those who were "short" in other places had drifted before the winds of
public opinion to gather in this eastern end of Cochise County where
two whose qualities of deadliness surpassed those of all the rest were
recognized, because of that superior ability at killing, as the big
"He Wolves." These two were Curly Bill and John Ringo.

When they were not leading their followers in some raid against the
herds of border cattlemen, or lying in wait to ambush one of the armed
bands of smugglers, or standing up the stage, these two were usually
to be found in Galeyville. You will not see Galeyville named nowadays
on the map of Arizona and if you look ever so long through the San
Simon country, combing down the banks of Turkey Creek ever so closely,
you will not discover so much as a fragment of crumbling adobe wall to
show that the town ever existed.

But it did exist during the early eighties and its life was noisy
enough for any man. There came a day when the neighboring mines shut
down and the little smelter which furnished a livelihood for the
honest members of the population went out of business; later the
Apaches erased everything that was combustible from the landscape and
the elements finished the business.

But when John Ringo and Curly Bill held forth in Galeyville there was
a cattle-buyer in the place who did a brisk business because he asked
no embarrassing questions concerning brands. Which brought many a
hard-eyed rustler thither and sent many a dollar spinning over the
battered bars.

Such were the eastern end of Cochise County and its metropolis when
Johnny Behan told young Billy Breckenbridge to cross the Dragoons and
collect taxes throughout that section. If he expected a protest he was
mistaken, for Breckenbridge took the bidding with his usual
good-natured smile. And if the sheriff looked for a request for a
posse he was disappointed. The new deputy saddled up his horse one
morning and rode forth alone, trim and neat as usual and, for all that
any one could see, without a care on his mind.

He rode up the wide main street which bisects Tombstone from end to
end, descended the hill and started his horse across the flatlands
toward the ragged pinnacles of Cochise's stronghold.

Eastward he rode through tall mesquite thickets, over rolling hills
where clumps of bear-grass grew among spiked yuccas and needle-pointed
tufts of Spanish bayonet, and climbed the pass beyond. From its summit
he looked down upon