BILLY STEELE: KID RANGER

It makes the boys laugh," a sweet voice rang out across the sprawling plains as a lone wagon, lost from the rest of the train challenged the vastness of the perilous prairie.

The voice belonged to Melissa Knox, a pretty young pioneer wife draped in simple, but rugged denim garb. Her husband, Robert, handsome, virile and optimistic, had taken his wife, their three-year-old son and their two-year old son to build a new life in the plentiful lands and waters of the golden West.

Roberts lilting song from the little, lost covered wagon rang through the dust kissed canyons, and mountainous regions, but his voice was like a fresh piece of meat attracting hungry jaws in a shark filled ocean. For he did not see the many hate filled eyes as they secretly watched him and his family.

"How are the boys doing," Robert shouted as his strong, guiding hands held tightly to the reigns while his wifes gentle hands wiped down the boys wet brows. She kept a sharp lookout for the rest of their missing wagon train caravan.

"Its getting dark, dear," Melissa warned as she hoped that they will be reunited with the rest of the wagon train before the threatening dangers of the desert bare their fangs. But only the tumbleweeds, sagebrush and cactus, that stood like splintered sentries, were visible in this vast wilderness.

Melissa saw her two dimple-faced boys laughing with delight, for they knew not of the dangers of being in the lost wagon crossing the merciless plains. Confident that she could find a moment alone, Melissa double-checked a secret hiding place in the spokes of the wagon wheel and saw that the wagons valuable cargo, a super secretive black coin, which held the destiny of the West itself (and the world) for centuries to come, remained undisturbed.

"I see some riders coming," Robert announced, his throat parched from the still burning sun. "Maybe they can lead us to safety," he continued while smiling at his young family.

These mysterious riders had observed the familys journey for the last several miles. And now, like thirsty vampire bats prepared to swoop down on their unknowing prey, the small army of devil riders ravaged the jagged canyons as they attacked the defenseless wagon and family.

These riders were known as the Legion Of The Lawless, a vast network of outlaws bent on conquering the West, the USA and someday the world. The hooded horsemen were cloaked in black ten-gallon hats and their faces were grotesquely covered with burlap sacks, dyed in the blackness of tombs. Armed with six guns with many notches, these masked minions always kept their mounts a few paces behind their leaders-a trio of horrific highwaymen, three bloodthirsty bad men-The Trinity Of Terror.

These leaders, who struck fear in the hearts of the most ruthless of the vicious "owl hoots" they recruited were The Dark Skull, The Wolf Man, and Don Diablo.

The Dark Skull was likewise shrouded in black with a bright, white skull mask that emulated a piercing light of doom, which seemed to glimmer on anyone he marked for murder. The Wolf Man wore the head of the wolf he had killed over his head. After he brutally dug out the carcass of the noble animal, the inhuman predator now wears it to symbolize his self-absorbed savagery. Don Diablo was the devil himself on horseback. Lucifers latest incarnation was cloaked head to toe in blood red shirt, chaps and cape. The mask of his satanic father proudly announced that he is the devils spawn.