Teller W. H. Sheppard of the First National Bank had ambled through Kloehr’s barn and paddock to collect the money sack, and he tilted back to the bank counter with it, escorted by three men. Women carried blankets out of Boswell’s store and spread them over Lucius Baldwin, George Cubine, Charles Brown. Children ran everywhere, dogs hopping up at them and nipping at their ankles. Some boys stood in the front of the Condon bank counting over three hundred bullet holes in the plate glass windows.

Aleck McKenna knelt by Grat and peeled the whiskers off his face. He stood and slapped his hands clean. “That’s Grat Dalton all right.”

Grat’s .38-.56 caliber Winchester was taken by Dr. W. C. Hall as a souvenir.

Carey Seaman had wiped his shotgun down with a handkerchief and bragged about himself to all the men. He straddled me and stuffed the handkerchief in his shirt pocket. “I thought I’d introduce myself. Name’s Carey Seaman. I’m the one who shot ya.”

I said, “You’re going to be famous, Mr. Seaman.”

“Yes. I believe I am.”

An ugly man in a derby hat had carried a rope out of a barn and he squatted near me tying a noose and spitting through his teeth in my direction. I could hear a lot of talk about lynching. It didn’t faze me one way or the other. Colonel David Stewart Elliott, editor of the Coffeyville Journal, walked up the alley with Tom Callahan, sheriff of Montgomery County, who was to take custody of the outlaws. Some men lifted Grat’s body to a sit and Colonel Elliott agreed about who it was. Callahan recognized Powers as Tim Evans but most of the newspapers put down Tom Hedde and spelled my brother’s name Grot. Elliott strolled over to where the men were bunched and heard the talk about hanging me off a rope and he declaimed it like a stage actor. “We won’t disgrace our community by lynching a dying man!”

A boy sat cross-legged near my head, fanning me with the Police Gazette; then Elliott stood tall over me in his long cloak. “Emmett Dalton,” he said sadly. “How many years has it been, and who would have thought it would come to this?”

“Take my guns from me, Colonel.”

He took the pearl-handled pistol out of my shoulder holster and then the pistol shoved in my pants, and they bulked in the right pocket of his cloak when he turned to someone responsible and shouted, “How long must this boy remain here without proper medical attention? I want him removed and cared for at once.”