John Ringo stalks through the stories of old Tombstone days like a Hamlet among outlaws, an introspective, tragic figure, darkly handsome, splendidly brave, a man born for better things, who, having thrown his life recklessly away, drowned his memories in cards and drink and drifted without definite purpose or destination.

As Curly Bill’s right-hand man, he took part in the raids of his outlaw associates, drank and gambled with them, was one of them in crime and dissipation, but he remained a man apart. Tall, of sculpturesque physique and lean, saturnine face, he was a silent man of mystery who, in moods of bitter melancholy, sometimes spoke of suicide. He was held in fear by the outlaws and by everyone who knew him, and there was no doubt about his desperate courage. His recklessness, perhaps, was due to the small value he placed upon his life; if someone else killed him, he would be saved the trouble of killing himself.

His sombre eyes seemed brooding upon a fate that had changed a life of bright promise into a career of sinister futilities. He was plainly a man of some breeding and inherent refinement. The primitive speech of the frontier was not his language; he spoke literate English, and many believed, though it is improbable, that he had been educated at college. The other outlaws caroused to satisfy an animal lust for riotous pleasures. Ringo apparently drank to forget, and the stinging tanglefoot whisky of the wild country was the only convenient nepenthe. He evidently had fallen far, but even in the tragic ruin of his life he retained something of the dignity and commanding qualities of his former estate.

He was, if ever there was such a thing in the world, an honourable outlaw. His word once given was kept inviolately. Those to whom he made a promise could be sure he would fulfill it to the last letter, or die trying. Old-timers still tell of his quixotic ideals regarding women. Womanhood to him was an icon before which he bowed in reverence. No woman was so bad that she was ever outside the pale of his knightly chivalry. A man who in his presence made a disparaging remark about any woman, be she irreproachable maid or matron or red-light siren, had to eat his words or fight. That was John Ringo’s way.

Ringo was born in Texas. While he was little more than a boy, he became involved in a war between sheep and cattle men. His only brother was killed in the feud, and Ringo hunted down the three murderers and killed them. His vengeance satisfied, he left the country to escape the law, and for years was a vagabond through the West, living by his wits, his six-shooter, and his dexterity at cards, and wandering finally to Arizona, where he threw in with Curly Bill. This was Ringo’s own story of how he came to drift into outlawry. It was told in a rare mood of confidence to William Fyffe, a Mormon rancher on Five Mile Creek in the Chiricahuas, at whose home he often stopped overnight on his trips between Tombstone and Galeyville.

Ringo came by his reckless courage honestly. He was a second cousin of the famous Younger brothers of Missouri, whose exploits as guerillas under the black flag of the bloody Quantrill and as bank robbers with Frank and Jesse James, fill a red chapter in Western history. The Youngers were of Missouri and Kentucky stock and were perhaps forced into lawlessness as a result of the savage hatreds that grew up on the Missouri-Kansas border during the war between the North and South. The Younger family is an extensive one, and numbers many men throughout the country of honourable and distinguished name in business and the professions. Ringo’s three sisters, to whom he was devotedly attached, lived in San José, California, with Col. Coleman Younger, his grandfather.

Once, while riding through Sulphur Springs Valley with Deputy Sheriff William Breakenridge, Ringo drew a letter from his pocket. He had read the letter before, perhaps many times, but he read it again with an air of deep abstraction. When he had folded the missive and put it back in its envelope, he fell into momentary silent reverie. He shook his head sadly as he held out the envelope to Breakenridge.

“Seems strange,” he said, “for a tough, no-good fellow like me to get a letter like this.”

“Sweetheart?” queried Breakenridge, noting the superscription was in a woman’s hand.

“My sister,” said Ringo solemnly. “She writes to me regularly. Thinks I’m in the cattle business out here and doing fine. Doing fine. Humph! Dear little sister, I hope she never learns the truth.”

