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Knowing the grudge which his friend held against the sheriff, he was not surprised to see John Ringo's face grow darker and the light in his eyes more devilish. "I tell you what," the latter bade him after some moments of thinking. "You keep those fellows here to-night. Don't let one of them leave Charleston." And Curly Bill departed to see that the command was obeyed.
Being wise politicians, the leaders of the law-and-order party kept to themselves the information as to John Ringo's whereabouts. That evening they called a meeting of their followers, and a second posse set forth through the darkness for Charleston. There were some fifty-odd of them, well armed and enthusiastic. Their purpose was to bring the outlaw to the court-house the next morning.
The bearer of the weapon uttered a single word, a word which is not found in any dictionary although it has come down from the time when the first Englishman took to the highway to seek his daily meat. "Hanzup!" They obeyed and the ensuing silence was broken by the pleasant chink of money as John Ringo's left hand raked the winnings into his pocket.
Included in these were a delegation from the law-and-order party who rode over to Charleston to gather in Curly Bill but got no further than the approach to the bridge which spanned the San Pedro River. A solitary figure at the other end of the structure made them draw rein. John Ringo's voice reached them from across the stream. "Come on," he called. "I'm waiting for you."
And now that you have seen the men and the town, the tale can go on; it is a mere recital of certain incidents which took place during the last year or two of John Ringo's life; incidents which show the difference between his breed of bad man and the breed to which Buckskin Frank belonged. To the chronicler these incidents appeal for that very reason.
Half an hour passed; a man had brought Ringo's pony from the O.K. corral and left it at the hitching-rack before the court-house. Everything was in readiness except the cash. Finally Goodrich returned. "All right," he told the sheriff, who was seated at his desk. "I've got the bail here, Johnny. Everything's arranged."
But their astonishment at finding the leader of the desperadoes at large was as nothing compared to Johnny Behan's bewilderment when he met the district judge in the court-house corridor some time near noon. "I'll be ready to take up the matter of that man Ringo's bail in a few minutes," Judge Stilwell said pleasantly. The sheriff remained inarticulate for several seconds. Finally
Morning was drawing on toward noon when John Ringo's pony bore him downward from the living granite pinnacles to the glaring plain. Noon was passing as he jogged onward across the Sulphur Springs Valley. To this day, when ranchers have drawn floods of limpid water from the bowels of the earth, the place sees long periods whose heat is punishing.
But behind the somber mask of John Ringo's face there lurked a hidden history; something was there which he did not choose to reveal to the rest of the world. The mail had come to Galeyville after young Breckenbridge left. There is nothing more conducive to confidences than a long ride through a lonely country.
Observing the full ceremonials which dignify draw-poker, they let the chips and cards do all the talking and made signs when they chose to pass. It has been said that John Ringo's face was sullen and his eyes were somber; the depth of his unpleasant expression had grown this afternoon as the shabbiness of his luck increased. Or was it luck?
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