Wyatt Earp Quotes

Fast is fine, but accuracy is final.

You planning on getting in our way again when we take him down? (Justin) Boy, you better take that tone and flush it. I’m not a Squire you’re talking to; I happen to be one of the guys you answer to. It ain’t none of your damned business why I’m going. You just don’t move until I tell you to or I’m going to show you how I once made Wyatt Earp piss his drawers. (Jess)

Fast is fine, but accuracy is everything.

Whatever you worship will consume you, Dong-Sing wrote one week. Bob Wright worships money. Wyatt Earp worships justice. Eddie Foy worships applause. Doc worships home and family, as I do. How will this consume us?

Are you going to do something or just stand there and bleed?

This much is sure: if Kate hadn’t gone back to Doc Holiday on the afternoon of June 10th, 1878, you never would have heard of him. You wouldn’t know the names of Wyatt Earp, or any of his brothers. The Clantons and McLaurys would be utterly forgotten. And Tombstone would be nothing more than an Arizona ghost town with an ironic name. Too late now.

Fast is fine, but accuracy is final. You must learn to be slow in a hurry.

In six years, Hoover circled the globe five times. He lived through the Boxer Rebellion in China, hacked through the jungles of Borneo, rode camels across the red emptiness of Western Australia, rubbed shoulders with Wyatt Earp and Jack London in a Klondike saloon, camped beside the Great Pyramids of Egypt. He had experiences as rich and memorable as any young man has ever enjoyed, and was moved by none of them. In

Whether on the scaffold high, Or in the battle’s van, The fittest place for man to die Is when he dies for man.

Sadie was at his side when the old desire to leave everything behind rose up in him again. “Suppose . . .” he began. “Suppose . . .” Then he moved on, one last time.

Henpecked, the great Wyatt Earp,” Cody said. “You evidently don’t know Jessie,” Wyatt said. “If she’s in one of her tempers she’d put a hyena to flight ...

interesting? And here’s another interesting fact, which I didn’t tell you about earlier because I’ve been saving it: Wyatt Earp was from Pella, the little Iowa town with the windmills. Isn’t that great?

The Peacemaker Colt has now been in production, without change in design, for a century. Buy one to-day and it would be indistinguishable from the one Wyatt Earp wore when he was the Marshal of Dodge City. It is the oldest hand-gun in the world, without question the most famous and, if efficiency in its designated task of maiming and killing be taken as criterion of its worth, then it is also probably the best hand-gun ever made. It is no light thing, it is true, to be wounded by some of the Peacemaker’s more highly esteemed competitors, such as the Luger or Mauser: but the high-velocity, narrow-calibre, steel-cased shell from either of those just goes straight through you, leaving a small neat hole in its wake and spending the bulk of its energy on the distant landscape whereas the large and unjacketed soft-nosed lead bullet from the Colt mushrooms on impact, tearing and smashing bone and muscle and tissue as it goes and expending all its energy on you. In short when a Peacemaker’s bullet hits you in, say, the leg, you don’t curse, step into shelter, roll and light a cigarette one-handed then smartly shoot your assailant between the eyes. When a Peacemaker bullet hits your leg you fall to the ground unconscious, and if it hits the thigh-bone and you are lucky enough to survive the torn arteries and shock, then you will never walk again without crutches because a totally disintegrated femur leaves the surgeon with no option but to cut your leg off. And so I stood absolutely motionless, not breathing, for the Peacemaker Colt that had prompted this unpleasant train of thought was pointed directly at my right thigh. Another thing about the Peacemaker: because of the very heavy and varying trigger pressure required to operate the semi-automatic mechanism, it can be wildly inaccurate unless held in a strong and steady hand. There was no such hope here. The hand that held the Colt, the hand that lay so lightly yet purposefully on the radio-operator’s table, was the steadiest hand I’ve ever seen. It was literally motionless. I could see the hand very clearly. The light in the radio cabin was very dim, the rheostat of the angled table lamp had been turned down until only a faint pool of yellow fell on the scratched metal of the table, cutting the arm off at the cuff, but the hand was very clear. Rock-steady, the gun could have lain no quieter in the marbled hand of a statue. Beyond the pool of light I could half sense, half see the dark outline of a figure leaning back against the bulkhead, head slightly tilted to one side, the white gleam of unwinking eyes under the peak of a hat. My eyes went back to the hand. The angle of the Colt hadn’t varied by a fraction of a degree. Unconsciously, almost, I braced my right leg to meet the impending shock. Defensively, this was a very good move, about as useful as holding up a sheet of newspaper in front of me. I wished to God that Colonel Sam Colt had gone in for inventing something else, something useful, like safety-pins.

Wyatt Earp had been born, and born again, and now there would be a third life, for the iron fist that had seized his soul in childhood had lost its grip at last. The long struggle for control was over, and in its place, he found a wordless acceptance of a truth he'd always known. He was bred to this anger. It had been in him since the cradle. He'd never bullied neighbors or beaten a horse. He'd never punched the front teeth out of a six-year-old's mouth or hit a woman until she begged. But he was no better than his father, and never had been. He was far, far worse.

hope you know how much he appreciates your care,” Alex told the Earps. “For I was sick, and you came to me,” Wyatt said. “Nah,” Morgan said. “It was selfishness.” Wyatt and Alex were both surprised, but Morgan just shrugged. “Doc doesn’t have any brothers,” he told Alex. “So we took him for our own.

