He rode from Texas with his Colt at his side, his Winchester in a saddle scabbard, a look in his eyes that made men back off, and a lean, muscled strength that made women gaze at him long and hard. He called himself Cimarron, with his hand on his gun to answer any more questions. He alone knew of the one kill-crazy act that had cut his life in two, and turned him into a man without a home or a friend on either side of the law.