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Updated: May 31, 2025
"Ringo!" he managed to gasp. "Why, he's gone. I thought " Perfervid language followed. Johnny Behan had been a cow-boy in his time, and the court had in his unofficial capacity a rather large vocabulary of his own. In the end certain facts began to outline themselves through the sulphuric haze: the district attorney had offered objections to the proffered bail.
It was during this portion of the proceedings that Curly Bill, who had led the ambushing-party, learned whom the prisoners were seeking. He brought the news to John Ringo. "So it's me they're after," the outlaw said. "And it looks," said Curly Bill, "like Johnny Behan is in a mighty tight box, the way things has turned out."
He had a constable and twenty-five men with guns to back him." Another: "Last year, after settling with my landlord, my share was four bales of cotton. I shipped it to Richardson and May, 38 and 40 Perdido Street, New Orleans, through W.E. Ringo & Co., merchants, at Mound Landing, Miss. I lived four miles back of this landing.
John Ringo, on the other hand, was at outs with them; and soon after their advent into power he drifted away from Tombstone along with the other outlaws. To use the expression of the times, he was "short" in the mining town, which means that when he came there he had to be ready at all times to defend his life and liberty.
With the spread of the story Frank saw that Tombstone was no place for him at present and he left the camp. Whereby it happened that he was over in the San Simon on that hot day when John Ringo came across the Dragoon Mountains. And on the morning when the body was discovered he was riding through the pass on some dubious errand or other. News traveled slowly in those days.
"He doesn't look like a citizen of Saltillo," I went on. "No," said Bell, "he lives in Sacramento. He's down here on a little business trip. His name is George Ringo, and he's been my best friend in fact the only friend I ever had for twenty years." I was too surprised to make any further comment. Bell lived in a comfortable, plain, square, two-story white house on the edge of the little town.
And so one noontime when he was standing on the sidewalk among his fellow outlaws, John Ringo was seized with an idea. He looked across the street at the members of the Earp party, who were regarding the desperadoes in ominous silence. The idea grew more powerful, until it owned him.
"There come a time, not long afterward," he went on, "when I was able to do a good turn for George Ringo. George had made a little pile of money in beeves and he was up in Denver, and he showed up when I saw him, wearing deer-skin vests, yellow shoes, clothes like the awnings in front of drug stores, and his hair dyed so blue that it looked black in the dark.
He sat, of course, facing the door, and Kettle-Belly Johnson occupied the opposite chair. On the two other players, one of whom was flanking John Ringo on each side, there is no need to waste words; they belonged to the same breed as the poetically rechristened Johnson, the breed that got its name from shaking dice against Mexicans out of tin horns.
It looked promising, for Ringo was the brains of the bad men; with him in custody it should be easy to lay hands on Curly Bill, who was at the time over in the lawless town of Charleston on the San Pedro. They made their plans toward that end; and, just to make doubly sure, they arranged with the district attorney to see that Ringo should be kept in jail for at least twenty-four hours.
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