In 1897, still in his early twenties, Hoover was hired by a large and venerable British mining company, Bewick, Moreing and Co., and for the next decade travelled the world ceaselessly as its chief engineer and troubleshooter – to Burma, China, Australia, India, Egypt and wherever else its mineralogical interests demanded. In six years, Hoover circled the globe five times. He lived through the Boxer Rebellion in China, hacked through the jungles of Borneo, rode camels across the red emptiness of Western Australia, rubbed shoulders with Wyatt Earp and Jack London in a Klondike saloon, camped beside the Great Pyramids of Egypt.

It was a quiet day in Tombstone.

The less you bet, the more you lose when you win.

Wyatt Earp had been born, and born again, and now there would be a third life, for the iron fist that had seized his soul in childhood had lost its grip at last. The long struggle for control was over, and in its place, he found a wordless acceptance of a truth he’d always known. He was bred to this anger. It had been in him since the cradle. He’d never bullied neighbors or beaten a horse. He’d never punched the front teeth out of a seven-year-old’s mouth or hit a woman until she begged. But he was no better than his father, and never had been. He was far, far worse.

As Americans embraced Wild West mythology by ignoring inconvenient facts and exaggerating or inventing more palatable ones, they also altered the meaning of a traditionally negative term. In Wyatt’s real West, anyone referred to as a cowboy was most likely a criminal. But in movies the word was used first to describe hardworking ranch hands and then, generically, those who rode horses, toted six-guns, and, when necessary (and it always became necessary) fought to uphold justice at the risk of their own lives. Cowboys were heroes, and their enemies were outlaws. So far as his growing legion of fans was concerned, Wyatt Earp was a cowboy in the new, best sense of the word. B

Having been established by George Washington under the direction of the first Attorney General, the U.S. Marshals Service was filled with notable characters of the past such as the Earp Brothers—Wyatt, Morgan, and Virgil.  Others included Bat Masterson and Wild Bill Hickok, along with Bass Reeves who was the first black man to hold this prestigious position.

It came to Morgan that Nicholas must have been a beaten boy, too, and that meant Grampa Earp was, as well. Which was no surprise, really, when Morg thought about that mean old man. How many sons were in that chain? Morgan wondered, and grief gave way to the pride he’d felt the day his brother Wyatt stood up to his first bully and put an end to a chain of vengeful, frightened, beaten boys.

In the dark pre-dawn quiet he lay facing the window by his bed and stared at the stars hanging in the western sky. They floated over the land like the dust of jewels strewn across black water. These stars had become the milestones that marked his coming passage, and he gazed at them this one last time for the sake of preserving a memory, he supposed. One last view through the windowglass of his youth.

There was no solace in the openness of the land, just as there was no healing in the isolation he sought in the barren plain of winter-killed grasses. The prairie seemed nothing more than an extension of the boundless emptiness that had opened inside him. Neither his mount nor his packhorse seemed a companion—but victims of his own aimlessness. The voiceless plain only provided a silent space for his demons to follow and murmur in his ear. Rilla’s bloodied body shadowed him as vividly as if dragged behind his horse on a travois, scraping a scar across the dry land. The child was not real. There were no memories attached to a nameless son to haunt him, save the mental picture of that inanimate thing tucked against its dead mother’s ribs. The child had seemed more an extension of Rilla’s suffering, giving her death a measurable size and shape. Mother and son comprised a common image rendered in scarlet, and the image had been painted on a permanent altar inside Wyatt’s mind.

Norton I isn’t the only person buried in Colma, California—also buried there are Joe DiMaggio, William Randolph Hearst, Wyatt Earp, and Levi Strauss. The town, founded in 1924 (Norton’s remains were moved there in 1934), was designed to be a necropolis; it is made up mostly of cemeteries or land designated as future cemeteries. The residents of the town take their role in life (and death) with humor. In 2006, the mayor of Colma told the New York Times that the city “has 1,500 above-ground residents and 1.5 million underground,” while the town’s official website motto is, “It’s Great to Be Alive in Colma.

In March 1872, he turned 24. He was already a widower, and a fellow who had had repeated brushes with the law. He had no home and no real prospects, and, writes Sherry Monahan, he apparently continued his downward spiral into the depths of depravity. Wyatt was a lonely man touched by tragedy who was reluctant or unable to make friends and to let anyone get close to him. It would have been very easy for him to fall in with the wrong crowd and repeat the ill-advised horse stealing escapade, or worse. Instead, Wyatt went to Wichita and found redemption.

Already, rumors had reached a fever pitch, that ruthless men including Dirty Sock Jack, Cold Chuck Johnny, Black Jack Bill, Dynamite Sam, Rowdy Joe, and Shotgun Collins had flocked to Dodge City when Bat and Wyatt had sent out a call to arms.

