“ ‘Curly,’ says I to myself when I sizes up this layout, ‘this is jest the place fer an old cow hand like you.’ So I’m aiming to head back fer Chihuahua and hook up with this here Mex gal and end my days thar peaceful. She’s got the blackest eyes and the reddest lips you ever seen, and she’s as white as me. Whiter, maybe. And as soon as the old man cashes in his chips, she gits all them cows.”
One of the outlaws arose and took a look over the embankment southward across the level reaches of the valley.
“Say, Curly,” he said abruptly, crouching down again, “what’d you do ef you met Wyatt Earp?”
“Kill him,” answered Curly Bill in a matter-of-fact voice. “He bent a gun over my head in Tombstone once, and I’ve been layin’ to git even with him ever sence.”
“Well, you’ve got your chance to git even right now,” retorted the outlaw. “Wyatt Earp, with five fellers with him, are right out yonder, ridin’ straight fer this here water hole.”
“You’re a liar,” said Curly Bill as he and all the other outlaws grabbed their rifles and scrambled to their feet.
The story of what happened at the Iron Springs water hole was told by Wyatt Earp himself.
“We had been riding in the hot sun since early,” said Wyatt Earp, “and we were glad when we saw those shady trees ahead of us. We were going along slowly, taking it easy. I may have been a little ahead of the five other fellows, but we were all nearly abreast. I had two six-shooters at my belt, a double-barrelled shotgun, looped to my pommel, hung under my left leg, and a Winchester was hanging in a scabbard on the right side of my horse. Not a soul was in sight. There wasn’t a sign of danger. But as we approached the water hole I had a queer feeling that I couldn’t explain even to myself—a sort of hunch that something was wrong, and I unslung the shotgun from the pommel and held it across my lap.
“This green spot in the desert valley looked as peaceful as any place I ever saw. The tall cottonwoods stood as still as if there’d never been such a thing in the world as a breeze, and through gaps between the willows I could see the pool of water as smooth as a piece of glass and glistening white in the sun. I was thinking what a fine place this would be to camp for the night with good grass and plenty of water for the horses when, from behind a bank, up rose nine men. Every man had a rifle at his shoulder, and every rifle blazed. Those fellows wasted no time. They meant business.
“I may have been crazy with excitement and scared half to death as I saw that line of guns burst into flame within thirty feet of me. But somehow I seemed to myself to be as calm as I ever was in my life. I knew there were nine men. How I knew I have no idea. I couldn’t have had time to count them. The mysterious way in which they rose out of the ground like nine devils clothed in fire brought back to me as clear as a flash the stories of witchcraft and magic I had heard in my childhood. When I saw Curly Bill, only half of his body showing above the bank, I seemed to hear myself saying, ‘Well, there’s Curly Bill. I’m a little surprised to run on to him out here on the desert. He looks natural. Hasn’t changed a bit since that night in Tombstone when Marshal White was killed. I wonder what old Curly’s been doing all this while.’ Then it occurred to me that it would be best for me to dismount. My horse might jump and spoil my aim. I probably could shoot better from the ground.
“I climbed down off my horse. I slipped one arm through a bridle rein. My horse couldn’t run off now and leave me there. As I stood there by my horse’s head, cocking my gun, I looked the nine men over. They struck me as pretty busy fellows, all with their heads down on their rifles and all firing away. I noted with surprise that every rifle seemed aimed at me. I rather resented that. I wanted to kill Curly Bill. I believed he had been in both plots that had resulted in the wounding of my brother Virgil and the death of my brother Morgan. I felt that, if any one of those nine men killed me before I killed Curly Bill, he would rob me of my one chance for vengeance, and I’d never have another. I seemed suddenly to be praying, and my prayer was that I wouldn’t be killed before I had killed Curly Bill. So I raised my shotgun to my shoulder and drew a careful bead on Curly Bill. As I sighted at Curly Bill, he was sighting at me. I could see the deep wrinkles about one of his eyes that was squinted shut. His other eye, held down close to his gun, was wide open. I noticed with curious interest that this one eye, blazing murder at me over his rifle barrel, was blacker than I remembered his eyes to have been when I saw him last. Then I pulled both triggers.
“Curly Bill threw up his hands. His rifle flew high in the air. He gave a yell that could have been heard a mile
