Tucson lay still under a hot noonday sun when we dusted our hocks down the main drag, eyes open for a saloon or a eating house where there’d be shade, something to wet our whistles, and the trail gossip we were eager to hear.

We rode into town with care, for we were all men with enemies.

We rode with our guns loose in the holsters, ready to run or fight, as the case may be; but the street was empty, heavy with heat. The temperature was over a hundred in the shade.

“All this town needs,” John J. Battles said, “is more water and a better class of people.”

“That’s all hell needs,” Spanish Murphy replied, “Let’s get into the shade.”

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