Tom Terror, as he was fitly named, had already made a name which will never be erased from the annals of danger and death that a thousand pens have traced in crimson ink.

He had ridden from Custer City, five months prior to the date of our story, with a rope about his neck, and in the midst of a score of the most determined men that ever hung an outlaw.

But the bird in the hand on that occasion did not prove worth two in the bush.

The Vigilantes of Custer had made one mistake. Tom Terror had been permitted to ride his own horse to the spot chosen for his exit.

A word to his horse had been sufficient.

A wild snort, a leap forward like a startled stag, a dozen pistol-shots, a lot of charging men, told the story of how the bird in the hand got back to the bush.

And now Tom Terror had returned to the canyon through which he had galloped with a rope around his neck.

An Indian, keen-eyed and acute, might have passed him and never have seen man or horse.

“I war right. The boys are on the old stampin’-ground!” he ejaculated.

Presently the outlines of six or seven mounted figures came in sight.

Tom seemed to experience the pleasure that fills the heart of an exiled chief when he finds himself once more with his men.

The Indians were lightly attired. Not one of the party possessed a gun, but each of them carried a weapon of death more horrible than the singing bullet.

They came on until they were almost directly in front of the watcher. Their faces were plainly visible in the moonlight. As Tom Terror looked he counted them.

“Is it possible that they’ve been reduced to six? By the jumpin’ jingo! somebody’s been here since I’ve been gone! What would they say war I to step out an’ say—‘Wal, boys, I’m back?’ Gosh all varmints! how they’d jump! And mebbe I’d get the string before they’d recognised their old cap’n!”

At that moment the Indians started, and looked into each other’s faces.

Tom looked toward the north.

“I hear it, too,” he said. “By Jove! the boys ar’ gittin’ the strings ready.”

The Indians had drawn a dark cord from their breasts. As it swung loose a little ball dangled from one end.

Down the canyon came the galloping of two horses.

When the game was in sight, Tom Terror shrunk instinctively against the wall of the canyon, and uttered a cry which he tried very hard to suppress.

Instead of two men, he saw a brace of youthful figures.

Although both were dressed in masculine apparel, the quick eye of the Gulch Tiger detected the dissimilarity of their features, and decided that one belonged to the gentler sex.

The hat worn by the person could not conceal a lot of rich auburn hair, and the garments, revealing a figure whose symmetry was faultless, served to confirm the tiger’s suspicions.

This individual’s companion was doubtless a boy.

He was strongly built, athletic, and youthfully handsome; there was spirit in his sloe-black eyes, energy and determination lurked at the corners of his mouth. He did not appear armed, but Tom could not see his right hand—there was something deadly in that.

A coil of black rope, like a lasso, hung at the left-hand side of his saddle.

“Thunder an’ shot! I’ve struck all ov ’em—the string boys an’ the chap I came back hyar to find. But, whar did he pick thet angel up? an’ who is she, anyhow?”

“Great heavens! I want the boy,” he cried. “If they give ’em the string I’ll get nothin’. Now I must prevent that. I—”

The watcher was interrupted by a half-smothered cry that came from the throat of the boy’s companion, as she,—if girl she really was—went backward.

Before Tom Terror could reach the spot the boy had checked the revolving ball, and the victim of the cord lay in his arms.

“Fiends, you shall pay for this!” he cried. “Ha! you would finish me, too!”

He threw up his right arm as he spoke, and the strange missiles that came from the shadows began to encircle it.

It was the cord of the Thug!

“Ha! ha!” rung out a fearless laugh as the arm was held up in the moonlight for a brief minute. “What a pitiful rope you use! Mine is twice as strong, and I use it, too. Why don’t your devilish leader come back, and give me a chance to use it on him?”

“He hez come back!” roared Tom at that moment. “I’m hyar, you little imp! I’ve got a warrant for you—the kind that we sometimes sarve on a knife.”

The boy turned upon the speaker.

“Tom Terror himself, by the Land of Nod!” he exclaimed. “But you will not serve your warrant here. Back! back!” he held a pistol in his hand. “You can find me almost any day in Cut-throat Canyon. I’ve been holding court at Satan’s Tree. Go down and look at the culprits. I’m glad you’ve come back. We will make this gap our battle-ground. I try, condemn, and execute. I’ve a kind of travelling court that sits constantly. I’m judge, jury, prosecuting attorney, and sheriff. Have a care, Tiger Tom! We need no introduction, but here’s my card, anyhow.”

