There was the photograph of the painter, to begin with--a man who had
discovered the beauty of the deserts of the Southwest. But there was
more--much more. It told how, in his wandering across the desert, he had
hunted for something more than raw-colored sands and purple mesas
blooming in the distance.

He had searched for a human being to fit into the picture and give the
softening touch of life. But he never found the face for which he had
been looking. And then luck came and tapped him on the shoulder. A lone
rider came out of the dusk and the desert and loomed beside his campfire.
The moment the firelight flushed on the face of the man, he knew this was
the face for which he had been searching. He told how they fried bacon
and ate it together; he told of the soft voice and the winning smile of
the rider; he told of his eyes, unspeakably soft and unspeakably bold,
and the agile, nervous hands, forever shifting and moving in the
firelight.

The next morning he had asked his visitor to sit for a picture, and his
request had been granted. All day he labored at the canvas, and by night
the work was far enough along for him to dismiss his visitor. So the
stranger asked for a small brush with black paint on it, and in the
corner of the canvas drew in the words "Yours, Black Jack." Then he rode
into the night.

Black Jack! Lawrence Montgomery had made up his pack and struck straight
back for the nearest town. There he asked for tidings of a certain Black
Jack, and there he got what he wanted in heaps. Everyone knew Black
Jack--too well! There followed a brief summary of the history of the
desperado and his countless crimes, unspeakable tales of cunning and
courage and merciless vengeance taken.