Chris Madsen shot down Ol Yountis at his shack in Orlando following a robbery at Spearville. After the Doolin gang robbed a Rock Island train at Dover, Bitter Creek Newcomb and Charlie Pierce hid in a pasture of rotted, barkless trees on the farm of Newcomb’s brothers-in-law, the rustlers Bill, Dal, and John Dunn. But the brothers decided to cash in on the amnesty and money reward promised by a local marshal, and they drove a wagon to his office the next morning with the two bodies so shot up there were shotgun pellets imbedded in Pierce’s and Newcomb’s stocking feet.

And Bill Doolin was walking into a cornfield when Heck Thomas and a posse stood up in a ravine and Bee Dunn let go with a double-barreled twelve-gauge. Doolin broke through four rows of cornstalks keeling away from the posse, and then his dead body collapsed. They stripped Doolin’s shirt off and sat him in a rocking chair and took photographs of him staring at the ceiling. The buckshot looked like pennies on his chest.

I would read what the newspapers said about my brother Bill and I wouldn’t recognize him. He was shabby and filthy and he drank too much, and he might’ve been a little bit crazy. By April of 1894, my brother Bill had an accomplice-to-murder charge in addition to a previous warrant for the death of a deputy sheriff. Then, with his gang of three cowboys, my brother robbed the First National Bank in Longview, Texas. The take was barely two thousand dollars in ten and twenty dollar bills and slain were the city marshal and two businessmen.

Bill Dalton escaped to Ardmore, Oklahoma, where his wife Jenny and the two children were renting the upstairs room of a farmhouse that nine mustached men in dark suits and vests surrounded on the morning of June 8th. Grasshoppers leeched to the possemen’s pants legs and jumped off. The sun was already hot in a blue sky. Deputy Marshal Lindsay peered through a screen at the front stoop to see a girl in a leg-brace seated on a catalogue at the kitchen table, dunking sugared bread into milk. Then Bill was there with his hair mussed and his shirttails sloppy in his pants, putting a bowl in front of his daughter Grace and cutting up the poached egg in it. The girl leaned to look at the deputy marshal; then Bill looked that way too.