“Doc Holliday saved my life in Dodge City once,” said Wyatt Earp. “I had arrested a man known to be dangerous. His friends surrounded me to rescue him. Doc saw one of these cutthroats draw a gun and throw down to shoot me in the back. ‘Look out, Wyatt,’ Doc shouted. But before the words were out of his mouth, he jerked his six-shooter and shot the man who in another second would have murdered me. Lifelong friendships on the frontier were founded on such incidents as this. Doc was my friend and I was Doc’s friend until he died. Many a man told me this and that about Doc Holliday—and he was no saint—but nobody on earth could knock Doc Holliday to me. He was one of the finest, cleanest men in the world, though, of course, he was a little handy with his gun and had to kill a few fellows.”
So these two friends stood side by side through good and evil report, through fortune and misfortune, through thick and thin, and back to back they fought in the swirling gloom of the final storm that threatened to engulf them.
Virgil, Morgan, James, and Warren Earp, his brothers, soon joined Wyatt in Tombstone. Of the five Earps, Virgil was the eldest, Wyatt, Morgan, James, and Warren following in descending age sequence. Though Wyatt was the second born, he was the undisputed leader of the fraternal quintette by right of brains, initiative, and force of character. All were stalwart blond men, the family resemblance strong in every face, all plainly whelped in the same lion’s litter. Wyatt, Virgil, and Morgan alone played important roles in Tombstone’s colourful drama, James and Warren being looked upon by their elder brothers as mere cubs, promising, perhaps, but of an age too tender for the game of fang and claw.
Virgil Earp, who rose to historic importance as town marshal of Tombstone, had fought through the Civil War in the Union Army, was old to the frontier, and had himself served as early marshal of Dodge City. He had the stern look of a soldier and a soldier’s stern sense of duty. He was a taciturn man of rough simplicity and blunt honesty, moving toward whatever destination he had in view with crushing inevitability and stolid, blind fearlessness. Morgan Earp was more headstrong and impetuous and mentally keener. With the cool poise that was a distinguishing mark of the breed, he, too, was slow to wrath, but when once aroused, fought with the same desperate, merciless courage that distinguished his two older brothers. He also had been schooled to the frontier in Dodge City.
When the railroad went through Arizona and the new town of Benson became the depot for all incoming and outgoing freight for the entire Tombstone region, Wyatt Earp for seven months rode as shotgun messenger for the Wells-Fargo Company on the Benson stages. With stages being robbed with startling frequency on all the other lines centering in Tombstone, it might be supposed that these seven months were crowded with thrilling adventures. But, on the contrary, nothing at all happened. When highwaymen saw the grim Dodge City fighter sitting up on the box with a shotgun across his knees, they left that stage alone. Not a single Benson stage was robbed during Wyatt Earp’s term of service. Bear this fact in mind. It will prove an illuminating footnote to certain events that happened later.
While Wyatt Earp was guarding Wells-Fargo treasure boxes, the Oriental saloon and gambling house, then the largest in Tombstone, got into difficulties. Dave Rickabaugh, one of the owners, had offended a clique of gamblers who were trying, by threats and gunplay, to run the proprietors out of town. Luke Short, an old-time Dodge City friend of Wyatt Earp’s, was dealing in the Oriental. He was a quiet, gentlemanly fellow who, despite his diminutive stature, had a reputation as a gun fighter. Charlie Storms, formerly of Deadwood, one of the opposition gamblers, ugly and half drunk, came in.
“Any man who’ll work for Rickabaugh is a yellow coyote,” he snarled at Luke. Luke slid a case card out of the box and said nothing.
“You goin’ to sit there and take that?” sneered Storms. Luke took a yellow stack off the five-spot and set it in the rack.
“These Dodge City fighters ain’t deuce high here in Tombstone,” taunted Storms. Luke paid off a bet on the queen.
Friends dragged Storms away; Luke went out to lunch. When Short returned, Storms stood in the doorway of the Oriental with a six-shooter in his hand.
“Say, you Dodge City killer, come on and fight,” roared Storms. “I’ll give you the first shot.” Short took the first shot. Then two more for good measure. Storms fell dead.
But the killing, for which Short was acquitted in Tucson—he never returned to Tombstone—did not stop the campaign of intimidation. As a last resort, the proprietors of the Oriental offered Wyatt Earp a partnership in the place. He accepted. The new partner took over the management of the house. He moved among the patrons with a genial smile and a pair of big six-shooters buckled around him. He sent this message to the firm’s enemies:
“If you fellows are still looking for trouble, drop into the Oriental and I’ll fill you so full that it’ll run out of your ears. I aim to please.”
The sight of the gaunt old lion ready and perhaps eager for battle, discouraged the gamblers of the hostile faction. They thought him, as one expressed it, “too gosh-darned accommodatin’.” There were no more attempts at terrorism. The Oriental became the most orderly place in town. Also one of the most popular and prosperous. As part proprietor of a big saloon and gambling house, Wyatt Earp seemed on the road to
