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So John Ringo went his way, a marked man, and many a trigger-finger itched when he appeared in Tombstone; many a bold spirit longed to take a shot at him. But the knowledge of his deadliness kept him from being made a target. He went his way, and it was a bad way. Dark deeds piled up to fill the debit pages of his life's ledger.
Several loomed far above the others: John Ringo, Prank Stilwell, Zwing Hunt, the Clanton brothers, and Billy Grounds. They were "He Wolves." And there was Curly Bill, the worst of all. He might be said to rule them. They settled down to business, which is to say they started to do the best they could for themselves according to their separate capacities for doing evil unto others.
John Ringo killed himself up in the San Simon, delirious from thirst. Rattlesnake Bill, who helped to spend the Mexican silver, was shot down by a fellow-rustler in Galeyville. Jake Gauz, another of the participants, was lynched for horse-stealing not far from the head of Turkey Creek Cañon.
Ringo asked. "I'd like to fix it to get bail, you know." "No charge against you," the sheriff said in the doorway. "You can go back downtown whenever you want to." With which he passed out into the corridor and forgot all about the matter. In the office Ringo stood scowling at the deputy. "That's plain murder," he said at length.
He carried her to Mississippi. She stayed there for a short time and then came to Arkansas. He settled in a little place called Tulip, Arkansas. Then freedom came and we came to Little Rock and settled at what is now Seventh and Ringo Streets; but then it was just a stage road leading to Benton, Arkadelphia, and other places. Stages passed twice a day with passengers and freight.
John was checking the bolt on his ancient rifle. "Hank and Ringo? Just got back an hour ago. If Varga wants to get his surface planes into action, he's going to have to dismantle them and rebuild them outside. The boys jammed up the launching ports for good." He spat again. "Don't worry, Pete. This is going to be a ground fight." "Okay." Pete held out his hand to the old man. "This may be it.
John Ringo was the big "He Wolf" among the outlaws, a man of quick intelligence who did not seem to care much whether he or the other fellow died. To him who wants the ornate trappings of the motion-picture bad man or the dialect which makes some desperadoes popular in fiction, Ringo would prove a disappointing figure as he showed up in southeastern Arizona.
But the accommodating cattle-buyer who arranged such matters for the bigger outlaws was out of town and would not be back until evening. Breckenbridge's horse was jaded, and if he wanted to reach Tombstone in good time he should be setting forth at once. "You go ahead," John Ringo bade him. "I'll catch up with you before you pass Sulphur Springs ranch."
Thence to the Ringo alehouse, and thither sent for a belt-maker, and bought of him a handsome belt for second mourning, which cost me 24s., and is very neat. 29th. My mind not pleased with the spending of this day, because I had proposed a great deal of pleasure to myself this day at Guildhall.
And Johnny Behan, who was, if the truth be owned, a very easy-going peace officer indeed, bade his prisoner depart. He did not know and Goodrich did not know that on this occasion the bailing out of John Ringo was going to be something more than a mere formality. So it came about that a number of people met with surprises this same morning.
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