He had convinced himself, during his laudanum-induced haze while having his and his son’s broken teeth extracted by a dentist he had brought in from El Paso, that everybody was his mortal enemy; that everybody was against him; that everybody was out to get him. When he struck, he struck hard and mean and vicious. A small rancher who had moved back into the area and who was running about two hundred and fifty head of cattle experienced the full fury of John Lee’s nightriders. Matt and Sam and Josiah could sense death long before they reached the burned-out and still smoking ruins of what had been a house. The nightriders had fired several hundred rounds, killing not only the rancher and his wife and two children, but also killing about a hundred head of cattle. They lay stinking and bloating under the sun, while overhead the buzzards slowly circled, waiting for a meal. “The man’s stepped over the line,” Matt said, as he and the others tied bandanas around their faces to block out at least some of the horrible odor.
