home. He hated me; he treated me as if I were the scum of the earth; if
he had to address me for something, which was seldom, he did it harshly,
like ordering a dog. Whenever I saw his sinister, handsome face, with
its dark eyes always half shut, my hand itched for my gun, and I would
go my way with something thick and hot inside my breast.

In my talks with Steele we spent time studying George Wright's character
and actions. He was Sampson's partner, and at the head of a small group
of Linrock ranchers who were rich in cattle and property, if not in
money.

Steele and I had seen fit to wait before we made any thorough
investigation into their business methods. Ours was a waiting game,
anyway.

Right at the start Linrock had apparently arisen in resentment at the
presence of Vaughn Steele. But it was my opinion that there were men in
Linrock secretly glad of the Ranger's presence.

What he intended to do was food for great speculation. His fame, of
course, had preceded him. A company of militia could not have had the
effect upon the wild element of Linrock that Steele's presence had.

A thousand stories went from lip to lip, most of which were false. He
was lightning swift on the draw. It was death to face him. He had killed
thirty men--wildest rumor of all.

He had the gun skill of Buck Duane, the craft of Cheseldine, the
deviltry of King Fisher, the most notorious of Texas desperadoes. His
nerve, his lack of fear--those made him stand out alone even among a