Curly Bill, since the killing of Town Marshal White, had given Tombstone a wide berth. Ringo, the Clantons, McLowerys, and others among the outlaws still dropped in occasionally, and as long as they conducted themselves quietly, the Earps did not molest them. The outlaws were Sheriff Behan’s problem, and as long as he saw fit to remain amiable and tolerant, Wyatt Earp preserved an armed neutrality. Ringo did not approve of the Earps. Under the administration of these six-shooter Puritans, the fatal peace of a New England village seemed settling upon Tombstone. Things had come to such a pass that, in the decadent serenity of the camp, a man almost felt called on to explain his thirst, and when decent outlaws, in the enjoyment of their constitutional privileges, wished to shoot out the lights, they must retire to such provincial places as Charleston and Galeyville. This sort of injustice rankled with Ringo. He stood for the wide-open frontier of old tradition, and as an apostle of spiritual liberty, he felt called on to regenerate Tombstone and restore it to its lost prestige as the toughest town in the Southwest. The whole question, it seemed to him, might be settled by ordeal of personal combat between himself as champion of the outlaws and Wyatt Earp as champion of the law and order crowd.

Ringo’s appearance in Tombstone became a challenge.

“Everybody looked for a fight every time Ringo came to town,” said William Lutly, freighting lumber over from the Chiricahuas in those days. “He was plainly spoiling for a fight. He’d swagger up and down Allen Street, looking mighty hostile with his big, ivory-handled guns buckled around him. Or in cold weather, he wore a great shaggy buffalo-skin overcoat, a six-shooter, of course, in each pocket. Then he looked like a giant. If he saw the Earps standing on a corner, he made it a point to walk past them and stare them in the eye. Or he would stroll into the Oriental, the Earp hangout, and take a drink as cool as you please with the place full of Earp men and maybe one or two of the Earps talking with Doc Holliday at the other end of the bar. It was fine, impressive swashbuckling, and the way everybody figured it was that Ringo was willing to get killed for the privilege of taking one or two of the Earps with him. His chances in a single-handed fight against the Earps would have been about the same a jackrabbit would have in a pack of lobo wolves. The Earps and Doc Holliday were as hard, desperate men as he was.”

Wyatt, Virgil, and Morgan Earp and Doc Holliday stood one day in front of Bob Hatch’s saloon and billiard parlour chatting with Mayor Charles N. Thomas. Directly across Allen Street John Ringo, Ike, Finn, and Billy Clanton, and Tom and Frank McLowery lounged in front of the Grand Hotel. The situation appealed to Ringo as ideal for putting into effect his obsession for settling the enmity between Earps and outlaws by personal combat between individual champions. He stalked across the street.

“Wyatt Earp,” he said, “I’ll make you a proposition. We hate you and you hate us. If this feeling keeps up, there’s going to be a battle some day, and a lot of men’ll be killed. You and I can settle this whole thing. Just the two of us. Come out into the middle of the street with me, and we’ll step off ten paces and shoot it out, fair and square, man to man.”

Wyatt Earp looked at Ringo for a moment in amazement.

“Ringo,” he said, “I’m not given to makin’ sucker plays. If you’re drunk or crazy, I’m neither one nor the other. I’d be a fine simpleton⁠—a peace officer and candidate for sheriff⁠—to fight a duel with you in the street. Go and sleep it off.”

He turned on his heel and went inside the saloon. Doc Holliday, second only to Wyatt Earp in the affairs of the Earp faction, remained standing in the door, a cold little smile on his cadaverous face. Ringo drew a handkerchief from the breast pocket of his coat and flipped a corner of it toward Holliday.

“They say you’re the gamest man in the Earp crowd, Doc,” Ringo said. “I don’t need but three feet to do my fighting. Here’s my handkerchief. Take hold.”

Holliday took a quick step toward him.

“I’m your huckleberry, Ringo,” replied the cheerful doctor. “That’s just my game.”

Holliday put out a hand and grasped the handkerchief. Both men reached for their six-shooters.

“No, you don’t,” cried Mayor Thomas, springing between them. “You’ll fight no handkerchief duel here. There’s been enough killing in Tombstone, and it’s got to stop.”

That ended it. Holliday went into the saloon. Ringo withdrew across the street. The apostle of spiritual liberty had a rather crestfallen air, for all the fool’s courage he had displayed. The first move in his crusade for a wilder, tougher Tombstone had been decisively defeated.

Sheriff Behan was sitting in his office with Deputy Breakenridge when news of this affair reached him.

“What do you suppose John Ringo’s been up to now?” said the sheriff. “Go and bring him in.”

Deputy Breakenridge found Ringo pacing up and down in front of the Grand Hotel, his spirit hot and disturbed, and conducted him to the office.

“What’s the trouble, Ringo?” asked the sheriff.

