Kid Wolf of Texas Page 12

  The command came like a whip-crack and little drops of perspiration stood out suddenly on Goliday's ashen forehead.

  "It's a lie," he stammered. "I——"

  "Yo' had bettah confess, Goliday. The game's up. Majah Stovah died early this mohnin' from heart trouble. Goliday, yo' can do just two things. The choice is up to yo'.'"

  "The choice?" repeated the rancher mechanically.

  "Yes, yo' can surrendah—and in that case, I'll turn yo' ovah to the nearest law, if it's a thousand miles away. Or—yo' can shoot it out with me heah and now. It's up to yo'."

  "Yuh wanted to see my gun," said Goliday, with a sudden, deadly laugh.

  "All right, I'll show yuh what's in it!"

  Like a flash his hairy right hand shot down toward the ivory-handled

  Colt.

  The ranchman's hand touched the handle before Kid Wolf made even a move toward his own weapons. Goliday's eager, fear-accelerated fingers snapped the hammer back. The gun slid half out of its holster as he tipped it up.

  There was a noise in the little adobe like a thunderclap! A red pencil of flame streaked out between the two men. Then the smoke rolled out, dense and choking. Thud! A gun dropped to the hard, dirt floor.

  Goliday groped out with his two empty hands for support. His face was distorted. A long gasp came from his lips. A round dot had suddenly appeared two inches left of his breast bone. He dropped heavily, grunting as he struck the ground.

  Paying no more attention to him, Kid Wolf holstered his own smoking .45 and bent over and picked up Goliday's ivory-handled weapon. He smiled grimly as he peered into the muzzle. A very peculiar gun! There were five grooves and five lands, which are the spaces between the grooves, the uncut metal.

  Goliday, with a bullet just below his heart, was not quite dead. He realized what had happened. He was done for. Rapidly, as if afraid that he could not finish what he wished to say, he began to speak:

  "Yuh—were right. I killed Thomas. I wanted the S Bar. I'm afraid to go like this, Kid Wolf. I tell yuh I'm afraid!" His voice rose to a shriek. "There's murder on my soul, and there'll—be more. Quick! Quick!"

  "Is there anything I can do?" The Kid asked, generous even to a fallen enemy such as Goliday.

  "Yes," Goliday groaned. "All my men aren't in town. I sent Steve Stacy and Ed Mullhall—down to the S Bar—a little while ago—to do away with Mrs. Thomas. Stop 'em! Stop 'em! I don't want to die with this on my soul. I—I——"

  His words ended in a gurgling moan. His face twitched and then relaxed. He was dead.

  His dying words had thrilled Kid Wolf with horror. Steve Stacy and Ed

  Mullhall on their way to murder Ma Thomas! Perhaps they were at the S

  Bar already! Perhaps their terrible work was done! The Kid went white.

  But he wasted no time in wringing his hands. At a dead run he left the saddle shop and the dead villain within it. He whistled for Blizzard. The horse raced to meet him. With a bound The Kid was in the saddle. He knew of no trail to the S Bar. He must cut across country. There was no time to hunt for one. Then, too, he must cut off as much as he could. In that way, if the two killers followed a more or less winding trail, he might overtake them.

  The country was rough and broken. And, worse still, Blizzard was tired. He had been on the go for many hours. There was a limit even to the creamy-white horse's superb strength. It seemed hopeless. Southeast they tore at breakneck speed. Blizzard seemed to sense what was required of him. He ran like mad, clamping down on the bit, his muscles rippling under his glossy hide—a hide that was already flecked with foam.

  "Go like yo' nevah went befo', Blizzahd boy," The Kid sobbed.

  Never had he been up against a plot so ruthless, a situation more terrible. A lone woman, Ma Thomas, had been selected for the next victim!

  As they pounded along, a thousand thoughts tortured the mind of The

  Kid. In a way, it was his fault. It was by his suggestion that Mrs.

  Thomas had returned to the ranch. Already, possibly, she was dead!

  Kid Wolf had never been angrier. The emotion that gripped him was more

  than anger. If he could only reach that S Bar in time!

