saddle with his hands folded on the horn, watching Curly with a cold gleam of amusement in his blue eyes. The rustler halted in surprise and Ringo said, “You wouldn’t be following me, would you, Curly?”
“Hell, I thought you were following me!”
Ringo sat up a little straighter in the saddle and his jaw got harder. But whether he actually took exception to the remark or just pretended to, Curly couldn’t tell. Yet he had the feeling that behind the hard surface of his face, Ringo was as pleased as a cat with a canary. “Don’t flatter yourself, Curly,” he said.
“Now why didn’t I think of that.”
“If I was following you,” Ringo said, “what were you doing back there behind me?”
‘’I thought you might want to talk.”
Ringo raised his brows and there was a slightly glazed look in his eyes. “When did you ever give anyone a chance to talk?”
“And I wanted to warn you that you could be riding into an ambush,” Curly added.
Ringo considered that for a moment, watching Curly thoughtfully. “You mean the Lefferts boys?”
“I wouldn’t put it past them. But it was Apaches I had in mind.”
“Apaches?”
The blank look of surprise on Ringo’s face made Curly feel mighty important. For once he knew about something before Ringo did. But he said with elaborate casualness, “There’s a young buck with a big nose who figgers he should be the one riding this here Appaloosa, not me.”
Ringo gave him a closer look, then scanned the rocks and brush. “So that’s why they’re sneaking around here. You stole a horse from them.”
Curly shrugged. “They stole a pinto from me. I went to the agency to complain about it, but they said there wasn’t anything they could do about it without getting the Apaches all stirred up, when they were already stirred up enough. So I waited till dark, then went to the Apache horse herd and cut out the best one I could find. I would of run off the whole bunch, but I didn’t want the army blaming me for the next Indian war.”
Ringo looked at him in amazement. “You actually went to the agency to complain about the Apaches stealing a horse from you? You, the biggest horse thief in Arizona. That took confidence, Curly, it really did. No wonder they laughed in your face.”
“They didn’t exactly laugh in my face,” Curly said. “I don’t think they even knew who I was. That young lieutenant I talked to was new out here. And I didn’t mention being Curly Bill Brocius. I ain’t used that name since old Wyatt emptied his scattergun at me.”
Ringo reined his black alongside Curly’s Appaloosa and they trotted along the winding trail, just like in the old days, when they had ridden together through Kansas, Oklahoma, Texas, New Mexico and on into bloody Arizona. They both sat straight and tall in the saddle and though Curly didn’t know how Ringo felt, he himself was mighty proud to be riding beside the gunfighter again, even if it was only for a short distance.
“So you’re calling yourself Curly Bill Graham now?” Ringo said idly, while his sharp blue eyes searched the rocks and brush on either side of the road.
“Graham’s my real name,” Curly said.
The glazed look was back in Ringo’s eyes. “You told me your real name was Brocius.”
“It is,” Curly said. “William Brocius Graham.”
Ringo thought that over in silence. He didn’t seem to know what to make of it.
“Ringo ain’t your real name, is it?” Curly asked.
“Ringgold, John Ringgold.”
“Ringo ain’t much of a alias then,” Curly said. “Looks like a bright boy like you could of at least come up with something like Smith or Jones or Brown.”
Ringo gave him a cold look. “It beats using another part of your own name, the way you’re doing. Who do you think you’re going to fool, calling yourself Curly Bill Graham?”
Curly shrugged. “Everybody around here knows who I am. They just pretend like they don’t.”
“What about old Wyatt? Aren’t you
“Hell, I thought you were following me!”
Ringo sat up a little straighter in the saddle and his jaw got harder. But whether he actually took exception to the remark or just pretended to, Curly couldn’t tell. Yet he had the feeling that behind the hard surface of his face, Ringo was as pleased as a cat with a canary. “Don’t flatter yourself, Curly,” he said.
“Now why didn’t I think of that.”
“If I was following you,” Ringo said, “what were you doing back there behind me?”
‘’I thought you might want to talk.”
Ringo raised his brows and there was a slightly glazed look in his eyes. “When did you ever give anyone a chance to talk?”
“And I wanted to warn you that you could be riding into an ambush,” Curly added.
Ringo considered that for a moment, watching Curly thoughtfully. “You mean the Lefferts boys?”
“I wouldn’t put it past them. But it was Apaches I had in mind.”
“Apaches?”
The blank look of surprise on Ringo’s face made Curly feel mighty important. For once he knew about something before Ringo did. But he said with elaborate casualness, “There’s a young buck with a big nose who figgers he should be the one riding this here Appaloosa, not me.”
Ringo gave him a closer look, then scanned the rocks and brush. “So that’s why they’re sneaking around here. You stole a horse from them.”
Curly shrugged. “They stole a pinto from me. I went to the agency to complain about it, but they said there wasn’t anything they could do about it without getting the Apaches all stirred up, when they were already stirred up enough. So I waited till dark, then went to the Apache horse herd and cut out the best one I could find. I would of run off the whole bunch, but I didn’t want the army blaming me for the next Indian war.”
Ringo looked at him in amazement. “You actually went to the agency to complain about the Apaches stealing a horse from you? You, the biggest horse thief in Arizona. That took confidence, Curly, it really did. No wonder they laughed in your face.”
“They didn’t exactly laugh in my face,” Curly said. “I don’t think they even knew who I was. That young lieutenant I talked to was new out here. And I didn’t mention being Curly Bill Brocius. I ain’t used that name since old Wyatt emptied his scattergun at me.”
Ringo reined his black alongside Curly’s Appaloosa and they trotted along the winding trail, just like in the old days, when they had ridden together through Kansas, Oklahoma, Texas, New Mexico and on into bloody Arizona. They both sat straight and tall in the saddle and though Curly didn’t know how Ringo felt, he himself was mighty proud to be riding beside the gunfighter again, even if it was only for a short distance.
“So you’re calling yourself Curly Bill Graham now?” Ringo said idly, while his sharp blue eyes searched the rocks and brush on either side of the road.
“Graham’s my real name,” Curly said.
The glazed look was back in Ringo’s eyes. “You told me your real name was Brocius.”
“It is,” Curly said. “William Brocius Graham.”
Ringo thought that over in silence. He didn’t seem to know what to make of it.
“Ringo ain’t your real name, is it?” Curly asked.
“Ringgold, John Ringgold.”
“Ringo ain’t much of a alias then,” Curly said. “Looks like a bright boy like you could of at least come up with something like Smith or Jones or Brown.”
Ringo gave him a cold look. “It beats using another part of your own name, the way you’re doing. Who do you think you’re going to fool, calling yourself Curly Bill Graham?”
Curly shrugged. “Everybody around here knows who I am. They just pretend like they don’t.”
“What about old Wyatt? Aren’t you
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