Deadman’s Flats was well named. It dared and taunted all those who set eyes upon it to try and cross its vast expanse. None of the trio had expected the desolation which greeted their sand-burned eyes. Dust drifted over the riders as they sat and stared out at the barren landscape ahead of them. There was no life to been seen anywhere on the arid plain which stretched off into the heat haze. No trees, not even a blade of grass. No living creatures of any description. Not even in the sky. They had trailed the hoof-tracks of the seven outlaw horses south for weeks through a half-dozen climates to reach this unholy place. For Snake Adams and his deadly cohorts had left a hill of corpses back in the high country. Too many corpses for even the mainly lawless territories to ignore. The fearful citizens of Waco had enlisted the help of the most renowned lawman west of the Pecos. They had paid him $1,000 in gold. Marshal Casey Layne was the only man who had a chance of catching the notorious gang before they vanished across the border into Mexico.
