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But these were ticklish times. The big Earp-Clanton feud was nearing its climax. The members of the latter faction–several of whom were wanted on Federal warrants which charged them with stage-robbery–were keeping pretty well holed up, as the saying is, and it was not unlikely that if any of them were in the ranch-house at the time, the visitor who was not extremely skilful in announcing himself would be shot first and questioned afterward.

So when Billy Breckenbridge came to the house he did not draw rein but kept right on as if he were riding past. Fortune had favored him by interposing in his path an enormous puddle, almost a pond, the overflow from a broken irrigation ditch. He pulled up at this obstacle and hallooed loudly.

“Any way through here?” he shouted. “This is Breckenbridge.”

A moment’s silence, and then a streak of light showed where the front door had been opened a crack.

“Sit quiet on that there hoss,” a gruff voice commanded, “and lemme see if you be Breckenbridge.”

“Hallo, Bill,” the deputy sheriff answered. “Yes, it’s me all right.”

And Curly Bill opened the door wider, revealing his burly form.

“Put up yo’r pony in the corral,” he said, “and come in.”

When Breckenbridge had complied with the last part of the invitation he found the bare room filled with men. The McLowery boys were there, two of them, and the Clantons. Half a dozen other outlaws were lounging about, and Curly Bill himself was looking none too pleasant as he nodded to the visitor.

“Cain’t tell who might come ridin’ in these nights,” he growled by way of explanation for his curt welcome. “Set up and eat a bite now yo’ ‘re here.”

The lateness of the meal and the general dishevelment of the room’s occupants made it clear to the guest that every one had been riding hard that day. 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. Not only that, but if I get it back it means a whole lot to the office; it’ll put Behan solid with those people over at Contention, and that helps me.”

The outlaw nodded but made no remark by way of comment. Some time later he sat up at the oilcloth-covered table talking quietly with Frank McLowery. And Brenckenridge saw McLowery scowling. Then he felt reasonably sure who had stolen that blooded animal and who was going to bring it back to Tombstone in the morning.

Bedding-rolls were being unlashed within the half-hour. McLowery brought Breckenbridge a pair of blankets.

“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. Evidently the horse was going to be in his possession the next morning.

McLowery’s sullenness seemed to have been contagious and there were no good-nights said to the guest. He knew every man in the room; some of them he had known ever since that evening when Curly Bill had taken him to the rustler’s camp is the San Simon. But the best he got from any of them was an averted look; several were scowling openly. Even Curly Bill had put aside his usual heavy joviality. It was clear that the burly leader had strained a point in going as far as he had. Some men might have felt uneasy in dropping off to sleep under the circumstances, but Breckenbridge understood his hosts well enough to be certain that, so long as he was on the ranch, the sacred rites of hospitality were going to be observed. So he closed his eyes and the last thing he heard was the snoring of outlaws and murderers.