My Friend Tom By Benjamin Henry Bailey

Dedicated to those that history does not remember accurately and the hope that someday all their stories will be told with honor and truth.

That cold October day had started off like all the others for me. I woke early in the morning to help my parents get ready for the coming day. Working in a general store could keep someone going from open to close. Then when your parents own the store, it can keep their kids busy from can’t see to can’t see. From sweeping out the small aisles between shelves, to restocking the candy in the jars on the main counter. It kept a boy of ten running until Pa flipped the open sign and the customers came pouring in.

The customers were mainly miners, but occasionally we would get ladies, cowmen, and the other assortment of townsfolk, all looking for supplies for their camps, houses, and saddlebags. The thing about people coming into the store, it gave us plenty of news and gossip happening all over, and with a town like Tombstone, it was rarely ever dull.

My favorite customers were the cowmen. I had long dreamed of riding the trails and pushing cattle up to some railhead far off. Sleeping outside under the stars to riding next to a stampeding herd. Fighting outlaws and Indians. All the things that fill the mind of a small boy stuck in a general store with a broom in his hand.

Mama hollered my name from the backroom and reminded me that the clothes on the shelf needed to be folded. Reluctantly, I walked over and began refolding the shirts and pants that had been scattered about from the hustle and bustle the day before. Life was the same old thing. Wake up early, grab a quick breakfast, and get to work for the day.

The times that I was not working, which were very few, I spent with some of the other boys in town. There at least my dreams of the trail were mainly shared, and we could run any crazy idea off each other and build upon that for our imaginations. My good friend, Buddy Samson, and I had planned out the whole thing. We were to save up as much money as we could so we could buy our own outfit of cattle and own a ranch together someday. The fraction of pennies on the dollar that I saw of my family business was not going to add up quick, so I felt that starting to save money at a young age was a good bet. By the time Buddy and I got older we would have our own ranch and see things with our eyes that had only been available in our minds.

The time hit eight o’clock, and people started pouring in and pulling things from the shelves to buy, either with cash or to add to their credit. I watched the items taken to the front counter to be paid for, and all I could think of was how much work it was going to be to restock everything for the next day’s rush. So goes the life of a boy who has store owners for parents.

The day pushed on, and the customers stayed at a steady pace. My parents would usually work together up front, helping customers load up their newly purchased items. Sometimes, Pa would have someone drop off a list, and he would box or bag it up for them. For me, I had to keep an eye out for empty shelf space that needed to be filled and anything else that needed cleaning, straightened, or refolded. If I was not on top of it, Pa would remind me with a quick snap of the fingers and a harsh glance. That was all the motivation I needed to surrender my daydreams for the time being and work on my inherited tasks.

Quickly putting some more canned goods on the shelf, I was startled by a thud on the front window of the store. Looking at where the sound had come from, I could see Buddy’s face pressed up against the glass. Glancing over to my parents who were helping a lady with some fabric, they had not heard Buddy’s arrival. Buddy quickly gestured for me to come outside. I shook my head, and he gestured again for me to come out. After another shake of my head, Buddy stamped his foot and raised his fist like he was going to give me a black eye.

Buddy used to just come into the store to see me. Once my parents caught on to how much of a distraction Buddy could be, they started putting him to work too. That had only happened a few times, and from then on Buddy volunteered to stay outside and wait for me to come out.

I could see that Buddy was getting frustrated outside, running his fingers quickly through his hair to then almost pull it out. I decided that whatever Buddy wanted was not going to wait and at least it would get me out of the store for a while. Grabbing the broom from the corner, I walked outside at a good pace and did not hear my parents’ object. Hopefully they thought that I was just going to sweep off the front boardwalk.

“You’re going to get me into a heap of trouble,” I told Buddy a little flabbergasted.

“It don’t matter none,” he replied, half out of breath.

“How come?” I asked, feeling more intrigued now rather than angry.

“The Earps and the Clantons. There is talk about them facing off with each other today! Or at least I heard Ike Clanton saying how he was going to finish the Earps.”

The idea of Clantons and Earps not getting along was no surprise to me. I had heard plenty of the altercations they had had with each other over the recent months. The whole town of Tombstone knew that there was a powder keg set between them, and one day it seemed that it would explode.

