They said in Texas that Tom Buchanan ate wildcat for breakfast and that he was slow to anger—like a rattler dozing in the desert sun. But now every saloon and dance hall had heard the news: Buchanan was cleaning his guns. The genial giant of a man had sworn to kill the outlaws who had shot his best friend in the back. Old timers shook their heads. It wasn’t going to be a fair fight, they said. The odds were only three to one.

He was a tall son—taller than most men by a head, with a look of wildness in his battered, tough face. He was Tom Buchanan out of West Texas, who fought with joy and loved with gusto—who many times had gone to meet death without pause and with great good nature. This time he took on the whole of Agry County and the violent bandit clan that ran it. It was no fight of his—but a girl had been violated and a family’s honor tarnished. So Buchanan settled his gunbelt and flexed his great hands and went surging into battle like a one-man troop of cavalry. And, by God, in the end there was left even to burn in Agrytown …