"Ecce homo," said German Freddie with a smile. "That is your man, I believe."
"That's him," Brocius agreed. "That's Virgil Earp, the lawman."
"Why do you suppose he wants?" asked Freddie.
"He's got a warrant for someone," said Brocius, "or he wouldn't be here."
Freddie gazed without enthusiasm at the lawman walking along the opposite side of Allen Street in Tombstone. His spurred boots clumped on the wooden sidewalk. He looked as if he had somewhere to go.
"Entities should not be multiplied beyond what is necessary," said Freddie, "or so Occam is understood to have said. If he is here for one of us, then so much the worse for him. If not, what does it matter to us?"
Curly Bill Brocius looked thoughtful. "I don't know about this Occam fellow, but as my Mamma would say, those fellers don't chew their own tobacco. Kansas lawmen come at you in packs."
"So do we," said Freddie. "And this is not Kansas."
"No," said Brocius. "It's Tombstone." He gave Freddie a warning look from his lazy eyes. "Remember that, my friend," he said, "and watch your back."
Brocius drifted up Allen Street in the direction of Hafford's Saloon while Freddie contemplated Deputy U.S. Marshal Earp. The man was dressed like the parson of a particularly gloomy Protestant sect, with a black flat-crowned hat, black frock coat, black trousers, and immaculate white linen.
German Freddie decided he might as well meet this paradigm.
)
