the fellow who had made off
with him would put up a fight before letting him go again.

Now when he left Tombstone on this mission Johnny Behan's young
diplomatic representative was riding a rented pony, his own mount
being fagged out from a previous journey; and this fact has its
bearing on the story later on. The wild country is always easier
ground in which to trace a fugitive or stolen property than the
crowded places for the simple reason that its few inhabitants are
likely to notice every one who passes; besides which there are few
travelers to obliterate tracks.

And Breckenbridge learned before he had gone very many miles that
the badly wanted horse was headed in the direction of the McLowery
ranch. The McLowery boys were members of the Clanton gang of
rustlers and stage-robbers. It did not need a Sherlock Holmes to
figure out the probabilities of where that horse was being pastured
now. Breckenbridge pressed on to the McLowery place.

Night had fallen when he arrived and the barking of many dogs heralded
his approach to all the surrounding country. Breckenbridge knew the
McLowery boys well, as well as he knew the Clantons and a dozen other
outlaws, which was well enough to call one another by their first
names.

But these were ticklish times. The big Earp-Clanton feud was nearing
its climax. The members of the latter faction--several of whom were
wanted on Federal warrants which charged them with stage-robbery--were
keeping pretty well holed up, as the saying is, and it was not
unlikely that if any of them were in the ranch-house at the time, the
visitor who was not extremely skilful in announcing himself would be
shot first and questioned afterward.

So when Billy Breckenbridge came to the house he did not draw rein but
kept right on as if he were riding past. Fortune had favored him by
interposing in his path an enormous puddle, almost a pond, the
overflow from a broken irrigation ditch. He pulled up at this obstacle
and hallooed loudly.

"Any way through here?" he shouted. "This is Breckenbridge."

A moment's silence, and then a streak of light showed where the front
door had been opened a crack.

"Sit quiet on that there hoss," a gruff voice commanded, "and lemme
see if you _be_ Breckenbridge."

"Hallo, Bill," the deputy sheriff answered. "Yes, it's me all right."

And Curly Bill opened the door wider, revealing his burly form.

"Put up yo'r pony in the corral," he said, "and come in."

Whe