[Illustration: Carrying Clare in his arms, Streak looked back and saw flames.] The Mark of Cain A novelet by W. C. Tuttle Swift-shooting Streak Malone enlists his legendary guns in a hot-lead campaign to clean up the terror town of Silver Butte! I Very well known to the Frontier are the words: “The Vigilantes are operating in Silver Butte, and have already killed the sheriff.” That statement was repeated in far-flung places in the West--around the camp-fires of the buffalo hunters, at the chuckwagons with the trail herds, and in the hideouts of the outlaw clan. Men, working outside the law, avoided the Vigilantes. Silver Butte! A booming railroad town. A huge bridge, a long tunnel, miles of cuts and fills would assure Silver Butte of a long-time payroll. Silver Butte had been known as a bad-man’s town. Down along the rough roads, cut deep by freighter’s wagons, came “Streak” Malone, tall in his saddle, riding a tall, blue-gray outlaw horse--a horse with the head of a rattler and the disposition of the Devil. Only Streak Malone could touch this brute, which obeyed every signal from its master. Malone was just over six feet tall, lithe as a cat, ruggedly handsome, his coal-black hair split in the center with a two-inch streak of pure white. His high-crowned sombrero was decorated with a wide, silver-studded band, his vest was beaded in intricate designs, and his shirt was of almost-white doeskin, a present from a Sioux woman. He wore black boots with silver spurs, and his holstered gun was silver inlaid by a master silversmith. No one knew where Streak Malone came from. He never spoke of his past, and he came into the West several years ahead of the railroad. He was barely thirty years of age, but his face held deep lines, and his eyes were deep under heavy brows. A hard pair, this streak-haired man and the outlaw horse, but Streak Malone was never outside the law. Horse-breaker, trapper, buffalo hunter, gambler--he never stayed long in any place. Something seemed to lure him on, and now he was riding into Silver Butte. He, too, had heard of the Vigilantes of that part of the Territory, but the Vigilantes conveyed no fear to Streak Malone. Until the coming of the railroad, Silver Butte was merely a cowtown with one short crooked street, but now it was a booming place of tent-houses, shacks of every description, and more building every day. The main street was ankle-deep in dust, teeming with freight wagons, pack outfits, cowboy riders and a few lighter vehicles. The biggest building was the Silver Dollar Saloon and Gambling Palace. Less than a block away was another large building, nearly completed, with men working feverishly. A huge sign, ready to swing into place read: EUREKA SALOON AND GAMBLING HALL. * * * * *