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skinned, mustachioed Comanchero with a penchant for rawhide bullwhips.
    “Listen up boys,” he said. “There’s a stranger come to town and he’s got something of mine. I want it back.” 
    “What’s that Mr. Diamond?” Leonard White asked.
    “It’s the controlling shares to the Gilded Bird Mine. Anderson blew his brains out last night after he lost the mine to this stranger, a tinhorn gambler by the name of Devlin Winter.”
    Miguel smiled slyly at Laredo. “Was he the one Laredo lost to in the Bucket of Blood last night? The tall black haired hombre that looks like El Diablo?” 
    Laredo flushed a dull red. “Shut yer damn mouth, Cruz!” he said. 
    Miguel laughed. 
    Big Jim nodded.
    “That’s the one. So I want you three to find out what Winter’s business is in Virginia City and, what his purpose is and why he wants to take over that mine. I want to know every move he makes, who he associates with, even down to the whores he visits.”
    White sat up and then fussed with the lapels of his plaid suit. He pulled a grimy handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped the sweat from his face. “Then what, Boss?”
    Big Jim leaned forward with his palms flat on his desk.
    “Well then White, he’s all yours. I’ll give one hundred in gold to the man who puts his lights out.”
    “That there’s music to my ears,” Leonard White said.
    After the meeting, when Laredo and Cruz headed to the first available saloon to toast their future success, Leonard White strolled down the boardwalk. He began by poking his head into the saloons that offered the best games. He saw many gamblers but none that matched the description of Devlin Winter.
    He was not the only one to poke their head in to the saloons that day. His sour traveling companion from Carson City, Sara Fenn marched up and down the boardwalk carrying signs and flyers against the evil of drinking and gambling. She had begun her mission of recruiting women reformers to her cause.
    She had come to meet with her contact, a fellow member of the Washoe Valley Women’s league, and a librarian by the name of Cleo. So far she was nowhere to be found. Sara marched into the Bucket of Blood Saloon. Moments later she was forcibly thrown out of the doors with her signs and flyers along with the hurled curses of the patrons tossed out after her.
    She lost her balance and would have fallen down had not Leonard White caught her elbow. He steadied her just long enough for her to yank her arm out of his grasp. He tipped his hat.
    “Miss Fenn, howdy ma’am. I’m glad to be of service.”
    “You! I might of known I would see you here on the Devil’s Highway!”
    He chuckled. “Why aren’t you full of piss and vinegar!”
    She stepped back and her eyes took on a glazed look. “He’s here you know, Satan himself. I’ve seen him, full of wickedness, drink and gambling not more than an hour ago”
     
    That same morning Devlin and Walking Ghost rode up to the hills above Virginia City to the Gilded Bird mine. When they arrived they saw that an undertaker’s wagon had pulled up at the front of the house and two men were loading a blanket wrapped body into the back. Word of John Anderson’s suicide had reached the town and within hours it had been dutifully reported in the local papers. A ragtag group of miners stood around as the body was loaded onto the wagon. They talked among themselves in hushed tones. There was fear in their eyes. Devlin hung back, then after the undertaker’s wagon had left, he rode up to the small group of men. They eyed him warily.
    “Good morning,” he said.
    He tipped his hat. Walking Ghost remained silent in the background. 
    One of the miners stepped forward, a wiry man of undetermined age. His bright blue eyes shone like lamps in his grimy face. “Who ‘er you mister?”
    “My name is Winter and this is Walking Ghost. I am the new owner of this mine.”
    The rest of the miners shifted their feet uneasily. They were silent. The leader