There were all kinds of bad men in the days of the old West. John
Ringo was one sort and Buckskin Frank was another. While this tale
deals most with the former, still it concerns the two of them.
In its wild youth the town of Tombstone knew both men. To this day the
old-timers who witnessed the swift march of events during the years
1879, 1880, and 1881 will tell you of their deeds. But things were
happening fast when those deeds took place. There was, if one may be
allowed to use a poetic figure, a good deal of powder-smoke floating
in the air to obscure the vision. And so although no men were ever
more just in passing judgment than these same old-timers, the story
has its sardonic ending.
John Ringo was the big "He Wolf" among the outlaws, a man of quick
intelligence who did not seem to care much whether he or the
other fellow died. To him who wants the ornate trappings of the
motion-picture bad man or the dialect which makes some desperadoes
popular in fiction, Ringo would prove a disappointing figure as he
showed up in southeastern Arizona.
For he wore no hair chaps, nor do those who saw him tell of a knotted
colored handkerchief about his throat. Like most of those riders who
drifted into the territory when other portions of the West had grown
too hot for them, his costume was unobtrusive: light-colored jean
breeches tucked into his boot-tops, a flannel shirt and the gray
Stetson peculiar to the country west of the Pecos, a limp-brimmed hat
with a high crown, which may be creased after the old "Southern
Gentleman" fashion but was most often left with such dents as come by
accident. Of hardware he carried his full share; sometimes two
forty-five revolvers and a Winchester; but if he were in town the arms
were as likely as not concealed.
It would take a second look to separate him from the herd. That second
look would show you a fine, lean form whose every movement was catlike
in its grace, a dark face whose expression was usually sullen, whose
eyes were nearly always somber; slender hands and small feet. And his
speech, whenever you heard it, was sure to be comparatively free from
the idioms of the region; the English was often more correct than
otherwise. A man of parts, and he looked it; they all say that.
This was John Ringo. He had fought in one of those numerous cattle
wars which raged throughout western Texas during the seventies. Before
that period a certain California city had known him as the reckless
son of a decent family.
And in passing note the fact that he still got letters from his people
after he came to Tombstone with a price on his head. Which helps to
explain that somber demeanor, the whisky which he drank--and the
ending of his life's story.
Buckskin Frank fulfils the requirements of some traditions much better
when it comes to externals. He wore leathern fringes on his shirt and
breeches, and his sombrero was bedecked with much silver. His weapons
were always in evidence; a pair of silver-mounted revolvers were the
most noticeable among them.
Because he called himself a scout some men used the term in speaking
of him. He did not ride with the outlaws, although he often vanished
from Tombstone for considerable periods; in town he was always to be
found in some gambling-house or dance-hall.
Of women there were many who fancied him. And he could shoot to
kill--from in front if the occasion demanded it; from behind if the
opportunity was given him. A handsome fellow, and he had a persuasive
way with him.
Whisky got the best of him in his later years, but that was after the
period with which this narrative has to deal; and when he drank, it
was not because of any brooding. The past held no regrets for him;
thus far he had managed to handle every situation to his own
satisfaction.
These are the two men; and as for Tombstone, it was booming. The mines
were paying tremendously; business was brisk twenty-four hours a day.
An era of claim-jumping, faro-playing, dance-halls, the Bird-Cage,
Opera House, Apache scares, stage hold-ups; and, of course,
gun-fighting.
The Earps virtually ran the town government; they enforced the local
laws against shooting up the place and so forth very much after the
manner of Dodge City; and they were strong, resolute men. Buckskin
Frank was on good terms with their henchmen; he was, if the
statements of the old-timers are to be believed, anxious to remain in
the good graces of these stern rulers.
John Ringo, on the other hand, was at outs with them; and soon after
their advent into power he drifted away from Tombstone along with the
other outlaws. To use the expression of the times, he was "short" in
the mining town, which means that when he came there he had to be
ready at all times to defend his life and liberty.
And now that you have seen the men and the town, the tale can go on;
it is a mere recital of certain incidents which took place during the
last year or two of John Ringo's life; incidents which show the
difference between his breed of bad man and the breed to which
Buckskin Frank belonged. To the chronicler these incidents appeal for
that very reason. The days of the old West strike one as being very
much like the days of old knighthood; they were rude days when some
men tried hard to live up to a code of chivalry and some men made
themselves mighty by very foul means indeed. And while we may not
always be sure that the names which have come down to us--from either
of these wild eras--are those that should have been coupled with fame,
still we can be certain of one thing: the chivalry existed in both
periods.
According to the code in the Middle Ages the challenge and the single
combat were recognized institutions; and they say that knights-errant
used to go riding through the country seeking worthy opponents. And
according to the cow-boy code in southeastern Arizona during the
early eighties among the outlaws, a champion must be ready to try
conclusions in very much that same way on occasion.
