"Plenty more good ponies in the valley--and the nights are moonlight
now."
When they were back facing the battered bar young Breckenbridge
explained, his business in no-man's-land.
"And this end of the county," he wound up, "is sort of rough. If I'd
ride around alone, packing that money, somebody's liable to get the
best of me when I'm not looking for it. I've got to have a good man
along to help take care of that roll. And I'd admire to have you make
the trip with me."
Curly Bill was a great deal slower at thinking than he was at drawing
his gun and there was much food for thought in that bold proposition.
He gazed at young Breckenbridge for some moments in silence. Gradually
his lips relaxed. Smiling, he turned and addressed the occupants of
the room.
"Boys," he cried, "line up."
And when the line was formed before the bar he waved his hand.
"This here's the deputy sheriff, come to collect the taxes in our end
of the county; and I aim to help him do the job up right."
By what means Curly Bill supplied himself with a new pony this
chronicler does not know. But it is a fact that the outlaw rode forth
from Galeyville the next day along with Johnny Behan's deputy, to
guide the latter through the Sulphur Springs valley and the San
Simon--and to guard the county's funds.
Travel was slow in those days; accommodations were few and far
between. Outlaw and deputy jogged down the long, glaring flats
enshrouded in the dust-fog which rose from their ponies' hoofs; mile
after mile of weary riding under a scorching sun. They climbed by
winding trails through narrow canyons where the heat-waves jigged
endlessly among the naked rocks. They camped by lonely water-holes and
shared each other's blankets under the big yellow stars.
By day they watched the sky-line seeking the slightest sign of moving
forms; by night they kept their weapons within easy reach and slept
lightly, awakening to the smallest sound. They scanned the earth for
tracks and, when they found them, read them with the suspicion born of
knowledge of the country's savagery.
And sometimes other riders came toward them out of the desert to pass
on and to vanish in the hazy distance; men who spoke but few words and
watched the right hands of the two riders as they talked. But none
attacked them or made a show toward hostility. Now and again the pair
stopped at a ranch-house or a mine where Breckenbridge added to the
county's money in his saddle-bags.
And as the days wore on, each with its own share of mutual hardship to
bring these two to closer companionship, they began, as men will under
such circumstances, to unfold their separate natures. Under the long
trail's stern necessity they bared to each other those traits which
would have remained hidden during years of acquaintance among a city's
tight-walled streets.
A carelessly spoken word dropped at hot noontide when the water in the
canteens had given out; a sincere oath, uttered by the fire at
supper-time; a long, drowsy conversation as they lay in their blankets
with the tang of the night breeze in their nostrils, gazing up at the
splendor of the flaming stars; until they knew each other man to
man--and Curly Bill began to feel something like devotion to his
purposeful young companion. Thenceforth he talked freely of his deeds
and misdeeds.
"Only one man that ever got the drop on me," the outlaw said one
evening when they were lying on their blankets, enjoying the long
inhalations from their after-supper cigarettes, "and that was ol' Jim
Burnett over in Charleston, two years ago."
He paused a moment to roll another smoke. A coyote clamored shrilly
beyond the next rise; a horse blew luxuriously feeding in the
bunch-grass. Curly Bill launched into his tale.
"He was justice of the peace and used to hold co't in those days
whenever he'd run on to a man he wanted. Always packed a double-barrel
shotgun and he'd usually managed to throw it down on a fellow while he
tried the case and named the fine.
"Well, me and some of the boys was in town this time and things was
slack. Come a Sunday evenin' and I heard how some married folks had
started up a church. I hadn't been inside of one since I could
remember and we all made up our minds to go and see what it was like.
"Things had opened up when we come into the door and we took our
seats as quiet as we could. But the jingle of our spurs made some
people in the congregation--the' wasn't more'n a dozen of 'em--look
around. And of co'se they knew us right away. So, pretty quick one or
two gets up and leaves, and soon afterward some more, until first
thing we knew our bunch was all the' was stickin' it out.
"Along about that time the preacher decided he'd quit too, and he was
edging off to head for the back door when I got up and told him to
stop. Folks said afterwards that I throwed down my fo'ty-five on him
but that wasn't so. Wasn't any need of a gun-play. I only said that
we'd come to see this deal out and we meant to have it to the turning
of the last card and if he'd go ahead everything would be all right.
"So he did, and give out a hymn and the boys stood up and sang; and he
preached a sermon, taking advantage of the chanc't to light into us
pretty rough. Then it come time for passin' round the hat and I'll bet
the reg'lar congregation never done half so well by the collection as
we did.