  He rode over hills of sand, across stretches of soft, yielding sand that slowed even Blizzard's furiously drumming hoofs, over treacherous fields of lava rock, through cactus forests. Up and down he went, but always on, and always heading southward toward the ranch. Very rarely did The Kid use the spurs, but he used them now, roweling Blizzard desperately. And the white horse responded like a machine.

  There is a limit to the endurance of any animal, however strong.

  Blizzard could not keep up that pace forever. He had begun to pant.

  He was running on sheer courage now. Then The Kid mounted a rise.

  Ahead of him he saw two moving dots—horsemen, bound toward the S Bar!

  They were Stacy and Mullhall, without a doubt!

  Kid Wolf's heart leaped. They had not reached the ranch yet, at any rate. There was still hope. Again and again he raked Blizzard with the spurs. The horse was living up to his name now, running like a white snowstorm. Already the distance between Kid Wolf and the other horsemen was lessened. But they had seen him! Before, they had been riding at a leisurely pace. Now they broke into a gallop!

  "Get 'em, Blizzahd," cried The Kid. "We've got to get those men, boy!"

  Suddenly before The Kid a deep arroyo yawned. The walls were steep.

  There was no time to go around, or seek a place to make the crossing.

  It looked like the end. A full twenty feet! A tremendous leap, and

  for a tired horse——

  "Jump it, boy! Jump it!"

  Again Blizzard was raked with the spur. They were nearly at the arroyo edge now. It was very deep. Would Blizzard take it, or refuse?

  Kid Wolf knew his horse. He already felt Blizzard rising madly in the air. The danger now was in the fall. For if the horse failed to make it, death would be the issue. Jagged rocks thirty feet below awaited horse and rider if the leap failed.

  But Blizzard made it! He scrambled desperately on, the far edge for a breathless moment while the soft sand caked and caved. The Kid threw his weight forward. Safely across, Blizzard was off again, galloping like a white demon.

  Kid Wolf unlimbered one of his Colts. The range was almost impossible. Six times The Kid shot. One of the men toppled from his saddle and fell sprawling. The other rider kept on.

  The Kid did not fire any more, for he knew that he had been lucky indeed, to get one of them at such a distance. He bent all his efforts toward heading off the other. Already the S Bar hacienda was within sight. There was no time to lose!

  As The Kid pounded past he saw the face of the man who had been struck by the chance bullet. It was Mullhall. Stacy kept going. He was urging his horse to top speed, bent upon reaching the ranch and getting in his work before The Kid could catch him.

  Blizzard had reached his limit. His pace was faltering. Little by little he began to lag behind. He was nearly spent. Only an expert rider could have done what The Kid did then. Without slackening Blizzard's speed, he slipped his saddle. With the reins in his teeth, he worked loose the latigo and cinch, taking care not to trip the speeding horse. Then he swung himself backward, freed the saddle and blanket and hurled both sidewise. He was riding bareback now!

  Relieved of forty pounds of dead weight, Blizzard lengthened his stride and took new courage. He was overhauling Stacy now yard by yard!

  Stacy turned in his saddle and emptied his gun at his pursuer—six quick spats of smoke and six slugs of whining lead. All went wild, for it was difficult to aim at such a smashing gallop.

  "We've got him now, boy," The Kid gasped. "Close in!"

  Farther south, in the distance, he saw a great dust cloud moving in slowly. It was the riders with the recovered herd! But The Kid only had a glimpse. Steve Stacy was whirling about desperately to meet him. Once again The Kid was involved in a showdown to the bitter f
inish!

  Kid Wolf's left-hand Colt sputtered from his hip. He had no more mercy for Stacy than he would have had for a rattlesnake that had bitten a friend.

  Br-r-rang-bang! Spat-spat! Stacy, hit twice, still blazed away. A bullet ripped through the Texan's sleeve. Again he fired. The ex-foreman fell, part way. The stirrup caught his left foot as his head went into the sand. Stacy's horse reared back, started to run, then stopped and waited patiently for its master who would never rise.

  There was feasting at the S Bar hacienda. The table was heavily laden with dishes—once full of delicious viands but now empty. The men, five in all, had brought out their "makin's." Ma Thomas, bustling about with more coffee and a wonderful dessert she had mysteriously prepared, beamed down on them.

  "You're surely not through already, are you, boys?" she protested.

