Kid Wolf of Texas Page 13

  The size of the bets increased, and a little crowd began to gather about the stud table. In spite of the fact that Blacksnake was a swaggering, abusive-mouthed fellow, the sympathies of the Longhorn loafers seemed to be with him.

  He seemed to be a sort of leader among them, and a group of sullen-eyed gunmen were looking on, expecting to see Kid Wolf beaten in short order.

  Finally a tenseness in the very air testified to the fact that the time for big action had come. The pot was already large, and all had dropped out except Blacksnake and the drawling stranger.

  "I'm raisin' yuh five hundred, 'Cotton-picker,'" sneered the bearded man insolently.

  He had a pair of aces in sight—a formidable hand—and if his hole card was also an ace, Kid Wolf had not a chance in the world. The best the Texan could show up was a pair of treys.

  "My name, sah," said Kid Wolf politely, "is not Cotton-pickah, although that is bettah than 'Bone-pickah'—an appropriate name fo' some people. I'm Kid Wolf, sah, from Texas. And my enemies usually learn to call me by mah last name. I'm seein' yo' bet and raisin' yo' another five hundred, sah."

  At the name "Kid Wolf," a stir was felt in the crowded saloon. It was a name many of them had heard before, and most of the loungers began to look upon the stranger with more respect. Others frowned darkly. Blacksnake was one of them. Plainly, what he had heard of The Kid did not tend to make the latter popular in his estimation.

  "Excuse me," he spat out. "I should have called yuh 'Nose-sticker.' From what I hear of yuh, yuh have a habit of mindin' other folks' business. Well, that ain't healthy in Skull."

  If the Texan was provoked by these insults, he did not show it. He only smiled gently.

  "We're playin' pokah now, I believe," he reminded. "Are yuh seein' mah bet?"

  "That's right, bet 'em like yuh had 'em. And I hope yore hole card's another three-spot, for that'll make it easy for my buried ace. I'm seein' yuh and boostin' it—for yore pile!"

  Quietly The Kid swept all his chips into the center of the table. He had called, and it was a show-down. With an oath, Blacksnake got half to his feet. He turned his hole card over. It was a nine-spot, but he had Kid Wolf beaten unless——

  Slowly The Kid revealed his hole card. It was not a trey, but a four. Just as good, for this made him two small pairs—threes and fours. He had won!

  "No," he drawled, "I wouldn't reach for my gun, if I were yo'."

  Blacksnake took his hand away from the butt of his .45. It came away faster than it had gone for it. Guns had appeared suddenly in the Texan's two hands. His draw had been so swift that nobody had caught the elusive movement.

  "This game is bein' played with cahds, even if they are crooked cahds, and not guns, sah!"

  "Crooked!" breathed Blacksnake. "Are yuh hintin' that I'm a crook?"

  "I'm not hintin'," said The Kid, with a flashing smile. "I'm sayin' it right out. The aces in that deck were marked in the cornahs with thumb-nail scratches. It might have gone hahd with me, if I hadn't mahked the othah cahds too—with thumb-nail scratches!"

  "Yuh admit yuh marked them cards?" yelled Blacksnake in fury. "What about it, men? He's a cheat and ought to be strung up!"

  Most of the onlookers were doing their best to conceal grins, and even

  Blacksnake's sympathizers made no move to do anything. Perhaps The

  Kid's two drawn six-shooters had something to do with it.

  "Yuh got two thousand dollars from this game—twenty hundred even,"

  Blacksnake snarled. "Are yuh goin' to return that money?"

  "I'll put the money wheah it belongs," the Texan drawled. "Gentlemen, when I said I wasn't a gamblin' man, I meant it. I nevah gamble. But when I saw that this game was not a gamble, but just a cool robbery, I sat in."

  He holstered one of his guns and swooped up the pile of money from the center of the table. This cleaned it, save for one pile of chips in front of the bearded bully.

  "It's customary," said Kid Wolf, "always to kick in with a chip fo' the 'kitty,' and so——"

  His Colt suddenly blazed. There was a quick finger of orange-colored fire and a puff of smoke. The top chip of Blacksnake's stack suddenly had disappeared, neatly clipped off by The Kid's bullet. And the Texan had shot casually from the hip, apparently without taking aim!

