Tombstone's Epitaph

One Wesley Fuller then took the stand and testified that he had intended to warn Billy Clanton the Earps were coming but could not reach him in time. He said he saw the Earps pass from his position in an alley. He could not see the Clantons or McLowrys but said he heard Billy Clanton cry out, "Don't shoot me, I don't want to fight," and that he saw Doc Holliday fire the first shot.

On cross-examination Fuller said he did not know whether Holliday had a shotgun or a six shooter. Defense also drew out an admission that the witness had been drinking heavily on the day and night preceding the battle, going to bed at three o'clock. The witness, however, volunteered that he did not "have a fit of delirium tremens."

Wm. F. (Billy) Claiborne, one of the Cowboy group, took the stand next. His testimony was to the effect that the Clantons and McLowrys threw up their hands when Virgil Earp gave the order and that Doc Holliday and Morgan Earp fired on them immediately.

Claiborne refused to answer when the defense, in cross ex amination, asked whether it was not true that he had been ar rested by the Earps on a charge of taking part in a killing at Charleston and was now out on bond. The court upheld him. The prosecution then called its chief witness, Ike Clanton. who promoted the fight and then ran away from it. He told this story of the battle at the OK Corral.

Ike, the McLowry brothers, and William Clanton and Billy Clai borne were standing talking in a vacant lot, west of the photo graph gallery on Fremont street, between that and the building next to it. The sheriff, Behan, came down and told us he had come to arrest and disarm us. I asked the sheriff what for. He told me to preserve the peace. I told him I had no arms. Then Wm. Clanton told him he was just leaving town. The sheriff then said if he was leaving town all right. He then told Tom and Frank McLowry he would have to take their arms. Tom McLowry cold him he had none. Frank McLowry said he would go out of town, but did not want to give his arms up until the parties that had hit his brother were disarmed. The sheriff told him he should do it And to take his arms up to his-the sheriff's-office and lay them off. Then Frank McLowry said he had business in town he would like to attend to, but he would not lay aside his arms and attend to his business unless the Earps were disarmed. The sheriff then put his arms around me and felt if I was armed. Tom McLowry said, "I am not armed either," and opened his coat this way. (Wit ness throws back the lapels of his coat.) The sheriff then looked up Fremont street and ordered us to stay there until he came back. The Earp party and Holliday just then appeared. Clanton and I remained because the sheriff ordered us to. Behan met the Earps, held up his hands and told them to stop, that he had our party in charge. They never stopped but passed by and came on where we were. It was about twenty paces from where we were to the point where Behan met the Earps and Holliday. As they got where we were they pulled their pistols and Wyatt and Virgil Earp said, "You s-s of b-s, you have been looking for a fight," and at the same time ordered us to throw up our hands. We threw up our hands and they commenced shooting. The first two shots were fired by Holliday and Morgan Earp. Wyatt and Virgil Earp fired next in quick succession. Morg shot before Wyatt did. The first two shots were fired so close together I could not tell who fired first. Almost immediately after, perhaps a couple of seconds, Vir gil Earp fired. Morgan Earp shot William Clanton. I don't know which of the McLowry boys Holliday shot at but at one of them. I know Morgan Earp shot Billy Clanton because I saw his pistol pointed within two or three feet of his bosom and saw Billy stagger and fall against the house and put his hand on his breast where he was shot. When Billy Clanton staggered and fell against the house he is holding his hands up level with the top of his head with the palms of his hands out. When those first shots were fired Frank McLowry was holding his hands up level with the top of his head. I was holding my hands the same way. Tom McLowry threw open his coat by the lapels and said he had no arms. I was never armed at any time before that and left them behind the Grand hotel bar. He took a Colt 45 pistol and a Winchester carbine.

When the Earp party came up where Billy Clanton and I were standing. Wyatt Earp shoved his pistol up against my belly and told me throw up my hands and said, "You s of a b, you can have a fight." I turned on iny heel, taking hold of Wyatt and his pistol with my left hand and grabbing him around the TOMBSTONE'S EPITAPH BY DOUGLAS D. MARTIN WAS PUB LISHED THIS SPRING BY THE UNIVERSITY OF NEW MEXICO PRESS. A NOTABLE CONTRIBUTION TO WESTERN LITERATURE, THIS BOOK TELLS THE STORY OF A FAMED NEWSPAPER AND A FAMOUS TOWN. IT IS ON SALE AT BOOKSTORES OR CAN BE ORDERED DIRECT FROM THE UNIVERSITY OF NEW MEXICO PRESS, ALBUQUERQUE, N.M. THE BOOK SELLS FOR $4.50.