As the boy ceased, he snatched something from a pocket above his belt, and tossed it at the Gulch Tiger.

It struck him in the face, and fell upon his horse’s neck, where it stopped.

“Good-night. Follow if you want to, but I hold court in the saddle as often as anywhere. Come, Myra, we must go.”

The boy’s last words were addressed to the white face, into which he threw a hasty glance.

At the same moment the two horses started forward; their speed soon appeared to rival the flight of an arrow.

Tom did not follow. Bewildered and amazed, he sat still and looked down the canyon.

He was surrounded by the Indians who had urged their horses from the shadows. They were congratulating him on his return; but he did not seem to hear.

“Thar’s grit an’ death in thet boy,” he muttered. “He’s the one I’m after. I can’t be mistaken, but I didn’t expect to find ’im sech a match for me. His card? Ah, yes, let me see. What does the little gopher cull himself, anyhow?—

Tom looked up at the expectant Indians, and gave a long whistle of wonderment.

“Well, this beats my time all holler!” he said. “Judge Lynch, Jr., eh? Wal, thar’s one feller what he will never hang!”

Not many hours after the events related, the Custer City stage entered the canyon.

Already the long shadows of approaching night were falling, and Cut-throat Canyon was fast becoming the prince of places for road-agents.

The man who held the lines was eager to reach his journey’s end.

Apparently empty was the stage. If it contained a passenger he could not be seen; but there were gloomy corners in the old vehicle, large and dark enough to conceal a man.

“One mile move, an’ then—thunder an’ guns! just as I expected!” cried old Jack Drivewell.

Instinctively old Jack drew rein.

Before him, in the middle of the narrow road, stood what seemed to be an equestrian statue.

To the driver, horse and rider wore gigantic proportions, which were rendered more than half ghostly by the prevailing shadows.

“He looks like Tom Terror himself; but—”

Quickly upward shot the right arm of the spectre. Old Jack saw the deadly revolver clutched in the giant’s hand.

He had moved nearer—he might have touched the lead horse with the muzzle of his revolver.

“Hello, Jack!”

“Ar’ thet you, Tom?”

“Yes; didn’t I say I’d come back?”

“Wal, I don’t know,” drawled Jack. “Fellars what ain’t wanted ginerally come home.”

Old Jack thought he saw a smile at the corners of the Gulch Tiger’s mouth.

“So I’m not wanted here?”

“Of course not.”

A moment’s silence followed. Jack saw the horseman’s eyes wander to the stage.

“Empty, Jack?”

“Yes; thunderin’ poor trip; this road’s got unpopular o’ late. Do THEY know you’re back?”

“Guess not.”

“May I tell ’em?”

“If I let you go—yes.”

Jack, startled by these ominous words, felt a cold thrill shoot through his veins.

“Jack—old Jack it used to be, while we sifted an’ panned on Feather River—why ar’ you drivin’ stage when thar’s a gold-mine at yer feet?”

“A gold-mine!” echoed the driver, dazedly.

“Sartainly, an’ one that beats the Emma King all holler.”

“Ye’re tryin’ me, lad. I—”

“No. I want to see you git into better business than ridin’ over four wheels at eighty dollars a month. Jack, you’re out o’ yer sphere up thar. I say come down an’ work the mine that lies at yer feet.”

Jack began to catch the import of Tom’s words.

“Ef we work it right we can buy all the mines in this great kentry.”

Old Jack flung his whip to the ground.

“I’m with you, Tom!” he cried.

“I thought you would be. But what will we do with the stage an’ yer sleepy passenger?”

“Oh, that’s easy. I’ll wake ’im up, an’ tell ’im that I’ve left the business. He kin drive the hosses through to Custer.”

Tom’s eyes glistened.

“He is the very man I want,” he said, looking at the old stage-driver.

Jack, springing agilely over the horse, struck the ground, and turned toward the stage.

