Free Curly Bill and Ringo by Van Holt Page A

said, watching Ringo out of the corner of his eye. “They decided the falling-out between you and him was for real after all.”
    “It was,’’ Ringo said. “But it’s not his style to bushwhack someone.”
    “Then there’s them who believe it was Buckskin Frank Leslie,” Curly said. “Billy Claiborne called Frank out about it.”
    “Billy Claiborne was a fool.”
    “He sure was,” Curly agreed, “And he died to prove it. Then there’s them who picked Johnny-Behind-the-Deuce for the man behind the gun. One of them killed him. Don’t it make you feel sort of proud, Ringo, so many people trying to kill each other because they couldn’t agree on who killed you? I reckon some of them would of gone hunting old Wyatt, but they didn’t want to add any more notches on his Buntline Special.”
    “I don’t think you even know who shot some of those men,” Ringo said. “But you know who shot me.” His eyes were like ice. “You should anyway, I understand you rode with them for a while.”
    “You mean Pike and them?”
    “You know that’s who I mean,” Ringo grunted.
    “Yeah, I reckon I do,” Curly sighed. “That’s why I quit. I heard them talking about what they did to you.”
    “You just quit?” Ringo asked, as if he found it hard to believe. “You didn’t do anything else?”
    “What would you of done in my place?”
    “You know damn well what I would have done,” Ringo said softly.
    “Yeah, I reckon I do,” Curly said. “I guess I would of done the same thing once myself. But I don’t know, Ringo. I’ve become a real peace-loving fellow since old Wyatt put all that buckshot in my hide. It ain’t no fun getting shot all to hell.”
    “You’re talking to an authority on the subject,” Ringo said.
    “I know,” Curly said, wiping sweat from his face. It had become a hot day for so early in the spring, and he had a feeling it would soon get a lot hotter. He managed a crooked grin. “Hell, Ringo, I figgered you’d want to settle with them boys personally. I was just saving them for you.”
    “Thanks,” Ringo said, his tone a little dry and sarcastic.
    “Think nothing of it,” Curly said with a broad fake smile. “After all, what are friends for?”
    “I’ve often wondered,” Ringo said.
    Curly shrugged, his smile fading. “You know me, Ringo. I can’t hold a grudge for more than two or three days. Even after old Wyatt put all that buckshot in me, I didn’t feel no call to go gunning for him.”
    Ringo suddenly halted and turned his horse to face the rustler. Curly reined in also and felt a strange chill when he looked into those icy blue eyes. Ringo’s jaw had the rock-hard look that always meant trouble wasn’t far away. Aside from that, he seemed like a total stranger who had no desire to get acquainted and preferred to do his talking with a gun.
    “There’s just one difference, Curly,” he said flatly. “You had it coming. I didn’t. Not from those bastards. I never did them any harm.”
    “Hell, I never did them Earps any harm either,” Curly said. “Sure, I had a little fun at their expense, shooting up saloons and the like, but I never had anything to do with Morgan getting shot. Indian Charlie lied like hell and you know it. He was just trying to save his own skin and my name was the first one he thought of.”
    “I know,” Ringo said in a quieter tone. “The bastard even gave Wyatt my name. But I didn’t need to ask anyone who shot me, Curly. I saw them.”
    With that Ringo reined the black around and galloped off across the desert where there wasn’t a sign of a trail—at least Curly didn’t think at first that there was a sign of a trail.
    “Hey, where you going?” he called.
    But Ringo kept going and didn’t answer or look back.
    It was then that Curly glanced at the ground and saw the tracks of a half dozen horses that Ringo had been following all the time. While Curly was sitting so tall and proud in the saddle, with his head so high, that he