It was one of those traditions which some men observed and
some--wisely--ignored. This desperado John Ringo was among those who
observed it; and one day, like poor old _Don Quixote_, he found
himself trying to force conclusions with men whose ideas were more
modern than his own, which led him--like Cervante's lean hero--into a
bad predicament and also brought him to a strange friendship.
The Earp brothers and their followers, as has been said, were ruling
Tombstone, and the outlaws had fled into the country east of the
Dragoon Mountains. But the outlaws did not fancy remaining out in the
open country; sometimes they came back to town in force and hung about
the place for days; always they were hoping to return permanently. And
always the Earps were looking to drive them out of the country for
good and all.
Eventually the situation came to a climax in the great Earp-Clanton
gun-fight, and there was a long period when this battle was brewing.
During this period whenever they came to town the desperadoes used to
stay at the Grand Central Hotel; and Bob Hatch's saloon, where the
Earp boys and their friends were accustomed to take their "morning's
morning," was directly across the street. Things came to a pass where
the noon hour would often find a group of outlaws on the sidewalk
before the hotel and a number of the Earp faction in front of the
saloon, both outfits heavily armed, the members of each glowering
across the street at those of the other.
Now Wyatt Earp, Doc Holliday, and others of the law-and-order party
had come here with big reputations from Dodge City, where they had
taken part in more than one affair when the lead was flying. They had
sustained those reputations by their deeds in Tombstone; they were
champions--"He Wolves." And so one noontime when he was standing on
the sidewalk among his fellow outlaws, John Ringo was seized with an
idea.
He looked across the street at the members of the Earp party, who were
regarding the desperadoes in ominous silence. The idea grew more
powerful, until it owned him. He stepped down from the sidewalk's edge
into the roadway, crossed it, and came to a halt within a few feet of
his enemies. Addressing Wyatt Earp by name--so goes the story--
"This sort of thing," John Ringo said, "has been going on for a long
time now. Pretty soon there's bound to be a big killing if it keeps
up. Now I've got a proposition. You, or Doc Holliday if you'd rather
have him, step into the street here with me, and the two of us will
shoot it out, and, if you're game, why we'll do it holding the
opposite corner of a handkerchief in our teeth. I give my word, my
gang will stand by the result."
Wyatt Earp made no answer. What temptation that offer held to him one
can judge only by the fact that he was a bold man who had a long
record of large deeds to his credit. But also he was the recognized
head of a movement for law and order, a movement which had already
stopped indiscriminate street-shooting in Tombstone; just at this time
he was being groomed in certain quarters as a candidate for sheriff,
and the banner of his party was emblazoned with the word Reform.
It is easy enough to see how John Ringo was behind the times when he
made that proposition on Tombstone's main street. It is easy also to
imagine his feelings when without a word by way of answer or
acknowledgment the members of the Earp faction stood regarding him. He
turned his back upon them and he recrossed the street, and when he had
gained the opposite sidewalk they were gone within Bob Hatch's
saloon.
Johnny Behan was sheriff then, politically an enemy of the Earps and
politically friendly to the outlaws. He was sitting in his office with
young William Breckenbridge, his diplomatic deputy, when some one
brought word that John Ringo had made a gun-play and was holding down
the main street with drawn revolvers.
"Go and fetch him in," the sheriff bade Breckenbridge.
The latter found the outlaw pacing up and down before the Grand
Central Hotel after the fashion of the cow-boy who has shot up a
saloon and driven all hands out of the place. The two had met months
before when the deputy was out in the eastern part of the county
collecting taxes with Curly Bill as his guide and protector.
"What's up?" the youthful officer demanded, and John Ringo recited his
version of the affair.
"Well," the other told him when he had finished, "the sheriff wants to
see you."
The desperado shrugged his shoulders, but went along quietly enough;
bail was easy to arrange in those days, and this was not a serious
matter.
In his office Johnny Behan heard the tale and frowned. There were
times when his cow-boy constituents became a source of embarrassment
to him; this was one of them.
"Guess you'll have to turn over those guns of yours," he bade the
prisoner.
Ringo handed the revolvers to him, and he put them into a desk drawer.
There followed several moments of awkward silence. At length Johnny
Behan arose and started to leave the room.
"Going to lock me up?" Ringo asked. "I'd like to fix it to get bail,
you know."
"No charge against you," the sheriff said in the doorway. "You can go
back downtown whenever you want to."
With which he passed out into the corridor and forgot all about the
matter. In the office Ringo stood scowling at the deputy.
"That's plain murder," he said at length. "Before I get a block away
from here without my guns those coyotes will kill me."
Breckenbridge had been doing some thinking on his own account during
the last few moments, and he realized the justice of this argument.
But the law was the law, and the sheriff was boss. It was not his
business to interfere. He looked Ringo in the eyes, got up from his
chair, opened the desk drawer--and left the room. And when he came
back the guns and their owner had departed.
In itself the incident wasn't much to talk about. In those times all
sorts of things were being done according to different standards from
those which rule now. But it brought its consequences.
