Free Epitaph by Mary Doria Russell Page B

ran with rustlers, but he was an ex–Texas Ranger, playing both ends against the middle. That would likely get him killed one day, but in the meantime, Sherm made a tidy income selling information to lawmen.
    â€œOld Man Clanton’s youngest boy stole ’em,” Morgan said. “The mules are in Sulphur Springs Valley now. Prolly at the McLaury place.”
    â€œAll right, we’ll try there first. Go home and get your gear,” Virg told his brothers. Then he called, “Hurst! We leave in twenty minutes.”

HOT THY LOVE, HOT THY HATE

    T HE CANTEEN’S FULL,” ALLIE TOLD VIRGIL AS HE packed. “There’s apples, and I made roast beef sandwiches for you and the boys.”
    Wyatt was almost thirty-three and Morg was twenty-nine. Both of them were a good deal older than Alvira Sullivan, but they were still “the boys” to her because that’s what Virg always called them.
    â€œThanks, Pickle,” Virgil said. “Nice of you to think of them.”
    â€œAnd if I don’t, who will, I’d like to know!”
    Morgan was batching it while his girl, Louisa, was off visiting relatives. Lou was a honey, but Wyatt’s woman . . . Well, Allie felt sorry for Mattie Blaylock but had no illusions about her. Mattie was slovenly and down at the mouth most of the time, and hell would freeze before she lifted a finger for the man who put a roof over her head.
    In the beginning, Allie had blamed Wyatt for Mattie’s cheerlessness, for his silence seemed cold and mean.
    â€œWhy don’t Wyatt ever say nothing?” Allie asked Virgil one time.
    â€œWell, now, Pickle, I’ll tell you,” Virg had said. “Wyatt’s steady in a fight and he’s got a real way with horses, but he can’t hardly read and he’s ignorant. He’s afraid if he talks, people will find out.”
    Allie wasn’t much for books herself. “Lots of folks can’t read. Don’t stop ’em from talking!”
    â€œYeah, well, maybe it oughta,” Virg said, laughing when Allie laid into him with small fists and not entirely comic ferocity.
    Wyatt was all right, Allie had decided after she got to know him. And Morgan was as sweet as men come. She liked the boys’ older brother James, too, but Alvira Sullivan was sure of one thing. She got the pick of the Earp litter.
    Virgil was fitting a box of cartridges into his saddlebag.
    â€œDon’t mash them sandwiches,” she warned. “How long’ll you be?”
    â€œWe’re pretty sure we know where the mules are. Day or two, if everything goes right.”
    He finished buckling the flap and looked up. Allie was bustling around their little house. Clearing dishes off the table, wrestling bolts of tent canvas into neater stacks, wiping cotton fluff off her sewing machine. She always got extra busy when he had to ride out like this.
    Pickle, he called her, because that’s what she was eating when he first laid eyes on her, up in Iowa. He was driving freight. She was a waitress at a stage stop. Not much bigger than the gherkin she downed in two bites, but damn if she didn’t hoist a heavy tray right up onto her shoulder, carrying half her weight in crockery to the kitchen. He caught her eye and he could tell she liked the looks of him, so he struck up a conversation and learned pretty quick that she was an orphan. Father gone. Mother dead. Sisters and brothers scattered. Sharp-tongued and independent, Allie had shifted for herself since she was twelve. He respected her before he loved her, and he loved her before he finished his lunch that first day.
    â€œHow’d I get to be so damn lucky?” he asked now, voice low and soft.
    She came to him, and he bent almost in half to receive her wiry arms around his neck. When he straightened up, she shrieked a laugh as he lifted her off her feet. “Maybe I’ll just stick you in my saddlebag and take you along!” Virg