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.