Women and children walked through the alley now and men were yanking the boots off Grat and Bob and some teen-aged girls walked from outlaw to outlaw cutting snips of hair with a scissors. Squire Davis got Bob’s hat; Peter Sprague got the oil can from his pocket; T. C. Babb unbuckled his cartridge belt and gave it to C. M. Ball; Perry Landers removed the pair of gentleman’s gloves from Bob’s black suit coat; Hiram Smith got his five-point spurs. His trouser pockets were turned wrong side out and when the gawkers came his spent brass cartridges sold for a dollar apiece. A woman crouched with pinking shears and cut a swatch from his bloody left trouser leg. Don’t know what she did with it.

There must’ve been two dozen people bunched around me by then, spitting, kicking cinders at me, saying how puny I looked. I couldn’t see but two or three pieces of blue sky. Then my bedroll was unstrapped from my saddle and they hefted me onto it and over to an upstairs room and a long bare table in Slosson’s until Dr. W. H. Wells could come over from the alley behind the First National Bank where Lucius Baldwin was dying. They spared me nothing in the carrying. It took the bite of my jaw not to scream. A sheriff’s deputy stood on the second floor landing of the outside wooden stairway and four sheriff’s men sat on chairs inside the upstairs room with rifles on their knees. I said, “I used to be an assistant deputy marshal. I bet you didn’t know that.”

The men just stared at me. One of them tore off a strip of loose wallpaper and chewed it, looking at me. “I heard that a long time ago. You ought to be ashamed of yourself.”

I guess Miss Moore rode out of the cemetery. I guess she wasn’t seen. I don’t know where she went.

I was sinking into sleep and staring out the rear window at over a hundred men and women inching past blood spots in that narrow alley like people at a backyard furniture sale.

I was too near dying then to hurt much for my brothers. I wanted Bob alive and standing next to me and whispering instructions, but that was as close to grief as I got, and I didn’t flinch at all when I saw the sheriff’s men handcuff Bob and Grat and stand the bodies together on their stocking feet so Tackett could take a picture. Cyrus Lee lifted one of Grat’s arms up and blood gushed out the hole in his throat, spraying Lee on the shirt front. Somebody whooped with laughter and it became sport that morning for boys to jerk Grat’s arm up and dodge the blood that came squirting out like tobacco spit.