There was a bit of parleying through the closed door and finally-- "Man by the name of Johnson is the complaining witness," young Breckenbridge elucidated. "According to what I hear, the play came up along of a poker game." John Ringo swore lightly. "Come in," he bade the deputy. "I'll get my clothes on in a minute." He laughed sourly as he was pulling on his boots some moments later. "Looks as if the grand jury's hard up for something to do," he observed. He rose and belted on his gun, a proceeding about which his custodian, being unburdened with any desire to burn powder over such hair-splitting technicalities as a man's right to wear weapons on his way to jail, made no comment. "We'll go down the street," the prisoner suggested as they were leaving the cabin, "and I'll fix it up to get bail." But the accommodating cattle-buyer who arranged such matters for the bigger outlaws was out of town and would not be back until evening. Breckenbridge's horse was jaded, and if he wanted to reach Tombstone in good time he should be setting forth at once. "You go ahead," John Ringo bade him. "I'll catch up with you before you pass Sulphur Springs ranch." Those were queer days, and if you judge things from our twentieth-century point of view you will probably find yourself bewildered. John Ringo was known to be a cattle-rustler, stage-robber, and--according to the law--a murderer. And Breckenbridge, whose duty it was to enforce the statutes, set out for the county seat alone on the strength of that promise. Nor was he in the least surprised when his prisoner, who had ridden all night to make good his word, overtook him in the middle of the valley. Queer days indeed! And the threads of some men's lives were sadly tangled. Such desperadoes as Curly Bill were easy enough to read; just rough-and-tumble cow-boys who had taken to whisky and bad company. But behind the somber mask of John Ringo's face there lurked a hidden history; something was there which he did not choose to reveal to the rest of the world. The mail had come to Galeyville after young Breckenbridge left. There is nothing more conducive to confidences than a long ride through a lonely country. And when these two were jogging across the wide, arid reaches of the Sulphur Springs Valley the outlaw pulled a letter from his pocket; the envelope was already broken. Evidently he had read its contents before; now he scanned them for a long time and his dark face was set. He thrust the paper back into its enclosure; then suddenly, as one who yields to impulse, reined his pony closer to his companion and held forth the envelope for him to read. "Look at that writing," he said quietly. The hand was unmistakably that of a woman of education. "My sister," he added, and shoved the letter into his pocket. They rode some distance in silence and then-- "And I'm here," John Ringo added in the same even voice. "She writes me regularly. Thinks I'm doing fine!"