  "Why, there's more pie and cake, and besides the——"

  "I've et," sighed Anton, "until I'm about to bust."

  There was a pause during which five matches were struck and applied to the ends of five cigarettes.

  "Well," sighed Kid Wolf, "I hope Blizzahd has enjoyed his dinnah as much as I've enjoyed mine. He deserves it!"

  "What a wonderful horse!" cried Ma Thomas. "And to think that if he hadn't ran so fast, those terrible men——" Her voice broke off.

  "Now don't yo' worry of that any mo'," drawled The Kid with a smile.

  "Yo' troubles are ovah, I hope."

  The Kid occupied the seat of honor, at Mrs. Thomas' right. Her son,

  Harry, as happy as he had ever been in his life, sat on the other.

  Anton, Wise, and Lathum were grouped about the rest of the table,

  leaning back in their chairs.

  "When Blizzahd is rested," said The Kid, in a matter-of-fact tone, "we'll be strikin' westward. I'm kind of anxious to see what's doin' ovah in New Mexico and Arizona."

  "Yo're surely not goin' to leave us so soon!" they all cried.

  The Kid nodded.

  "Mah work seems to be done heah," he said, smiling. "And I'm just naturally a rollin' stone, always rollin' toward new adventures. I'm sho' yo'-all are goin' to be very happy."

  "We owe it all to you!" Ma Thomas cried. "All of our good fortune. I have the ranch and the cattle, and more wonderful than everything else—my boy, Harry!"

  Kid Wolf looked embarrassed. "Please don't try and thank me," he murmured. "It's just mah job—to keep an eye out fo' those in need of help."

  "Won't yuh take a half interest in the S Bar, Kid?" Harry begged.

  Kid Wolf shook his head.

  "But, say," blurted Harry. He leaned across the table to whisper:

  "How about all that money in that poker game down in Mariposa? It's yores, not mine!"

  "I did that," said The Kid, as he whispered back, "so yo' could buy Ma a little present. Don't forget! A nice one!"

  "What did I ever—ever do to deserve this happiness?" Ma Thomas sighed, and she interrupted the furtive conversation of the two young men by placing a big dish of shortcake between them.

  "By gettin' aftah me with a shotgun," said Kid Wolf with a laugh.

  CHAPTER XVI

  A GAME OF POKER

  A whitened human skull, fastened to a post by a rusty tenpenny nail, served as a signboard and notified the passing traveler that he was about to enter the limits of Skull, New Mexico.

  "Oh, we're ridin' 'way from Texas, and the Rio,

  Comin' to a town with a mighty scary name,

  Shall we turn and vamos pronto for the Rio,

  Or show some hombres how to make a wild town tame?"

  Kid Wolf, who appeared to be asking Blizzard the rather poetical question, eyed the gruesome monument with a half smile. Bullet holes marked it here and there, testifying that many a passer-by with more marksmanship than respect had used it for a casual target. The empty sockets seemed to glare spitefully, and the shattered upper jaw grinned in mockery at the singer. It was as if the grisly relic had heard the song and laughed. Kid Wolf's smile flashed white against the copper of his face. Then his smile disappeared and his eyes, blue-gray, took on frosty little glints.

  The Kid, after straightening out the troubled affairs of the Thomas family, was heading northwest again. It was the age-old wanderlust that led him out of the Rio country once more.

  "What do yo' say, Blizzahd?" he drawled.

  His tones held just a trace of sarcasm. It was as if he had weighed the veiled threat in the town's sign and found it grimly humorous instead of sinister.

  The big white horse threw up its shapely head in a gesture of impatience that was almost human.

  "All right, Blizzahd," approved its rider. "Into Skull, New Mexico, we go!"

  Kid Wolf had heard something of Skull's reputation, and although it was just accident that had turned him this way, he was filled with a mild curiosity. The Texan never made trouble, but he was hardly the man to avoid it if it crossed his path.

  As he neared the town, he was rather surprised at its size. The budding cattle industry had boomed the surrounding country, and Skull had grown like a mushroom. Lights were twinkling in the twilight from a hundred windows, and as the newcomer passed the scattered adobes at the edge of it, he could hear the clip-clop of many horses, the sound of men's voices, and mingled strains of music. The little city was evidently very much alive.

