“Get my bail and get it quick,” snapped Ringo to Lawyer Goodrich.
While the lawyer was hunting a bondsman, Wyatt Earp learned with keen satisfaction of Ringo’s arrival as a prisoner. With Ringo in jail, the capture of Curly Bill would be simplified. Wyatt Earp called on the district attorney and obtained from that official a promise to keep Ringo locked up without bail for twenty-four hours.
Lawyer Goodrich, having arranged matters, returned to Sheriff Behan’s office.
“Everything’s all right, Johnny,” he said. “I’ve got good securities. They’ll be in court tomorrow. With the bail fixed up, I guess there’s no need for detaining Ringo any longer.”
“No, I guess not,” replied Sheriff Behan, feeling that, under the circumstances, it would be unnecessary to await official approval of the bond. “You can go any time you like, Ringo.”
A few minutes later, Ringo was on his horse and burning up the road to Charleston.
Wyatt and Virgil Earp and Doc Holliday set out for Charleston early next day. Riding past Robbers’ Roost and the old Brunckow mine, they emerged from the hills. Bathed in crisp sunshine, Charleston was just below them across the San Pedro. They arrived at the bridge. As they started to cross it, they reined their horses to an abrupt halt.
At the far end of the bridge, John Ringo stood facing them holding a rifle as a hunter holds a gun when the dogs are at point and the quail are about to flush from cover.
“Come on in, boys,” called Ringo. “The water’s fine.”
This was a surprising situation. Ringo was supposed to be securely locked in jail back in Tombstone, and just as the Earps were about to swoop down on Curly Bill, here was Ringo holding the bridge and blocking their way to Charleston. The Earp trio advised together. As Ringo was here, Curly Bill probably wasn’t. Moreover, it looked a little like suicide to go any farther. So, wisely it seemed, they turned their horses in the direction of Tombstone and rode off slowly.
“We’ll see you some other time, Ringo,” shouted Wyatt Earp. “Give our regards to Curly.”
As John Ringo’s famous victory at the Charleston bridge became history, Sheriff Behan appeared in the District Court in Tombstone.
“I’ll be ready in a few minutes,” said the judge to the sheriff, “to take up the matter of John Ringo’s bail.”
“Ringo’s bail?” exclaimed Sheriff Behan, his eyes wide with astonishment. “Ringo’s gone.”
“The district attorney,” returned the judge, “has declined to approve the bond offered.”
“I thought,” stammered the sheriff, turning red, “the bond was fixed up last night.”
“The sheriff is well aware,” replied the judge frigidly, “that a bond must be officially approved before a prisoner is released.”
“Well,” said Sheriff Behan helplessly, beads of perspiration popping out on his forehead, “Ringo’s disappeared. That’s all there is to it.”
“You are mistaken, Mr. Sheriff, in thinking that is all there is to it,” returned the judge in tones of ice. “I will continue this matter until tomorrow morning. If at that time you fail to produce John Ringo in court, I will hold you personally responsible.”
It was a chapfallen sheriff who sat in his office a little later with Deputy Breakenridge.
“What in hell are we going to do?” said Sheriff Behan.
“I’m damned if I know,” replied Deputy Breakenridge.
News of Sheriff Behan’s predicament reached Curly Bill in Charleston. Curly Bill laid the matter before John Ringo.
“Johnny Behan’s been our friend,” said Curly Bill, “and they might throw him loose from his job with this here judge all het up that-a-way. There’s no tellin’ what a lawyer can do to a feller. ’Twixt a lawyer and a catamount, I’d take chances on the catamount. But seein’ as how we got Johnny Behan into this hole, we got to git him out, and we got to do some mighty fast work. I don’t aim to lay down and see no friend of ours take the worst of it.”
When the District Court convened in Tombstone next day, the face of the judge was like a thundercloud. Lawyers looked grave. The crowd sat in hushed solemnity. Sheriff Behan stood before the tribunal with bowed head.
“Mr. Sheriff,” said the judge, “are you prepared to produce John Ringo?”
“No, your honour,” replied the sheriff contritely. “I owe this court a profound apology.”
The door of the courtroom opened and Deputy Breakenridge entered. Behind him stalked a tall, dark man with lean, saturnine face and sombre eyes.
“Your conduct, Mr. Sheriff,” the judge went on, “has been extremely reprehensible. This is a matter of very serious importance. This is—”
“John Ringo!” shouted Sheriff Behan, his face beaming.
The ridiculous anticlimax left the honourable Court looking sheepish, his jaw hanging open on the last thunder note of his carefully prepared diatribe. The crowd roared, and scandalized bailiffs rapped for order. Through the merry tumult, Sheriff Behan, Deputy Breakenridge, and John Ringo passed out smiling.
“The friendship of these outlaws,” observed Sheriff Behan to Deputy Breakenridge after it was all over, “is at times embarrassing. But,” added Sheriff Behan, “at other times it makes a fellow feel like he was sitting behind an ace-full in a fat jack pot.”
X
Russian Bill’s Little Drama
Russian Bill materialized out of blue space and swaggered for a time among Tombstone’s saloons, attracting much curious attention. He was a mystery. Nobody knew him or had ever heard of him. Nor did he condescend to introduce himself by any other name. He was Russian Bill—that was all.
A remarkably handsome fellow was Russian Bill, with a cameo face, fine eyes, and golden-yellow hair that tumbled about his shoulders. He dressed in cowboy regalia, complete in every detail, from white, sugar-loaf sombrero to high-heeled half-boots with fancy tops and immense spurs that clanked noisily when he walked. It seemed evident at first glance that here was a bold, desperate fellow who probably would think no more of killing a man than
