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Updated: May 31, 2025
And so they knew just how he died; and young Billy Breckenbridge, who came over into no-man's-land a day or two later, was able to piece out the story by backtracking along that trail through the sands; able to read those signs from the foot of the Dragoons on across the valley; and able also because he had seen that letter to realize the torture of memories which had come along with the torture of thirst to goad John Ringo on to self-destruction.
The dot crept on, took strange new shapes that changed phantasmally, then vanished behind the curtain of which for a passing moment it had been a part. Thus young Breckenbridge rode beyond the dominion of the written law and was swallowed up by no-man's-land. When he had started forth from Tombstone he merely knew his errand; he owned no plan.
So through the good-will of Curly Bill young Breckenbridge recovered the thoroughbred from the man who had stolen it and brought it to Tombstone without being obliged to reach for his own gun. And moreover there were no hard feelings about it when he rode back into no-man's-land the next time. So far as Frank McLowery and the Clanton boys were concerned the incident was closed.
Scourged also by thoughts and memories which he had never revealed to men save only as he had hinted at them on that other afternoon to Breckenbridge the bad man drank the lukewarm whisky as he rode. And the liquor did its work until when he had gone two hours from the foot of the pass he realized that it was overcoming him.
A hand was laid on his shoulder, and turning he met the pale face of the surviving surgeon of the fever-stricken ship. "Seven more cases, Belton five prisoners and two marines." The master of the Breckenbridge buried his face in his hands and groaned aloud. "Can nothing be done, doctor? My God! it is terrible to see people perishing like this before our eyes when help is so near.
And those among them who were not gifted with the faculty of reading character but needed to see a man for themselves when the guns were blazing those individuals had to wait a long time. As for the others, what they said to themselves as one adventure followed another now in the career of Billy Breckenbridge you who read these words can judge, if you be blessed with ordinary perspicacity.
Such were the eastern end of Cochise County and its metropolis when Johnny Behan told young Billy Breckenbridge to cross the Dragoons and collect taxes throughout that section. If he expected a protest he was mistaken, for Breckenbridge took the bidding with his usual good-natured smile. And if the sheriff looked for a request for a posse he was disappointed.
And just to give his tale versimilitude he said he had done the killing from behind. The times were brisk; one shooting came so fast on the heels of its predecessor that every affair in its turn swiftly passed from public attention. By the time that Deputy Sheriff Breckenbridge arrived with the facts people were turning their minds to the big Benson stage hold-up.
Those were queer days, and if you judge things from our twentieth-century point of view you will probably find yourself bewildered. John Ringo was known to be a cattle-rustler, stage-robber, and according to the law a murderer. And Breckenbridge, whose duty it was to enforce the statutes, set out for the county seat alone on the strength of that promise.
Breckenbridge reached forth with his right hand. The outlaw smiled. His trigger-finger glided inside the guard; there was a sudden wrist movement and the revolver whirled end for end. Its muzzle was pressing against the deputy's waist-band. "Did it slow so's you could see," said Curly Bill. "Now yo' understand."
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