  Kid Wolf returned his still-smoking gun to its holster, turned his back and sauntered leisurely toward the door. Halfway to it, he turned quickly. He did not draw his guns again, but only looked Blacksnake steadily in the eyes.

  "Remembah," he said, "that I can see yo' in the mirrah."

  With an oath, Blacksnake took his hand away from his gun butt, toward which it had been furtively traveling. He had forgotten about the bullet-scarred glass over the long bar.

  As the Texan strolled through the door, a man who had been watching the scene turned to follow him.

  "Kid Wolf," he called, "I'd like to see yuh, alone."

  The voice was friendly. Kid Wolf turned, and as he did so, he jostled the speaker, apparently by accident.

  "Excuse me," drawled the Texan. "I didn't know yo' were so close behind me."

  "I'm a friend," said the other earnestly. "Let's walk down the street a way. I've something important to say—something that might interest yuh."

  The Kid had appraised him at a glance, although this stranger was far from being an ordinary person either in face or dress. His garb was severe and clerical. He wore a long black coat, black trousers neatly tucked into boots, a white shirt, and a flowing dark tie. Yet he was not of the gambler type. He seemed to be unarmed, for he had no gun belt. His face, seen from the reflected lights of the saloon, was clean-shaven. His eyes seemed set too close together, and the lips were very thin.

  "Very well, I'll listen," The Kid consented.

  The two started to walk slowly down the board sidewalk.

  "They call me 'Gentleman John,'" said the black-clothed stranger.

  "Have yuh been in Skull long? Expect to stay hereabouts for a while?"

  The Texan answered both these questions shortly but politely. He had arrived that evening, he said, and he wasn't sure how long he would remain in the vicinity.

  "How would yuh like," tempted the man who had styled himself Gentleman

  John, "to make a hundred dollars a day?"

  "Honestly?" asked The Kid.

  The man in black pursed his lips and spread out his palms significantly.

  "Whoever heard of a gunman making that much honestly?" he laughed coldly. "Maybe I should tell yuh somethin' about myself. They call me the 'Cattle King of New Mexico.' The man yuh bucked in the poker game—Blacksnake McCoy—is at the head of my—ah—outfit."

  "Oh," said The Kid softly, "yo're that kind of a cattle king."

  "Out here," Gentleman John leered, "the Colt is power. I've got ranches, cattle. I've managed to do well. I need gunmen—men who can shoot fast and obey orders. I can see that yo're a better man than Blacksnake. I'm payin' him fifty a day. Take his job, and yuh'll get a hundred."

  Kid Wolf did not seem in the least enthusiastic, and the man in black went on eagerly:

  "Yuh won a couple o' thousand to-night, Kid. But that won't last forever. Think what a hundred in gold a day means. And all yuh have to do is ter——"

  "Murdah!" snapped the Texan. "Yo've mistaken yo' man, sah. Mah answah is 'no'! I'm not a hired killah, and the man who tries to hire me had bettah beware. Why, yo're nothin' but a cheap cutthroat!"

  The cold eyes of the other suddenly blazed. He made a quick motion toward his waistcoat with his thin hand.

  Kid Wolf laughed quietly. "Heah's yo' gun, sah," he said, handing the astonished Gentleman John a small, ugly derringer. "When I bumped into yo' in the doorway, I took the liberty to remove it. I nevah trust an hombre with eyes like yo's. Nevah mind tryin' to use it, fo' I've unloaded it."

  The face of the man in black was white with fury. His gimlet eyes had narrowed to slits, and his mouth was distorted with rage. It was the face of a killer—a murd
erer without conscience or pity.

  "I'll get yuh for this, Wolf!" he bellowed. "Yuh'll find out how strong I am here. This country isn't big enough to hold us both, blast yuh! When our trails meet again, take care!"

  The Kid raised one eyebrow. "I always do take care," he drawled. "And while I'm heah in Skull County, yo'd bettah keep yo' dirty work undah covah. Adios!"

  And humming musically under his breath, The Kid strolled toward the hitch rack where he had left his horse.

  CHAPTER XVII

  POT SHOTS

  There was an old mission at the outskirts of the town of Skull, established many years before there were any other buildings in the vicinity. The Spanish fathers had built it for the Indians, and it remained a sanctuary, in spite of the roughness and badness of the new cow town.

