“This is Curly Bill.”
Young Breckenbridge smiled as usual and stretched forth his right hand. But the eyes of Curly Bill were narrow and his hand came out slowly. There was that in his whole manner which said he was on guard, watching every movement of the deputy.
And for this there was good reason. It was not long since Curly Bill had stood in very much the same attitude on Tombstone’s street facing Town Marshal White, the only difference being that his right hand on that occasion had been proffering his pistol, butt foremost, to the officer. And in the passing of the instant while Marshal White had touched the weapon with his fingertips the forty-five had swiftly reversed ends, to spit forth one leaden slug.
The officer had dropped in the dust of the roadway and Curly Bill had ridden out of town with a thousand dollars on his head. A thousand dollars was a thousand dollars and there was no telling what a man who wore a nickel-plated star might have up his sleeve.
“Mr. Breckenbridge,” the cattle-buyer said as the two palms met, “is here on civil business.”
The eyes of Curly Bill resumed their normal shape. His fingers tightened over the deputy’s.
“Howdy,” he said. “What yo’ going to have?”
While the sting of the cow-town whisky was still rankling in their throats a man entered the front door.
“Oh, Bill,” he called across the room, “your hoss is daid.”
Deserting the bar to delve into this mystery, they found the outlaw’s pony stretched out beside the 114 hitching-rack near the rear of the building. The owner cast one glance at the dead animal; then his eyes went to a shattered window.