ose to the sidewalk's edge. Then they saw him lean from
the saddle and whisper into Wilson's ear.

What words passed from his lips these others never knew. There was not
time for him to utter more than one or two; perhaps to tell his name.
They saw his white teeth flashing in an unpleasant smile; and Wilson's
hand moved toward his gun. But in the middle of that movement the
young officer pitched forward on his face. The sharp report of a
pistol, the scrape of hoofs, the smell of black powder smoke, and the
vision of the rider through the tenuous wreaths as he whirled his
horse about--these things came to the dazed witnesses in a sort of
blur.

The sound of the shot awakened the drowsing street and many who ran to
their doorways saw the murderer riding away at a swinging gallop. Some
of these claimed to recognize him as Joaquin Murieta, and in the days
that followed their statements were confirmed by captured members of
the band.

Deputy Sheriff Wilson's death aroused more men than his words had, and
when General Joshua Bean began organizing two companies of militia
during the weeks after the murder he found plenty of recruits. The
officers were just getting the new companies into shape for an
expedition against the bandits who were now ravaging most of the
country south of the Tehachapi, when Murieta and Three-Fingered Jack
waylaid General Bean one night near San Gabriel Mission, dropped the
noose of a reata over his head, dragged him from his horse, and
stabbed him through the heart. And the two companies of militia did
nothing more.

Now, while posses were foundering their lathered horses on every
southland road and the flames of blazing ranch buildings were throwing
their red light on the faces of dead men almost every night, a lean
and wind-browned Texan by the name of Captain Harry Love took a hand
in the grim game of man-hunting.

He had gained his title during the Mexican War. As an express-rider
for different American generals he had dodged the reatas of guerrilla
parties who were lurking by water-holes and had outjockeyed swarthy
horsemen in wild races across the flaming deserts of Sonora until he
had come to know the science of their fighting as well as old Padre
Jurata himself. And when he started after Murieta's men he did his
hunting all alone.

One day he ran across the trail of Pedro Gonzales, the horse-thief,
and another lieutenant named Juan, and followed it until he overtook
the pair at the Bu