Tombstone

circle of the horizon. Suddenly something seemed to whisper into Slaughter’s ear, “You are in danger. Ride fast and ride hard.” He made no attempt to reason away the warning or to argue with his invisible guardian, but, putting spurs to his horse, rode at top speed into Tubac. There he talked a few moments with a storekeeper and rode toward his destination. But now he rode slowly. He no longer felt the urge for speed. Whatever the danger was, he knew it was past. An hour later, three Curly Bill outlaws galloped into Tubac, their horses lathered with sweat. They inquired of the storekeeper if Slaughter had passed that way. When they learned that Slaughter was an hour ahead of them, they cursed their luck and took the back trail. These three outlaws, as it was afterward established, had trailed Slaughter from the San Pedro Valley. The mysterious warning had saved Slaughter’s money and probably his life.

Slaughter’s ranch near Hereford was only a few miles south of that of the Clantons, and Slaughter’s herds suffered from the depredations of these bold rustlers. Several times, Slaughter rode to the Clanton ranch with a band of cowboys at his back and forcibly took back his stolen stock. Once he met Ike Clanton on his land and, drawing his gun, ordered him off, telling him he would kill him if he ever again caught him on his range. This rankled with Ike Clanton. He boasted in Charleston saloons he would even matters with this cattle man who was attempting to lord it in the Clantons’ own domain. Mr. and Mrs. Slaughter, in their buckboard, were driving from Tombstone to their ranch one night. It was a quiet night, and the valley was lighted by a full moon. Abruptly, Slaughter made a remark for which there seemed no reason.

“You drive the team,” he said to his wife. “I want my gun in my hand.”

“Why, what’s the matter?” asked his wife in astonishment. “I see nothing to cause alarm.”

“Neither do I,” replied Slaughter. “But do as I say.”

Mrs. Slaughter took the lines, and her husband drew his six-shooter and held it in his lap. They drove on for several miles. Nothing happened. The drawn revolver seemed so out of keeping with the peaceful night that Mrs. Slaughter began to laugh. Far ahead they suddenly heard the beat of a horse’s hoofs. A horseman rode out of the misty distance. The moonlight glittered on a six-shooter in his hand. It was Ike Clanton. As the moonlight glittered on Slaughter’s six-shooter also, the outlaw went by in silence. Slaughter had had no means of knowing he would encounter an enemy on the road. It was another one of his uncanny warnings.

On another occasion, the clairvoyance of Slaughter’s gray horse seemed superior to that of its master. Riding alone at night on the trail of a criminal and fatigued by a hard day’s journey, Slaughter picketed his horse and threw himself on the ground to sleep. The tired horse would neither rest nor graze. It nudged Slaughter with its nozzle. Sleepy and annoyed, Slaughter pushed it away. But the animal persisted. Still Slaughter refused to pay heed. Finally, the horse pawed Slaughter gently on the head with its forefoot. This was enough. The warning was clear. Slaughter saddled and rode. After going ten miles or so, he again threw himself down for sleep. This time the horse grazed quietly. Slaughter always believed some unseen danger threatened him that night, but he never learned what it was.

So, in the fullness of time, John Slaughter rose to riches and power on the frontier and became a cattle king. Fighting fearlessly and ceaselessly for his life, his home, his property, and the right to live in peace, he developed those qualities of mind and body that fitted him, when the hour came, to rule in Tombstone as sheriff and establish order in a land that had been the most lawless in the Southwest.

XIX

The Round Table’s Last Knight

Deep in the shaft of the Sulphuret mine a miner swung his pick. A loosened fragment of rock rolled against his boots. From the cavity oozed a few drops of water. They trickled down a stone slab in little dashes and zigzags and curlicues that were in very truth hieroglyphics of disaster. The cryptic message written by the water on the mine’s dark wall spelled the doom of Tombstone.

The mines were at the high tide of prosperity. Immense quantities of silver were being taken out. The rich lodes seemed inexhaustible. Then, without warning, water was struck at a depth of five hundred feet. An initial trickle became a flood. A subterranean lake or river apparently had been tapped. It seemed to underlie the entire range of hills. All the mines were affected. Bailing was impossible. The water boiled into the shafts in geyser spouts as thick as a man’s body.

The Grand Central and Contention mines, at an expense of $300,000, installed steam pumps. But the pumps drew water from all the mines. Their task, it was apparent from the beginning, was almost hopeless. When the surface pumping works were destroyed by fire in 1886, the water rose in the shafts all over the hill to a great depth within an hour, and all the Tombstone mines closed down. The water was like an impenetrable armour plate guarding vast silver treasure still unmined. Wealth with an estimated value of hundreds of millions of dollars remains in the Tombstone hills today. Probably it will remain untouched forever.

With the silver foundations on which it had been built suddenly washed away, Tombstone suffered a disaster comparable to that from an earthquake or a volcano in overwhelming eruption. Its boom collapsed. An army of miners departed. The exodus of citizens was like a flight. All the trails were crowded with wagons piled high with household goods rolling off over the horizon. From fifteen thousand to three thousand, the number of inhabitants