"Helm was a sure enough bad one, son. They don't grow like him no more.
Wild Bill was a baby compared with Helm, and Slade wasn't no man at all,
even leavin' in the lies they tell about him. Why, son, Helm was just a
lobo, in the skin of a man--"

"Like Barry?" put in Lorrimer, drifting closer down the bar.

"Who's he?"

"Ain't you heard of Whistlin' Dan? The one that killed Jim Silent and
busted up his gang. Why, they say he's got a wolf that he can talk to like
it was a man."

Old Lew chuckled.

"They say a lot of things," he nodded, "but I'll tell a man that a wolf is
a wolf and they ain't nothin' that can tame 'em. Don't you let 'em feed you
up on lies like that, Lorrimer. But Helm was sure bad. He killed for the
sake of killin', but he died game. When the boys run him down he swore on
the bible that he's never killed a man, and they made him swear it over
again just to watch his nerve; but he never batted an eye."

The picture of that wild time grew up for Vic Gregg, and the thought of
free men who laughed at the law, strong men, fierce men. What would one of
these have done if the girl he intended to marry had treated him like a
foil?

"Then they got him ready for the rope," went on Lew Perkins.