Publisher's Synopsis
Death had struck twice on that September afternoon, and two riders returning to Cannondale had marked the glow from a fire against the early evening sky. At first they had mistaken it for a brush fire and had swung their horses off the trail and headed toward it as rapidly as the going would permit. The brush was as dry as tinder, and a fire, unless checked, spelled ruin both to townfolk and plainsmen. The two riders slid their horses down the shelving bank of a wide arroyo. After their horses had scrambled up the farther side, it was "Toothpick" Jarrick who first realized the truth. "Hey, "Dutchy,‟ it‟s a house on fire!" he cried. "Sure is!" Dutchy grunted and checked his horse to a trot. "Get goin‟!" Toothpick cried impatiently. "Not any," Dutchy said shortly. "Lava Gang." "Yuh sure talk as if words hurt yuh," Toothpick grumbled. His companion‟s taciturnity was always a source of irritation to the tall, lanky cow-puncher, and he lapsed into a sulky silence for a time, chewing the ever-present toothpick in his mouth, from which he derived his name. "Yuh mean maybe the gents they calls the Lava Gang is makin‟ another raid, and they may be still hangin‟ about?" Toothpick asked. "Yep.""
