After that night, when he had walked from the dark heart of the mountain without horse or gun, head bowed, eyes glazed, it seemed that the life of Bob McGurk had burned down to black ash. Indeed, no one heard of him for five long years. Then, phoenix-like, he was reborn in fire, emerging in the raw border country of Texas. His rebirth was spectacular. No longer the lone phantom fighter of past days, he led a gang of coldhearted thieves and killers that became the scourge of the Rio Grande. But McGurk never returned to the mountain-desert country of his shame and defeat. And only he knew that the face of Red Pierre never left him; it blazed in his mind by day and haunted his nights. Then, as suddenly as he had reappeared, after proving his skill and courage afresh in a score of wild, bullet-filled encounters, the great gunfighter vanished from the world of civilized men. His gang dispersed and the border country saw no more of him. McGurk was finally gone. Only the legend remained.