PHOTOGRAPHS BY WESTERN WAYS

Herein the author of TOMBSTONE'S EPITAPH PRESENTS A CONDENSATION OF HIS BOOK. MR. MARTIN, WHO HAS HAD A DISTINGUISHED CAREER IN AMERICAN JOURNALISM, IS NOW HEAD OF THE DEPARTMENT OF JOURNALISM AT THE UNIVERSITY OF ARIZONA. THE FASCINATING STORY OF A LIVELY FRONTIER TOWN AS RECORDED IN THE COLUMNS OF A TRULY GREAT FRONTIER NEWSPAPER IS TOLD IN TOMBSTONE'S EPITAPH. MR. MARTIN FOUND LONG-LOST FILES OF THE EPITAPH FOR THE YEARS 1880, 1881 AND 1882. AUTHENTIC WESTERN HISTORY HAS BEEN THUS DISCOVERED.

This is the story of a famous town and its famous newspaper. Once the town was drenched in sin and silver. Allen Street, its first thoroughfare, was the vortex of the gaudiest, richest and most lawless mining camp in the Southwest. Huge, mule-drawn carts, carrying fortunes in silver ore, rumbled past its saloons and gaming houses all day and all night.

decorated the masthead of a journal that has been not only a truthful recorder but a keeper of the faith through long years of incredible disaster. Without it there would be no Tombstone today. The sign above the door reads, "Tombstone Epitaph." The Epitaph was born on May 1, 1880, in a rude shelter made by covering a wooden framework with canvas. Its first editor was John P. Clum, whose memory is now hon-ored in the Arizona Newspaper Hall of Fame at the state University in Tucson.

Here is an artist's version of the original Epitaph office between 3rd and 4th on Fremont Street and opposite the O.K. Corral.

Scarcely a yard of its deep dust but had been stained with the blood of men who fought with fists, rifles and sixguns, over mining claims, cattle, women, or the colors of a shirt. The town is Tombstone, Arizona. The newspaper occupies an ancient adobe building that was once the town's biggest dance hall. High above the doorway is the Old English lettering, which for 71 years has But to set the first chapter of the story, one must go back three years before The Epitaph was born to a day when Ed. Schieffelin, a roving prospector, left the safety of Fort Huachuca to follow his trade in some black hills above the San Pedro Valley, not too far from the Mexican border. Apaches rode the trails in this land and the last words

Schieffelin heard, as he left the fort, were, "All you'll find will be your tombstone."

Although he found no tombstone he never forgot the rough jest and he lived in riches to laugh at it again and again. What he did find was "Loma de Plata," a hill of silver, with ore so pure it would take the imprint of a half dollar.

News of Schieffelin's great strikes spread and in less than a year men were swarming over the black hills, while, at the foot of the slopes, there sprang up the sheds and tents of a settlement bearing the magic name of "Tombstone."

By 1880 five hundred roofs had been raised in the new camp and two of them sheltered pioneer newspapers: The Nugget and The Epitaph.

The editor of The Epitaph was John P. Clum, a former Indian agent and editor, sold the Tucson Citizen, bought a Washington hand press and moved to the new camp. In less than a year, Clum had been elected mayor and appointed postmaster. These posts and his position as editor made him the most important figure in the fastest growing town in Arizona and it made The Epitaph the organ of the law and order group whose votes elected Clum.

This might have been considered a doubtful blessing in a camp which was dominated by gunmen, rustlers and business men who coveted their quick riches, but The Epitaph thrived.

A battle for supremacy soon began with Clum, The Epitaph and the Earps on one side, and The Nugget, Sheriff Johnny Behan and the leading desperadoes of the day on the other. This lineup of forces has furnished material for fiction writers and historians and for endless controversies.

It is only in the last year that The Epitaph's files containing papers published in 1880 and 1881 have been available. For the previous half century and more it was believed they were destroyed in one of the fires which burned down the town.

The early eighties were the years of Tombstone's richest history and The Epitaph's news stories of those bullet-scarred days may-perhaps-settle some differences of opinion. At least they were written by the working press of the day; editors and reporters who were there when the events took place.

