Kid Wolf of Texas Page 11

  "Don Floristo has already given orders that the six hundred head of S Bar steers are to be driven to Mariposa to-night. I am to ride south to his ranch and close the deal. Early mañana the three loyal S Bar men will seize the cattle and drive them home. Yo' and I must help."

  "Yo're riskin' yore life for strangers, Kid. Floristo is a dyed-in-the-wool villain. If he suspects anything, he'll cut yore throat. But I'm with yuh! Yuh've brought me to myself. I didn't suppose they made hombres like you!"

  "Thanks, Harry. Now listen carefully and I'll tell yo' exactly what to do."

  For a few minutes The Kid talked earnestly to young Thomas, outlining their night's work. Then Kid Wolf took leave of the young man—slipping back through the shadows to the street again.

  Harry Thomas walked quickly to the Establo—Mariposa's biggest livery stable. Kid Wolf mounted his horse Blizzard. He struck off through the town at an easy trot and headed southward through the darkness.

  Don Manuel Floristo's rancho was the largest in that part of Mexico. Several thousand steers roamed his range—steers that for the most part bore doubtful brands. Don Floristo's reputation was not of the best. His rancho was suspected of being a mere trading ground for stolen herds. Rustlers from both sides of the line made his land their objective.

  Kid Wolf had found the S Bar cattle easily enough. The brands had been gone over, being burned to an 8 Bar J. The work had been done so recently, however, that he was not deceived. He had called on the don and told him that he was "interested in cattle," which was true. The don's lust for gold had done the rest. He supposed that Kid Wolf was an American who desired to go into the ranching business near the boundary. A good chance to get rid of the "hot" herd of six hundred!

  "Just the size of herd the señor needs to start," Floristo had said. "Six hundred head at ten pesos—six thousand pesos. Ees it not cheap, amigo?"

  "Very cheap," The Kid had told him. "Now if these cattle were delivered at Mariposa——"

  "Easy to say, but no harder to do, señor," was the don's eager reply. "I will give orders now to have them driven there. Do you wish to buy a ranch, señor? Or have you bought? Perhaps I could help."

  "Perhaps. But I want cattle right now. I have friends just no'th of the bordah."

  The don had smiled cunningly. This fool gringo would have trouble with those stolen cattle if he drove them back into the States. That, however, was no concern of Floristo's.

  "Come back to-night, señor," he had begged. And now The Kid was on his way to the don's hacienda. He had purposely timed his visit so that he would reach Floristo's rancho at a late hour. Already it was after midnight.

  Blizzard was unusually full of spirit. The slow pace to which The Kid held him was hardly an outlet for his restless energy.

  "Steady, boy," The Kid whispered. "We're savin' our strength—they'll be plenty of fast ridin' to do latah."

  The Kid could not resist the temptation to break into song. His soft chant rose above the faint whisper of the desert wind:

  "Oh, theah's jumpin' beans and six-guns south o' Rio,

  And muy malo hombres by the dozen,

  We're a-watchin' out fo' trouble south o' Rio,

  And when it comes, some lead will be a-buzzin'."

  He smiled up at the stars, and turned Blizzard's head to the eastward. Before them loomed the low, white adobe walls of Don Floristo's hacienda.

  A dark-faced peon on guard outside, armed with a carbine, opened the door for him. Late as the hour was, lights were shining inside and he heard the welcoming sound of Don Floristo's voice as he passed through the entrance.

  "Ah, come in, come in, amigo. I was afraid the señor was not coming. Como esta usted?"

  "Buenas noches," returned The Kid, with easy politeness. "I trust yo' are in good health?"

  The conversation after that was entirely in Spanish, as Kid Wolf spoke the language like a native. His Southern accent made the Mexican tongue all the more musical. He followed his host into a rather large, square room with a beautifully tiled floor. The don motioned The Kid to a chair.

  "The cattle of which we—ah—spoke, señor," said the don, as he lighted a long brown cigarette. "They are on the way to Mariposa. Are probably there even now, amigo."

  "Yes?" drawled Kid Wolf.

  "You will have men there to receive them?"

  "Without fail," replied the Texan, a strange inflection in his tones.

  "It is well, my friend. With the cattle are four of my men. They will not turn over the herd, of course, until"—he paused significantly—"the money is paid."

  Kid Wolf smiled. He leaned back in his chair and crossed his legs.

