t which
in its turn brought the accusation that he was extending leniency to
wanted men.

Over in the Sulphur Springs valley and the San Simon John Ringo nursed
his grudge against the sheriff for having disarmed him when his guns
were so sorely needed; he cherished that unpleasant memory while he
directed the movements of Curly Bill and their followers, while he
rode forth from Galeyville with them to raid the herds of border
cow-men, or to ambush bands of Mexican smugglers, or to rob the
stages.

And so gradually it became known among his fellows that their leader
held a grievance against the sheriff, that he was biding his
opportunity to play even with Johnny Behan for that blundering piece
of thoughtlessness. John Ringo was the biggest man among them all, the
brains of the whole crowd; they wanted to see in what manner he would
settle the score. And finally the time came when he got his chance.

A man who rejoiced in the name of Kettle-Belly Johnson was the
indirect means of bringing about this opportunity. He enters the story
on a blistering afternoon in the little town of Galeyville.

It has been told in another of these tales how Galeyville was the bad
men's metropolis, headquarters for all the rustlers and stage-robbers
of Cochise County; how the place enjoyed a brisk prosperity through
the enterprise of a wide-awake citizen who had established a
cattle-buying business--and no questions asked. On the afternoon in
question John Ringo was the only outlaw in the place; his followers
were absent on some wild errand or other and he was putting in the
time at a poker-game.

There were four men seated around the table in the dingy bar-room,
silent as four owls, mirthless as high priests at a sacred rite.
Observing the full ceremonials which dignify draw-poker, they let the
chips and cards do all the talking--and made signs when they chose to
pass.

It has been said that John Ringo's face was sullen and his eyes were
somber; the depth of his unpleasant expression had grown this
afternoon as the shabbiness of his luck increased. Or was it luck?

He sat, of course, facing the door, and Kettle-Belly Johnson occupied
the opposite chair. On the two other players, one of whom was flanking
John Ringo on each side, there is no need to waste words; they
belonged to the same breed as the poetically rechristened Johnson, the
breed that got its name from shaking dice against Mexicans out of tin
horns.

It was no more tha