Doc - Mary Doria Russell [64]
“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 crystal: 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