Kid Wolf of Texas Page 6

  "What do yuh want here?"

  Framed in the doorway, the Kid saw a grim young face glaring at him over the sights of the six-gun.

  "Speak quick!" said the voice again.

  "I will," the Texan said, "if yo'll kindly take that .45 out of my eye.

  I can talk bettah when I'm not usin' yo' gun barrel fo' a telescope."

  "That gun," said the other sharply, "is goin' to stay just where I've got it!"

  But it didn't. Kid Wolf's left hand snapped up under the gun and rapped smartly at just the right spot the wrist that held it. It was a trick blow—one that paralyzed the nerves for a second. The Colt dropped from the boy's quickly extended fingers and fell neatly into Kid Wolf's right hand! All had happened so quickly that the youth hadn't time to squeeze the trigger. Before the amazed young man could recover himself, the Texan handed over the gun, butt first.

  "Here yo' are," he drawled humorously. "To show yo' I mean well, I'm givin' it back. I do wish, though, that yo'd kindly point it some other way while I'm talkin'."

  The manner of the other changed at this. After losing his gun, he had expected a quick bullet.

  "Guess yo're all right," he grinned slowly. "Come on in."

  Passing through the door, Kid Wolf noted the thick loophole-pierced walls and other provisions for defense. Rifles stood on their stocks at intervals, ready to be snatched up at a moment's notice.

  "Oh, dad!" the youth called in a low voice, as they entered the big main room of the building.

  Six men were in the place, and The Kid took stock of them with one appraising glance. Although just as heavily armed as the faction across the street in the Idle Hour had been, they were of a different type. They were cattlemen, some old, some young. All looked up, startled. One of them got to his feet. He was a huge man and very fat. His face was round and good-humored, although his puckered blue eyes told of force and character.

  "What's the matter, 'Tip'?" he asked of Kid Wolf's escort. "Who is this man?"

  The Texan smiled and bowed courteously. "Maybe I should explain, sah," he drawled. "And aftah I'm done, perhaps yo'll have some information to give me."

  He began his story, but was soon interrupted by an exclamation of anger and grief from the boy's father.

  "A man on a strawberry roan, yuh say? And murdered! Why, that was

  Hodgson—one of my best men! Go on, young man! Go on with yore story!"

  In a few words, the Texan told of bringing the half-breed to the saloon across the street, and of his reception there.

  "They-all told me to cleah out," he finished whimsically, "so I cleahed out the Idle Hour. Or rathah, I got the job started. Some one theah," he added, "handed me this note. That's why I'm heah."

  The big man looked at it, and his face lighted. "A short fella gave yuh that? I thought so! That was George Durham—one o' my men. He's there as a spy."

  "As a spy?" the Texan repeated blankly. "I'm afraid this is gettin' too deep fo' me, Mistah——"

  "McCay is the name. 'Old Beef McCay, they call me," he chuckled.

  "This lad, yuh've already met. He's Tip McCay, and my son. And you?"

  "Kid Wolf, sah, from Texas—just 'Kid' to my friends."

  The five punchers, who had been listening with intense interest to the

  Texan's story, came forward to shake hands. They were introduced as

  Caldwell, Anderson, Blake, Terry White, and "Scotty." All were

  keen-eyed, resolute men.

  "Now I'll tell yuh what this is all about," said the elder McCay. "When I spoke of a spy, I meant that Durham is there to see if he can find out why Jack Hardy has imported those gunmen, and what he plans to do. Yuh see, I'm a cattle buyer. At this halfway point I buy lots o' herds from owners who don't wish to drive 'em through to Dodge. Then I sell 'em there at a profit—when I can."

  "And Jack Hahdy?" drawled the Texan.

  "Hardy is nothin' more or less than a cattle rustler—a dealer in stolen herds on a large scale. He's swore to get me, at the time when it'll do him the most good. In other words, at the time when he can get the most loot.

  "So far," McCay went on, "there's been no bloodshed. To-day it seems he's had Hodgson murdered. Looks as if things are about ripe for war!"

  "He seems to have mo' men than yo'," murmured Kid Wolf.

  "Yuh don't know the half of it. A dozen more of his hired gunmen rode south on the Chisholm Trail this mornin'."