The days went by. In Tombstone politics seethed; the law-and-order
party was making things hot for Johnny Behan, whose sympathies with
the cow-boys gave him the support of the desperadoes, a support which
in its turn brought the accusation that he was extending leniency to
wanted men.
Over in the Sulphur Springs valley and the San Simon John Ringo nursed
his grudge against the sheriff for having disarmed him when his guns
were so sorely needed; he cherished that unpleasant memory while he
directed the movements of Curly Bill and their followers, while he
rode forth from Galeyville with them to raid the herds of border
cow-men, or to ambush bands of Mexican smugglers, or to rob the
stages.
And so gradually it became known among his fellows that their leader
held a grievance against the sheriff, that he was biding his
opportunity to play even with Johnny Behan for that blundering piece
of thoughtlessness. John Ringo was the biggest man among them all, the
brains of the whole crowd; they wanted to see in what manner he would
settle the score. And finally the time came when he got his chance.
A man who rejoiced in the name of Kettle-Belly Johnson was the
indirect means of bringing about this opportunity. He enters the story
on a blistering afternoon in the little town of Galeyville.
It has been told in another of these tales how Galeyville was the bad
men's metropolis, headquarters for all the rustlers and stage-robbers
of Cochise County; how the place enjoyed a brisk prosperity through
the enterprise of a wide-awake citizen who had established a
cattle-buying business--and no questions asked. On the afternoon in
question John Ringo was the only outlaw in the place; his followers
were absent on some wild errand or other and he was putting in the
time at a poker-game.
There were four men seated around the table in the dingy bar-room,
silent as four owls, mirthless as high priests at a sacred rite.
Observing the full ceremonials which dignify draw-poker, they let the
chips and cards do all the talking--and made signs when they chose to
pass.
It has been said that John Ringo's face was sullen and his eyes were
somber; the depth of his unpleasant expression had grown this
afternoon as the shabbiness of his luck increased. Or was it luck?
He sat, of course, facing the door, and Kettle-Belly Johnson occupied
the opposite chair. On the two other players, one of whom was flanking
John Ringo on each side, there is no need to waste words; they
belonged to the same breed as the poetically rechristened Johnson, the
breed that got its name from shaking dice against Mexicans out of tin
horns.
It was no more than natural that the desperado should ask himself
whether he was right in blaming fortune for the cards which he drew.
There came a new deal and time to draw again.
"Two," John Ringo muttered.
Kettle-Belly Johnson held up a single finger; and when he had got his
card, performed one of those prestidigital feats by which he made his
living. And when this was accomplished--with the aid of a device known
as a "hold-out"--his moist, plump fingers clutched a full house--jacks
on kings. The betting went briskly to the bitter end.
John Ringo scowled down on the hand which beat his; pushed back his
chair, fumbled briefly at his vest, and laid his gold watch on the
table.
"Lend me a hundred," he growled. "She's worth a hundred and fifty."
But Kettle-Belly Johnson shook his head.
"Easy come," said he, "easy go. Get out and rustle some more cows or
hold up the stage again. We ain't a-runnin' no pawn-shop."
John Ringo left the room without more words, and the three tin horns
fell to cutting for low spade to while away the time. They had been at
it just as long as it would take a man to go down to the corral,
saddle his pony, and bring the animal up in front of the building,
when the outlaw reentered. His single-action Colt's forty-five
revolver was in his right hand; its muzzle regarded the trio at the
table like a dark, baleful eye.
The bearer of the weapon uttered a single word, a word which is not
found in any dictionary although it has come down from the time when
the first Englishman took to the highway to seek his daily meat.
"Hanzup!"
They obeyed and the ensuing silence was broken by the pleasant chink
of money as John Ringo's left hand raked the winnings into his pocket.
There was no pursuit as he rode away down Galeyville's main street;
but he spurred his pony hard, for self-righteousness was boiling
within him and he had to find relief some way.
"Damn bunch of robbers!" he told the horse.
Ordinarily the incident would have closed then and there; but fate so
willed it that Kettle-Belly Johnson came to Tombstone a few days later
and voiced his plaint in Bob Hatch's saloon, where he found himself
suddenly surrounded by sympathizers. He did not know--and if he had he
would not have cared one way or the other--that the new law-and-order
party had grown to a point where it wanted to get action in the
courts; that its members were looking for an opportunity to swear out
a warrant against some of the bigger outlaws in order to "show up"
Johnny Behan, who--so men said--was unwilling to arrest any of the
cow-boy faction. The grand jury was in session; they got Kettle-Belly
Johnson sober enough to face star-chamber inquisition and led him to
the court-house in the morning.
So it came that young Billy Breckenbridge, whose business was serving
warrants and not bothering over the whys and wherefores of their
issuance, knocked at the door of John Ringo's cabin in Galeyville a
few days later; and then, being a prudent man, stepped to one side
where he would be beyond the zone of fire.
"Got a warrant for you," he announced when the desperado had demanded
to know who was there. "Highway robbery."