“’Twas when I shot that cup from Shorty’s hand.”
He shrugged his big shoulders and, with a grin––
“Plenty more good ponies in the valley––and the nights are moonlight now.”
When they were back facing the battered bar young Breckenbridge explained, his business in no-man’s-land.
“And this end of the county,” he wound up, “is sort of rough. If I’d ride around alone, packing that money, somebody’s liable to get the best of me when I’m not looking for it. I’ve got to have a good man along to help take care of that roll. And I’d admire to have you make the trip with me.”
Curly Bill was a great deal slower at thinking than he was at drawing his gun and there was much food for thought in that bold proposition. He gazed at young Breckenbridge for some moments in silence. Gradually his lips relaxed. Smiling, he turned and addressed the occupants of the room.
“Boys,” he cried, “line up.”
And when the line was formed before the bar he waved his hand.
“This here’s the deputy sheriff, come to collect the taxes in our end of the county; and I aim to help him do the job up right.”
By what means Curly Bill supplied himself with a new pony this chronicler does not know. But it is a fact that the outlaw rode forth from Galeyville the next day along with Johnny Behan’s deputy, to guide the 115 latter through the Sulphur Springs valley and the San Simon––and to guard the county’s funds.