He drank heavily, and quoted long passages from the best in literature. His coat pockets often sagged with the weight of a book. He would recite poetry if liquored up properly, and there wasn't a man in dodge who had the courage to laugh at him, to take the risk of having him unlimber matched ivory-handled Colts which always spelled death.

...They finally split up, and the next time Ringo was seen he was lying beneath an oak tree in Sulphur Springs Valley, near Turkey Creek Canyon, with one side of his head blown off. His coat had been torn from him, and strips of cloth from his shirt bound his feet and hands. His horse was found far up the canyon, and his boots were tied across the saddle.