the saloon is packed. track along the bar at floor level past a wild array of high-button shoes, patent leather pumps, and stack-heeled boots with jingling silver spurs. track again at shoulder level past an equally wild array of slouch hats, pork-pies, derbys, and wide-brim sombreros. wyatt sits against the wall, dealing faro with doc at his side, morgan on lookout while a sweaty overdressed high roller makes bets, gnashing his teeth and drumming his fingers n a fever of impatient greed:
a break in the game. wyatt studies the deeds as morgan and doc look on. kate sits to one side, blowing smoke rings contentedly.
dark circles under his eyes, looking dreadful, doc is at the corner table with virgil, behan, ike clanton, and the mclaurys. josephine lounges by the piano, luscious in a white gown, singing "frankie and johnny" in a torchy voice. wyatt enters, blanching at the sight of josephine. joyce appears at his elbow:
a booming sound echoes outside, muffled by wind. morgan looks up:
morgan is by himself in the empty saloon, calmly shooting pool, his dog jumping enthusiastically at every shot as wyatt enters.