For instance-on Jan. 17, 1881, you might have read the story of Johnny-Behind-the-Deuce when you ate your breakfast in Tombstone. But it would not have been the story men tell today.

The popular tale, which has been told so often it is now accepted as a fact, is that Wyatt Earp, shotgun cradled in his arm, held off a mob of men bent on lynching a cheap gambler who had just committed a murder. The Epitaph story began this way: Again the bloody hand of a murderer has been raised against peaceable citizens; again the law is scoffed at and Justice derided. Yesterday's sun rose bright and cheerful over our neighboring village of Charleston, mellowing the crisp night air with its rays. Once more her toilers began their daily avocations with renewed energy, little dreaming of the damnable deed that, in the glowing light of noonday, was to wait one of their number.

After this lead The Epitaph got down to facts and these were that Marshal Sippy, "cool as a cucumber," and not Marshal Earp-held the crowd in check until "Johnny-Be-hind-the-Deuce" could be hurried off to Tucson.

Another Tombstone legend which The Epitaph corrects is that a "sporting man" once killed a bystander who twitted him about the loud colors of his shirt. The old story is that the sport grew annoyed because so many people asked, "Where did you get that shirt," and vowed, "I'll kill the next s-o-b who laughs at me." Five minutes later, the legend says, a gentleman in quest of a drink walked in, saw the shirt, popped the question and died instantly when the "sporting man" fired a shot straight down his gullet.

But The Epitaph story which people read in Tombstone on July 25, 1880, is quite different. From the files we learn that the sport's partner was the final offender and that he was not killed, being merely knocked senseless. When he recovered he looked up the sport with the loud shirt, asked "Why did you do that?" and fired four shots, three of which ruined the shirt but were good for a one-way ticket to Boot Hill.

The Epitaph also informed its readers of the doings of a lady known as "Diamond Annie." Annie had trouble with her diamonds and a would-be lover. The diamonds were stolen. The lover threatened to kill her. The court put him in jail, commenting that he thought a better plan would be to send him before a lunacy commission. According to The Epitaph, "Pete has become enamored of the fair but frail Annie, and has, it is stated, squandered considerable money on her. His means being exhausted, and he not being cut out for a lover, wrecked his chances, and was the cause, it is stated, of his assault on Annie."

Shortly thereafter, Annie left town, and The Epitaph said, "The presumption is that Pete, who by this time must have come to his senses, will be discharged from custody."

Between such colorful events as these, Tombstone was swept by two disastrous fires, both of which wiped out the business section. The oldest pioneers say they have heard that a barrel of bad whiskey exploded and set off the first blaze.

This story is true. If your home was still standing in Tombstone on the morning of June 23, 1881, you would have read that a "Mr. Alexander," who was part owner of a saloon, rolled out a barrel of liquor which had gone bad, knocked out the bung and put in a measuring rod. He accidentally "let it slip into the same" after which, "his bartender came to the front with a lighted cigar in his mouth, one report says, and another that he lighted a match for some purpose, when the escaping gas caught fire and communicated with the liquor which caused an instantaneous explosion scattering the burning contents in all directions."

"... "In less than three minutes the flames had communicated with the adjoining buildings and spread with a velocity equalled only by a burning prairie in a gale."

The Epitaph carried a list of sixty-six stores, saloons, restaurants and offices which were destroyed and placed the loss at $175,000 with $25,00o insurance.

May 27, 1882, there was a second great fire which was faithfully reported at great length.

"Once again," said The Epitaph in its lead, "has the fiery demon of destruction spread his baleful wings over the fateful town of Tombstone. Yesterday morning the bright sun rose over as happy and prosperous a camp as any on the Pacific coast. Ere the God of Day sank behind the western hills a scene of desolation and destruction met the eye in every direction."

Then, true to the tradition which it has followed to this day, The Epitaph added, "The baleful fates which seem to hover over us have once more thrown a deadly blight on our progress and prosperity. But despite the frowns of Fortune A marker at the O.K. Corral is a memorial to the Earp-Clanton gun battle, which was fought October 28, 1881. Small fry of the town relive the furious battle.

the bonanza city will rise, Phoenix-like, from its ashes."

Just as the records from The Epitaph's pages show that Tombstone's reputation as a tough town was well earned, so do they show that the camp had a happier and finer life than that of its famous Allen Street.