"Well, sir, next mo'nin' I was sittin' in front of the hotel in the
shade of those big cottonwoods, sort of dozing, having been up kind of
late after the church-going; and the first thing I knew somebody was
saying--
"'Hanzup.'
"I opened my eyes and here was ol' Jim Burnett with that double-barrel
shotgun throwed down on me, I knew there was no use tryin' to get the
play away from him, either; only a day or two before that he'd stuck
up Johnny Harker and fined him a bunch of three-year-old steers for
shootin' up the town. So I obeyed orders and--
"'Curly Bill,' says he, 'yo' 're tried herewith and found guilty of
disturbin' the peace at the Baptis' Church last evenin'; and the
sentence of this co't is twenty-five dollars' fine.'
"I shelled out then and there and glad to do it, too. Them two muzzles
was lookin' me right between the eyes all the while."
Up in the San Simon country they ran short of grub and after going two
days on scanty rations--
"The' 's a canyon fifteen miles south of here," the outlaw said. "I
reckon some of the boys might be camping there now."
They rode hard that afternoon and reached the place some time before
sundown. The boys of whom Curly Bill had spoken were there all right,
ten of them, and none of the number but was known at the time over in
Tombstone either as a rustler or a stage-robber. His guide introduced
Breckenbridge with the usual terseness of such ceremonies among his
kind.
Whatever of constraint there was at the beginning wore away during the
progress of the evening, and on the next morning before they left the
gorge the young deputy worked his way into the good graces of his
hosts by winning twenty dollars from them shooting at a mark.
By this time they were nearing the end of their tour and it was only a
few days later, when they were crossing the Sulphur Springs valley
toward the frowning Dragoons, that Curly Bill bestowed a final
confidence upon his companion. They were nooning at the time and
somehow or other the usual question of revolver-handling had come up.
"I'm goin' to tell yo'-all something," said Curly Bill, "that mebbe it
will come in handy to remember. Now here."
He drew his forty-five and held it forth butt foremost in his right
hand.
"Don't ever go to take a man's gun that-a-way," he went on, "for when
yo' are figuring that yo' have the drop on him and he is makin' the
play to give it up--Jest reach out now to get it."
Breckenbridge reached forth with his right hand. The outlaw smiled.
His trigger-finger glided inside the guard; there was a sudden wrist
movement and the revolver whirled end for end. Its muzzle was pressing
against the deputy's waist-band.
"Did it slow so's you could see," said Curly Bill. "Now yo'
understand."
And Breckenbridge nodded, knowing now the manner in which Marshal
White had met his death on the day when his companion had fled from
the law.
In no-man's-land they shook hands at parting.
"So-long," said Curly Bill. "See you later."
And the deputy answered with like brevity, then rode on to Tombstone.
Those who had banked on the big issue wherein Breckenbridge would
smell the other man's powder-smoke were disappointed. And there were
some among them who shook their heads when the young fellow's name was
mentioned, saying, as they had said in the beginning:
"Wait till the show-down comes; then we'll see how he stacks up."
But Sheriff Johnny Behan was open in his rejoicings. For the sheriff's
enemies were many and some of them were powerful, and his conduct in
office was being subjected to a great deal of harsh criticism,
oftentimes, it must be admitted, with entire justice. So when the
smiling young deputy returned from a region where Cochise County had
hitherto been unable to gather any taxes, and deposited a sum wherein
every property-owner in that region was properly represented, here was
good news with which to counteract accusations of laxity.
And that was not all. As far as law and order went, the country east
of the Dragoons was a foreign land; and when Breckenbridge had told
the story of his journeyings with Curly Bill, explaining how the
outlaw had been zealous in nosing out those citizens whose property
was assessable, how he had safeguarded the county's money, then the
sheriff saw how he had on his force one whom he could use to good
account.
Other officials were unable to carry the law into no-man's-land; but
he had, thenceforth, at least an envoy. And he knew that there would
be times when diplomatic representation was going to come in very
handy.
From that day on, when anything came up in the Sulphur Springs valley
or in the San Simon, Billy Breckenbridge was despatched to attend to
the matter. Time and again he made the journey until the cow-men in
the lowlands came to know his face well; until the sight of a deputy
sheriff's star was no longer an unwonted spectacle in Galeyville. And
as the months went by he enlarged the list of his acquaintances among
the outlaws.
But his errands were for the most part concerned with civil matters.
Now and again there was a warrant for stock-rustling, but the rustlers
carried on their business in the open at that time and there were few
who dared to testify against them. Bail was always arranged by the
accommodating cattle-buyer at Galeyville, so that such arrests
invariably turned out to be amicable affairs.
