Curly Bill thumped on the bar.
“Line up, boys,” he called out. “Nominate yer pizen. I’m gittin’ into politics. Here’s a young he-wolf from Johnny Behan’s office, and me and him are goin’ to collect the taxes in this end of the county. Ef any gent holds out a cent on us, I’ll shoot him full of holes, and don’t you fergit it.”
For weeks the chief of the outlaws and the young deputy sheriff rode together from one end of the San Simon to the other. They shared crusts beside camp fires, they drank from the same canteen, they exchanged confidences as they lay on their blankets side by side under the stars, and they got on terms of intimate friendship. And they collected the taxes. Nobody said a bitter word or made a hostile gesture. Everybody paid with a smile. Curly Bill, sitting in his saddle with rifle and six-shooter, was better than a Fourth of July oration in convincing the people of the importance of fulfilling the obligations of good citizenship.
Deputy Breakenridge’s saddlebags were bulging with tax money when he and Curly Bill arrived at the crest of the Dragoons. Tombstone was in sight.
“I reckon I’ll be turnin’ back here,” said Curly Bill. “Ain’t no danger of yer gittin’ robbed now. Ef I can ever do anything more fer you, let me know. So long.”
So Deputy Sheriff Billy Breakenridge made good, received his accolade as a hero, and assumed an honoured place at the Round Table of Tombstone’s knighthood.
Deputy Breakenridge, sitting on his horse in the darkness, lifted a loud halloo. The door of the McLowery ranch house at Soldier Holes in Sulphur Springs Valley opened warily; a kerosene lamp shone through the narrow slit. A challenging voice came from within. The deputy recognized that voice.
“It’s me, all right, Curly,” he said.
The big front room was filled with men—Frank and Tom McLowery, the Clanton boys, and half a dozen other members of the Curly Bill federation. Deputy Breakenridge was friendly with them all. But his cheery greeting met cool reception. The outlaws were suspicious of this unexpected night visit, and a little guilt perhaps was mingled with the suspicion. They sat puffing at cigarettes in sullen silence. The deputy’s attempts at familiar small talk fell flat. Curly Bill drew him into another room.
“What’s the trouble?” asked Curly.
“Well, it’s this way,” began Deputy Breakenridge. “A horse belonging to the superintendent of the Contention mines has been stolen; fine animal; racing blood; Kentucky bred. I’ve traced the horse here.”
Curly nodded.
“I’d like to find this horse.”
Again Curly nodded.
“And I’d like to take it back to Tombstone in the morning.”
“That all?” said Curly. “Well, I can’t see no speshul reason for givin’ up this hoss. What fer? A hoss thief is a business man. He aims to make money. No good hoss thief steals a hoss fer the fun of givin’ it back.”
“But,” argued Deputy Breakenridge, “Sheriff Behan is very anxious to recover this animal. It would set him in right with the Contention people, and they control a lot of votes. It might help put him over at the next election.”
Curly ruminated for a while.
“You’re invitin’ me to bite off a purty big chaw,” he said. “But, to help Johnny out, I reckon I’ll see what I kin do. But it’s goin’ to kick up a hell of a fuss.”
Deputy Breakenridge saw Curly Bill and Frank McLowery in the kitchen arguing by candlelight across a table. Curly talked coldly and with an air of decisiveness. McLowery looked ugly, scowling, shaking his head and snapping out his words viciously.
When bedtime came, Deputy Breakenridge curled up on some blankets on the floor and slept peacefully; the law of hospitality was sacred; an enemy would have been safe under the outlaws’ roof. After breakfast next morning, Frank McLowery touched him on the arm.
“You’ll find the horse you’re after,” said McLowery with a wry smile, “hitched out at the corral.”
Deputy Breakenridge saddled his own horse and, leading the stolen thoroughbred, set out on his return to Tombstone. He had not gone far when, off at the side of the road a half mile or so, he saw six outlaws on horseback. They were riding slowly, but this meant nothing unless confidence that they had him trapped. If he continued to follow the road, they would run into him on their angling course a mile or two farther on. He jogged along, pretending to have no suspicion of danger. But he knew he must do something pretty quickly if he was to escape. No law of hospitality would protect him now.
A wagon train coming over from the Chiricahuas turned into the trail a little ahead of him. The wagons, piled high with lumber, were almost broadside to the outlaws. He rode unhurriedly behind the train. But as soon as he had disappeared from the view of the outlaws, he was suddenly transformed into a dynamo. He dismounted. Keeping both his horses at a walk he performed the difficult task of transferring his saddle from his pony to the thoroughbred. Throwing his pony’s halter rope to a teamster and telling him to lead the animal to Tombstone, he sprang on the clean-limbed racer and took it on the run. He shot into the clear past the head of the wagon train, and the dumbfounded outlaws saw him flashing across the valley like an antelope.
Tricked but not yet defeated, the outlaws came thundering after him. As they saw the thoroughbred drawing rapidly away, bullets began to kick up dust around the deputy. Bending over in his saddle, he urged his horse to more desperate speed. The sound of the firing began to grow faint. As he climbed the southern slopes of the Dragoons, he looked back. The outlaws had given up the chase. They were riding slowly back to the McLowery ranch. He watched them until they disappeared
