Telegraph Days by Larry McMurtry

right—you can stand there till you petrify,” I told him. “I’m going to Dodge City and I’m leaving now—you’ll have to settle on a mount and catch up as best you can.”
    I guess I was now considered a solid citizen of Rita Blanca, because half the population turned out to see me off. Mrs. Karoo had prepared a little hamper, which we strapped in my saddlebags; even the McClendon sisters seemed to have softened a little.
    â€œYou hurry back, Miss Courtright,” Melba McClendon said. “We can’t afford to be without our telegraph lady too long.”
    â€œCan’t afford it—we need to keep up on the whereabouts of Buffalo Bill Cody,” Bertha McClendon assured me.
    Both hens cackled, as if seconding the motion.
    As I was about to ride off Aurel Imlah made a motion with his head, as if he wanted a private word with me, so I trotted over. Aurel was still smoking his long-stemmed white pipe.
    â€œMiss Courtright …,” he began, but I stopped him.
    â€œPlease remember to call me Nellie, Aurel,” I told him. “I do get so tired of gentlemen being formal.”
    Aurel Imlah smiled. I don’t think he liked being formal either.
    â€œThere’s a bunch of brothers up in Dodge City,” he cautioned. “Their name is Earp. One of them’s the marshal. His name is Wyatt. I don’t know exactly how many Earps there are, but there may be at least five. I’d avoid them, if I were you—especially Wyatt.”
    â€œI was in Dodge City once and didn’t like it,” I told him. “I’ll be happy to avoid them if I can.”
    â€œThat’s the best plan, I suspect,” he said.
    â€œWhat’s bad about the Earps?” I asked. He had got my curiosity aroused.
    â€œThey’re coarse—particularly Wyatt,” he said. “Damn coarse.”
    â€œCoarse, is he?” I said. “Coarse.”
    Aurel Imlah nodded and I rode out of town.

4
    T HE TRAIL TO Dodge City was not hard to follow—thousands and thousands of horsemen, both red and white, had loped or trotted across it; there had been hundreds of wagons too, bound west for Santa Fe or east to St. Louis. The thick, restless prairie grass might have covered up the tracks of the many horsemen, but the wagon wheels cut deeper, and there were enough ruts to keep even a greenhorn more or less on track.
    I was hardly out of sight of Rita Blanca when Jackson caught up with me. He had chosen the little mustang after all—a good choice, in my opinion, despite the little gelding’s squatty appearance.
    â€œI favor short horses,” Jackson said. “That way, if you get thrown off, you don’t have far to fall.”
    I noticed that Jackson not only had his new pistol, he also seemed to hold nearly a whole box of shells. He also had a big knife stuck in a scabbard that went halfway down his leg. My little brother, the hero of the battle of Rita Blanca, had turned up armed to the teeth.
    No wonder he had taken so long to choose a mount. He wanted to choose a few other things, while he was at it.
    â€œWho paid for that cartridge belt and that pig sticker?” I asked.
    â€œCharged them,” Jackson said. “I’m a deputy now. I make fifteen dollars a month.”
    Far ahead of us, on the plain, a thunderstorm was rumbling up. Lightning was shooting out from under some high dark clouds.
    â€œI’m surprised you didn’t buy a Winchester and maybe a buffalo gun,” I told him. “How many months’ wages did all this set you back?”
    Before Jackson could get around to answering, the thunderstorm broke and spitting rain drenched us both. I could have been no wetterif a bucket of water had been poured over my head. But the little prairie storm soon passed on and the hot sun soon had us steaming again.
    A beautiful double rainbow was the nicest consequence of the shower.
    â€œI have to use weapons,”