The biggest issues I had heard talked about was whether someone was a Democrat or a Republican. That seemed to set up a lot of thoughts about who someone was based on that. Being only ten, I couldn’t tell the difference between those parties any better than I could tell the difference between a president and a king. Pa was a stout Democrat, and I had heard him say things about the Earps and their beliefs but could not make heads or tails why that would make someone upset.

I had seen Wyatt Earp once walking down Allen Street with his cool manner about him, and it made me feel cautious. However, he turned onto Fourth street and walked into the Ice-Cream Saloon. I had taken my time to follow him, and when I had glanced through the window, I saw Wyatt Earp, the lawman from Dodge City who had a very tough reputation, eating ice cream. Regardless of what Pa thought, a man couldn’t be all bad who eats ice cream.

Buddy filled me in on what was happening as we ran up Fifth Street toward Fremont. Being the son of a stableman, Buddy had a good source to hear the latest and greatest. He had heard that the Clantons might be up on Fremont, so we decided to check it out. He also told me how Ike had been threatening Holliday and the Earps earlier in the afternoon and gotten himself arrested. After being turned loose, he was now supposedly on the prod. There had also been another incident that afternoon when Tom McLaury had gotten into it with Wyatt and had been pistol whipped by the Earp brother. That had only happened a little while ago according to Buddy.

I knew Tom McLaury. He had come into my parent’s store multiple times and somehow, we got to talking about how I wanted to be a ranchman someday. He had told me to work hard, save my money, and that it would happen. Unfortunately, Pa had always dashed those dreams with talk about taking over the family business, but hearing the opposite of what Pa said made me feel hopeful for my future. Tom was a ranchman himself, owning a ranch on the San Pedro River and would know more about that life than Pa.

The first time Tom had been to the store was with his brother Frank a while back. Tom had bought two pieces of hard stick candy in addition to the supplies they had purchased. He placed one of the sticks into his mouth and threw the other to me with a quick wink. He then tipped his hat to my parents and was out the door. It became a regular habit each time he came into the store, and he started calling me his little saddle pal.

On one afternoon, Buddy and I were in a vacant lot, practicing roping an old, wood chair that was standing in for a cow. This mean eyed cow chair was not giving us slack that day. They kept staying out of our loop and on the run. At least that is what we told ourselves to make us feel better for not being able to rope a stationary chair. When we were just about to give up, Tom rode by and stopped to watch us. He had asked how it was going with the roping, and I told him that we were no good with it. He dismounted his horse and handed the reins to his brother. Walking over to us, he took the rope, adjusted its size, and started twirling it over his head. After a few seconds he threw the loop into the air. The loop closed around the chair, and with a quick tug, the rope pulled taut, pulling the chair over on its side. Buddy and I both jumped and cheered at the spectacle.

After a quick lesson on proper technique, Frank called for Tom to hurry up as they needed to meet with the butcher on cattle prices.

“Take it easy my little saddle pal,” Tom said as he mounted his horse and continued into town with his brother. Buddy and I kept at throwing the lasso through the afternoon, and after some practice with the technique that Tom had taught us, we found ourselves roping the chair at least one out of five times. Which was a lot more than we could have hoped for earlier that day.

To me, Tom McLaury was the spitting image of how I imagined myself when I was older. A man who owned his own ranch with a spirit that was as free as the desert. He was kind to those around him and could rope and ride. That checked off most of the boxes for what I looked for in a role model. Pa and Mama had made comments about how nice Tom was as well. They appreciated his manners, and of course they appreciated him buying supplies at their store.

We made it to Fremont and looked down the street but did not see the Clantons anywhere. The morning chill had worn off, but I wished that I had grabbed my coat before heading out on this goose chase to see some excitement. We started then walking down toward Fourth Street. I hoped that seeing these two sides fight each other was going to be worth it because I knew of the punishment that I was going to get when I got back to the store. Pa was not one for idle chit chat or fun activities until the work for the day was done.

About halfway between Fifth and Fourth Street we saw four men in dark suits turn the corner onto Fremont Street heading the same direction we were going, toward Third, their backs to us.

“That’s the Earps and Holliday,” Buddy said, still breathing heavy from all the running we had just done.

“Looks like maybe they’re looking for the Clantons now,” I said.

“If we get too close, we are going to get turned around and sent back home,” I said, a small realization coming into my stomach that this might not be something for me and Buddy to run right into.

