t raised bleak peaks above their
fellows. In the valleys of the foothills and out across the plains were
ranches, and farther north villages, and the towns of Alpine and Marfa.

Like other parts of the great Lone Star State, this section of Texas
was a world in itself--a world where the riches of the rancher were
ever enriching the outlaw. The village closest to the gateway of this
outlaw-infested region was a little place called Ord, named after the
dark peak that loomed some miles to the south. It had been settled
originally by Mexicans--there were still the ruins of adobe
missions--but with the advent of the rustler and outlaw many inhabitants
were shot or driven away, so that at the height of Ord's prosperity and
evil sway there were but few Mexicans living there, and these had their
choice between holding hand-and-glove with the outlaws or furnishing
target practice for that wild element.

Toward the close of a day in September a stranger rode into Ord, and in
a community where all men were remarkable for one reason or another
he excited interest. His horse, perhaps, received the first and
most engaging attention--horses in that region being apparently more
important than men. This particular horse did not attract with beauty.
At first glance he seemed ugly. But he was a giant, black as coal, rough
despite the care manifestly bestowed upon him, long of body, ponderous
of limb, huge in every way. A bystander remarked that he had a grand
head. True, if only his head had been seen he would have been a
beautiful horse. Like men, horses show what they are in the shape, the
size, the line, the character of the head. This one denoted fire, speed,
blood, loyalty, and his eyes were as soft and dark as a woman's. His
face was solid black, except in the middle of his forehead, where there
was a round spot of white.

"Say mister, mind tellin' me his name?" asked a ragged urchin, with born
love of a horse in his eyes.

"Bullet," replied the rider.

"Thet there's fer the white mark, ain't it?" whispered the youngster to
another. "Say, ain't he a whopper? Biggest hoss I ever seen."

Bullet carried a huge black silver-ornamented saddle of Mexican make, a
lariat and canteen, and a small pack rolled into a tarpaulin.

This rider apparently put all care of appearances upon his horse. His
apparel was the ordinary jeans of the cowboy without vanity, and it
was torn and travel-stained. His boots showed evidence of an intimate
ac