they could guard against
surprise and hold the advantage over luring enemies. By its result the
ambuscaders were ambushed, riding headlong into a trap.

It was a simple situation, apparent to the dullest mind. Who lingered
on the low ground would never steal cattle again. The outlaws wheeled
their ponies to a man; and now as they raced back up the hill they saw
the cow-boys coming onward at a pace which threatened to cut them off
from the shelter of the mesquite. Then panic seized them and it held
them until the last cow-thief had spurred his sweating horse into the
thickets. By the time Curly Bill had re-gathered his scattered forces
the herd was nearly out of sight.

He did not seek renewal of the attack. He let it go at that. And when
he came to Charleston he announced that so far as he was concerned the
incident was closed; he was going to do his cattle-rustling henceforth
over San Simon way where cow-men did not maintain rear-guards and
scout out the country ahead of them for enemies. He changed his base
of operations to Galeyville within a month and came to Charleston for
pleasure only.

The story spread and every man who deemed himself as bad as Curly Bill
saw his opportunity to demonstrate his qualifications as a killer by
succeeding where the leader had failed. Doc Holliday tried it one
night on the Charleston road. Next to Wyatt Earp he ranked as the
highest in the faction that was ruling Tombstone. Unquestionably he
was an artist with deadly weapons, and the trail of his wanderings
through the West was marked by wooden headboards. On the evening in
question--it was the evening after the bloody and unsuccessful attempt
to rob the Benson stage, and several men were riding hard toward home
and help and alibis--he was spurring his sweating horse to Tombstone
when he got sight of John Slaughter's double rig ahead of him.

The cattle-buyer had drawn ten thousand dollars from the bank that
afternoon and was taking the specie home with him; the fact was known
in Charleston where Doc Holliday had stopped within the last hour. The
vehicle was rounding a long turn; the horseman cut across country
through the mesquite; he reached the farther end of the curve just in
time to draw alongside the team.

John Slaughter's wife was beside him on the driver's seat. She saw the
rider bursting out of the gloom, and then her eyes fell on the
forty-five which he was in the very act of "throwing down."

"That man has a gun in