  "What does that signify?"

  "Plenty," McCay explained. "Six o' my men are drivin' fifteen hundred steers up this way. Quite a haul, yuh see, for Hardy. They're due here tonight. If they don't get here——" The big man's wide mouth hardened.

  "But I'm afraid I'm a poor host," he added apologetically. "Yuh'll have supper and stay the night with us, I'm sure. Tip, you an' Scotty go out and bring in The Kid's hoss."

  The Texan consented, thanking him, and all began to make preparations for the night. The big general store seemed more like a fort in time of war than anything else. Some of the men slept on the counters in the main room. A place was made for Kid Wolf in the rear. Sentries were on watch during the entire night, which passed uneventfully.

  In the morning, just as the dawn was glowing in the east, the Texan was awakened by a horrified cry. All rushed to the front windows. Across the wide street, over the Idle Hour Saloon, a man was dangling, suspended from the roof by a rope! It was Durham—the man who had given Kid Wolf the cigarette-paper note. Some one had seen him in the act, and the fiends had lynched him.

  "That settles it," said Kid Wolf grimly, turning to McCay. "I reckon

  I'm throwin' in with yo'. My guns are at yo' service!"

  It was a situation not uncommon in that wilderness where "the law isn't, and the six-shooter is." Kid Wolf, however, had never seen a bolder attempt to trample on the rights of honest men. His veins beat hot at the thought of it. And Jack Hardy seemed to have the power to see it through to its murderous end.

  It was not long after the discovery of Durham's murder when Tip McCay brought in a new note that had been pinned to the door.

  "It was put there durin' the night some time, probably by one o' Hardy's sneakin' half-breeds, because none o' our sentries saw any one the whole night through," Tip said.

  The note was roughly penciled on a sheet of yellow paper, and the message it carried was significant:

  Ef yu will all walk out of their without yore guns we promiss no harm will com to yu. Ef yuh dont, we will get yu to the last man. We alreddy got yore cattel. This offer dont go fer Kid Wolf. We no hes their and we aim to kill him!

  "They don't like me." The Texan laughed. "Well, I don't want 'em to.

  What do yo' intend to do, sah?"

  The elder McCay's face was very red. His fingers, as he tore the insolent letter to bits, were trembling with anger.

  "I say let 'em hop to it!" he jerked out. "I ain't givin' in to anybody!"

  The others cheered. And it was a fighting group of men who gathered for a conference as to the defense of the store. It was agreed that their position was a serious one, outnumbered as they were.

  Just how serious, they soon found out, for at the rising of the sun—as if it had been a signal—a burst of gunfire blazed out from the saloon across the street. Splinters flew from the logs as bullets thudded into them. Several whined through the two windows and crashed into the wall.

  Kid Wolf took an active part in quickly getting ready for a stand. The windows and the doors were heavily barricaded, at his suggestion. Sacks of flour, salt, and other supplies were piled over the openings, as these were best for stopping lead. Mattresses were stuffed behind the barricade for further protection, and just enough space was left clear to allow a gun to be aimed through.

  The volley from the Idle Hour had injured no one. The firing continued more or less steadily, however, and an occasional slug ripped its way between the logs. Jack Hardy's gang were firing at the chinks.

  Up until this time, the defenders had not fired a sh
ot. Even now, after the preparations had been made, Kid Wolf advised against wasting ammunition. The rustler gang were firing from the cover of the saloon, and were well protected.

  "Hunt up all the guns heah," the Kid cried, "and load 'em. If they rush us, we'll need to shoot fast!"

  Several rifles were hunted up—Winchesters and two muzzle-loading Sharps .50s. There were also a powder-and-ball buffalo gun of the old pattern, and, to Kid Wolf's delight, a sawed-off, double-barreled shotgun.

  In the light of the early morning, each detail of the grim scene was brought out minutely. It was a picture Kid Wolf never forgot! Across the street that formed the No Man's Land was the saloon, wreathed in powder smoke, as guns spat sullen flame. And swinging slightly above the splintered green-shuttered doors was the dead body of Durham, neck stretched horribly, head on breast. It seemed a grotesque phantom, warning them of death to come.