As the air was bracing, but not cold; the stage was open, and Jack, leaping upon the hub of the left fore wheel, was about to thrust his bronzed face inside when he sprung back with a cry of surprise.

The Gulch Tiger started forward.

What did he see?

He saw two revolvers thrust from the window, and between them appeared a face illumined by a smile of triumph. But the eye glittered like a snake’s; they seemed full of death.

“A deuced pretty game you two vermin are playing,” said the man at the window. “Jack, I’ll deal with you first. Go up or down! I’ll give you a minute. If I drive this stage to Custer I’ll leave you here with your toes pointing to the stars. I don’t waste words. The devil on that horse knows this. Now, Jack, go up or down.”

Jack glanced at Tom.

That worthy was staring at the face at the stage window.

“They’ve met before,” Jack muttered; “I guess I’d better go up.”

The Canyon Tiger glanced for a moment at the driver, and then lifted his head, as if to say, “Go up.”

Sullenly, and with many a muttered curse, old Jack climbed to his box again.

“If you attempt a treacherous move, I’ll take the lines from you, or rather they’ll drop suddenly from your hands.”

Jack heard but did not speak.

“Come up here, Tom Terror!”

The revolvers which were covering the outlaw’s face carried him forward.

Jack, expecting a conversation between the two, bent down.

“Now do your duty,” said the man at the window, in a commanding whisper. “Do not forget for a moment that if you fail—or if you associate anybody with you—I will flood your brains with daylight. You must do it alone—alone, I tell you! The path is before you; at the end of it is a bonanza, a real palpable one; but between you and it is death—death by the trigger I am touching now!”

Old Jack did not hear all; the sentences that fell on his ears were disjointed, but not altogether meaningless.

Therefore, he was not startled to hear Tom say in his usual tone of voice—

“Jack, drive this gentleman through to Custer.”

The next moment the stage was rolling through the canyon, watched with strange curiosity by the individual whom it left behind.

“Here you ar’!” announced old Jack, as he drew up before one of the young city’s hotels, a large wooden structure from which loud voices came. “Here’s the Gold Bug, the house whar all my best passengers stop.”

The man was on the ground as Jack spoke, and the next instant was walking toward the hostelry.

He entered the bar-room with the air of an old frequenter of such places. His eyes took in the crowd in several restless glances; but, all at once, he seemed to shrink from the scene.

He stopped almost suddenly, for a hand dropped somewhat lightly on his shoulder.

Deadly Dan, as the young man called himself, wheeled quickly.

He stood face to face with the young buck.

“Brother, come back!” ejaculated the Indian, his eyes filled with recognition.

“Yes, and I’m twice as desperate as the starving wolf. Hold your tongue. If you move it again, I’ll scatter your brains right and left to the winds!”

It was plain that the twain who consulted each other in the smoky bar-room had met before.

There was threatful defiance in Deadly Dan’s eyes; savage pleasure and revenge in the Indian’s.

“Brother didn’t expect to find Red Crest here?”

“Curse you, no! but since we have met—”

“We might make one trail, eh, brother?”

“If that is what you mean, yes!” grated Dan, and the hand that had rested lightly on his hip glided to his revolver.

The quick eye of the Indian detected the movement.

“Not here, brother,” he said, quietly, but with unmistakable eagerness in his tone. “Too many here.”

“As you please,” murmured Dan. “But I thought that the son of the forest might want to die under a roof like decent white people.”

For a moment the young Indian did not reply; but he unsealed his red lips again it was to say “Come!” as he turned suddenly on his heel.

Red Crest was moving toward the low-browed door, confident that Deadly Dan was on his heels.

“It is the only card I can play; he turned the Jack on me before I had been ten minutes in Custer. I didn’t expect to see him here, but we had to meet some time. I must follow him—yes, I must kill him!”

Red Crest being the guide, led the way. They left the town behind, and after ten minutes’ walk, the Indian halted at what appeared to be the mouth of a little gulch.

“Here!” he said, whirling upon his antagonist.

Deadly Dan, for the first time, started as if the monosyllable had exploded a shell at his feet.

“I’ve been a fool—a confounded idiot!” he murmured. “While we were coming down here, I was leaving the golden opportunity slip. I was thinking, but not about the vital interests of the hour—not about the life I was bringing down here to put up for an Indian’s target. No, curse me! If I had recurred to business for one brief minute, I would now be going back to Custer alone—yes, alone!”

