than the Indians. Where he came he took
with him the law. It was his way--the way he had taken on the Pecos
and he kept it now--to stand for his own rights, to fight for them if
need be, until he established them; thus he maintained a rule of
action, a rule that accorded with the definition of the old English
jurist, "prescribing what is right and prohibiting what is wrong."

During those days he rode on far journeys, eastward to the Rio Grande,
northward to the country where the land breaks toward the gorges of
the Colorado; and because a cattle-buyer was always a marked man,
carrying large sums of money with him, there were many who sought his
life. But these he slew or drove away.

There came a time when the demand for stock was so heavy that he
looked about him for a new point of supply and saw Mexico. Troops of
bandits rode through the southern republic, gathering tribute where
they willed. He loaded down pack-mules with dobie dollars, led his
cow-boys down across the boundary, played hide and seek with bands of
swarthy murderers in the mountains, and battled with them at the
desert water-holes.

His fame spread until forty-five guerrillas came riding up from
Sinaloa to gain wealth and glory by murdering his little company. They
found John Slaughter and two cow-boys encamped in a hamlet down beyond
Moctezuma with the nucleus of a herd which they were gathering. A
sharp-eyed scout reported two pack-mules, their aparejos bulging with
dobie dollars, in the train. Immediately thereafter the Mexicans whom
the drover had employed as vaqueros and guides deserted him; the
people of the hamlet closed their houses against the trio of gringos.

The bandits watched their prospective victims going from door to door,
seeking four walls to shelter them against attack, and laughed. That
was fine sport to their way of thinking; they held off, just as a cat
holds off from a cornered mouse; there was plenty of time for the
killing, no use of hurrying.

The shadows lengthened between the little adobe buildings; dusk came
on. They had a final round of drinks in a mescal groggery, swung into
their saddles, and went jingling down the street to enjoy the
massacre.

Bad news travels fast. The tidings sped northward like a stray horse
running home. One day a rider came to the ranch on the San Pedro with
the story: how John Slaughter was last seen alive in the dismal hamlet
at the foot of the Sierra Madre, abandoned by his Mexicans, w