1870, Philadelphia, USA.
Martha Whitcomb, the wild child of Philadelphia society, is now a grown woman, independent in wealth and in personality. At twenty-three, still unmarried and childless, she is exposed to constant rumors and ridicule, crushed...
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In the weeks that followed the events of August 19th, Tucson descended into chaos that stretched the dozens of miles up to Paradise Reach. A good deal of squawking, Benjamin had predicted, and though he had been entirely correct, he had also understated the situation so comically that he may as well have described a tornado as 'a good deal of wind'.
It was to be expected, of course—a gang of murderous ruffians, led by the son of one of Arizona's richest men, had attacked a pregnant woman only to find themselves caught in a wild shoot-out, an event which culminated in a federal prosecutor gunning down a county sheriff in a crowded saloon.
It was ironic—on its face, at least—that Governor Kipling was content to bury his head in the sand for all this time where the Cutlers were concerned, only to order an inquest into the events of August 19th, which were so clearly justified. In reality, however, it was as simple as Kipling's confidence that nothing would come of such an investigation. If he believed Martha may have acted improperly, he would be shielding her just as he had the Cutlers, and she assumed he would be shielding Benjamin as well. It was nothing but politics—he displayed his commitment to law and order by calling for the inquest, the inquest would come to nothing, and all involved came out better off.
And thus, Yavapai County Coroner Chas Gregory had traveled the hundred miles from Phoenix to Paradise for the second time in as many months, accompanied by yet another panel of jurors. Martha, Rick, and Clem had all been put in the interesting position of their bedrooms becoming courtrooms in miniature—within days of giving birth, Martha had sat in her bed, Coroner Gregory at her side and his jurors seated behind him in chairs they had brought up from the saloon. After questioning the Dragonfly witnesses, these Yavapai County men had traveled down to Tucson to speak to those present at Gold Dust.
Their inquiry had lasted the better part of a week, conducting itself more like a trial than a simple fact-finding mission, diving so deeply into the matter that when reading the transcripts that followed, one had the sense of being present at the shoot-outs.
The result of such a thorough inquest, however, could never be described as nothing:
As the news spread, loaded with the incendiary black powder of scandalous details, residents from nearby towns flocked to Paradise. They wished to see the Dragonfly for themselves, wished to see the carnage-soaked floorboards and the shot-up bar and back wall, and wished to meet anyone who had been named in those transcripts. A good number of Tucsonians wished to dine where Bad Mouth Young had finally met his maker, to play cards where Frank had finally slunk into oblivion, to toast to the miserable end of those wastes of skin from bottles of whiskey that had sat on the shelves as the violence played out.
In Benjamin's view, this fascination was nothing short of macabre, but Martha was ever the practical businesswoman. Show them the bar, she insisted. Demand a quarter to gain entry, a dollar if they wish to dine, and charge double if they wish to drink from the surviving bottles of whiskey. Answer whatever questions they wish to hear, and sell it.