Did the gleaming eyes of Red Crest discern the thoughts that were flitting through the Sport’s brain? If they had not, why did he say—

“Red Crest trusted his brother who might have shot him as they walked.”

“And you might have winged me,” Deadly Dan remarked with a faint smile. “One must fear the other, eh, Indian?”

The light of unrestrained curiosity twinkled in the Indian’s eyes.

“What is the boy to Dan?” he asked. “Why does he come back from the far-off cities of the white people to hunt him like a wolf?”

“Do you really want to know?”

“Red Crest eager.”

“It is a secret—one that I would not whisper to the winds. But why need I keep it back when we are to fight to the death—until, probably, both fall dead? I will tell you, Red Crest. I will whisper in your ears the white man’s secret.”

Deadly Dan stepped forward with the last sentence on his lips.

His eagle like glance had probably detected that curiosity was mastering the young Sioux.

“Now is my time!” he muttered.

Red Crest had been thrown off his guard. He even went forward to greet the Sport’s secret; but the next moment, with, the restless bound of the jungle tiger, Deadly Dan shot forward, and a hand of death and vengeance was at the Indian’s throat!

The vehemence of Deadly Dan’s spring lifted the Indian from the ground, and the next instant he went backward, only to fall heavily nearer the darkened mouth of the little gulch with the weight of his antagonist on his chest.

“You’re a sharp redskin,” he said; “but you’ve betrayed your last man. Now go and join the brethren I sent downward from the camp on the Rosebud!”

The knife flew upward, armed with vengeance, but the next instant a voice caused Dan to spring erect without having struck the deadly blow.

“If you’ve no objection, pard, I’d like to take a hand in that game!” said the voice.

The dirk almost dropped from Dan’s hand, and for several moments he presented a splendid picture of amazement as he stood in the moonlight, staring at the individual who had spoken.

“The boy, by the cups of Bacchus!” fell from Dan’s lips. “This is a meeting most unexpected, and decidedly unpleasant. The youngster’s got the drop on me, and there’s no reason in the world why he should let up on Deadly Dan. But he doesn’t seem to recognise me. Maybe—”

The Sport’s sentence was broken by the sudden spring with which Red Crest regained his feet.

“Brother! brother! See! see! it is the Wolf of the Rosebud!” the Indian cried, turning to the boy. “He is on the trail once more!”

A startling cry came from the youngster’s throat as he sprung forward.

Deadly Dan instinctively shrunk from the revolver which the boy thrust madly into his face. He was not ready for the fatal bullet.

“No!” suddenly cried the boy. “Brave men die by the pistol; cowards and murderers by the rope. Seize him, Red Crest!”

A panther-like bound carried the Indian forward; he fell upon Deadly Dan, tore the knife from his hand, and made him captive.

“Bring him along,” said the youth, turning away.

The Sport did not resist. He seemed to have bewildered him.

As he moved along, the Indian completely disarmed him; he was at the mercy of the pair.

When a halt was made Deadly Dan found himself before two horses that stood in the shadow of the gulch walls.

“One moment, boy,” said Dan, turning to the strange youth. “I want to know what this means? Tell Deadly Dan what you are going to do with him. I’m the Wolf of the Rosebud again. I can hear anything.”

A smile flitted across the boy’s handsome countenance, and he answered by thrusting a card into the Sport’s hand.

Dan glanced at it curiously, and threw himself back in the saddle until his body was in the moonlight. Then, holding the card before his eager eyes, he read—

The boy and Indian watched him narrowly, but they saw no quivering of the lips as he turned to the former—

“Well, what of it?” asked Deadly Dan. “Yes, boy, what do I care for the rigmarole on this card? You are the self-instituted Judge Lynch, I suppose.”

“Judge Lynch, at your service,” said the boy, doffing his hat with mock politeness. “And I have the honour of informing you, Rosebud Dan, that my court is about to hold a night session.”

Before the Sport could reply, the horses started forward, and a moment after the party went through the little gulch.

Red Crest, the Sioux, with his hand at Deadly Dan’s bridle, trotted tirelessly at the head of his steed.