Once again, Tom Horn was the first and most likely suspect, and he was brought in for questioning immediately. Once again, he shook his head, kept his face expressionless and his voice very calm, and had a strongly supported alibi ready. Later, riding in for some lusty enjoyment of the liquor and professional ladies of Cheyenne, he laid claim to the killing with the vague insinuations he made.

``Exterminatin' cow thieves is just a business proposition with me,'' he'd blandly announce. ``And I sort o' got a corner on the market.''

``Tom,'' a friend asked him once, ``how come you bushwhacked them rustlers? They wouldn't o' stood no chance with you in a plain, straight-out shoot-down.''

He had lots of friends, then as always. Even as he became widely known as a professional killer, nearly every cowboy and rancher in Wyoming seemed proud to call him a friend. No man's name brought more cheers when it was announced in a rodeo.

``Well,'' he explained, ``s'posin you was a nester swingin' the long rope? Which would you be most scairt of -- a dry-gulchin' or a shoot-down?''

``Yeah, I can see that,'' the friend was forced to agree. ``But, well, it just don't seem sportin' somehow!''

``Sportin'!'' The tall sunburnt rustler hunter stared in amazement. ``Sportin'!'' he echoed again in soft wonder. ``I seen a lot o' things in my time. I found a trooper once the Apache had spread-eagled on an ant hill, and another time we ran across some teamsters they'd caught, tied upside down on their own wagon wheels over little fires until their brains was exploded right out o' their skulls. I heard o' Texas cattlemen wrappin' a cow thief up in green hides and lettin' the sun shrink' em and squeeze him to death. But there's one thing I never seen or heard of, one thing I just don't think there is, and that's a sportin' way o 'killin' a man!''