  "One does not pay for stolen cattle, Don Floristo," he drawled.

  The muscles of the don's body stiffened. Kid Wolf's face was a smiling mask. The show-down had come. There was a long pause. The Kid's arms were folded easily on his breast.

  "Who are you?" the don snarled suddenly.

  "Kid Wolf of Texas, sah," was the quiet reply.

  A cold smile was on the sallow face of the don. He made no move to draw the jeweled revolver that hung at his hip. He sneered as he spoke:

  "You will never escape from here alive, my friend," he leered. "What you have told me is not exactly news. At this moment you are covered."

  "Yes?" mocked The Kid.

  "Come in, major!" cried Don Floristo.

  A door at one end of the room, which had been standing half ajar, now opened. Framed in the doorway was the bloated, fat figure of Major Stover. In his hand was a derringer. Its twin black muzzles were leveled at Kiel Wolf's heart.

  The major's face twisted into an exulting grin as his piglike eyes fell on Kid Wolf.

  "We meet again," he grated.

  "You see, Señor Keed Wolf," said Don Floristo, "that we have you. By accident, Señor Wolf, your plans miscarried. Thinking I could sell you a ranch, as you were buying cattle, I sent a rider al instante for my friend, the Major Stover. He came at once, and when I described you——" He laughed harshly.

  The Don removed The Kid's revolvers and threw them on the table. The major's derringer did not waver.

  "I see that yo' have prepared quite a surprise pahty fo' me," said The Kid calmly. "Remember that theah are all sorts of surprises. I didn't have to come back heah, yo' know. The cattle I want are at Mariposa."

  "Then why are you here, fool?" the don sneered.

  "To find out who is at the bottom of the cattle stealin'—this persecution against Mrs. Thomas' ranch!" Kid Wolf snapped.

  "What good is it to know?" asked Stover, laughing. "Yo're goin' to die!"

  "Shoot him, major," said the don, baring his white teeth.

  "There's no hurry," replied the major. "I want to see him pray for mercy first. I've got a score to settle with him."

  The Kid remained unmoved in the presence of this peril. He was still smiling.

  "Yuh'll never live to get those cattle across the line, blast yuh!" snarled Stover, trembling with rage. "It was a pretty little scheme, but it failed to work. And we've got the S Bar where we want it, too. No, yuh don't! Just keep yore hands over yore head."

  "El Lobo Muchacho," the don sneered. "El Lobo Muchacho—Keed Wolf. I think we have your fangs drawn now, Señor Wolf! The Wolf is in a bad way. Alas, he cannot bite." He finished with a cruel laugh.

  But The Kid could bite—and did! One of the fangs of the wolf, and a deadly one, remained to him. He used it now!

  Major Stover did not know how it happened. Kid Wolf's arms were lifted. Apparently he was helpless. But suddenly there was a swish—a lightning-like gleam of light. Something hit Stover's gun arm like a thunder smash.

  Kid Wolf has used his "ace in the hole"—had hurled the bowie knife hidden in a sheath sewn inside the back of his shirt collar.

  The major's hand went suddenly numb. He dropped the derringer. The blade had thudded into his forearm and sliced deeply upward. Dazed, he emitted a wild cry.

  The don was not slow to act. He did not know ex
actly what had happened, but he saw the major's gun fall and heard his frightened yell. Floristo reached hastily for his jewel-studded revolver.

  But the Texan had closed in on him. Kid Wolf hit him full in the face and Floristo went sprawling down. He was still jerking at his gun butt as he hit the floor.

  The major had recovered somewhat. With his left hand he scooped up the derringer and swung it up desperately to line the barrel on Kid Wolf's heart.

  "All right, Harry!" sang out The Kid.

  Glass flew out of the window at the south wall and clattered to the tiled floor as an arm, holding a leveled .45, broke through. It was young Thomas.

  "Put 'em up!" he cried.

  Don Floristo, however, had also raised his gun. A report shook the adobe walls and sent a puff of blue fumes ceilingward. But Harry Thomas had fired first. Floristo collapsed with a moan, rolled over and stiffened.

  Kid Wolf sent Major Stover's derringer flying with a contemptuous kick, just as the fear-crazed fat man pulled the trigger.

  "Good work, Harry," The Kid approved.

  He stepped to the table, returned his own six-guns to their holsters and then reached out and seized Major Stover by the collar. He shook him like a rat as he jerked him to his feet.

