search of romance. He was a slender, lithe young Adonis of medium
height. His hair and eyebrows left one doubtful whether to
pronounce them black or brown, but the eyes called for an
immediate verdict of Irish blue. Every inch of him spoke of
competency--promised mastership of any situation likely to arise.
But when the last word is said it was the eyes that dominated the
personality. They could run the whole gamut of emotions, or they
could be impervious as a stone wall. Now they were deep and
innocent as a girl's, now they rollicked with the buoyant youth
in them. Comrades might see them bubbling with fun, and the next
moment enemies find them opague as a leaden sky. Not the least
wonder of them was that they looked out from under long lashes,
soft enough for any maiden, at a world they appraised with the
shrewdness of a veteran.

The young man drew rein above the valley, sitting his horse in
the easy, negligent fashion of one that lives in the saddle. A
thumb was hitched carelessly in the front pocket of his chaps,
which pocket served also as a holster for the .45 that protruded.

Even in the moment that he sat there a change came over Aravaipa.
As a summer shower sweeps across a lake so something had ruffled
the town to sudden life. From stores and saloons men dribbled,
converging toward a common centre hurriedly.

"I reckon, Bucky, the band has begun to play," the rider told
himself aloud. "Mebbe we better move on down in time for the
music."

But no half-expected revolver shots shattered the stillness, even