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Updated: May 31, 2025
And Breckenbridge learned before he had gone very many miles that the badly wanted horse was headed in the direction of the McLowery ranch. The McLowery boys were members of the Clanton gang of rustlers and stage-robbers. It did not need a Sherlock Holmes to figure out the probabilities of where that horse was being pastured now. Breckenbridge pressed on to the McLowery place.
Deputy Sheriff Breckenbridge on his way back to Tombstone from some errand in the eastern end of the county was riding through Middle Pass in the Dragoons. As he came forth against the flaring sky-line at the summit he saw a rider coming toward him from the west.
It was an awkward moment and the constraint endured long after the last man had shoved back his chair and rolled his brown-paper cigarette. Curly Bill found an opportunity to get young Breckenbridge off to one side during the evening. "What's on yore mind?" he asked. The deputy told him. "The superintendent owns that horse," he explained, "and he's a good friend of mine.
Perhaps that was the reason the sheriff sent young Breckenbridge over into the eastern end of the county to collect the taxes before the latter had worn his star long enough to get used to it. In those days the sheriff's office levied assessments and did the collecting on personal property at the same time. Payments were made in cash; bank-checks were virtually unknown in Cochise County.
He gazed at young Breckenbridge for some moments in silence. Gradually his lips relaxed. Smiling, he turned and addressed the occupants of the room. "Boys," he cried, "line up." And when the line was formed before the bar he waved his hand. "This here's the deputy sheriff, come to collect the taxes in our end of the county; and I aim to help him do the job up right."
It was late the next day before the last of them rode back through the foot-hills of the Mule Mountains to their homes. But all of this is apart from the story. The point is that John Ringo saddled up that very night and journeyed to Tombstone, where he sought out young Billy Breckenbridge.
And Breckenbridge nodded, knowing now the manner in which Marshal White had met his death on the day when his companion had fled from the law. In no-man's-land they shook hands at parting. "So-long," said Curly Bill. "See you later." And the deputy answered with like brevity, then rode on to Tombstone.
Ever since the Breckenbridge had left Rio, one or more of the convicts, seamen, or military guard had died day after day; and he had striven hard since the outbreak of the fever to stay its deadly progress.
"Reckon you'll have to make down on the floor same as the rest of the boys," the outlaw growled and then, as if it were an afterthought, "That there boss yo' 're looking fer is near the ranch." And that was all the talk there was on the subject during the evening. But Breckenbridge spread his blankets and lay down among the rustlers serene in mind.
We get along all right with him and I reckon we ain't going to stand for any cow-thieves from Lincoln County gettin' brash with him." Something like two years had passed now since young Billy Breckenbridge first rode across the Dragoon Mountains into no-man's-land and, as the old-timers who had been watching him all this time well knew, things could not go on in this way forever.
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