Trent came to Idaho seeking solitude. He built a cabin, broke a few wild horses, and quietly put his past behind him. Then King Bill Hale began laying claim to all the land around Cedar Bluff. When Hale’s son kills one of Trent’s neighbors, Trent quickly steps forward to lead the fight. Their property had been legally filed on, but Bill Hale has the men, money, and political power to steal it from them. What Hale doesn’t realize is that Trent also has connections. With evidence that can ruin Hale’s scheme, Trent must find a way past Hale’s gang of thugs to the men who can help him. However, if Trent succeeds, his violent past will be revealed; if he fails, the others may forfeit their land. But Trent could forfeit his life. Holed up in a cabin in the Idaho hills, the mysterious man who called himself Trent wasn't looking for trouble. It came looking for him. A trigger-happy kid named Cub Hale emptied his gun into an unarmed man. Then he came swaggering after Trent. The girl who ran the gambling hall tried to get him to hightail it. But Trent wasn't buying. Even in that forsaken back country, he knew when a man had to speak with his shooting iron. Holed up in a cabin in the Idaho hills, the mysterious man who called himself Trent wasn't looking for trouble.  It came looking for him.  A trigger-happy kid named Cub Hale emptied his gun into an unarmed man.  Then he came swaggering after Trent.  The girl who ran the gambling hall tried to get him to hightail it.  But Trent wasn't buying.  Even in that forsaken back country, he knew when a man had to speak with his shooting iron. Holed up in a cabin in the Idaho hills, the mysterious man who called himself Trent wasn't looking for trouble. It came looking for him. A trigger-happy kid named Cub Hale emptied his gun into an unarmed man. Then he came swaggering after Trent. The girl who ran the gambling hall tried to get him to hightail it. But Trent wasn't buying. Even in that forsaken back country, he knew when a man had to speak with his shooting iron. 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 Smoke lifted from the charred timbers where once the house had stood, and curled wistfully in memory of the great barn Moffit had built to store hay and grain against the coming winters. The corral bars were down and the saddle stock had been run off. Where Dick Moffit's homestead had been that morning there was now only desolation, emptiness, and death. Dick Moffit lay sprawled on the hard-packed earth of his barnyard, the earth deeply clawed in the agony of death. Even from where he sat on the long-legged buckskin, the man known as Trent could see Moffit had been shot at least six times. Three bullets had gone in from the front, the other three fired directly into his back by a man who stood over him. And Dick Moffit had been unarmed. The small green valley lay still in the lazy afternoon sun, a faint heat emanating from the burned timbers. So this was the way a dream ended! Dick Moffit had sold a good business back East to try his luck at stock-raising in the far West, something for which he had longed since boyhood. The man who called himself Trent walked his horse slowly around the burned-out farm. Four or five men had come here, one of them riding a horse with a split right-rear hoof. They had shot Moffit down, then burned his layout. Yet, where were his children? What about Sally Crane, who was sixteen? And young Jack Moffit, who was but fourteen? There was no evidence of them here, and although the killers might have taken Sally away, they would undoubtedly have killed Jack. There were no other bodies, nor were there any recent tracks of the children. Those that remained and could be distinguished at all were several days old. Thoughtfully Trent turned away. The buckskin knew the way they turned was toward home and quickened his pace. There were five miles to go, five miles of rugged trails through mountains and heavy timber and with no clear trail. For this was the way of the man called Trent, that he leave no definite trail wherever he went, and each time he came or went from his mountain hideaway he used a different route, so far as was possible. He did not expect to be trailed by anyone at this time, but then, many a good man was now dead who had not expected to be followed. This could be it. Always, of course, he had known the day would come, for trouble had a way of seeking him out, try as he would to avoid it. For too many months now everything had gone too well. The rains had come when needed, the grass had grown tall, his few cattle were growing fat. When in town, he had completed his business and bought his supplies then returned home. Of course, there had been rumors that King Bill Hale climbed the high meadows, and ther