him 'count of the revenge of his men."

"What was he like?" the mistress of the Lazy D asked, strangely
awed at this recital of transcendent villainy."

"'Course he was masked, and I didn't see his face. But I'd know
him anywhere. He's a long, slim fellow, built like a mountain
lion. You couldn't look at him and ever forget him. He's one of
these graceful, easy men that go so fur with fool women; one of
the kind that half shuts his dark, devil eyes and masters them
without seeming to try."

"So he's a woman killer, too, is he? Any more outstanding
inconsistencies in this versatile Jesse James?"

"He's plumb crazy about music, they say. Has a piano and plays
Grigg and Chopping, and all that classical kind of music. He went
clear down to Denver last year to hear Mrs. Shoeman sing."

Helen smiled, guessing at Schumann-Heink as the singer in
question, and Grieg and Chopin as the composers named. Her
interest was incredibly aroused. She had expected the West and
its products to exhilarate her, but she had not looked to find so
finished a Mephisto among its vaunted "bad men." He was probably
overrated; considered a wonder because his accomplishments
outstepped those of the range. But Helen Messiter had quite
determined on one thing. She was going to meet this redoubtable
villain and make up her mind for herself. Already, before she had
been in Wyoming six hours, this emancipated young woman had
decided on that.