“Nothing much,” replied the outlaw. “I simply offered to shoot it out with the Earps⁠—that’s all. Wyatt Earp backed down, excusing himself on the ground of politics. Holliday was willing. Doc’s game, all right. I’ll give him credit for that. But I’m not keen about being locked up, Johnny. How about my making bail?”

“You’re not arrested. Give up your guns and you can go.”

Ringo unbuckled his two guns and handed them over. Sheriff Behan placed them in a desk drawer and went up town.

“That’s a right sweet little trick Johnny’s played on me,” remarked Ringo after the sheriff had gone. “My life won’t be worth a white chip if those fellows catch me without my guns.”

Deputy Breakenridge sat for a while in deep thought.

“I don’t see any way out of it,” he said at length. “I guess the sheriff didn’t think what it would mean. But, you know, he’s the boss.”

Deputy Breakenridge stepped over to the desk, opened the drawer, and left Ringo’s guns in plain view. Then he went out the door. When he returned, Ringo and the guns were gone. Also Deputy Breakenridge had made John Ringo his friend for life.

Not long after this, Ringo and Dave Estes robbed a poker game in Evilsizer’s saloon in Galeyville. It was not a heroic feat, but the two outlaws needed the money. Having played since morning with the luck against them, they arose at midnight as neatly cleaned as if they had been to the laundry. They held counsel together as they went to the corral after their ponies. A fellow named Webb was spreading down four aces on the table as Ringo and Estes reentered at the front door.

“If I know anything about poker,” remarked Ringo, covering the players with his gun, “a six-shooter beats four aces.”

Having pocketed $500, the two outlaws rode off across the mountains. Ringo had perpetrated such little pleasantries before, and the gentlemen who had been robbed had always laughed heartily, feeling it a little unsafe to do anything else. So a week or so after this latest drollery, Ringo was back in Galeyville amusing himself in his saturnine way as if nothing had happened. Deputy Breakenridge rode in one morning and served him with a warrant charging robbery with a gun.

“So those fellows couldn’t take a joke, eh?” said Ringo, greatly astonished. “The damned blacklegs have no sense of humour.”

Deputy Breakenridge was in a hurry to get back to Tombstone. Ringo had some business matters to settle.

“Tell you how we’ll fix it up, Billy,” said Ringo. “You hit the trail, and as soon as I’ve straightened up my affairs, I’ll catch up with you.”

Deputy Breakenridge hesitated.

“You have John Ringo’s word,” said the outlaw, straightening.

So Deputy Breakenridge started home alone. Having made camp that night at Mormon Smith’s, he struck across Sulphur Springs Valley next morning. Noontime came, with no sign of Ringo. The late afternoon shadows began to lengthen. Still no Ringo. Deputy Breakenridge began to fret and stew with anxiety. Sheriff Behan would raise cain if he came in without his prisoner. Ringo was an outlaw, after all. Maybe it had been silly to trust him. If Ringo had lied.⁠ ⁠… Far across the valley Deputy Breakenridge saw a little swirl of dust. A horseman came into view riding hard. When Ringo drew alongside, his horse was wet with sweat. The outlaw had ridden all night to keep his promise.

“Think I wasn’t coming?” he asked.

“No,” replied Breakenridge Deputy. “Never had the least doubt in the world about it. I had your word. That was enough for me.”

That night, in Sheriff Behan’s office in Tombstone, Ringo sent for Lawyer Ben Goodrich to arrange bail, and from the lawyer he heard disturbing news. Curly Bill was accused of having robbed the stage at Robbers’ Roost single-handed, and the Earps, it was reported, had located him in Charleston and planned to capture him next day. This made it vital for Ringo to get to Charleston as quickly as possible. Curly Bill was probably drunk on the loot of the holdup, and unless Ringo arrived in time to aid him, the outlaw leader would doubtless be caught in the Earp trap.

“Get my bail and get it quick,” snapped Ringo to Lawyer Goodrich.

While the lawyer was hunting a bondsman, Wyatt Earp learned with keen satisfaction of Ringo’s arrival as a prisoner. With Ringo in jail, the capture of Curly Bill would be simplified. Wyatt Earp called on the district attorney and obtained from that official a promise to keep Ringo locked up without bail for twenty-four hours.

Lawyer Goodrich, having arranged matters, returned to Sheriff Behan’s office.

“Everything’s all right, Johnny,” he said. “I’ve got good securities. They’ll be in court tomorrow. With the bail fixed up, I guess there’s no need for detaining Ringo any longer.”

