatt smiled a little and ate another biscuit.

It was early evening after dark. Wyatt was with Morgan in the Wells Fargo office. Wyatt, in from Bisbee, and Morgan, from Benson, were standing by with their shotguns while the strongbox was opened and the money locked in the safe.

Virgil came into the office with a boy, maybe nineteen. The boy looked frantic.

“Johnny-Behind-the-Deuce,” Virgil said, nodding at the boy. “Shot a man in Charleston, they want to lynch him.”

The Wells Fargo clerk swung the door shut on the big black safe and straightened up.

“You can’t keep him here,” the clerk said.

None of the three brothers looked at him.

“Who’d he shoot?” Wyatt said.

“Mining engineer named Schneider.”

“Hell, I know him,” Morgan said. “He manages the smelter over in San Pedro.”

“Well, now he don’t,” Virgil said.

“You gotta hide me,” Johnny-Behind-the-Deuce said. “They’re gonna kill me.” His eyes were damp as if he had been crying, and his voice sounded thick.

“No,” Virgil said. “They ain’t going to kill you.”

“You got to get him out of this office,” the clerk said.

“We’ll take him across to Vronan’s,” Virgil said. “Jim’s there. Morgan, you go down and tell Ben Sippy where we are. Have him bring Behan and anybody else he can get, and meet us there. Tell them to bring a buggy.”

“You see Doc,” Wyatt said, “bring him along.”

Morgan nodded. He gave Virgil his shotgun and left, running.

“We don’t need Doc,” Virgil said.

“Good gun,” Wyatt said.

Johnny-Behind-the-Deuce was crying again.

“They’re gonna find me,” he sobbed. “We can’t stay here. They’re gonna find me.”

Without looking at him, Virgil patted Johnny-Behind-the-Deuce on the shoulder.

“Get him outta here now,” the Wells Fargo clerk said. “I don’t want to have to report you to the regional manager.”

“He’s a good gun,” Virgil said. “But he’s crazy.”

“That’s right, and it scares hell out of the kind of citizens who might want to string up Johnny-Behind-the-Deuce.”

“You got a point,” Virgil said. “C’mon.”

He put an arm around Johnny-Behind-the-Deuce and turned him toward the door.

“I ain’t going out first,” Johnny-Behind-the-Deuce said.

Tears were running down his face.

“Wyatt’ll go first,” Virgil said.

“You crying when you jerked on Schneider?” Wyatt said.

Johnny-Behind-the-Deuce cried harder. Wyatt shook his head and went out the front door onto Allen Street with his shotgun. His left arm around Johnny-Behind-the-Deuce, and Morgan’s shotgun in his right hand, Virgil followed him. Up Allen Street at the east end of town, a group of miners was gathered. Both Wyatt and Virgil walked with the shotguns by their side, muzzle down and aiming at the ground. The miners saw them. A guttural mass murmur came from the miners, and one voice above the rest said, “There he is.”