A wayward shot damaged one of the horses hitched to the Consolidated oil wagon and the team went crazy. They broke loose from the icehouse tie-up and stampeded down the alley with the wagon swinging and skidding and banging off the outbuildings. Grat brought up his pistol and put a shot into the white star on the face of the injured horse. It stumbled dead and the other horse tripped to its knees. It tried to get back on its legs again but a shank bone was broken and jagged under its hide. The horse fell down and got up on two legs and quivered.

I think Bob had ducked next to the icehouse when the horses panicked. I couldn’t see him. Grat backed to our horses, shooting east, and Bill Powers stood next to me with his boots spread wide and his pistol lifted up, his left arm useless beside him. He fired everything in the revolver and shoved it in his coat pocket and yanked another revolver out of his shoulder holster. He told me not to wait too long on Bob and then took off for the horses.

Carey Seaman unroped the gate of the Long-Bell lumberyard and walked under sycamore trees through high wet grass with his shotgun in two hands. There were stacks of joists and planks and tongue-and-groove and two-bys. A board shrieked off a pile next to the alley and he saw a man’s shadow stutter over a pallet in the grass. Then the man he knew as Texas Jack Moore was cramped over in the alley, untying his horse’s reins from the pipe. Broadwell grasped the saddle horn and fitted a stirrup over his boot with considerable pain and pulled up onto the saddle with his horse already running. Seaman fired a shot that sprayed gravel; Broadwell kicked his horse hard three times and was yanking it north onto Maple Street when Seaman fired again. Broadwell was slammed forward into the pommel like he’d been hit in the back with a hay rake. He jounced almost off the saddle while getting away and he clung there losing blood until the horse threw him a half mile west on Eighth Street, just out of the city limits. Broadwell dropped from the saddle and broke his ankle in the stirrup and dragged and bounced twenty feet before he’d tangled his horse enough to stop it. His skin was scraped and his coat and shirt were bunched up next to his throat when a posse found him dead.