  "Well, majah, as yo' calls yo'self," he drawled, "looks like the surprise worked the othah way round!"

  Stover's flabby face was blue-gray. His knees gave way under him and his coarse lips were twitching. His eyes rolled wildly.

  "Don't kill me," he wheezed in an agony of fright. "It wasn't my fault. I—I—Goliday made me do it. He's the man behind me. D-don't kill—me."

  Suddenly his head rolled to one side and his bulky body wilted. He sagged to the floor with a hiccupping sound.

  "Get up!" snapped the Texan.

  There was no response. The Kid felt of Stover's heart and straightened up with a low whistle.

  "Dead," he muttered. "Scared to death. Weak heart—just as I thought."

  "Did yuh shoot the big brute?" asked Harry, who had pushed his body through the window and slipped into the room.

  "His guilty conscience killed him," explained the Texan. "Yo' saved my life, son, by throwin' down on Don Floristo. Yo' got him between the shirt buttons."

  "I wanted to shoot long before," said Harry, "but I remembered—and waited until yuh said the word. Yuh shore stopped that derringer o' Stover's."

  "Wheah's the guard?"

  "Tied up outside."

  "Bueno. I rode down heah slow, so yo'd have plenty o' time to get posted. I suspected treachery of some kind to-night. But it was a surprise to see the majah heah. What time is it?"

  "After two. The moon's gone down. Where to, now?"

  "To Mariposa. We can get theah by dawn, and if the boys are ready we can turn the trick."

  "Then let's go, Kid!"

  Five minutes later the two were pounding the trail northward toward the

  Rio Grande!

  CHAPTER XV

  GOLIDAY'S CHOICE

  The east was streaked with pink and orange when The Kid and Harry Thomas rode into the sleeping town of Mariposa. The little Mexican city, they discovered, however, was not entirely asleep.

  At the northern edge of the city, on the stretch of sand between the huddled adobes and the sandy waters of the Rio, things had taken place.

  Harry and The Kid rode up to see a camp fire twinkling in the bottom of an arroyo just out of sight of Mariposa. Near it was the herd of six hundred steers, some down and resting, others milling restlessly about under the watchful eyes of three shadowy riders.

  "Are those the don's men?" asked Harry in astonishment.

  "Too far north," chuckled The Kid. "Look down by the fire!"

  Tied securely with lariat rope, four figures reclined near the smoking embers. They were not Americans. The two grinning newcomers saw that, even before they made out their swarthy faces. The prisoners wore the dirty velvet jackets and big sombreros of Mexico.

  "Theah's the don's men," said The Kid, laughing. "Come on!"

  He rode toward one of the mounted shadows and whistled softly. The man turned. It was just light enough to make out his features. It was Anton.

  "By golly, Kid," he yelped out. "Yo're here at last! We'd about give yuh up!"

  "I see that yo' didn't wait fo' me," returned the Texan, smiling.

  Wise and Lathum, seeing their visitors, spurred their mounts toward them. They greeted him with an exulting yell.

  "We turned the trick!" Wise exclaimed. "Not a shot fired. Did it hours ago."

  "Yuh see, Kid," said Anton, "we just naturally got so impatient and nervous waitin' that we couldn't stand it any longer. O' course, it was contrary to yore plans, maybe, but we saw the S Bar steers, stood it as long as we could, and swooped down. How yuh got 'em here and had 'em waitin' fer us like this is more'n I can see!"

  "Yo' did well," approved Kid Wolf. "I thought maybe yo'd know what to do."

  "Who is thet with yuh?" asked Anton, coming a bit closer. "Well, blamed if it ain't—Harry Thomas! Where—how——"

  "Yes, it's me, boys," said Harry shamefacedly. "I've been a bad one, I know. But my friend, The Kid, here has opened my eyes to what's right. I want to go straight, and——" His voice trailed off.

  "Harry's played the hand of a real man to-night," Kid Wolf put in for him.

  "I'm through as a gambler," said Harry. "Boys, will yuh take me for a friend?"

  "Well, I should say we will!" Lathum cried, and all three shook his hand warmly.

  "Yore mother will be mighty proud, son—and glad," old Anton said.

  "Now, men," said The Kid, "get those steers movin' toward the S Bar. Yuh ought to have 'em across the Rio by sunup. Theah won't be any pursuit. Don Floristo isn't in any position to ordah it. I'll see yo'-all at Ma Thomas' dinnah table."