  Early on the morning after Kid Wolf's arrival in the town, the old padre was astonished to find a package of money inside his door. It was addressed simply: "For the poor." It was a windfall and a much-needed addition to the mission's meager finances.

  The padre considered it a gift from Heaven, and where it had come from remained a mystery. The package contained two thousand dollars. Needless to say, it was Kid Wolf's gift, and the money had been taken from the town's dishonest gamblers.

  The Texan remained several days in Skull. He was in no hurry, and the town interested him. Although he heard threats, he was left alone. He saw no more of Gentleman John, nor did he see Blacksnake McCoy. They had disappeared from town, probably on evil business of their own.

  A note thrust under The Kid's door at the hotel two mornings later threatened him and advised him to leave the country. The Texan, however, paid no attention to the warning.

  The next day, he scouted about the country, sizing up the cattle situation. The honest cattlemen, he found, were very much in the minority. By force, murder, and illegal methods, Gentleman John had obtained most of the land and practically all of the vast cattle herds that roamed the rich rangelands surrounding the town on all sides. Yet to most of the honest element, Gentleman John's true colors were not known. He shielded himself, hiring others to do his unclean work. There was no law as yet in the county. Gentleman John had managed to keep it out. And even if there had been, it was doubtful if his crimes could be pinned to him, for he had covered his tracks well. Many thought him honest. Only The Kid's keen mind could sense almost immediately what was going on.

  The country stretching out from Skull was wild and beautiful. It was an unsettled land, and the trails that led into it were faint and difficult to follow.

  One morning, Kid Wolf saddled Blizzard and rode into the southwest toward the purple mountains tipped with snow. It was a beautiful day, cool and crisp. The tang of the air in that high altitude was sharp and invigorating. The big white horse swung into a joyous lope, and the Texan hummed a Southern melody.

  Crossing a wide stretch of plain, they mounted a rise, and the character of the country changed. The smell of sage gave way to the penetrating odor of small pine, as they climbed into the broken foothills that led, in a series of steps, toward the jagged peaks. Splashing through a little creek of pure, cold water, The Kid turned Blizzard's head up a pass between two ridges of piñon-covered buttes.

  "A big herd's passed this way," The Kid muttered, "and lately, too."

  They climbed steadily onward, while the Texan searched the trail with

  keen eyes that missed nothing. Suddenly he drew up his horse.

  Blizzard had shied at something lying prone ahead of them, and The

  Kid's eyes had seen it at the same instant.

  Stretched out on the sandy ground, The Kid saw, when he urged his horse closer, was the body of a man, face down and arms flung out. A blotch of red on the blue of the shirt told the significant story—a bullet had got in its deadly work. Dismounting, the Texan found that the man was dead and had met with his wound probably twenty-four hours before. There was nothing with which to identify the body.

  "Seems to me, Blizzahd," Kid Wolf mused, "that Gentleman John is a deepah-dyed villain than we even thought."

  He continued on up the pass, eyes and ears open. The white horse took the climb as if it had been level ground, his hoofs ringing a brisk tattoo against the stones.

  Nobody was in sight. The land stretched out on all sides—a vast lonesomeness of rolling green and red, broken here and there by towering rocks, grotesque in shape and twisted by erosion into a thousand fanciful sculptures. But at the bottom of a dry wash, Kid Wolf received a surprise.

  Br-r-reee! Ping! A bullet breezed by his head, droning like a hornet, and glanced sullenly against a flat rock. Immediately afterward, The Kid heard the sharp bark of a .45. He knew by the sound of the bullet and by the elapsed time between it and the sound of the gun that he was within dangerous range. Crouching low in his saddle, he wheeled Blizzard—already turned half around in mid-air—and cut up the arroyo at a hot gallop.

  Flinging himself from his horse when he reached shelter, he touched Blizzard lightly on the neck. The wise animal knew what that meant. Without slackening its pace, it continued onward, its hoofs drumming a rapid clip-clop, while its master was running in another direction with his head low.

  Breaking up the ambush was easy. The Kid took advantage of every bit of cover and went directly toward the sounds of the shots, for guns were still barking. The men, whoever they were, were shooting in the direction of the riderless horse. Squirming through a little piñon thicket, Kid Wolf saw three men stationed behind a low ledge of red sandstone. The guns of the trio were still curling blue smoke.

  "Will yo' kindly stick up yo' hands, gentlemen," the Texan drawled, "while yo're explainin'?"