“No, I guess not,” replied Sheriff Behan, feeling that, under the circumstances, it would be unnecessary to await official approval of the bond. “You can go any time you like, Ringo.”

A few minutes later, Ringo was on his horse and burning up the road to Charleston.

Wyatt and Virgil Earp and Doc Holliday set out for Charleston early next day. Riding past Robbers’ Roost and the old Brunckow mine, they emerged from the hills. Bathed in crisp sunshine, Charleston was just below them across the San Pedro. They arrived at the bridge. As they started to cross it, they reined their horses to an abrupt halt.

At the far end of the bridge, John Ringo stood facing them holding a rifle as a hunter holds a gun when the dogs are at point and the quail are about to flush from cover.

“Come on in, boys,” called Ringo. “The water’s fine.”

This was a surprising situation. Ringo was supposed to be securely locked in jail back in Tombstone, and just as the Earps were about to swoop down on Curly Bill, here was Ringo holding the bridge and blocking their way to Charleston. The Earp trio advised together. As Ringo was here, Curly Bill probably wasn’t. Moreover, it looked a little like suicide to go any farther. So, wisely it seemed, they turned their horses in the direction of Tombstone and rode off slowly.

“We’ll see you some other time, Ringo,” shouted Wyatt Earp. “Give our regards to Curly.”

As John Ringo’s famous victory at the Charleston bridge became history, Sheriff Behan appeared in the District Court in Tombstone.

“I’ll be ready in a few minutes,” said the judge to the sheriff, “to take up the matter of John Ringo’s bail.”

“Ringo’s bail?” exclaimed Sheriff Behan, his eyes wide with astonishment. “Ringo’s gone.”

“The district attorney,” returned the judge, “has declined to approve the bond offered.”

“I thought,” stammered the sheriff, turning red, “the bond was fixed up last night.”

“The sheriff is well aware,” replied the judge frigidly, “that a bond must be officially approved before a prisoner is released.”

“Well,” said Sheriff Behan helplessly, beads of perspiration popping out on his forehead, “Ringo’s disappeared. That’s all there is to it.”

“You are mistaken, Mr. Sheriff, in thinking that is all there is to it,” returned the judge in tones of ice. “I will continue this matter until tomorrow morning. If at that time you fail to produce John Ringo in court, I will hold you personally responsible.”

It was a chapfallen sheriff who sat in his office a little later with Deputy Breakenridge.

“What in hell are we going to do?” said Sheriff Behan.

“I’m damned if I know,” replied Deputy Breakenridge.

News of Sheriff Behan’s predicament reached Curly Bill in Charleston. Curly Bill laid the matter before John Ringo.

“Johnny Behan’s been our friend,” said Curly Bill, “and they might throw him loose from his job with this here judge all het up that-a-way. There’s no tellin’ what a lawyer can do to a feller. ’Twixt a lawyer and a catamount, I’d take chances on the catamount. But seein’ as how we got Johnny Behan into this hole, we got to git him out, and we got to do some mighty fast work. I don’t aim to lay down and see no friend of ours take the worst of it.”

When the District Court convened in Tombstone next day, the face of the judge was like a thundercloud. Lawyers looked grave. The crowd sat in hushed solemnity. Sheriff Behan stood before the tribunal with bowed head.

“Mr. Sheriff,” said the judge, “are you prepared to produce John Ringo?”

“No, your honour,” replied the sheriff contritely. “I owe this court a profound apology.”

The door of the courtroom opened and Deputy Breakenridge entered. Behind him stalked a tall, dark man with lean, saturnine face and sombre eyes.

“Your conduct, Mr. Sheriff,” the judge went on, “has been extremely reprehensible. This is a matter of very serious importance. This is⁠—”

“John Ringo!” shouted Sheriff Behan, his face beaming.

The ridiculous anticlimax left the honourable Court looking sheepish, his jaw hanging open on the last thunder note of his carefully prepared diatribe. The crowd roared, and scandalized bailiffs rapped for order. Through the merry tumult, Sheriff Behan, Deputy Breakenridge, and John Ringo passed out smiling.

“The friendship of these outlaws,” observed Sheriff Behan to Deputy Breakenridge after it was all over, “is at times embarrassing. But,” added Sheriff Behan, “at other times it makes a fellow feel like he was sitting behind an ace-full in a fat jack pot.”