  "Where are you goin', Kid?" Lathum asked in astonishment.

  "Harry will help yo' get the cattle home," said The Kid. "I'm ridin' like all get-out to make Mistah Goliday, Esquiah, a social call."

  "But why——" Wise began.

  "I've just remembahed," drawled The Kid, "wheah I saw a pair of low-heeled, square-toed ridin' boots."

  Anton gave a low whistle.

  "By golly, boys. He's right! I remember now, too."

  "So do I!" ejaculated Lathum.

  "How about lettin' us go, too?" asked Wise. "Goliday has some hard hombres workin' for him, and——"

  "Please leave this to me," begged The Kid. "Yo' duty is heah with these cattle. All mah life I've made it mah duty to right wrongs—and not only that, but to put the wrongdoers wheah they can't commit any mo' wrongs. Goliday is the mastah mind in all this trouble. Is theah a sho't cut to his ranch?"

  Anton knew the trails of the district like a memorized map, and he gave The Kid detailed instructions. By following the mountain chain to the westward he would reach a dry wash that would lead him to a point within sight of Goliday's hacienda.

  "Still set on it?"

  The Kid nodded. "Adios! Yuh'll probably get through to the S Bar in good time. Good-by, Harry."

  "Good luck!" they shouted after him.

  At the crest of a mesquite-dotted swell of white sand, several hours later, The Kid paused to look over the situation that confronted him.

  Ahead of him, to the westward, were the buildings of the Goliday ranch. Strangely enough, there was no sign of life around it—save for the horses in the large corral and the cattle meandering about the water hole.

  Was the entire ranch personnel in San Felipe? Impossible! And yet he had seen no one. The Kid hoped that Goliday was not in town.

  A desert wash led its twisting way to one side of him, and he saw that by following its course he could reach the trees about the water hole unobserved.

  "Easy, Blizzahd," he said softly.

  The sand deadened the sound of the big white horse's hoofs as it took the dry wash at a speedy clip. Kid Wolf crouched low, so that his body would not show above the edge of the wash. At the
water hole he drew up in the shelter of a cottonwood to listen. His ears had caught a succession of steady, measured sounds. They came from one of the small adobe outbuildings. Inside, some one was hammering leather. This was the ranch's saddle shop evidently.

  Very quietly The Kid dismounted. The saddle shop was not far away. He strolled toward it, wading through the sand that reached nearly to his ankles. He paused in the doorway, and the hammering sound suddenly ceased.

  "Buenos dias," drawled the Texan.

  The man in the shop was Goliday! He had whirled about like a cat. The hammer slipped from his right hand and dropped to the hard-packed earth floor with a thud.

  Kid Wolf's eyes went from Goliday's dark, amazed face, with its shock of black hair, down to his boots. They were low-heeled, square-toed boots, embellished with scrolls done in red thread. The Kid's quiet glance traveled again back to Goliday's startled countenance. Dismay and fury were mingled there. Kid Wolf had made no movement toward his guns. His hands were relaxed easily at his sides. He was smiling.

  Goliday's ivory-handled gun was in his pistol holster. His hand moved a few inches toward it. Then it stopped. Goliday hesitated. Face to face with the show-down, he was afraid.

  "Well," the ranchman's words came slowly, "what do yuh want with me?"

  "I want yo'," said The Kid in a voice ringing like a sledge on solid steel, "fo' the murdah of the ownah of the S Bar!"

  "Bah!" sneered Goliday, but a strange look crossed his dark eyes. His legs were trembling a little, either from excitement or nervousness.

  "Yo're loco," he added. "My men are in town or I'd have yuh rode off of my place on a rail!"

  "Goliday," snapped Kid Wolf crisply, "the man who shot Thomas down, wore low-heeled, square-toed boots."

  "Yuh can't convict a man on that," replied the ranchman with a forced laugh.

  "No?" The Kid drawled. "Well, that isn't all. The man who fired the death shot used a very peculiah revolvah—very peculiar. The caliber was .45. Wait a moment—a .45 with unusual riflin'."

  "Yo're crazy," said Goliday, but his face was pale.

  "By examinin' the cahtridge," continued the Texan in a dangerous voice, "I found that the fatal gun had five grooves and five lands. The usual six-shootah has six grooves and six lands. Let me see yo' gun, sah!"