  The three whirled about—to find themselves staring into the two deadly black muzzles of The Kid's twin six-shooters. Automatically they thrust their arms aloft.

  "Well, I guess yuh got us! Go ahead and shoot, yuh killer!"

  Kid Wolf looked at the speaker in surprise. He was a little younger, perhaps, than the Texan himself—a slim, red-headed youth with a wide, determined mouth. The blue eyes, snapping angrily now, seemed frank and open. Then the Texan's eyes traveled to the youth's two companions. Both were older men, typical cow-punchers, rough and ready, and yet hardly of the same type of the men The Kid had noticed in the Longhorn Saloon in Skull.

  "I'm not sure that I even want to shoot." The Kid smiled slowly.

  "Maybe yo'd like to explain why yo' were tryin' to shoot me."

  "I guess we won't need to explain that," snapped the redhead. "Yuh know as well as we do that yo're one o' Blacksnake's thievin' gunmen!"

  "What makes yo' think so?" the Texan laughed.

  The other opened his mouth to speak, then stopped. He was looking The

  Kid up and down.

  "Come to think about it," he muttered, "we've never seen you before.

  And yuh don't look like one o' that rustler gang."

  "Take my word fo' it," said the Texan earnestly, "I'm not. I thought yo' were Blacksnake and his gang myself." He reholstered his guns. "Put yo' hands down," he said, as he came toward them, "and we'll talk this thing ovah."

  Reassured, the trio did so with sighs of relief. A few questions by each helped to clear things up. The Kid told them who he was, and in return he was told that the three were members of the Diamond D outfit.

  "It's just half an outfit now," said the red-haired youth bitterly.

  "They've run off our north herd. Yuh see, Mr. Wolf——"

  "Just call me 'Kid,'" smiled the Texan, "fo' I think we'll be friends."

  "I hope so," said the other, flashing him a grateful look. "Well, I'm 'Red' Morton. My brother and me own the Diamond D, and we've shore been havin' one hot time. Guess we're plumb beat."

  "Wheah's yo' brother now?"

  "He's at the sod house with our south herd. These two men are the only punchers left me—'Lefty' Warren and Mike Train. There was one more. The rustlers shot him." Red Morton's eyes gleamed fiercely.

  "Yo' know
who the rustlers were?"

  "Blacksnake McCoy's gang. He's been causin' us a lot o' trouble. Until now, that bunch have just been runnin' a smooth iron and swingin' their loops wide. But yesterday they drove off every steer. Half of all the longhorns on the Diamond D!" Red's lips tightened grimly.

  "Excuse us," spoke up one of the cowboys, Lefty Warren, "for takin' yuh fer one o' them cutthroats, but we was b'ilin' mad. It's a good thing fer us yuh wasn't. Yuh shore slipped in on us slick as a whistle."

  "I'm hopin' my bud, Joe, don't think it was my fault that Blacksnake got away with the herd," groaned the red-haired youth. "Reckon we'll have to sell out now."

  "That's it," agreed the eldest of the trio—the man called Mike Train.

  "The Diamond D would be on Easy Street now, if we had the cattle back.

  The mortgage——"

  "Who would yo' sell to?" asked The Kid quietly.

  "Gentleman John, the cattle king," explained Red Morton. "He told my brother some time ago that he'd like to buy it, if the price was low. Joe refused then, but reckon it'll be different now."

  Kid Wolf raised his brows slightly.

  "Is this—ah—Gentleman John the right sort of hombre?" he drawled.

  "Why, I guess so," said Red in surprise. "He's one o' the biggest cattlemen in three States."

  The Texan was silent for a moment, then he smiled.

  "Wheah are yo' headed fo' now?" he asked.

  "Why, we're on the trail of the stolen herd," Red replied, "and we intend to stop at the sod house and tell my brother, Joe, what's happened—that is, if he don't already know. Maybe he's had trouble, himself."

  "If we find any of that Blacksnake gang, we'll fight," Lefty Warren spoke up. "The odds are mighty bad against us, but they got one o' the best punchers in the valley when they drilled Sam Whiteman."

  "I'm interested," Kid Wolf told them. "Do yo' mind if I throw in with yo'?"

  "Do we mind?" repeated Red joyously. "Say, it would shore be great!

  And—well, Joe and I will try and make it right with yuh."