The Riders of Ramapo Pass

by Dean L. Heffernan
Transcriber’s Note: This story appeared in the December 20, 1919 issue of the All-Story Weekly magazine published by the Frank T. Munsey Company.
There was a time in the West when hard men lived hard—and died hard! The mountains and ravines were pouring out their long-hoarded treasures with reckless prodigality, and the lure of gold, like a magnet, drew creatures of every description and nationality. So rapid was the invasion of eager fortune-hunters that law and order, unable to keep pace, were left far behind.
On the strength of a mere rumor, towns sprang up overnight, flourished feverishly and briefly, and expired. Fortunes were hourly lost and won on the turn of a card.
A hasty word produced a hasty funeral. Men came to accept strangers at their face value; nor did they inquire too closely into the past life and antecedents of even their best friends. Every one was a law unto himself. The long-barreled six-shooter was the accepted judge, jury, and executioner in all controversies, and the slowest of tongue, the quickest of arm, the surest of eye, were the longest of life.
It was an everyday affair for a man to be a beggar at morn, a millionaire at noon, and a corpse at night!
The Red Valley stage, rocking and swaying, bowled down the steep, rutty road and came to a jarring halt before the “Silver Star” amid a swirling, scurrying cloud of dust. For a second or two it paused, with horses panting. Then old Bailey, the driver, shouted and cracked his whip, the four horses strained forward, and the next minute the lumbering vehicle careened around a bend in the road and disappeared into the forest.
It left a stranger behind it, standing in the road beside his baggage.
He calmly looked over his surroundings. Then, with perfect ease, he lifted his heavy wooden box by its rope handle and advanced to the group of men who had been more or less disinterestedly watching him from the low porch of the town’s combined saloon, post-office, and general store.