As we got to Fourth Street, I grabbed his arm and pulled him across Fremont, toward the buildings on that side.

“Where are we going?” Buddy asked.

“Trust me!” I said, a little harsher than I had meant it to be. I led Buddy around the buildings, our little legs pumping as fast as they could go. I had figured that if we wanted to see the Earps and Clantons face off with each other that we would need to keep an eye on one of the parties but not too close. If we got too close to the Earps, they were likely to take it out on our hides. We came to Third Street finally and crossed over next to the Aztec House.

I walked slowly toward Fremont and peered down the street, hoping to catch a glimpse of where the Earps had gone. I half expected them to be crossing over at Third Street, but they had stopped in front of an alley, in between Fly’s and the Harwood House. I didn’t know if it was from the running or the tense feelings of being caught following the Earps, but my heart felt like it was about to explode out of my chest. Bobby was also breathing heavily.

“What are they doing?” Bobby asked.

I shook my head slightly but did not have an answer. It seemed that the Earps had just stopped at the alley and were facing it now. The brother known as Virgil was talking, but at that distance, we could not make sense of what was being said. The cold wind blew, and I felt a shudder run through my shoulders and into my neck that felt almost painful.

The air felt tense around us, like right before a flash of lightning and a crack of thunder. We had been running so fast to get here to see the excitement, and now I had a nagging feeling that I did not want to be here.

Before I could stop shivering, the Earp party grabbed their guns, and the alley erupted in loud pops that echoed off the buildings. Immediately everything was covered in gun smoke and soon followed by two louder booms. The loud pops continued one after the other, and our hands shot up to our ears to cover them from the deafening sounds.

I tried to keep my eyes on the alley but jumped slightly at each gunshot. I could not believe what I was seeing right in front of me. The gunshots echoed in my head, and each pop caused my eyes to slam shut.

As the fight continued, it all seemed to spill into the street. One man, who was not with the Earps, ran into Fly’s, and another who was pulling a horse emerged from the gun smoke to the middle of the street. Another man came running out of the alley and turned down the street away from the fight. He was hunched over and staggering greatly, only to fall down after a short distance near the telegraph pole at Third Street.

The man with the horse had let go of the reins and was aiming his pistol back toward the alley only to be shot in the head. His head snapped back like he had just taken a punch, and he crumpled to the dirt like a sack of potatoes.

The shooting ceased, and the gun smoke dissipated slowly on the wind. The fight seemed to have taken a lifetime to end, but the reality of the duration had been no longer than thirty seconds. Thirty seconds to cause such carnage. The shots still echoed through my ears, even though nothing else was being fired.

I looked at Buddy and could tell he was not doing much better than I was. He had tears in his eyes, and I soon realized that I did as well. His eyes fell from mine to look back across the street. It was then that he lost his stomach and vomited. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath, hopefully to save myself from losing the food in my stomach as well.

Even though we lived in Tombstone and gunfights happened occasionally, I had never seen anyone shot before. In my mind as we had raced over here, I thought that maybe we could see a gunfight but felt that it was going to be more of a brawl with fists. I never imagined that it would be like this. In the half dime novels, it was always good versus evil, heroes taking out the villains, nothing like what Buddy and I had just seen. There just seemed to be a lot of shooting at each other.

People started making their way toward the alley, and that told me that the fight was over. Two of the Earp brothers were sitting on the ground and looked to be wounded, Wyatt was checking on them. Doc Holliday was limping around, his right hand pressed against his hip. I could hear someone from the alley crying out in pain.

Looking over at the man who had fallen at the telegraph pole, I felt that he looked familiar. Walking slowly toward, him I noticed that it was Tom McLaury. Overcoming the feeling of dread, I ran toward him as the crowd had not made it that way yet.

Coming to a sliding halt when I came near him, my knees almost buckled then and there. Tom was lying on his back staring up at the sky, short gasps of air escaping his lips. I could not believe what I was seeing and felt as if I was about to pass out. A man that I had met in my parents’ store, who had inspired me and bought me candy, was shot to pieces and dying.

“Tom!” I said in a choked voice, looking at the blood oozing from his lips. His eyes seemed to fix on mine, and for a moment there was recognition. The gasps coming from his lungs were starting to come more rapidly, but there was barely any life in them. I glanced at his wound, and I quickly turned away and threw up. Falling to my knees, stomach bile dripping from my mouth, all I could do was cry.