  The horses had been run into the back of the store itself, as a protection against flying bullets. Kid Wolf suggested that they be saddled, so that they would be ready for use if occasion demanded it.

  "We might have to make a run fo' it at any time," he warned.

  The firing from the saloon went on for nearly an hour. Then there was a sudden lull.

  "Look out now!" The Kid exclaimed. "Looks like they mean to rush us!"

  "We'll cure 'em o' that!" Old Beef McCay cried grimly. He picked up the sawed-off shotgun.

  The Texan was right. A yell went up from the saloon, and a dozen men rushed out, firing as they came. Six others carried a heavy beam, evidently torn from the interior of the Idle Hour. It was their intention to use this as a battering-ram to smash in the door of the store.

  The cry from the defenders was "Let 'em have it!"

  The terrific thunder of the shotgun and the buffalo rifle blended with the loud roar of six-guns. Hammers fell with deadly regularity. Fire blazed from every loophole and shooting space.

  When the smoke cleared away, Tip McCay emitted a whoop that the others echoed. The charge had been stopped, and very effectively. The big beam lay on the ground, with the writhing bodies of four men around it. The "scatter gun" had accounted for three of them; Kid Wolf had put the other out of business with bullets through both legs. A little to one side were two more of the outlaws, one of whom had been brought down by Tip McCay, the other by the lantern-jawed, slow-spoken plainsman known as Scotty. The others had beaten a quick retreat to the shelter of the saloon.

  CHAPTER VIII

  ONE GAME HOMBRE

  Hardy's gang did not attempt another rush. They had learned their lesson. Keeping under cover, they continued firing steadily, however, and their bullets began to do damage. Every crack and chink was a target.

  In the afternoon, more riders arrived to swell the Hardy faction. Some were ugly, half-clothed Indians, armed with rusty guns and bows and arrows. The odds were steadily increasing.

  As there was ample food and water in the storehouse to last for several days, the besieged had no worries on that score. McCay knew, though, and Kid Wolf realized, that nightfall would bring trouble. Hardy was stung now by the loss of several men, and he would not do things by halves. He would show no mercy.

  The first casualty took place in midafternoon. Anderson, in the act of aiming his revolver through a loophole, was hit between the eyes by a bullet and instantly killed. The number of men defending the store was now cut down to seven.

  Toward nightfall, tragedy overtook them, full force. Old Beef McCay was in the act of reloading a gun when a treacherous bullet zipped spitefully through an opening between two logs and caught him low in the chest. The impact sent him staggering against the wall, his round, moonlike face white and drawn.

  "Dad!" called out Tip, in an agony of grief.

  He and Kid Wolf rushed to the wounded man, supporting his great weight as it slowly sagged.

  "Got me—son!" the cattleman jerked out.

  Quickly the Texan tore away his shirt. He did not have to examine the wound to see how deadly it was; one glance was enough. Shot a few inches under the heart, McCay was dying on his feet.

  "I'm done—all right," he grunted. "Listen, Tip. And you, Kid Wolf. I know yo're a true-blue friend. I want yuh to recover those cattle, if yuh ever get out of here alive. Yuh promise to try?" He turned glazing eyes at the Texan. "The cattle should go—to Tip's mother. She's in Dodge City."

  "Believe me, sah," promised Kid Wolf earnestly, "if we evah get out of this trap alive, Tip and I will do ouah best."

  The stricken man's face lighted. He grasped his son, Tip, with one hand, the Texan with the other.

  "I'll pass on easier now."

  Suddenly he drew himself up to his full height of well over six feet, squared his enormous shoulders, and with crimson welling from his wound, walked firmly and steadily to the door and began kicking the barricade aside.

  "What are yuh doin'?" one of the defenders cried, thinking he was delirious from his hurt.

  McCay, fighting against the weakness that threatened to overcome him, turned with a smile, grim and terrible.

  "I'm goin' out there," he said, "to take some of those devils—with me!"

  In vain Kid Wolf and Tip attempted to restrain him. The old man waved them back.

  "I'm done for, anyway," he said. "I haven't got ten minutes to live. What if they do fill me with lead? I'll get one or two while they're doin' it!"