Among those who were sitting back and waiting for the big show-down
there was a little stir of anticipation when young Breckenbridge rode
forth armed with a warrant for John Ringo. For Ringo was a bad man of
larger caliber than even Curly Bill. He was the brains of the outlaws,
and the warrant charged highway robbery.
But the thrill died away when the deputy came riding back with his
man; and there was something like disgust among the waiting ones when
it was learned that the prisoner had stayed behind in Galeyville to
arrange some of his affairs and had ridden hard to catch up with his
captor at the Sulphur Springs ranch.
Anticipation flamed again a little later and it looked as if there was
good reason for it. For this time it was a stolen horse and
Breckenbridge had set forth to recover the animal. A rustler might be
willing to go through the formalities of giving bail at the county
court-house, or even to stand trial, but when it came to turning over
stolen property--and doing it without a struggle--that was another
matter. Moreover, this horse, which had been taken from the Contention
Mine, was a thoroughbred, valued high and coveted by many a man.
There was good ground for believing that the fellow who had made off
with him would put up a fight before letting him go again.
Now when he left Tombstone on this mission Johnny Behan's young
diplomatic representative was riding a rented pony, his own mount
being fagged out from a previous journey; and this fact has its
bearing on the story later on. The wild country is always easier
ground in which to trace a fugitive or stolen property than the
crowded places for the simple reason that its few inhabitants are
likely to notice every one who passes; besides which there are few
travelers to obliterate tracks.
And Breckenbridge learned before he had gone very many miles that
the badly wanted horse was headed in the direction of the McLowery
ranch. The McLowery boys were members of the Clanton gang of
rustlers and stage-robbers. It did not need a Sherlock Holmes to
figure out the probabilities of where that horse was being pastured
now. Breckenbridge pressed on to the McLowery place.
Night had fallen when he arrived and the barking of many dogs heralded
his approach to all the surrounding country. Breckenbridge knew the
McLowery boys well, as well as he knew the Clantons and a dozen other
outlaws, which was well enough to call one another by their first
names.
But these were ticklish times. The big Earp-Clanton feud was nearing
its climax. The members of the latter faction--several of whom were
wanted on Federal warrants which charged them with stage-robbery--were
keeping pretty well holed up, as the saying is, and it was not
unlikely that if any of them were in the ranch-house at the time, the
visitor who was not extremely skilful in announcing himself would be
shot first and questioned afterward.
So when Billy Breckenbridge came to the house he did not draw rein but
kept right on as if he were riding past. Fortune had favored him by
interposing in his path an enormous puddle, almost a pond, the
overflow from a broken irrigation ditch. He pulled up at this obstacle
and hallooed loudly.
"Any way through here?" he shouted. "This is Breckenbridge."
A moment's silence, and then a streak of light showed where the front
door had been opened a crack.
"Sit quiet on that there hoss," a gruff voice commanded, "and lemme
see if you _be_ Breckenbridge."
"Hallo, Bill," the deputy sheriff answered. "Yes, it's me all right."
And Curly Bill opened the door wider, revealing his burly form.
"Put up yo'r pony in the corral," he said, "and come in."
When Breckenbridge had complied with the last part of the invitation
he found the bare room filled with men. The McLowery boys were there,
two of them, and the Clantons. Half a dozen other outlaws were
lounging about, and Curly Bill himself was looking none too pleasant
as he nodded to the visitor.
"Cain't tell who might come ridin' in these nights," he growled by way
of explanation for his curt welcome. "Set up and eat a bite now yo'
're here."
The lateness of the meal and the general dishevelment of the room's
occupants made it clear to the guest that every one had been riding
hard that day. It was an awkward moment and the constraint endured
long after the last man had shoved back his chair and rolled his
brown-paper cigarette.
Curly Bill found an opportunity to get young Breckenbridge off to one
side during the evening.
"What's on yore mind?" he asked.
The deputy told him.
"The superintendent owns that horse," he explained, "and he's a good
friend of mine. Not only that, but if I get it back it means a whole
lot to the office; it'll put Behan solid with those people over at
Contention, and that helps me."
The outlaw nodded but made no remark by way of comment. Some time
later he sat up at the oilcloth-covered table talking quietly with
Frank McLowery. And Brenckenridge saw McLowery scowling. Then he felt
reasonably sure who had stolen that blooded animal and who was going
to bring it back to Tombstone in the morning.
