Tombstone read the news of the great world with its morning coffee. The President’s message to Congress, an ultimatum by the German Kaiser, or Wall Street’s market quotations were discussed in the same breath with a stage holdup at Robbers’ Roost or Curly Bill’s last attack on a smuggler train. Four newspapers, the Nugget, Epitaph, Expositor, and Evening Gossip, not only kept the town well informed, but the political pot furiously boiling. The Nugget, Tombstone’s first newspaper, was established in the fall of by A. E. Fay and Thomas Tully, who brought from Tucson the primitive hand press on which had been printed the Tubac Arizonian, first newspaper ever published in Arizona. The Tombstone Epitaph, unique as the only paper of its name in the world, came out , its owners John C. Clum, afterward postmaster and mayor, Charles D. Reppy, and Thomas R. Sorin. Antiquarians still argue over the origin of the name. Some say John Hays Hammond, famous mining engineer, suggested it in an after-dinner speech at the Can Can. Others attribute it to Ed Schieffelin, who with such happy inspiration had christened the early mines and the town. Mr. Clum, it is said, coming in with Schieffelin on the stage from Tucson, asked the passengers to suggest a name for the paper he was about to start.
“The Epitaph,” said Schieffelin quickly. “That’s the name for a paper that will celebrate in enduring print the deeds and fame of Tombstone.”
“But,” replied Mr. Clum dubiously, “epitaphs are usually mere chiselled lies.”
“Well,” declared Schieffelin philosophically, “they tell the truth about as often as newspapers.”
Pat Hamilton, Sam Purdy, Harry Brook, John O. Dunbar, Harry Wood, Dick Rule, William O’Neill, and O’Brien Moore were the editorial thunderers of the Tombstone press, later achieving some celebrity in politics and journalism in other parts of the country. The Nugget, the political organ of Sheriff Behan, and the Epitaph, the champion of the Earps, were constantly at war, and journalism in the pioneer camp was not devoid of acrimony and personal bitterness. Pat Hamilton and Sam Purdy, having arranged a duel to the death, marched with seconds, doctors, and supernumeraries to the field of honour and then marched back again without fighting, to be chaffed unmercifully thereafter by the citizens.
S. C. Bagg of the Prospector, one of Tombstone’s later papers, criticized a decision rendered by Judge W. H. Barnes of the District Court and was fined $500 for contempt. Bagg, a man of means, refused to pay the fine and was committed to jail, editing his paper for several weeks from his cell and revelling in his martyrdom. When his friends at last paid his fine, Bagg was indignant and refused to accept his freedom. The sheriff had to throw him out and lock the jail door to prevent his return. Several years later, Judge Barnes, having retired from the bench, was sent to jail in Tucson for contempt by Judge R. E. Sloan. As he passed through the prison doors, he was on the point of collapse and was only sustained, as Historian McClintock points out, “by the sympathy and stimulants of his partisans.” His spirits were greatly revived when a messenger brought a telegram. “Friends from afar,” remarked the former jurist to the little band of sympathizers gathered about him, “have heard of this damnable outrage.” He tore open the telegram triumphantly. The message read: “Are you there, Moriarty?” It was signed by S. C. Bagg.
Old files of the Tombstone papers are filled with small-beer chronicles which retain some flavour of the life and spirit of the town:
The Rev. Endicott Peabody, educated at Cheltenham and Cambridge University in England, and now rector of the Tombstone Episcopal Church, is anxious to have the churchyard fenced and takes up a collection for the purpose. His congregation gives meagrely. Gamblers playing poker in the Crystal Palace learn of the good pastor’s disappointment and, with their compliments, send the Rev. Peabody the kitty from the night’s play, the kitty comprising chips taken out for all hands above two pair. The Rev. Peabody returns a note of polite thanks and the church fence is built.
Miss Nellie Cashman, running the Russ House at Fifth and Tough Nut streets, having for years followed stampedes and kept boarding house in mining towns from Montana to New Mexico, is known to every miner and gambler in the Western country. Her hotel is always crowded; if a fellow has no money, Miss Nellie gives him board and lodging until he makes a stake. She is one of the angels of the camp, held in an affection akin to veneration. Stranger or tenderfoot who gets uppish with Miss Nellie takes a long chance. A drummer, served with beans in Miss Nellie’s restaurant, loudly and harshly demands food more pleasing to his cultivated appetite. A tall miner unlimbers his six-shooter and steps over to the drummer’s table. “Stranger,” he says grimly, “eat them beans.” Which, with sudden gusto, the drummer does, to the last bean.
Dutch Annie, a figure in red-light society, is deeply mourned at her death by all Tombstone. Dutch Annie has been distinguished by great kindness of heart and many generous charities. A thousand buggies and carriages filled not only with women and men of the underworld but with business men and town officials follow her body to the grave in Boot Hill Cemetery. This is the town’s only burying ground and is to remain so for many years. On the unfenced, desolate, windswept slope north of town, men who died with their boots on and the town’s best citizens find a common resting place. Possibly some