I considered Tom my friend even though he was much older than I. He had shown me how to rope and that I could have dreams of owning a ranch someday. Now he lay here, in a pool of his own blood, seeing out of sightless eyes. I looked again at his wounds and dry heaved at the sight. His right side had taken a blast from a shotgun from Doc Holliday, I later learned. The blast had taken him under his arm pit and had torn flesh from his arm.

The crowd soon made their way to Tom, and I was quickly pushed aside. I tried getting to my feet but fell back to my knees. Somone stepped on my fingers, and I quickly pulled them to my chest and sobbed. Suddenly I was picked up and pulled out of the crowd, by who I did not even notice at first. I glanced back and could only see Tom’s boots between the legs of the crowd.

My body felt weak, and I was on the verge of passing out. The person who had picked me up, set me down on my feet and quickly caught me as I started to fall over.

“Son are you all right?” The person asked me, looking at me in a panic.

The figure’s face was a blur but soon came into focus. It was Pa.

“Pa?”

“Are you hurt?” He asked more frantically, his hands going over my chest, arms, and legs.

“No, Pa,” I choked out.

He quickly pulled me into a tight hug. “My boy! You gave me and your mother quite a fright!”

“I’m sorry, Pa,” I said, finally feeling a little more clearly to stand on my own.

I looked into his eyes and for the first time in my life saw tears.

I had told Pa about Buddy, but he had reassured me that his father had come with him, and they had been looking for us. I looked over toward the Aztec House and saw Buddy’s father holding him as well. He carried me back to the store where Mama was waiting impatiently. When she saw us coming down the boardwalk, she came running and threw her arms around me. I couldn’t help but let tears stream down my face, as well.

The gunfight had lasted thirty seconds and had sent three men to early graves. The following day, I had learned that Billy Clanton had also been killed in the shooting. Morgan and Virgil Earp and Doc Holliday were wounded. Wyatt Earp had not been hit at all according to the reports.

An investigation was launched, and there were different stories supporting both sides. Stories that painted the Earp side as heroes putting down the outlaw element and stories that told of them being out for blood. For the other side, stories told of the Clantons and McLaurys being outlaws and deserving what they got while others saying they just wanted to leave town and avoid trouble if possible. I had also heard that Tom had raised his hands as the fight was breaking out and held open his coat, trying to show that he was unarmed and did not want to fight. With that information, it was hard for me not to have a grudge against Doc Holliday. He had been the one to blast my friend to eternity.

The stories coming out of the investigation that pointed to Tom being an outlaw was something that I never accepted. For those who owned ranches, there was a code or more so of an expectation that if anyone came to your ranch that you offered them a meal and depending on how late it was in the day, a place to sleep. I had heard that was how a friendship had started with the McLaurys and those associated with the “Cowboy” gang. That did not necessarily mean though that Tom and Frank partook in outlaw type activities.

As the years went by, the infamous gunfight seemed to not be talked about as much. It seemed to slip behind the curtain of eternity. That, of course, was for folks who did not see the gunfight themselves. It wasn’t until a biography of Wyatt Earp came out in 1931 that the rumblings started again. Even though the book was largely fiction, it still spurred the legend. A lot of what made it to “fact” status was the testimony of the Earp side. The McLaurys were then branded outlaws for good, even if they might not actually have been.

I was eighty-six years old when my grandson burst into the room raving about a new western movie that was out. He was just as fascinated with the west as I was at his age. The movie was Gunfight at the O.K. Corral with Burt Lancaster and Kirk Douglas. I reluctantly agreed to go but could not stop myself from letting him know that the gunfight did not actually take place at the O.K. Corral. My daughter squeezed my arm and told me to try and enjoy it, if not for myself at least pretend to enjoy it for my grandson. She told me that he was hoping they had me as a young boy in it.

After the movie, my grandson and I walked out of the theater. He was wearing his cowboy hat, boots, and had two cap pistols in their holsters around his hips. When we walked outside of the theater, he pulled his cap guns out and blazed away at all the imaginary outlaws in town. I had told him to hold off until we got back home. He had seemed a little disappointed but did not press the issue, which I was glad he didn’t. I did not want to ruin his imagination with cold hard reality as mine had been brought to an abrupt halt at his age.