  There were two principal streets, cutting each other at right angles, each more than a hundred yards long and jammed with buildings of frame and sod. Kid Wolf read the signs on them as the horse trotted southward:

  "Bar. Tony's Place. Saloon. General merchandise. Saddle shop. Bar. Saloon. Hotel and bar. Well, well, seems as if we have mo' than ouah share o' saloons heah. This seems to be the biggest one. Shall we stop heah, Blizzahd?"

  There seemed to be no choice in the matter. One could take his pick of saloons, for nothing else was open at this hour. The sign over the largest read, "The Longhorn Palace."

  Kid Wolf left Blizzard at the hitch rack and sauntered through the open doors. A lively scene met his eyes. It interested and at the same time disgusted The Kid. A long bar stretched from the front door to the end of the building, and a dozen or more men leaned against it in various stages of intoxication. In spite of the fact that the saloon interior was well lighted by suspended oil lamps, the air was thick and foul with liquor fumes and cigarette smoke. A half dozen gambling tables, all busy, stood at the far end of the room.

  The mirror behind the bar was chipped here and there with bullet marks, and over it were three enormous steer heads with wide-spreading horns. It was evident that drunken marksmen had taken pot shots at these ornaments, also, for they were pitted here and there with .45 holes. Kid Wolf was by no means impressed. He had been in bad towns aplenty, and he usually found that the evil of them was pure bluff and bravado. Smiling, he strolled over to the gambling tables.

  The stud-poker table attracted his attention, first by the size of the stakes and then by the men gathered there. It was a stiff game, opening bets sometimes being as much as fifty dollars. Apparently the lid was off.

  The hangers-on in the Longhorn seemed to be of one type and resembled professional gunmen more than they did cattlemen. The men at the poker table looked like desperadoes, and one of them especially took The Kid's observing eye.

  A huge-chested man in a checkered shirt was at the head of the table and seemed to have the game well in hand, for his chip stacks were high, and a pile of gold pieces lay behind them. His closely cropped black beard could not conceal the cruelty of his flaring nostrils and sensual mouth. He was overbearing and loud of speech, and his menacing, insolent stare seemed to have every one cowed.

  Kid Wolf was a keen student of men. He had learned to read human nature, and this gambler interested him as a thoroughly brutal specimen.

  "It'll cost yuh-all another hundred to stay and see this out," the bearded man announced with a sneer.

  "I'm out," grunted one of the players.

  Another, with "more in
sight" than the bearded gambler, turned over his cards in disgust, and with a chuckle of joy, the first speaker dragged in the pot and added the chips to his mounting stacks. He seemed to have the others buffaloed.

  The card players had been absorbed in their game until now. But as the new deal was begun, the bearded gambler saw the Texan's eyes upon him.

  "Are yuh starin' at me?" he rasped. "Walk away, or get in—one o' the two. Yuh'll kill my luck."

  "Pahdon me, sah. I don't think I could kill such luck as yo's."

  The Kid's voice was full of soothing politeness. The gambler made the mistake of thinking the stranger in awe of him. Many a man before him had taken the Texan's soft, drawling speech the wrong way.

  "Well, are yuh gettin' in the game?"

  "I'm not a gamblin' man, sah." The Texan smiled.

  The bearded man exposed his teeth in a contemptuous leer.

  "From yore talk, yo're nothin' but a cheap cotton picker. Guess this game's too stiff fer yuh," he said.

  The expression of the Texan's face did not change, but curious little flecks of light appeared in his steellike eyes. He laughed quietly.

  "I'd get in," he said, "but I'd hate to take yo' money."

  "Don't let that worry yuh," the big-chested gambler snarled. "Sit in, or shut up and get out!"

  If Kid Wolf was angered, he made no sign of it. His lips still smiled, as he drew a chair up to the table.

  "Deal me in," he drawled.

  The atmosphere of the game seemed to change. It was as if all the players had united to fleece the newcomer, with the bearded desperado leading the attack.

  At first, Kid Wolf lost, and the gambler—called "Blacksnake" McCoy by the other men—added to his chip stacks. Then the game seesawed, after which the Texan began to win small bets steadily. But the crisis was coming. Sooner or later, Blacksnake would try to run Kid Wolf out, and the Texan knew it.