"This is Curly Bill."
Young Breckenbridge smiled as usual and stretched forth his right
hand. But the eyes of Curly Bill were narrow and his hand came out
slowly. There was that in his whole manner which said he was on guard,
watching every movement of the deputy.
And for this there was good reason. It was not long since Curly Bill
had stood in very much the same attitude on Tombstone's street facing
Town Marshal White, the only difference being that his right hand on
that occasion had been proffering his pistol, butt foremost, to the
officer. And in the passing of the instant while Marshal White had
touched the weapon with his fingertips the forty-five had swiftly
reversed ends, to spit forth one leaden slug.
The officer had dropped in the dust of the roadway and Curly Bill had
ridden out of town with a thousand dollars on his head. A thousand
dollars was a thousand dollars and there was no telling what a man who
wore a nickel-plated star might have up his sleeve.
"Mr. Breckenbridge," the cattle-buyer said as the two palms met, "is
here on civil business."
The eyes of Curly Bill resumed their normal shape. His fingers
tightened over the deputy's.
"Howdy," he said. "What yo' going to have?"
While the sting of the cow-town whisky was still rankling in their
throats a man entered the front door.
"Oh, Bill," he called across the room, "your hoss is daid."
Deserting the bar to delve into this mystery, they found the outlaw's
pony stretched out beside the hitching-rack near the rear of the
building. The owner cast one glance at the dead animal; then his eyes
went to a shattered window.
"'Twas when I shot that cup from Shorty's hand."