“Grandpa, was it really like that?” he asked as we got into my truck, his mind full of curiosity.

“No, it wasn’t,” I said, trying to pick my words very carefully.

“Well, what was it like?” he asked, looking at me.

Feeling a bit on the spot, I said “Well, it was over quicker than you’d imagine, and it was a hell of a lot more violent. That movie tried to make it seem like it was good versus evil, but really it was just men against men. As far as I have ever been able to tell, it was not worth it. Not too long after the fight was over, two of the Earp brothers were shot. One was terribly wounded, and the other one was killed. Then Wyatt went on a vendetta ride, killing more of the other side.”

“Who were the good guys, then?”

“I’m not sure there were any good guys in that fight. I think there were two groups that had some issues between them that needed to be talked out, but it kept escalating through violence.” We were quiet for a few minutes. Finally, I said “I will say one thing, though. I knew Tom McLaury, and to me, he was a standup fella.”

My grandson looked down at his boots, seemingly deep in thought. I hoped that I had not ruined the boy’s image of the West. I believe that the westerns that had come out had shown great characters for young people to look up to. To stand up for what is right even if the whole town is against it. And even at my age, watching a John Wayne western was enough to put me back to ten years old, playing in the empty lots in Tombstone with my friends.

After a short time, he looked up at me. “I’m sorry your friend was killed.”

All I could do was look over at him and give him a quick wink and squeeze his knee.

The moon was bright and lit up the desert floor. You could make out the shadows of the cactus along the dirt road that led to the house. We were quiet for a time, and I pulled the truck over that gave us a great view of the moon.

“Remember this one thing, son. There are a lot of different views in this world, and it is very important to keep an open mind. To think for yourself about people, events, and what have you. Try to look at things through as many different angles as you can, and you will usually come out smarter on the other side. Only a damn fool looks at things through one lens.”

I could tell that this was going over my grandson’s head a bit, but he seemed to be catching on slowly.

“Learn as much as you can,” I said, putting my arm around his shoulders. “Treat people decent and do what is right. Find out what your passion is and work hard on it. It will come true. Then you will know what kind of man you want to be when you grow up.”

“I already know what kind of man I want to be,” he said, looking up at me with big eyes. “I want to be like you, Grandpa.”

I ruffled his hair and tickled his ribs. He let out a chuckle that warmed my heart.

We arrived at the house, and I put the truck in park as my grandson jumped out, running up the porch steps. My daughter opened the door, and he ran inside. Getting out, I looked over at the other house, not far from my own. There was an orange glow on the front porch from a cigarette. My daughter looked out and gave a short wave. I waved back, and she knew that I was not going to be in for a while and closed the front door. Turning, I made my way toward the other porch.

“Enjoy the movie did ya?” asked a voice from the dark porch.

“It was well made, but nothing more than fiction using real people’s names,” I said, painfully climbing the stairs.

“You should have come seen it with us.”

Buddy’s old bones adjusted in the rocking chair on the porch. The many years out here had not been gentle getting older. He let out a cough and spit before taking another drag on his cigarette.

“Nah, I saw the real thing. That was enough for me,” he replied.

“Yeah, for us both. Plus, it didn’t have “The Duke” in it,” I said, sitting down in the chair next to him.

Buddy grunted in agreement and poured me a glass of whiskey. Taking it, we both looked out across the desert floor as a coyote called to the moon. Through the last seventy-six years, Buddy and I had stuck together and made a home for ourselves and our families on our ranch that we had dreamed about as young boys. I think back at those words that Tom McLaury told me. Work hard and it will happen. There were not many more things that rang true to the two cattlemen on the porch.

——————

Ben Bailey has been obsessed with American West History since he was a small child. He is a Colorado Native who grew up watching westerns with his grandpa and reading western books by Louis L’Amour, Matt Braun, and Elmer Kelton. His family took him to historical sites that fueled his imagination to want to read as much as he could on the many subjects within the history of the American West. His desire is to try and understand the thoughts, hopes, fears, and dreams of all those that lived here. As an adult, Ben has traveled to many different historical sites and tries to hit as many as he can each year. Recently he has been to Sand Creek, CO, Tombstone, AZ, Deadwood, SD, Cripple Creek, CO, and St. Elmo, CO. He has enough books to fill a small library, but to him, they are all necessary to keep learning and growing in his love for the west and for writing.