simonious man when it came to using words. When he was a
boy fighting under the banner of the Lost Cause he sickened, and his
colonel sent him home, where he did his recuperating as a lieutenant
of the Texas rangers fighting Comanche Indians and border outlaws.

Then he drove cattle into Kansas over the Chisholm and Western trails
and got further seasoning in warfare against marauders, both red and
white. To maintain his rights and hold his property against armed
assault had become part of his every-day life; guardedness was a habit
like those narrowed eyes. And when he recognized the Man from Bitter
Creek, whose reputation he well knew, he lost no time in confronting
him.

So they faced each other, two veteran paladins who had been riding
under hostile banners ever since they first bore arms; and John
Slaughter delivered his ultimatum in three syllables.

"Hit the trail," he said, and clamped his lips into a tight line as if
he begrudged wasting that many words.

His eyes had become two dark slits.

It was a case of leave or fight and the Man from Bitter Creek had
never allowed such a challenge to go unanswered by his gun. But during
the moment while he and John Slaughter stood looking into each other's
eyes he reflected swiftly, and it occurred to him that it would be
wise to postpone this killing until the cattle-buyer had brought the
herd on into the upper country where, without their employer, the
Mexican vaqueros would be of no more consequence than so many sheep.

That was an inspiration: thousands of cattle for his own, where he had
hoped to steal a few hundred at the very outside. He felt that he
could well afford to mount his pony and ride away in silence. Now as
he settled himself in his saddle after that last look backward, his
heart was light with the thought of the wealth which was to come to
him within the next two months. He urged the pony forward at a gallop
toward the Land Beyond the Law.

The days went by, and late springtime found the Man from Bitter Creek
in the upper river country which lies just west of the great Llano
Estacado. Among those lonely hills the badness of the whole frontier
had crystallized that year. Outlaw and murderer, renegade, rustler,
and common horse-thief--all for whom the eastern trails had been
growing too hot--had ridden into this haven beyond the range of the
boldest sheriff until even the vigilance committee could not function
here for the simple reason that there