  He seemed stronger now than ever. Sheer will power was keeping him on his feet. Seizing two revolvers, one in each big fist, he wabbled through the door.

  With horror-widened eyes, they watched his reeling progress. He faltered to the hitch rack with bullets humming all around him. He clung to it for a moment, then went on, stalking toward the Idle Hour like grim vengeance! His guns sputtered red fire and bursts of black powder smoke. Hit time after time—they could see the dust fly from his clothing as he staggered along under the dreadful impacts—he kept going. It was glorious, terrible!

  Tip hid his eyes, with a despairing cry. Kid Wolf watched, his face white under his sunburn.

  Up to the very door of the Hardy refuge, the old man walked, his guns hammering claps of thunder. Hit several times in the body, he sprawled once and fell, but was on his feet again before the smoke drifted away. He plunged through the door, and The Kid saw two men drop under his blazing guns. Then McCay, too, fell—for the last time.

  "Yo' dad was one game hombre, Tip," murmured the Texan, putting a comforting hand on the boy's shoulder. "Let's hope that when ouah turn comes, we can go as bravely."

  He had never seen such an exhibition of undaunted courage. Although the tragedy had clutched at his heart, the spectacle had thrilled him, too. He knew that if he should escape, he would do his best to make good his promise to Old Beef McCay!

  The McCay store was surrounded on all sides, and its four walls were scarred and pitted with bullet holes. And night was coming on rapidly. Kid Wolf saw the peril of their position. He knew, only too well, that the darkness would add to their troubles.

  Twilight was deepening into dusk. Soon it became dark, and the moon would not be up for an hour. Kid Wolf, Tip McCay, and their four companions were never more alert. But even their keen eyes could not watch everything.

  Young McCay was very pale. His father's death had touched him deeply, and fury against his killers burned in his glance. The others, too, were grim, thinking not of their own peril, but of the murderous Hardy gang. Thirsty for vengeance, they kept their eyes glued to their peepholes, fingers on gun triggers.

  Tip had found a friend in Kid Wolf. No words were wasted on sympathy now, or regrets, but Tip knew that the drawling Texan understood.

  There was little shooting being done now, and the suspense was telling on the nerves of all of them. What was Hardy up to? Would he again attempt to batter down the door and force a way in, under cover of darkness this time? But they were not left long in doubt.

  "I smell smoke!" cried Blake.

  Immediately afterward a sharp, crack
ling sound came to their ears. Hardy's gang had set fire to the store! Under cover of darkness, one of the slinking Indians had crept up and ignited a pile of oil-soaked rags against the logs of the building. The flames rose high, licking hungrily upward.

  "Get water!" some one shouted.

  A bucketful or two from their supply tossed accurately through a loophole by Kid Wolf extinguished the blaze before it could rise higher. It was a close call, and it showed them what to expect now. The Indian's mistake had been in setting his fire where it could be reached by the defenders.

  "We were pretty blamed lucky," Caldwell began. "If thet fire——"

  "Not so lucky," sang out the Texan. "Look at that!"

  From the direction of the saloon, a half dozen streaks of flame shot up into the sky like so many rockets. Fire whistled in the wind. The streaks were burning arrows, fired by Hardy's red-skinned cutthroats!

  "That settles it!" groaned Tip resignedly. "They're fallin' on the roof!"

  It was a wonder Hardy's evil brain hadn't thought of it before. Possibly some of his savage recruits had suggested it. At any rate, it was more to the rustler chief's purpose than smashing in the door. It would soon be all over for the defenders now.

  In a breath, the roof was afire. Little jets of smoke began to spurt down from the beams over their heads, and the flames were fanned into a roar by the wind. Desperately the little handful of fighters exchanged glances. Things looked black indeed. They could not remain long in the burning death trap, and outside was Hardy's gang, waiting in the darkness to shoot them down if they ventured to escape.

  "Steady, boys!" encouraged the Texan. "Theah may be a chance fo' us yet."

  But one of them—Blake—was overcome with terror. In spite of what the others did to restrain him, he ran outside, tearing his way through the barricade. His hands were raised wildly over his head in token of surrender. But that made no difference to Hardy. There was a dull spat, and Blake went sprawling, shot through the heart.