y Sheriff Breckenbridge on his way back to Tombstone from
some errand in the eastern end of the county was riding through Middle
Pass in the Dragoons.

As he came forth against the flaring sky-line at the summit he saw a
rider coming toward him from the west. He turned to one side where the
lay of the land gave him a vantage-point, loosened his revolver in its
holster, and awaited the traveler's closer approach.

Some moments passed; the pony drew nearer, and the deputy withdrew the
hand which was resting on his weapon's butt. His face relaxed.

"Hello there, John," he called, and Ringo rode up to him in silence.
"Hot day," Breckenbridge announced cheerfully.

The desperado swore at the sun in the drawling monotone wherein your
artist at profanity intones his curses when he means them. His face
was a good shade darker than usual; his eyes were satanic. He reached
to his hip and brought forth a flask of whisky.

"Have a drink." He uttered it rather as a demand than an offer.

The deputy took the bottle and made pretense of swallowing some of the
lukewarm liquor. The outlaw laughed sourly, snatched it from him, and
drained it.

"Got another quart," he announced as he flung the empty flask against
a boulder.

"Better hit it mighty light," Breckenbridge advised. "The sun's bad
when you get down there in the valley."

He waved his hand toward the wide flat lands which lay shimmering like
an enormous lake a thousand feet below them. Ringo raised his somber
face toward the blazing heavens and launched another volley of curses
upon them before he rode away. And that was the last time young
Breckenbridge saw him alive.

The thing which took place afterward no man beheld save John Ringo,
and his lips were sealed for all time when others came upon him. But
the desert holds tracks well, and the men of southeastern Arizona were
able to read trails as you or I would read plain print. So they picked
the details of that final chapter from the hot sands of the Sulphur
Springs Valley as they are set down here.

Morning was drawing on toward noon when John Ringo's pony bore him
downward from the living granite pinnacles to the glaring plain. Noon
was passing as he jogged onward across the Sulphur Springs Valley.

To this day, when ranchers have drawn floods of limpid water from the
bowels of the earth, the place sees long periods whose heat is
punishing. At that time the whole land was a desert; a flat floor,
patched in spo