Four churches were organized by 1880 and all contributed to the social as well as the spiritual life of the camp. Socials, bazaars, dances and concerts were held often and were very popular.

Among the fraternal organizations were the Knights of Pythias, Masons, Odd Fellows, Daughters of Rebekah, Turnverein Society and some groups unknown today. Membership in the volunteer fire companies was a mark of distinction for men while women had the Women's Club and the Shakespearian Circle. Nor was the stage forgotten. Dramas were given at Schieffelin Hall, while concert singers, vaudeville and burlesque made their home at the Elite Theater and the Bird Cage.

"Do not forget," says Mrs. J. H. Macia, cultured pioneer, "that we also took pains here on the desert to plant, nurture and grow the largest rose tree in the world."

No story of Tombstone can be written without including ing the deeds and daring of Marshal Wyatt Earp. He lived in the famous camp only a little more than two years, yet if all other men of his time were forgotten he would be remembered. Men still debate him. Some say he was a brave and fearless officer of the law. Others insist he was merely a killer with a badge.

But no one can truthfully deny that Wyatt Earp and his brothers, Virgil and Morgan, broke the power of the element, known as the "Cow Boys," in the famous gun battle at the OK Corral. The finding of the old files of The Epitaph may help clear up some of the disputed points regarding the events which led up to that fight. Certainly The Epitaph's stories give the first clear picture of the vicious clash in which three men died and two were wounded in half a minute. They should also end an argument of almost 70 years standing over whether the Earps were actually "killers with badges" who shot down unarmed men. The Epitaph account points out that between the six-shooters in their belts-which they used bravely-and the rifles hanging from their saddles, there were arms for all four "Cow Boys."

The Earps were freed but they walked with death when they strode the streets of Tombstone and the town knew

that another chapter would be written in gunfire and blood before the story closed. Fate moved rapidly. Less than a month after the court cleared the Earps and Doc Holliday, who fought with them, Virgil Earp was shot from ambush and crippled for life. Three months later, Morgan Earp was killed by a hidden assassin. Wyatt Earp, armed with warrants from the District Court, took the trail and killed three men. His enemy, Johnny Behan, the sheriff of Cochise county, enlisted a posse of desperadoes to hunt him down but Earp crossed into Colorado and surrendered to the governor of that state. He never returned to Arizona and died in California, but he lives in the memory of the Southwest as "The Lion of Tombstone."

Yet after the "Cow Boy Curse" was lifted is almost unbelievable. Yet no one story grips the heart like the account of the twenty-seven year struggle which followed the flooding of the rich silver mines. Water was struck first at the 500 foot level, early in 1881 and The Epitaph hailed the day as one of the greatest in Tombstone's history. But in two years the mines were closed until pumps could be installed, and production dropped from $5,000,000 to $2,500,000. The following year production again dropped fifty per cent. Finally the pump house and hoist of the Grand Central mine burned and a courageous people were not ashamed to stand on Allen Street at the foot of their famous hill and weep. The town collapsed, but it would not die. For twentyfour more years the operators fought it out with the flood; Visitors come from near and far to join the fun and the frolic when Tombstone stages the annual Helldorado.

The thirteen steam boilers on the hill, huge pumps far below on the 600, 800 and 1,000 foot levels, pumped out 6,000,000 gallons of water a day. But the price of silver dropped steadily and in January, 1911, the pumps were shut down, the water rose and hundreds of people drifted away.

The Epitaph remained and its voice, which had never faltered, did not falter now. There would come a day, it said, when the years of high prosperity would return. And with that "faith that sees the ring of hope 'round nature's last eclipse," it still dreams of a great city, set upon a hill.

Newspaper men are supposed to be cold to sentiment. Yet scores of them visit Tombstone every year to pay their respects to The Epitaph. They stand in the old office, look at the roll-top desk, the rusted tin ceiling, the spots where the plaster has fallen off the honest adobe wall, with the look of men who are seeing a shrine. Here, on unpainted wooden These shelves are The Epitaph's bound copies of ancient issues. These are the past. But out in the back room is a cranky old Campbell press and this is the voice of the present and the hope of the future-the living Epitaph of Tombstone.

The Tombstone Epitaph continues to this day a lively journal dedicated to the best interests of Tombstone.