Wyatt Earp looked at Ringo for a moment in amazement.
“Ringo,” he said, “I’m not given to makin’ sucker plays. If you’re drunk or crazy, I’m neither one nor the other. I’d be a fine simpleton—a peace officer and candidate for sheriff—to fight a duel with you in the street. Go and sleep it off.”
He turned on his heel and went inside the saloon. Doc Holliday, second only to Wyatt Earp in the affairs of the Earp faction, remained standing in the door, a cold little smile on his cadaverous face. Ringo drew a handkerchief from the breast pocket of his coat and flipped a corner of it toward Holliday.
“They say you’re the gamest man in the Earp crowd, Doc,” Ringo said. “I don’t need but three feet to do my fighting. Here’s my handkerchief. Take hold.”
Holliday took a quick step toward him.
“I’m your huckleberry, Ringo,” replied the cheerful doctor. “That’s just my game.”
Holliday put out a hand and grasped the handkerchief. Both men reached for their six-shooters.
“No, you don’t,” cried Mayor Thomas, springing between them. “You’ll fight no handkerchief duel here. There’s been enough killing in Tombstone, and it’s got to stop.”
That ended it. Holliday went into the saloon. Ringo withdrew across the street. The apostle of spiritual liberty had a rather crestfallen air, for all the fool’s courage he had displayed. The first move in his crusade for a wilder, tougher Tombstone had been decisively defeated.
Sheriff Behan was sitting in his office with Deputy Breakenridge when news of this affair reached him.
“What do you suppose John Ringo’s been up to now?” said the sheriff. “Go and bring him in.”
Deputy Breakenridge found Ringo pacing up and down in front of the Grand Hotel, his spirit hot and disturbed, and conducted him to the office.
“What’s the trouble, Ringo?” asked the sheriff.
“Nothing much,” replied the outlaw. “I simply offered to shoot it out with the Earps—that’s all. Wyatt Earp backed down, excusing himself on the ground of politics. Holliday was willing. Doc’s game, all right. I’ll give him credit for that. But I’m not keen about being locked up, Johnny. How about my making bail?”
“You’re not arrested. Give up your guns and you can go.”
Ringo unbuckled his two guns and handed them over. Sheriff Behan placed them in a desk drawer and went up town.
“That’s a right sweet little trick Johnny’s played on me,” remarked Ringo after the sheriff had gone. “My life won’t be worth a white chip if those fellows catch me without my guns.”
Deputy Breakenridge sat for a while in deep thought.
“I don’t see any way out of it,” he said at length. “I guess the sheriff didn’t think what it would mean. But, you know, he’s the boss.”
Deputy Breakenridge stepped over to the desk, opened the drawer, and left Ringo’s guns in plain view. Then he went out the door. When he returned, Ringo and the guns were gone. Also Deputy Breakenridge had made John Ringo his friend for life.
Not long after this, Ringo and Dave Estes robbed a poker game in Evilsizer’s saloon in Galeyville. It was not a heroic feat, but the two outlaws needed the money. Having played since morning with the luck against them, they arose at midnight as neatly cleaned as if they had been to the laundry. They held counsel together as they went to the corral after their ponies. A fellow named Webb was spreading down four aces on the table as Ringo and Estes reentered at the front door.
“If I know anything about poker,” remarked Ringo, covering the players with his gun, “a six-shooter beats four aces.”
Having pocketed $500, the two outlaws rode off across the mountains. Ringo had perpetrated such little pleasantries before, and the gentlemen who had been robbed had always laughed heartily, feeling it a little unsafe to do anything else. So a week or so after this latest drollery, Ringo was back in Galeyville amusing himself in his saturnine way as if nothing had happened. Deputy Breakenridge rode in one morning and served him with a warrant charging robbery with a gun.
“So those fellows couldn’t take a joke, eh?” said Ringo, greatly astonished. “The damned blacklegs have no sense of humour.”
Deputy Breakenridge was in a hurry to get back to Tombstone. Ringo had some business matters to settle.
“Tell you how we’ll fix it up, Billy,” said Ringo. “You hit the trail, and as soon as I’ve straightened up my affairs, I’ll catch up with you.”
Deputy Breakenridge hesitated.
“You have John Ringo’s word,” said the outlaw, straightening.
So Deputy Breakenridge started home alone. Having made camp that night at Mormon Smith’s, he struck across Sulphur Springs Valley next morning. Noontime came, with no sign of Ringo. The late afternoon shadows began to lengthen. Still no Ringo. Deputy Breakenridge began to fret and stew with anxiety. Sheriff Behan would raise cain if he came in without his prisoner. Ringo was an outlaw, after all. Maybe it had been silly to trust him. If Ringo had lied. … Far across the valley Deputy Breakenridge saw a little swirl of dust. A horseman came into view riding hard. When Ringo drew alongside, his horse was wet with sweat. The outlaw had ridden all night to keep his promise.
“Think I wasn’t coming?” he asked.
“No,” replied Breakenridge Deputy. “Never had the least doubt in the world about it. I had your word. That was enough for me.”
That night, in Sheriff Behan’s office in Tombstone, Ringo sent for Lawyer Ben Goodrich to arrange bail, and from the lawyer he heard disturbing news. Curly Bill was accused of having robbed the stage at Robbers’ Roost single-handed, and the Earps, it was reported, had located him in Charleston and planned to capture him next day. This made it vital for Ringo to get to Charleston as quickly as possible. Curly Bill was probably drunk on
