Johnny Ringo’s Last Ride

Rusted barbed wire sagged between crooked weathered posts.

Dust clouds spewed from our back tires like a roiling prairie storm, covering the mesquite-lined ditch banks and blanketing the tufts of buffelgrass.

Richard and I were exploring the Wild West. Horses now replaced with horsepower. Old wagon trails covered by cracking asphalt. Wide expanses of high desert as far as the eye could see.

And no signs of the living. We hadn’t seen a vehicle for at least ten miles.

We had detoured onto a four-mile dirt road as we traveled through southern Arizona on our way to Silver City, New Mexico.

In search of Johnny Ringo’s gravesite.

As we bounced down Turkey Creek Road, I said, “I think I’d rather not go to Hell.”

Richard lifted his eyebrows while tuning his CarPlay to Ottmar Liebert, a flamenco guitarist from Germany who moved to Santa Fe. The Southwestern-influenced Santa Fe Sessions was a fitting backdrop for the desolate landscape dotted with burnt sienna buttes and parched arroyos.

“Were you planning a trip there?” Richard joked.

“No, I just think this may be what Hell feels like! They say that it’s not the heat, it’s the humidity. At 103 degrees, it’s the dang heat,” I whined.

Richard chuckled as we hit another bump. “I feel like we’re in a Conestoga on this road! Tell me about Johnny Ringo.”

“Johnny Rrrringo,” I said, rolling the r’s. A name destined for legend.

I had one nubbin of cell service, which was enough signal for me to find a few references on my phone. I read for several minutes, lifting my chin to focus my glasses.

“Okay,” I said. “Johnny Ringo. Remembered as a famous outlaw, he was 14 years old when his family joined a westward-bound wagon train headed for California. His father shot himself in a gruesome accident in front of the whole family. He was buried on the trail and some say it haunted Johnny.”

“Ten years go by and Johnny turned up in Texas. He rustled cattle and was accused of murder. A few years later, he traveled to Tombstone, Arizona. Here he met Doc Holliday and they became mortal enemies,” I said.

“Doc Holliday’s paramour, ‘Big Nose’ Kate, would later write that Johnny was tall and slim, with broad shoulders and gray-blue eyes.”

“And an interesting quote from Kate,” I said. “‘Sometimes I noticed something wistful about him, as if his thoughts were far away on something sad. He would say, “Oh, well,” and sigh. Then he would smile, but his smiles were always sad.’”

Richard turned the volume down on the radio.

I continued summarizing what I had read. “In Tombstone, Johnny was described as a loner: downcast, quick to draw his gun, a heavy drinker. He was implicated in the murder of Wyatt Earp’s brother, Morgan.”

“In July of 1882, Johnny rode into a nearby town where reports say he continued to drink. A few days later, he was spotted riding near Turkey Creek Canyon. On July 13th, teamsters at a nearby ranch heard a single gunshot.”

Richard had both hands on the wheel, fighting the ruts and swerving deftly to avoid large potholes. I glanced out the window and saw a bone-dry creek bed, filled with unsplashed rocks. The limbs of aging cottonwoods bent towards the ground as if divining for water.

“And here’s the end,” I said. “The next day, Johnny Ringo was found at the base of a four-trunked oak tree, slumped over, his body turning black in the summer heat. His shoeless feet, bloody and bruised, were wrapped in torn pieces of his shirt. He was still holding his revolver.”

I lowered my voice, pausing between sentences as though I were narrating a ghost story.

“His horse was found days later. Saddle still on. Boots lashed to the stirrups,” I said.

“Who killed him?” Richard asked. “You remember Val Kilmer played Doc Holliday in the movie Tombstone? He kills Johnny Ringo in a shoot-out.”

“Let me see,” I replied. Searching, I found varying accounts that all concluded one thing. At whose hand Johnny Ringo died was up for debate.

“It appears there were several men who claimed to have killed him,” I said. “However, there was an inquest, and the coroner’s jury ruled his death a suicide. One bullet. To the right temple. And Doc Holliday and Wyatt Earp, who are frequently credited with his death, were not even in the territory at the time. So, that part of the movie was fiction.”

We arrived at the gravesite. A ranch house sat off the road about 600 yards away, abandoned farm equipment rusting in the front yard. Richard parked the car by a chain-link fence and we stepped out. A piece of whitewashed plywood was wired to the gate. “Ringo’s Gravesite Hours 8 AM – 6 PM Daily” was handwritten in black paint.

I pulled on my broad-brimmed hat, grabbed a bottle of water, and walked with Richard.

Like a church aisle, the narrow grassy path to Johnny’s grave was closed in on both sides by the fence. White prickly poppies pushed their heads through the wire.

We hadn’t reached the tree line yet, but my skin was already searing.

In front of us, under a twisted oak with four trunks, two mounds of gray, weathered river stones rose from the ground. On the smaller pile sat a sun-bleached, oblong rock, the size of a satchel. Carved on its face: “John Ringo, July 13, 1882.”

At its foot lay the grave itself, six-feet long by three-feet wide, covered not with grass or granite but with carefully placed round stones.

“They buried him on the spot,” I said, remembering what I had read. He had been buried alone. Alongside the trail. Just like his father.

There were no other headstones, just a historical marker summarizing Johnny Ringo’s story and the mystery of his death.

A gentle breeze couldn’t decide whether it wanted to wrestle the dry grass or to stop and rest. The hay-like fragrance of the prairie rode it.

We paused next to his burial plot. As the oak’s leaves fluttered, I wondered what story they had witnessed and now whispered.

It was so quiet that I imagined I could see Johnny sitting in the shadows. A killer come to rest. He leaned his body against the twisted trunk, feeling the tree’s coolness and protection, and rested his battered feet in the dust. Then, he tilted his face towards the canopy and gazed at the turquoise sky one last time. Oh, well.

Back in the car, Richard pointed east, where trimmed hedges and big-box stores crowded out the ocotillo and prickly pear.

Who is there to shoo away our ghosts?

Unexpectedly, hot tears welled. I found myself saying a silent prayer and wondered why.

A lone coati, long tail pointing to the heavens, dashed across the dirt road.

Rolling down the window, I sighed and then breathed in the grass and the leaves and the sky.

Fare thee well, Johnny Ringo.

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For more stories about travel (and yes, marriage) check out Looking for Gatsby, Hometown Hero, Tender Was the Night

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