Considine and Pete Runyon had once been friends, back in the days when both were cowhands. But when Runyon married the woman Considine loved, the two parted ways. Runyon settled down and became a sheriff. Considine took up robbing banks. Now Considine is planning a raid on the bank at Obaro, a plan that will pit him against Runyon . . . and lead to riches or suicide. The one thing he never counted on was meeting a strong, beautiful woman and her stubborn father, hell-bent on traveling alone through Apache territory to a new life. Suddenly Considine must choose between revenge and redemption—and either choice could be the last one he makes. Many a hardcase had died trying to tale the bank and settle an old score at the same time. But he never counted on meeting a beautiful woman and her trail-savvy but reckless father, headed a straight for Apache country. Now Consindine and his gang can either ride like hell for the border just ahead of an angry posse, or join the old man and his daughter in a desperate last stand against blood-hungry warriors. The choice is simple: risk the hangman's noose or an Apache bullet. Many a hardcase had died trying to tale the bank and settle an old score at the same time. But he never counted on meeting a beautiful woman and her trail-savvy but reckless father, headed a straight for Apache country. Now Consindine and his gang can either ride like hell for the border just ahead of an angry posse, or join the old man and his daughter in a desperate last stand against blood-hungry warriors. The choice is simple: risk the hangman's noose or an Apache bullet. Many a hardcase had died trying to take the bank in Obaro. Considine aimed to break the bank and settle an old score at the same time. But he never counted on meeting a beautiful woman and her trail-savvy but reckless father, headed straight for Apache country. Now Considine and his gang can either ride like hell for the border just ahead of an angry posse, or join the old man and his daughter in a desperate last stand against blood-hungry warriors. Our foremost storyteller of the American West, Louis L’Amour has thrilled a nation by chronicling the adventures of the brave men and woman who settled the frontier. There are more than three hundred million copies of his books in print around the world. Chapter One AFTER THE MOON lowered itself behind the serrated ridge of the Gunsight Hills, two riders walked their horses from the breaks along the river. The night was still. Only the crickets made their small music, and down by the livery stable a bay horse stamped restlessly, lifting his head, ears pricked. Another rider, a big man who sat easy in the saddle, rode up out of a draw and walked his horse along the alleyway leading to the town’s main street. Only the blacksmith heard the walking horse. His eyes opened, for he was a man who had known much of Indian fighting, and they remained open and aware during the slow seconds while the horse walked by. Casually, he wondered what rider would be on the street at that hour of the night, but sleep claimed him and the rider was forgotten. This rider did not emerge upon the street, but drew rein in the deepest shadows beside the general store, hearing the approach of the two riders coming along the street. There was no sign of Considine, but he expected none. Considine had a way of getting to where he wanted to be without being seen. The two riders went by, turning at the last minute in a perfect column right to stop before the bank. Each dismounted at once, and each held a rifle. Only when they were in position did Dutch walk his mount across the street and swing down in the comparative shelter of the bank building. As he dismounted he held one hand carefully about a fruit jar. It was a very small jar, but Dutch treated it with respect. Considine opened the bank door from within as Dutch brought his jar around the corner. “It’s an old box . . . nothing to worry about.” Dutch moved past him in the darkness, walking with the cat-footedness given to some very heavy men, and squatted before the big iron safe. Considine walked back to the door for one last look down the empty street. Behind him the peteman had gone to work. Hardy lit a cigarette and glanced over his shoulder. He was younger than Considine and just as tall, but thinner—a knife-edged young man with a face that showed reckless and tough in the faint glow of the cigarette. The Kiowa neither moved nor spoke. A blocky, square-built young man, he was a half-breed known from Colorado to Sonora, wanted everywhere and nowhere. Considine walked back to where Dutch was working on the safe. Sweat beaded the big man’s face as the steel drill bit into the softer iron of the safe. The first hole, at the top corner of the safe door, was well started. “Spell you?” “No.” Dutch was a craftsman and proud of his work. He had done time in the Texas pen for being caught with the wrong cattle, and while in prison he had learne