he other "He Wolves" who had flocked into the new
country; he had slain Tombstone's city marshal and defied the Earps
when they came into power in the booming mining camp.

When it came to a question of single combat he was acknowledged
champion among those who lived by what toll they could exact at the
muzzles of their deadly weapons; when it came to warfare he was the
logical leader. And so, when John Slaughter's name was spoken in
Charleston's dance-halls, the eyes of his followers were turned on
him. He saw those glances and he read the unspoken question which they
conveyed; he met it with a laugh.

"I'll go and get that fellow," he proclaimed. "I'll kill him and I'll
fetch his herd in to Charleston myself."

He started forth to make good his boast, and twenty-five hard-eyed
followers went riding at his heels. It was a wild project even in that
wild era and Curly Bill deemed it wise to do his massacring down in
Mexico, where it was every man for himself and coroner's juries were
not known. He took his company across the boundary and lay in wait for
John Slaughter on a mesa overlooking a little valley, down which the
herd must pass.

Mesquite-thickets gave the outlaws good cover; the slopes below them
were bare brush; the valley's floor was open ground. They bided here
and watched the country to the south. The dust column showed one
cloudless morning and they saw the undulating line of cattle reveal
itself beneath the gray-brown haze. The herd came on down the valley,
with dust-stained riders speeding back and forth along its flanks,
turning back rebellious cows, urging the main body forward. Curly Bill
spoke the word of command and the twenty-five bad men rode forth from
their hiding-place.

The sun gleamed on their rifle barrels as they spurred their ponies
down the open slope. They rode deep in their saddles, for the ground
was broken with many little gullies and the horses were going at a
headlong pace. They drew away from the shelter of the mesquite and
descended toward the valley bed. Some one heard a rifle bullet whining
over his head. The man glanced around as the sharp report followed the
leaden slug; and now every face was turned to the rear. Twelve
cow-boys were following John Slaughter keeping their ponies to a dead
run along the heights which Curly Bill and his band had so blithely
forsaken.

It was a custom as old as Indian-fighting; this bringing on of the
main force over the high ground whence