f the vast cattle herds
that roamed the rich rangelands surrounding the town on all sides. Yet
to most of the honest element, Gentleman John's true colors were not
known. He shielded himself, hiring others to do his unclean work.
There was no law as yet in the county. Gentleman John had managed to
keep it out. And even if there had been, it was doubtful if his crimes
could be pinned to him, for he had covered his tracks well. Many
thought him honest. Only The Kid's keen mind could sense almost
immediately what was going on.

The country stretching out from Skull was wild and beautiful. It was
an unsettled land, and the trails that led into it were faint and
difficult to follow.

One morning, Kid Wolf saddled Blizzard and rode into the southwest
toward the purple mountains tipped with snow. It was a beautiful day,
cool and crisp. The tang of the air in that high altitude was sharp
and invigorating. The big white horse swung into a joyous lope, and
the Texan hummed a Southern melody.

Crossing a wide stretch of plain, they mounted a rise, and the
character of the country changed. The smell of sage gave way to the
penetrating odor of small pine, as they climbed into the broken
foothills that led, in a series of steps, toward the jagged peaks.
Splashing through a little creek of pure, cold water, The Kid turned
Blizzard's head up a pass between two ridges of pinon-covered buttes.

"A big herd's passed this way," The Kid muttered, "and lately, too."

They climbed steadily onward, while the Texan searched the trail with
keen eyes that missed nothing. Suddenly he drew up his horse.
Blizzard had shied at something lying prone ahead of them, and The
Kid's eyes had seen it at the same instant.

Stretched out on the sandy ground, The Kid saw, when he urged his horse
closer, was the body of a man, face down and arms flung out. A blotch
of red on the blue of the shirt told the significant story--a bullet
had got in its deadly work. Dismounting, the Texan found that the man
was dead and had met with his wound probably twenty-four hours before.
There was nothing with which to identify the body.

"Seems to me, Blizzahd," Kid Wolf mused, "that Gentleman John is a
deepah-dyed villain than we even thought."

He continued on up the pass, eyes and ears open. The white horse took
the climb as if it had been level ground, his hoofs ringing a brisk
tattoo against the stones.

Nobody was in sight. The land stretched o