He came out of the north, from the mountains of Colorado to the dusty, sun-dried territory of New Mexico, gunning for a killer. When Jim Lane stepped off the train at Mountain City, there was the smell of blood in his nostrils. He had carried the stench with him ever since his closest friend had been cut down by a slug in the back. Lane was hard on the heels of the killer, but the killer wasn't the kind that operated alone. He had friends - men who had grown up on a land of violence and who had never learned any other way of life. That is what Lane had to face, and it wasn't going to be an easy job, especially since he didn't have eyes in the back of his head.