"Man by the name of Johnson is the complaining witness," young
Breckenbridge elucidated. "According to what I hear, the play came up
along of a poker game."
John Ringo swore lightly.
"Come in," he bade the deputy. "I'll get my clothes on in a minute."
He laughed sourly as he was pulling on his boots some moments later.
"Looks as if the grand jury's hard up for something to do," he
observed.
He rose and belted on his gun, a proceeding about which his
custodian, being unburdened with any desire to burn powder over such
hair-splitting technicalities as a man's right to wear weapons on
his way to jail, made no comment.
"We'll go down the street," the prisoner suggested as they were
leaving the cabin, "and I'll fix it up to get bail."
But the accommodating cattle-buyer who arranged such matters for the
bigger outlaws was out of town and would not be back until evening.
Breckenbridge's horse was jaded, and if he wanted to reach Tombstone
in good time he should be setting forth at once.
"You go ahead," John Ringo bade him. "I'll catch up with you before
you pass Sulphur Springs ranch."
Those were queer days, and if you judge things from our twentieth-century
point of view you will probably find yourself bewildered.
John Ringo was known to be a cattle-rustler, stage-robber, and--according
to the law--a murderer. And Breckenbridge, whose duty it was to enforce
the statutes, set out for the county seat alone on the strength of
that promise. Nor was he in the least surprised when his prisoner, who
had ridden all night to make good his word, overtook him in the middle of
the valley.
Queer days indeed! And the threads of some men's lives were sadly
tangled. Such desperadoes as Curly Bill were easy enough to read; just
rough-and-tumble cow-boys who had taken to whisky and bad company. But
behind the somber mask of John Ringo's face there lurked a hidden
history; something was there which he did not choose to reveal to the
rest of the world.
The mail had come to Galeyville after young Breckenbridge left. There
is nothing more conducive to confidences than a long ride through a
lonely country. And when these two were jogging across the wide, arid
reaches of the Sulphur Springs Valley the outlaw pulled a letter from
his pocket; the envelope was already broken. Evidently he had read its
contents before; now he scanned them for a long time and his dark face
was set. He thrust the paper back into its enclosure; then suddenly,
as one who yields to impulse, reined his pony closer to his companion
and held forth the envelope for him to read.
"Look at that writing," he said quietly.
The hand was unmistakably that of a woman of education.
"My sister," he added, and shoved the letter into his pocket.