Epitaph by Mary Doria Russell Read Free Book Online Page A

BRILLIANCE OF HER EYES

    R ANDOLPH DEAR, YOU HAVE A RIVAL!” PAULINE observed with a sad gaze that might have seemed sympathetic but wasn’t.
    The stagecoach depot was surrounded by gray sand flats with low mounds of shattered brown rock in the distance. The entire dismal landscape was disfigured by Arizona’s unholy trio of vicious cacti. Wire-wool barrel cactus, like squat satanic footstools. Spiky bouquets of ocotillo, like hell’s daisies. Giant saguaro with weirdly human arms that reached toward heaven like the souls of the damned. The heat was demonic as well, without the slightest breeze to dissipate the ammoniac stench of a nearby corral into which months of horse piss had soaked without benefit of dilution. In the meager shadow of a palo verde shrub, a famished little coyote pounced on a scorpion and crunched it up with evident satisfaction, but Randolph Murray’s eyes rested instead on the dashing frontiersman who had been paying court to young Josie Marcus since the troupe’s performance in Prescott.
    â€œEvery living thing in the Arizona Territory has thorns, spikes, or fangs,” the actor muttered. “Or pistols.”
    â€œMr. Behan is very attractive,” Pauline murmured, relishing it.
    â€œYes. Quite!” Randolph admitted airily. “Pity about his hairline.”
    Suddenly feeling rather gay, Pauline dabbed a handkerchief ather throat and waved a languid hand toward the unlovely landscape. “Dear God, do the Indians actually want this back?”
    â€œYes, unlikely as it seems. The Mexicans do as well.”
    â€œWhatever for? Really, what is the point?”
    â€œHearth and home. National pride. Silver. Lots and lots and lots of silver.”
    â€œThere must be nicer places to find silver. Tiffany’s, for example.” Fanning flies from her face, she noted, “You look weary, Randolph dear.”
    â€œKind of you to notice, Pauline darling.”
    He was, in fact, sweating, underslept, and in an exceptionally bad temper. The Pauline Markham troupe did not bear his name, but Randolph Murray managed the enterprise and he was responsible for herding, housing, feeding, and transporting—by sea and by land—a cast and crew of eighteen along with luggage, sets, and costumes, all while arranging new bookings, collecting fees, and doling out the payroll. Not to mention singing six numbers in two acts of a comic opera he loathed, seven nights a week with matinées on Wednesdays, Saturdays, and Sundays.
    The travel conditions were appalling, but the response from these Arizona audiences to a British musical about sailors had been astonishing. There were week-long sellouts in Prescott and Phoenix and packed houses for one-night stands in half a dozen other little settlements. They’d just closed in Tucson and were moving on to their biggest booking yet: the lugubriously named but famously wealthy Tombstone, where the dashing Mr. Behan was evidently prospering along with his town. A man of many parts, Mr. Behan had given them to understand. Moving with the times. Full of gumption and enterprise.
    Pauline sighed and took Randolph’s arm. “Poor thing!” she murmured. “It’s harder to be left than to leave, isn’t it.”
    â€œDon’t,” he warned, but Pauline was always curious about her successors.
    â€œHow was our rosy little Josie?” she asked archly.
    â€œEager. Enthusiastic,” Randolph replied blithely. “And very . . . athletic.”
    The actress blinked. The actor smiled. You asked for it, he meant.
    JOHNNY BEHAN CERTAINLY WASN’T in the market for a wife in the spring of 1880. In April he’d traveled from Tombstone up to Prescott to sign the papers that would finalize his divorce from the former Victoria Zaff, and he was in no hurry to replace her.
    While he was in town, he took the opportunity to see what all this H.M.S. Pinafore fuss was about, and by the end of the