Tombstone

of smoke that went drifting over the hills. The January morning was cold; a heavy frost still covered the ground; the current of the narrow river looked almost black between the snowy ice sheets projecting from the banks, and the tracks of teams were still visible in the white rime on the plank flooring of the bridge. Mr. Schneider was an engineer of some note and a high-salaried employee at the stamp mill, which was kept busy day and night reducing ore from the Tombstone mines. He was a rather haughty, aloof man whose morning mood was usually morose and disagreeable and who required a good strong cup of coffee and several hours of sunlight to thaw him out into ordinary business urbanity.

At a nearby table Mr. Robert Petty, the village blacksmith, and Mr. John O’Rourke were devouring ham and eggs with some gusto. Mr. O’Rourke especially seemed in a mood of cheerfulness.

“I didn’t make no killing last night,” Mr. O’Rourke was saying. “But I done pretty good. The deuce stood by me. That card is certainly good to me.”

Mr. O’Rourke was a gambler of the variety sometimes referred to as tin-horn. He was what might be termed, if one wished to be brutally frank, an insignificant little runt, wizened, undersized, colourless, with a prominent nose and huge ears that stood out from his head. He hung around Charleston gambling houses and saloons and dealt stud or monte when he had a chance and played faro if he happened to be in funds. The card on the faro layout for which Mr. O’Rourke showed a particular predilection was the deuce. He stacked up his chips on the deuce; he was never known to copper it, always played it open, and the deuce rewarded his blind faith by winning for him with startling frequency. Few people had ever been sufficiently interested in him to learn his real name, and because of his mania for backing his favourite card, he had become commonly known among the gamblers of Charleston and Tombstone as Johnny Behind-the-Deuce.

It happened that Mr. Schneider, Mr. Petty, and Johnny Behind-the-Deuce arose from breakfast at the same time and, having paid their bills at the front counter to Hop Sing, stood for a few moments warming themselves about the stove in the corner of the restaurant. To the engineer, Johnny remarked pleasantly that it was a cold day. Schneider gave him a sour look and did not reply.

“I say it’s a cold day,” Johnny repeated, on the chance that the engineer had failed to hear his shrewd observation.

Mr. Schneider preserved a scowling silence.

“Go to hell!” snarled Johnny. “I wonder if you are too deaf to hear that?”

Mr. Schneider heard that quite distinctly and, flaring into a rage, snorted out profane abuse. Mr. Petty pulled Johnny by the sleeve out the door into the street. But the cold air outside had no effect on Johnny’s anger, which grew hotter.

“I guess that feller thinks he’s too big to talk to the likes of me,” he growled.

“What do you care?” soothed Mr. Petty. “Leave him alone.”

The two men stopped near the end of the bridge. While Mr. Petty was still trying to calm Johnny, Mr. Schneider came bustling along on his way to his office at the mill across the river.

“I got a notion to learn you some manners,” snapped Johnny as the engineer passed.

Mr. Schneider halted and, glaring furiously, reached into his trousers pocket. Johnny jerked out a revolver and killed him. An unopened pocketknife was found in the dead man’s hand.

Constable George McKelvey placed Johnny under arrest. As he started for the calaboose with his prisoner, the mill whistle burst into a long-continued roar. The mill hands began to pour from the buildings. “I guess they’ve heard about it over there,” said McKelvey, and began to revolve emergency plans. The crowd at the mill started toward town. McKelvey headed for a livery stable instead of the calaboose. The mob stormed into the streets. “Get a rope,” was the cry. “Hang him to the bridge.” McKelvey smuggled his prisoner out of the livery stable by the back way into a buckboard to which a span of mules had been hastily hitched.

“This is a pretty mess,” remarked McKelvey as the two men settled themselves into the buggy. “Tombstone is nine miles away, but I’ll get you there if I can.”

A moment later the mob, yelling and shaking fists in disappointed rage, saw Constable McKelvey and Johnny Behind-the-Deuce thundering across the bridge and pointing out on the road for Tombstone, the team of mules at a dead run.

The flight of the prisoner presented a problem, but the workmen whose engineer had been so ruthlessly shot down were in earnest and were not to be so easily cheated. They hurriedly prepared for pursuit. They searched Charleston for saddle horses; they commandeered buggies and spring wagons; they armed themselves with six-shooters and rifles. This cost time, and the two fugitives were laying the miles behind them. But at length the crowd was ready. Fifty men on horseback set out on the trail at breakneck speed. Others in wagons, clattering far behind in a straggling procession, hoped at least to be in at the death.

Constable McKelvey and Johnny Behind-the-Deuce had passed quickly out of sight through a gap in the hills that border the San Pedro. From a height near the old Brunckow mine, Johnny Behind-the-Deuce had a last distant glimpse of Charleston. He could detect no great stir or confusion; the town seemed quiet enough.

“Maybe they gave it up,” he said.

“Maybe,” replied McKelvey.

McKelvey pulled his tired mules to a trot. He would conserve their stamina. He might have to call on them yet for all the speed they had to give. The Tombstone road was no boulevard. All the way it wound with a thousand crooks and turns through a roughly broken country covered with cactus and mesquite. It climbed over high hills, skirted the edges of ravines, came down abruptly into sandy arroyos and climbed