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“Well, sir, next mo’nin’ I was sittin’ in front of the hotel in the shade of those big cottonwoods, sort of dozing, having been up kind of late after the church-going; and the first thing I knew somebody was saying–

“‘Hanzup.’

“I opened my eyes and here was ol’ Jim Burnett with that double-barrel shotgun throwed down on me, I knew there was no use tryin’ to get the play away from him, either; only a day or two before that he’d stuck up Johnny Harker and fined him a bunch of three-year-old steers for shootin’ up the town. So I obeyed orders and–

“‘Curly Bill,’ says he, ‘yo’ ‘re tried herewith and found guilty of disturbin’ the peace at the Baptis’ Church last evenin’; and the sentence of this co’t is twenty-five dollars’ fine.’

“I shelled out then and there and glad to do it, too. Them two muzzles was lookin’ me right between the eyes all the while.”

Up in the San Simon country they ran short of grub and after going two days on scanty rations–

“The’ ‘s a canyon fifteen miles south of here,” the outlaw said. “I reckon some of the boys might be camping there now.”

They rode hard that afternoon and reached the place some time before sundown. The boys of whom Curly Bill had spoken were there all right, ten of them, and none of the number but was known at the time over in Tombstone either as a rustler or a stage-robber. His guide introduced Breckenbridge with the usual terseness of such ceremonies among his kind.

Whatever of constraint there was at the beginning wore away during the progress of the evening, and on the next morning before they left the gorge the young deputy worked his way into the good graces of his hosts by winning twenty dollars from them shooting at a mark.

By this time they were nearing the end of their tour and it was only a few days later, when they were crossing the Sulphur Springs valley toward the frowning Dragoons, that Curly Bill bestowed a final confidence upon his companion. They were nooning at the time and somehow or other the usual question of revolver-handling had come up.

“I’m goin’ to tell yo’-all something,” said Curly Bill, “that mebbe it will come in handy to remember. Now here.”

He drew his forty-five and held it forth butt foremost in his right hand.

“Don’t ever go to take a man’s gun that-a-way,” he went on, “for when yo’ are figuring that yo’ have the drop on him and he is makin’ the play to give it up–Jest reach out now to get it.”

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.”

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. Those who had banked on the big issue wherein Breckenbridge would smell the other man’s powder-smoke were disappointed. And there were some among them who shook their heads when the young fellow’s name was mentioned, saying, as they had said in the beginning:

“Wait till the show-down comes; then we’ll see how he stacks up.”

But Sheriff Johnny Behan was open in his rejoicings. For the sheriff’s enemies were many and some of them were powerful, and his conduct in office was being subjected to a great deal of harsh criticism, oftentimes, it must be admitted, with entire justice. So when the smiling young deputy returned from a region where Cochise County had hitherto been unable to gather any taxes, and deposited a sum wherein every property-owner in that region was properly represented, here was good news with which to counteract accusations of laxity.