Bedding-rolls were being unlashed within the half-hour. McLowery
brought Breckenbridge a pair of blankets.
"Reckon you'll have to make down on the floor same as the rest of the
boys," the outlaw growled and then, as if it were an afterthought,
"That there boss yo' 're looking fer is near the ranch."
And that was all the talk there was on the subject during the evening.
But Breckenbridge spread his blankets and lay down among the rustlers
serene in mind. Evidently the horse was going to be in his possession
the next morning.
McLowery's sullenness seemed to have been contagious and there were no
good-nights said to the guest. He knew every man in the room; some of
them he had known ever since that evening when Curly Bill had taken
him to the rustler's camp is the San Simon. But the best he got from
any of them was an averted look; several were scowling openly. Even
Curly Bill had put aside his usual heavy joviality. It was clear that
the burly leader had strained a point in going as far as he had. Some
men might have felt uneasy in dropping off to sleep under the
circumstances, but Breckenbridge understood his hosts well enough to
be certain that, so long as he was on the ranch, the sacred rites of
hospitality were going to be observed. So he closed his eyes and the
last thing he heard was the snoring of outlaws and murderers.
The next morning he awakened to find that several of the company had
departed. No one made any comment on that fact and there was no
mention of the stolen horse. But when the deputy had downed his last
cup of coffee Frank McLowery took him outside and showed him the
animal tethered to a hitching-rack.
"Much obliged, Frank," said Breckenbridge.
The stage-robber gave him a sour grin.
"Bet yo' never fetch him back to Tombstone," he answered quietly.
The two looked into each other's eyes and smiled. You may have seen a
pair of fighters smiling in that same way when the gong has sounded
and they have put up their hands at the beginning of a finish
contest.
Now under these circumstances and remembering the absence of several
of the best horsemen in the bunch from the ranch-house, many a man
would have put his saddle on the thoroughbred that morning. But
Breckenbridge had managed to assimilate some of the wiles of diplomacy
during these last few months and he reasoned that if there were a
pursuing-party waiting for him to leave the ranch they would be
prepared for that same contingency. Better let them think him unready;
then perhaps they would let him get the lead. And once he got it, luck
would have to help him carry out his plan. He saddled the hired pony
and rode away, leading the recovered animal.
Before he had gone a half-mile beyond the ranch buildings he saw that
he had figured rightly. The floor of the Sulphur Springs valley did
not hold so much as a bush by way of cover; and here, off to the left,
his eyes fell on a group of horsemen. Evidently they had been watching
him ever since he left the corrals and knew the poorness of his mount,
for they were making no effort to overhaul him as yet.
But he realized that the gang must have graver business on hand than
the recovery of the thoroughbred; they were not going to waste any too
much time over this affair and he would not be allowed to travel far
if they could help it. Just then a wagon outfit climbed out of a dry
wash directly ahead of him and he saw how luck had given him his
chance.
He rode on, leisurely closing in upon the train. Off there to the left
the outlaws were keeping pace with him, but as yet they were making no
attempt to lessen the distance between them. He came up with the last
wagon, turned off the road beside it, and had the clumsy covered
vehicle between him and the rustlers. Then he dismounted.
The wagons kept on moving; now and again the teamsters glanced toward
him curiously. He barely heeded them save to see that they made no
sign to the now invisible outlaws. It took all the skill that he owned
to keep both his horses walking while he unsaddled the one and threw
the saddle upon the other. But at last the change was made and he
flung himself upon the thoroughbred's back. Shouting to the nearest
teamster to lead the abandoned pony back to Tombstone, he put spurs to
his fresh mount and came out in the road ahead of the foremost span of
leaders on a dead run.
There were six of the outlaws and they were less than half a mile
away. Breckenbridge had been out of sight behind the wagons just a
little too long to suit them and they were cutting in toward the road
now at top speed.
From the beginning it was a stern chase and they had only one hope of
winning. Nothing less swift than a bullet could ever catch that
thoroughbred. They pulled up at once and began shooting. But although
some of the slugs from their rifles came uncomfortably close none
found its mark and Breckenbridge was fast drawing away from them.
However, they were not the men to give up so long as there was any
chance remaining, and they swung back into their saddles to "burn up
the road" in his wake.
Now all hands settled down to make a long race of it, and it was not
until he was climbing the first slopes toward South Pass in the
Dragoon Mountains that Breckenbridge looked back for the last time
and saw the shapes of those six horsemen diminishing in the distance
as they jogged back toward the McLowery ranch.
