PART II

WYATT EARP LIMITED

Half a dozen persons who saw the four men on their journey down Fremont Street have described them. The recollections agree strikingly in detail. No more grimly portentous spectacle had been witnessed in Tombstone. The three stalwart, six-foot Earps—each with the square jaw of his clan set hard beneath his flowing, tawny mustache and his keen blue eyes alert under the wide brim of a high-peaked, black Stetson—bore out their striking resemblance, even in their attire; dark trousers drawn outside the legs of black, high-heeled boots, long skirted, square-cut, black coats then in frontier fashion, and white, soft-collared shirts with black string ties to accentuate the purpose in their lean, bronzed faces. Doc Holliday was some two inches shorter than his three companions, but his stature was heightened by cadaverousness, the flapping black overcoat and the black sombrero above his hollow cheeks. Holliday’s blond mustache was as long and as sweeping as any, but below it those who saw him have sworn Doc had his lips pursed, whistling softly. As the distance to the O.K. Corral lessened, the four men spread their ranks as they walked.

—from Wyatt Earp: Frontier Marshal
by Stuart N. Lake