Chapter I: Very well known to the Frontier are the words

“The Vigilantes are operating in Silver Butte, and have already killed the sheriff.”

That statement was repeated in far-flung places in the West--around the camp-fires of the buffalo hunters, at the chuckwagons with the trail herds, and in the hideouts of the outlaw clan. Men, working outside the law, avoided the Vigilantes.

Silver Butte! A booming railroad town. A huge bridge, a long tunnel, miles of cuts and fills would assure Silver Butte of a long-time payroll. Silver Butte had been known as a bad-man’s town.

Down along the rough roads, cut deep by freighter’s wagons, came “Streak” Malone, tall in his saddle, riding a tall, blue-gray outlaw horse--a horse with the head of a rattler and the disposition of the Devil. Only Streak Malone could touch this brute, which obeyed every signal from its master.

Malone was just over six feet tall, lithe as a cat, ruggedly handsome, his coal-black hair split in the center with a two-inch streak of pure white. His high-crowned sombrero was decorated with a wide, silver-studded band, his vest was beaded in intricate designs, and his shirt was of almost-white doeskin, a present from a Sioux woman. He wore black boots with silver spurs, and his holstered gun was silver inlaid by a master silversmith.

No one knew where Streak Malone came from. He never spoke of his past, and he came into the West several years ahead of the railroad. He was barely thirty years of age, but his face held deep lines, and his eyes were deep under heavy brows.

A hard pair, this streak-haired man and the outlaw horse, but Streak Malone was never outside the law. Horse-breaker, trapper, buffalo hunter, gambler--he never stayed long in any place. Something seemed to lure him on, and now he was riding into Silver Butte. He, too, had heard of the Vigilantes of that part of the Territory, but the Vigilantes conveyed no fear to Streak Malone.

Until the coming of the railroad, Silver Butte was merely a cowtown with one short crooked street, but now it was a booming place of tent-houses, shacks of every description, and more building every day. The main street was ankle-deep in dust, teeming with freight wagons, pack outfits, cowboy riders and a few lighter vehicles.

The biggest building was the Silver Dollar Saloon and Gambling Palace. Less than a block away was another large building, nearly completed, with men working feverishly. A huge sign, ready to swing into place read: EUREKA SALOON AND GAMBLING HALL.

* * * * *

Streak Malone was almost obliged to ride over the wooden sidewalks, in order to avoid the traffic. In front of the stage office a man yelled his name, and he drew up. He vaguely remembered seeing the man in Bismark a year ago, and waved a greeting.

He found an opening between two freight wagons, and spurred across the street and continued on to a feed-corral. The man in charge said:

“Turn yore horse loose in the corral, stranger, and hang yore saddle in the stable.”

“Wait a minute, my friend,” replied Streak. “I’ve got to have a stall for this horse, and I’ll take care of him myself.”

“Ain’t the corral good enough?” The man was inclined to resent Streak’s words.

“This horse will try to kill any man who touches him,” explained Streak. “Tell everybody to keep away from him.”

“I’ve got an empty stall,” said the man. “Much obliged.”

Streak walked out of the stable and met the man who had called to him. Streak looked closely at the man, who spoke quietly.

“I own the general store here,” said the man. “You’re Streak Malone. I’m Jim Buskirk.”

“I remember you,” said Streak. “Bismark, a year or so ago.”

“Good! We’ve been lookin’ for a man like you, Malone.”

Streak’s eyes hardened, and his right hand dropped naturally over the butt of his holstered gun. The man grinned and shook his head quickly. “Nothin’ like that,” he said quietly. “Come to my store at dark, and I’ll take yuh where we can talk to other men.”

“I don’t reckon I understand this deal, my friend.”

“Look across the street at that sign on the sheriff’s office.”

It was painted in big, black letters and read:

CLOSED BY ORDER OF THE VIGILANTES

Streak nodded. “Plain enough,” he remarked.

“The sheriff,” said Buskirk, “was an honest man. They shot him down in his office.”

“The Vigilantes don’t usually kill an innocent man,” remarked Streak. “I heard they are operatin’ here.”

“But don’t yuh understand?” asked Buskirk quietly. “There’s no Vigilantes. I mean, not honest ones. The sheriff was murdered.”

“Oh, I see,” nodded Streak. “Wolves in sheep clothing.”

“That’s it exactly. Will you meet with us?”

Streak smiled. In town ten minutes, and already included in some mystery. He said, “I’ll be there, Buskirk--at dark.”

The man nodded and crossed the street, while Streak walked up past the feed corral, and stopped to look at the new construction of the Eureka Saloon. They were unloading the sections of a huge, mahogany bar from freight wagons. The dismantled bar had been shipped by steamer from St. Louis, and picked up from a Missouri River boat. A man said:

“The Eureka shore spent a fortune on that stuff. Imagine a mahogany bar in Silver Butte. Pearls before swine, I calls it.”

Streak smiled and crossed the street to the one hotel in the town, where he was lucky enough to get a room. The clerk said:

“Are you one of the new Eureka gamblers?”

Streak shook his head. “Do I look like a gambler?” he asked.

