I read in one of the newspapers today that the marshal died. He was almost eighty years old and living out in California. His real name was Wyatt Earp, and he’d been a Deputy U.S. Marshal who’d run into trouble in a place called Tombstone, some years before he came to Lewes looking for Jimmy. According to the newspaper, he died in his sleep with his wife there beside him. If that’s so, I’m glad for him, and also that he didn’t have to read the newspaper’s story. It churned up all the stuff about him from the old days. I don’t know what’s true about all that. I don’t think newspapers care much. But it was peculiar wondering about him again.
I hadn’t dwelt on those things for years. After a while, I wasn’t upset or angry anymore, not like when it happened. Mostly, I just didn’t think about