So through the good-will of Curly Bill young Breckenbridge recovered
the thoroughbred from the man who had stolen it and brought it to
Tombstone without being obliged to reach for his own gun. And moreover
there were no hard feelings about it when he rode back into
no-man's-land the next time. So far as Frank McLowery and the Clanton
boys were concerned the incident was closed. The deputy had won out
and that was all there was to it.
As a matter of fact only a month or so later a horse-thief from
Lincoln County, New Mexico, came to grief at Galeyville because he did
not understand Breckenbridge's status in the rustlers' metropolis.
This bad man from the Pecos had a pretty sorrel pony and the deputy,
who was in the place on civil business, happened to notice the animal
at the hitching-rack in front of the hotel.
"Say," he said to its possessor, who was standing near by, "that's a
nice horse; where'd you get him?"
The remark was a careless one in a country where ponies often changed
owners overnight, and the man from the Pecos was sensitive enough on
the subject to resent the question from one who wore a star. He
answered it by drawing his gun.
Breckenbridge, who was as dexterous with his left hand as with his
right, reached down as the weapon came forth from its holster and
gripped the stranger's wrist. He gave a sharp wrench and the revolver
clattered down on the sidewalk. And then Curly Bill, who had
witnessed the incident, stepped forward and ordered the visitor out of
Galeyville.
"Yo'-all don't need to think," the desperado added, "that you can come
here and make a gun-play on our deputy. We get along all right with
him and I reckon we ain't going to stand for any cow-thieves from
Lincoln County gettin' brash with him."
Something like two years had passed now since young Billy Breckenbridge
first rode across the Dragoon Mountains into no-man's-land and, as the
old-timers who had been watching him all this time well knew, things
could not go on in this way forever. The show-down was bound to come. It
came one day at the Chandler ranch and the old-timers got the answer
to their question.
There were two young fellows by the name of Zwing Hunt and Billy
Grounds who had been working at Philip Morse's sawmill over in the
Chiracahua Mountains.
Somehow or other they had got mixed up with the stock-rustlers and the
temptation to make easy money proved too strong for them. One evening
they went over to the Contention mill and held up the place, killing
the man in charge.
Johnny Behan was out of town at the time with several deputies after
the Earps who had departed from Tombstone. The under-sheriff detailed
Breckenbridge on the case and drafted a posse of three men to help
him.
"No, sir," the former said when the young deputy remonstrated against
the presence of these aides. "This ain't a case of talking John Ringo
into coming over and putting up a bond. This here's murder and those
lads are going to show fight."
Orders were orders; there was no use arguing further. The erstwhile
diplomat made the best of a bad matter and rode away with his three
companions. It was evening when they left Tombstone and the Chandler
ranch lay several hours distant. Those who saw them leave the camp
spread the news. And now the old-timers settled down, certain that
when Billy Breckenbridge returned they were going to know just what he
was made of.
He came back the next evening, riding alongside a lumber-wagon. In
those days the mining companies maintained a hospital at the edge of
the town. The vehicle made one stop at this institution and unloaded
three of its occupants. It made a second stop before the establishment
of a local undertaker, where two bodies were removed. And then young
Breckenbridge rode on alone to the court-house. Two outlaws and four
men in the deputy sheriff's party makes six altogether. Out of the six
he was the only one left on his feet.
"And the hull thing didn't last five minutes," said "Bull" Lewis, the
driver of the wagon. "I was asleep in the ranch-house along with these
two outlaws when some one knocked on the door. Right away I heard a
shot in the next room and I busted out with my hands up and yelling
that I was a nootral. Before I'd gone twenty yards Hunt and Grounds
had killed two of the posse and by the time I was over that rise
behind the house they'd laid out the other. And then I watched this
little deputy get the two of them.
"He was out in the open and they were inside, and both of 'em were
sure burnin' powder mighty fast. But he waited his chance and tore the
top of Grounds's head off with a charge of buckshot when he stepped
to the door to get a better shot. And a second or two later Zwing Hunt
came out of the cabin, firing as he ran. The little fellow dropped him
with a bullet from his forty-five before he'd come more 'n a half a
dozen jumps."
But Breckenbridge was a long way from being jubilant when Johnny Behan
and the under-sheriff congratulated him on his behavior.
"If you hadn't wished those three fellows on me I'd have brought both
these boys back without firing a shot," he told the under-sheriff.
"The blamed posse made such a noise coming up to the cabin that the
two of 'em thought 't was a lynching-party and opened fire on us. Yes,
sir. I could have talked them into coming--if I'd only been alone."
And so when it did finally come to the show-down all hands learned of
just what material young Breckenbridge was made.