June 2013
I was just a saddle-tramp, drifting from one town to another, when I came across his lifeless body lying in the sand. When I had dismounted from my worn out pinto and examined the body, however, I found there was a spark of life there, a faint breathing, almost too faint to hear.
I had learnt some doctoring in the civil war, I guess a lot of us had had to, so I was able to get the bullet out of him. I knew there was a bullet there 'cos I heard the shot as I rode into the campsite.
He mended real fast and told me his name was Ringo, Johnny Ringo. When I questioned him as to why anyone would want to kill him, he just said that the guy thought he had stolen his woman from him and he wasn't the kind of man you crossed.
I wasn't sure I believed him entirely, but I let it go at that, after all it was none of my business.
One morning I came back from hunting somethin' for us to eat to the sound of gunfire, several shots this time. I figured that whoever wanted him out of the way had come back to finish the job. As I rode into camp, though, I could see it was Ringo blasting away at a row of empty bean cans.
'What into tarnation are you doing, Ringo?' I asked.
'I was just practicin' my draw,' he drawled, 'Out here in these parts you never know when you'll need a fast draw. I've ridden shotgun a few times for Wells Fargo and being quick on the trigger has saved my life several times.'
That seemed a fair explanation, I guess. Ringo had such a way with him that you could believe black was white. Anyway, as the days went by we became real buddies and when his wounds had healed, we realized it was time to hit the trail and go our separate ways. He didn't exactly tell me just what he was gonna do, I guess he was a drifter like me.
I didn't see Ringo for many years after that. I had continued to bum around from one town to another, 'till I got me a job herding these cattle to the railroad depot at Abilene. Some of the boys got a mite drunk after we brought the herd in and there was a big ruckus in the town. On account of the way I handled the situation, calming the other cowpokes down, doggone it if the town committee didn't offer me the job of Marshall.
Anyway, I took the job as it was a steady wage and beat herding a bunch of dumb animals in all kinds of weather. Abilene was too big for me though. I'd won my reputation as a peacemaker mainly through my ability to calm things down, rather than any fancy shooting, so I decided to try my hand at Marshall somewhere more peaceable and that's how I ended up as Marshall of Dry Gulch.
Things continued more or less peacefully there for maybe five years or so, then one night the saloon-keeper, Sam Rawlings, flung open the door of the Marshal's office, yelling blue murder.
'Hey Marshall, you gotta come quick. Down at the Long Branch this feller's holed up and shooting at anyone who attempts to enter. Seems someone recognized his picture on the wanted poster,' Sam continued as I buckled on my gun belt and accompanied him down the street towards the saloon. 'From what I can make out he gunned down the guy there that accused him of being an outlaw and his pardner too.'
'Who is this outlaw, then, Sam?' I queried.
'I heard tell, the poor fella thought it was Johnny Ringo. I've heard he's a real mean galoot. Shot over twelve men and robbed banks and trains clean across the whole Kansas badlands. Wonder what he's doing here, Marshall.
I guess I always knew one day we meet again and when we did fate would decide which one of us would be faster on the trigger, which one of us would walk away afterwards and which wouldn't.
By this time we'd reached the batswing doors of the Long Branch.
'It's me, Ringo. You remember – Steve Carson. I'm coming in; just want to talk to you. I'm Marshall here.'
I pushed through the batswing doors and came face to face the companion I hadn't seen in almost ten years.
'Well now, Steve, look at you. Marshall of this here hick town and me with a price on my head. Who'd have thought this would be our next meeting all these years ago.'
He hadn't aged much, not as much as me I guess. He just looked meaner somehow.
'Look, Ringo, just give me your gun and I promise you I'll get you a fair trial. I give you my word.'
'No thanks, Marshall, I've got too many other crimes to answer for. It's a hangin' for me, that's if you're neighbourly citizens don't lynch me before I get to trial.'
'You've got it all wrong, Ringo. If you promise to go straight I'm sure things'll work out. You'll probably only have to do a short stretch in jail like Jesse James, brother Frank or Wes Hardin,' I pleaded desperately. I kept thinking of the friendship we once had.
'Save your breath, Steve and go for your gun,' he snarled.
Before I had time to think I saw his hand reach for the gun in his side holster and without hesitating mine did two. Next thing I knew my gun was sent spinning as a blast of flame stung my wrist and I was looking down the barrel of the deadly Colt 44 of Ringo.
'You saved my life once, so I guess we are even, friend,' he said and he was smiling now, just like I remembered him back in our distant past.
Ringo tried to walk past me into the street, but I blocked his path.
'Don't be a fool,' I yelled, 'they'll gun you down as soon as you set foot outside the door.'
'I'll take my chance on that,' he cried and pushed past me.
A dozen guns spat fire and lead, a moment later he lay dead.
The crowd began to shout and cheer, nowhere was the shed a tear for Ringo.
And so, it was just the years they say that made me put my guns away. Still, they can't explain the tarnished star on the gravestone above the name of Ringo.