“Yuh can’t tell about looks. I see they’re bringin’ in real furniture for the new saloon. Cost a lot of money. Jim Flack is a top gambler, but he’ll have plenty of action, buckin’ Zero Brant. Brant jist about runs Silver Butte. We wondered why he didn’t try to stop Jim Flack from buildin’ the Eureka, but maybe he figures to break Flack in one swipe.”

“What do you mean by that?”asked Streak.

“Nothin’, stranger. Mebbe I talk too much--I dunno.”

Streak went back to the doorway, watching the activity on the street. A young cowboy was standing just away from the doorway, and a girl came down the street to meet him. She was pretty, but looked tired. There was so much noise on the street that they did not expect to be overheard.

“I’ve been watchin’ for yuh, Mazie,” the boy said. “Near the Silver Dollar.”

“I couldn’t get away, Joe,” she replied wearily. “They wanted me to learn a new song.”

“Let’s pull out,” the boy suggested. “Mazie, I’ve got folks down in St. Louis. We can get married and go there. We don’t have to live in this hell hole.”

* * * * *

The girl’s smile was as sweet as anything Streak had ever seen, but she shook her head. “Not yet, Joe. We haven’t enough money. Mr. Flack offered me more money to sing in the Eureka, but I don’t know what to do. Zero Brant heard about it, and he told me I’d better stay with him, if I know what’s good for me. What do you think I should do, Joe?”

“I don’t know,” he replied. “Brant is a bad man and he might do you dirt. Better wait and see what happens when the Eureka opens.”

They drifted away together into the dust cloud which hung like a pall over Silver Butte. Streak Malone drew a deep breath. Love in a place like this! He was curious to see “Zero” Brant, the bad-man. He walked toward the Silver Dollar.

Zero Brant was worth more than a passing glance, as he stood at the bar in the Silver Dollar Saloon. There were big men in there, but Zero Brant dwarfed them all. Clad in the raiment of a typical gambler, he looked like the common conception of a cave-man, huge of arm and limb, slightly stooped, a bullet-shaped head on a thick neck, green, predatory eyes, and a face of solid granite.

Gripped in one corner of his gash-like mouth was a frayed-out cigar, while in one huge paw he held a glass of liquor. No man had ever whipped Zero Brant. He and his gunmen ruled Silver Butte. It was a small domain for a king like Zero, but he had ideas. It was a starter--and the West was young. The huge room was overflowing with construction workers, cowboys, buffalo hunters and the usual riffraff which followed the construction work.

A woman came down through the crowded room, and the men moved aside to let her pass. Swishing silks and glittering jewels marked the passing of Conchita. She was a striking figure in that tawdry place, the offspring of a Spanish father and an Irish mother. Someone had once said, “I didn’t know that the Devil was Irish.”

Rounded, big hipped, small ankles and small feet, she moved with the grace of a tigress. Like the girl in Service’s poem--“She knew by heart, from finish to start, the Book of Iniquity.”

Zero Brant scowled. He didn’t like to have Conchita in the Silver Dollar in the daytime. She was his roulette attraction, and she drew a lot of players. She didn’t look so good in daylight. Men stared at her as she came up to Brant and took the glass out of his hand. Neither of them spoke. She faced the crowd and sipped from his glass.

“I have some information from El Chuchilla,” she said quietly.

“What?” breathed Zero Brant.

“A man named Streak Malone came today. They say he has the nerve of the devil. They are having a meeting tonight at Buskirk’s house and they are going to try and appoint Malone the marshal of Silver Butte.”

“What else did El Chuchilla hear?” asked Brant.

Conchita toyed with her glass, a smile on her painted lips.

“They say,” she replied, “that Streak Malone will have fifty men behind him--fifty guns.”

“I’m bossin’ Silver Butte,” replied Brant coldly. “Fifty or five hundred--who cares? I’ll handle this job.”

“What about the Eureka?” asked Conchita. “They’re moving in the mahogany today.”

“Stay out of this,” growled Zero. “This is a man’s job.”

“They tell me that Streak Malone is a man,” she said, as she placed the empty glass on the bar, and walked away, her head high.

Zero Brant scowled. Conchita was his woman, but she was no slave. She would drop him in a minute, if the going got too tough, and he knew it. So they were going to appoint a marshal for Silver Butte, were they? Zero spat out the frayed cigar. All right! Silver Butte would find out that Zero Brant was still the boss.

He found the little Mexican Monte dealer, El Chuchilla, the Knife, and drew him aside. The Knife was a featherweight in size, but notorious for his ability in throwing a blade. He was also Zero Brant’s spy. Brant said:

“Listen, you! Be at that meetin’ tonight.”

“_Por Dios_--no!” gasped the Mexican.

“There’s goin’ to be a crowd,” said Brant. “You can get in. I want information of what happens.”

“No,” replied the Mexican stubbornly.

“Scared?” queried Brant sarcastically.

“_Si._ My friend, I know those Strick Malone, and he know me.”

“Yea-a-ah? That’s better. Where did you know him?”

“Medora. I am seek for broken bone t’ree month. I have leetle tro’ble een saloon. Those Malone don’t tak’ joke. He t’row me twenty feet t’rough a weendow.”

Zero Brant grinned. “I’ll send somebody else. You keep away from Streak Malone. I need yuh.”