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…