They said in Texas that Tom Buchanan ate wildcat for breakfast and that he was slow to anger—like a rattler dozing in the desert sun.

But now every saloon and dance hall had heard the news: Buchanan was cleaning his guns. The genial giant of a man had sworn to kill the outlaws who had shot his best friend in the back.

Old timers shook their heads. It wasn't going to be a fair fight, they said.

The odds were only three to one.