Epitaph by Mary Doria Russell Page A

after us,” Mr. Clanton said, “we just drive the stock deeper into the mountains and wait ’em out.”
    Soon as it was safe, the Cow Boys pushed the herds into grassy valleys like Sulphur Springs, where small ranchers like the McLaurys were perfectly positioned to act as middlemen. “Turn a steer into a steak, nobody asks where it came from,” Old Man Clanton said, by way of summary. “You graze the cattle till they put on some weight. Then you drive ’em into Tombstone or sell ’em to the army. We split the cash. You get twenty percent.”
    â€œI don’t know,” Tommy said doubtfully. “Can we think about it?”
    Mr. Clanton’s eyes went small, and he had his big horny hand around Tom’s windpipe, fast as a rattlesnake strike. “I wasn’t askin’ you a question,” he pointed out. “I was tellin’ you how this works, peckerhead.”
    Tommy was ready to pack up and head back to Iowa the moment Clanton left. Frank was shook, too, but couldn’t see turning and running. Besides, they’d put every penny they had into this land—you couldn’t just walk away from an investment like that.
    So Frank asked around to see how their other neighbors handled Clanton. If you cooperate, folks told him, you can be sure your own livestock won’t disappear in the night. And sometimes the Cow Boys would let you keep a few head of cattle for yourself—like a tip, sort of. Or let’s say you needed help building a barn or something. The Cow Boys might lend a hand if they were nearby. The money was good, too.
    â€œI look at it this way,” one man told Frank. “Break the law, and you might have trouble. Cross Old Man Clanton, and he will come downon you. The sheriff’s office is way up in Tucson, son. The Clantons live next door.”
    That settled it for Frank, and he had no regrets. Old Man Clanton’s Cow Boys didn’t stay at the McLaury spread long, but they always seemed nice enough, and Frank admired their style. They wore doeskin trousers tucked into tall boots with fancy designs on the shanks, and he liked the look of their big Mexican sombreros, which were sensible because the sun was so fierce down here. They wore fancy silk neckerchiefs and brightly colored shirts, and nobody joshed them , by God. The Cow Boys got respect.
    Tommy being Tommy, he tried not to have much to do with any of them, but even he liked Curly Bill Brocius. Curly Bill was personable and lively and always seemed to have a joke going in his eyes. He could generally keep the rest of the boys in line and when they went on a spree, he made sure they just shot up little places like Galeyville or Charleston.
    Course, Johnny Ringo was different.
    But he was only trouble when he drank.

KNOW WHEN SPEECH IS PROPER AND WHEN SILENCE

    I T WAS CLOSE TO SUNSET AND SUPPER WAS NEARLY ready when Tom McLaury looked out the window over the stove and saw eight armed men approaching on horseback.
    An army officer. Four troopers. Three civilians.
    â€œOh, Lord,” he whispered. “I knew this would be trouble.”
    He moved the stewpot off to the edge of the stove top, wiped his hands on his shirt, and went outside to warn Frank with a shrill whistle that they had visitors. Frank straightened and put a hand to his forehead to shade his eyes. When he saw who was coming, he tossed the straight iron behind a shed, let the last mule up, and started toward the house, mad as hell.
    â€œGoddammit! I know our rights!” he hollered. “They can’t come on our property—”
    â€œLet me handle it!” Tommy yelled back.
    Frank planted his feet and glared but did as he was told for once. Tommy was better at keeping his temper, and this might get ticklish.
    A FEW HUNDRED YARDS AWAY, Virgil Earp watched a figure dog-trotting down a line of wagon ruts toward the fenceless gate that sketched the McLaury property line. Short. Slight. Head