Silver Butte came to life early in the morning. Or it may be that Silver Butte did not go to bed. The door of the sheriff’s little office was open, and the sign was gone. Streak Malone was sitting on a corner of the desk, wondering why he had ever been foolish enough to listen to the pleadings of those men last night and accept the appointment as marshal of Silver Butte. The men represented what was left of law and order. There were men from the construction camps, asking for a square-deal for their men, business men, asking protection for their women and for their business. There were other men, too, watching, listening, asking nothing. Streak had said: “Friends, I appreciate conditions in Silver Butte. No one man can do this job. I have only two eyes. Is there anyone in this room who will stand at my back--act as my deputy?” Not a person had responded. Streak said, “I reckon it’s worse than I thought. I’ll find my own deputy. You gents represent the law element of Silver Butte. I want you to vote me the right to shoot first and hold trial afterwards.” The vote was unanimous. So Streak Malone, a stranger in the town, was appointed marshal. Streak was no fool--he realized the odds. A bullet, a well-placed knife--and, as he had said, he only had two eyes. Leaning against the rough wall of the office was the sign, CLOSED BY ORDER OF THE VIGILANTES. Streak had torn it off the wall. It was his defiance to the killers who masqueraded as the law. A man stopped in the doorway, and Streak looked up quickly. This man was of medium height, slender, long-haired, hard-faced. He, too, wore his gun. Streak knew who he was. A man had told Streak that this man was Mack Shell, leader of his own outlaw gang, reputed very fast with a gun. They eyed each other closely, and then Shell’s eyes shifted to the sign. “Opened up again, eh?” he remarked dryly. Streak nodded. “I’m the marshal,” he said quietly. “Yeah? What do yuh aim to do, Malone?” “Bring law and order to Silver Butte.” Mack Shell started to laugh, but stopped and began rolling a cigarette. Streak said: “You’re Mack Shell. Are you backin’ Zero Brant?” Shell spat viciously. “Back that wolf?” he snorted. “He claims that he’s the boss of Silver Butte.” “Suits me--I don’t live here.” Streak looked thoughtfully at the outlaw. “You’ve taken over a cattle ranch only a few miles from here, Shell,” he said. “This will be your town. When you come here, do yuh want a boss?” Shell looked coldly at Streak. “Nobody bosses Mack Shell.” “It will be you or Zero Brant some day, Shell. Good folks won’t come here--folks with women and kids. There are other kinds of women, Shell, beside the kind at the Silver Dollar. A decent woman ain’t safe on the street.” “She shore ain’t,” agreed Shell. “But that hasn’t got a thing to do with me. I ain’t got a woman.” “Look at it like this,” suggested Streak quietly. “You had a mother--maybe a sister, Shell. They’d--” Mack Shell flung his cigarette into the street.