His hands, held close to his chest, are formed into fists, in which he clutches lumps of grass, as if he’s trying to hang on to the world. But Whyte Earp has run out of time. Whenever I recall his death, it’s this I remember most. Winter now, the birds hungry in the bare sceach that line the long boreen. A dull mist is everywhere. I walk on. He isn’t the real Whyte Earp of course. We call him that...