When the hunters, many of them retaining the foul odors and wretched stains of their gory work, were in town, they wanted whiskey and women. Good manners would only result in them having to wait longer for both.

In the end, Wyatt Earp and his brothers will be forever remembered as the mythical gunfighters who took on the Cowboys at the O.K. Corral. But in 1900, a journalist who knew them well provided their finest and most accurate epitaph. “The Earp boys always had a reputation for absolute fearlessness and a worse reputation that they do not deserve. They were not rustlers. They were sports, it is true, every one of them. They played high, rode hard, and shot quick, but they were open-hearted, generous and would go to the limit for a friend. Either for trailing Apaches, horse and cattle thieves, or stage robbers, they outstripped any posse. They were simply ‘men with the bark on.’” Rightly or wrongly, we will never see their like again.

What's the best way to kill somebody"?

But not here,” she added. “Let’s take a walk around the block.” Myron nodded and they rose. Before they reached the door, his cell phone rang. Myron snatched it up with a speed that would have made Wyatt Earp step back. He put the phone to his ear and cleared his throat. “MB SportsReps,” he said, silky-smooth, professional-like. “This is Myron Bolitar speaking.” “Nice phone voice,” Esperanza said. “You sound like Billy Dee ordering two Colt 45s.” Esperanza Diaz was his longtime assistant and now sports-agent partner at MB SportsReps (M for Myron, the B for Bolitar—for those keeping score). “I was hoping you were Lamar,” he said. “He hasn’t called yet?” “Nope.” He could almost see Esperanza frown. “We’re in deep doo-doo here,” she said. “We’re not in deep doo-doo. We’re just sucking a little wind, that’s all.” “Sucking a little wind,” Esperanza repeated. “Like Pavarotti running the Boston Marathon.” “Good one,” Myron said. “Thanks.” Lamar Richardson was a power-hitting Golden Glove shortstop who’d just become a free agent—“free agent” being a phrase agents whisper in the same way a mufti might whisper “Praise Allah.” Lamar was shopping for new representation and had whittled his final list down to three agencies: two supersized conglomerates with enough office space to house a Price Club and the aforementioned pimple-on-the-buttocks but oh-so-personal MB SportsReps. Go, pimple-butt! Myron watched his mother standing by the door. He switched ears and said, “Anything else?” “You’ll never guess who called,” Esperanza said. “Elle and Claudia demanding another ménage à trois?” “Oooo, close.” She

Wyatt didn’t necessarily aim to be a saint in Dodge City, but being less of a sinner could be a more satisfying life. There

I can still aim and fire a pastry gun of filling into a deviled egg straighter and faster than Wyatt Earp ever shot his .45.

Tom Mix was born in Pennsylvania, and when he was ten years old his parents took him to see Buffalo Bill Cody’s Wild West. It changed young Tom forever. He took his mother’s clothesline and taught himself rope tricks. He took scraps from around the house and made his own “cowboy outfit.” And when he was finally old enough, he lit out for the rapidly vanishing West, ready to leave a mark as distinctive as Buffalo Bill or Wyatt Earp before it was gone forever.

Wyatt Earp: Fast is fine, but accuracy is final. In a gunfight you must learn to be slow in a hurry.

As far as Wyatt Earp knew, it was not illegal to beat a horse. In the past few years, he’d worked as a part-time policeman in a string of Kansas cow towns. Each time he was sworn in, he made an effort to study the ordinances he was supposed to enforce, but he wasn’t much of a reader. In Ellsworth, he asked a lawyer for some help. “Wyatt,” the man told him, “the entire criminal code of the State of Kansas boils down to four words. Don’t kill the customers.

It was the rare actor who brought authenticity to the screen; one exception was Tom Mix, a former ranch hand from Oklahoma. The “King of the Cowboys,” Mix made over 160 films and was a frequent visitor when Wyatt and Josephine were in Los Angeles, sometimes accompanying Wyatt to the racetrack. William S. Hart was another Earp acolyte. Where Tom Mix was a rough-and-ready showman, Hart was classically trained, as comfortable in a Shakespearean tragedy as he was in a Western.

Jim, remember the movie Tombstone? Remember what Doc Holliday says to Wyatt Earp when Doc is dying. You and I saw that movie together, remember? Doc says to Wyatt: ‘There’s no such thing as normal life, Wyatt. There’s just life.

My mom worked as a hairdresser at the Village Mall in Horsham Township when I was a little kid. There was a movie theater in the mall that showed second-run features, and I have clear memories of being around five years old and walking through the mall by myself to go watch Star Wars. I believe I saw it in that theater twenty-one times. The research definitely began then. Actually, it began even earlier. Before I was born, my father conspired with my uncle to name me Wyatt, after Wyatt Earp. There was an election held by putting names into a hat, and whatever name was drawn would be the winner. Uncle Billy distracted the people in attendance while my dad rigged the hat so that every name inside read Wyatt. My mom was horrified at the result, but eventually uncovered their ruse. The research was really just me referring to things I already knew from the life I’ve lived. You either hear the music of the open range and a man with two six-shooters or you don’t. You either look out at the stars and wonder what lies beyond them or…I don’t know what you are…someone who loves Nicholas Sparks books.