Kid Wolf of Texas Page 8

  CHAPTER X

  TUCUMCARI'S HAND

  Jack Hardy was annoyed. He had planned carefully, expecting to have no difficulty in wiping out the hated McCays and those who sympathized with them.

  His plans had only partially succeeded. The elder McCay was dead, but Tip and some of the others had slipped through his clutches. To have the McCay faction wiped out of Midway forever meant money and power to him. And now his job was only half finished.

  "They'll get 'em," he muttered to himself.

  He was alone in his place, the Idle Hour. He had sent every available man, even his bartender, out on the chase. He wanted to finish, at all costs, what he had begun.

  "It was all due to that blasted hombre from Texas!" he groaned. "I wish I had him here, curse him! It would've all gone smooth enough if he hadn't meddled. Well, he'll pay! The boys will get him. And when they do——" Hardy thumped the bar with his fist in fury.

  He paced the floor angrily. The deserted building seemed to be getting on his nerves, for he went behind the bar several times and, with shaking fingers, poured stiff drinks of red whisky. Then he walked to one of the deserted card tables and began to riffle the cards aimlessly.

  There were two reasons why the rustling saloon keeper had not joined in the search for his victims. One was that he hated to leave unprotected the big safe in his office, which always contained a snug sum of money. The other was that Jack Hardy was none too brave when it came to gun fighting. He was still seated at the card table, laying out a game of solitaire, when the swinging doors of the saloon opened quietly. The first inkling Hardy had of a stranger's presence, however, was the soft drawl of a familiar voice:

  "Good mohnin', Mistah Hahdy! Enjoyin' a little game o' cahds?"

  Hardy's body remained stiff and rigid for a breathless moment, frozen with surprise. Then he turned his head, and his right hand moved snakelike downward. Just a few inches it moved, then it stopped. Hardy had thought he had a chance, and then he suddenly decided that he hadn't. At his first glance, he had seen Kid Wolf's hands carelessly at his sides; at his second, he saw them holding two .45s!

  Kid Wolf's smile was mocking as he sauntered into the room. His thumbs were caressing the gun hammers.

  "No, it wouldn't be best," he drawled, "to monkey with that gun o' yo'n. They say, yo' know, that guns are dangerous because they go off. But the really dangerous guns are those that don't go off quick enough."

  The rustler leader rose to his feet on shaking legs. His face had paled to the color of paper, and beads of perspiration stood out on his pasty forehead.

  "Yuh—yuh got the drop, Mr. Wolf," he pleaded. "Don't kill me!"

  "Nevah mind," the Texan said softly. "When yo' die, it'll be on a rope. It's been waitin' fo' yo' a long time. But now I have some business with yo'. First thing, yo'd bettah let me keep that gun o' yo'n."

  The Kid pulled Hardy's .44 from its holster beneath the saloon man's black coat.

  "Next thing," he drawled, "I want yo' to take that body down from in front o' yo' do'."

  Kid Wolf referred to the corpse of the unfortunate McCay spy whom Hardy had hanged. It still hung outside the Idle Hour, blocking the door.

  The Texan made him get a box, stand on it and loosen the rope from the dead man's neck. Released from the noose, the body sagged to the ground.

  "Just leave the noose theah," ordered The Kid. "It may be that the sheriff will have some use fo' it."

  "The sheriff!" Hardy repeated blankly.

  "Yes, he'll be heah soon," murmured Kid Wolf softly. "I have some business with yo' first. Maybe we'd bettah go to yo' office."

  Jack Hardy's office was a little back room, divided off from the main one of the Idle Hour. In spite of his protests, Hardy was compelled to unlock this apartment and enter with his captor.

  "Tip has recovahed his fathah's cattle," The Kid told him pointedly, "but theah's the little mattah of the burned sto' to pay fo'. In behalf of Tip and his mothah, I'm demandin'—well, I think ten thousand dollahs in cash will just about covah it."

  "I haven't got ten thousand!" Hardy began to whine.

  But The Kid cut him off. "Open that safe," he snapped, "and we'll see!"

  Hardy took one look at his captor and decided to obey and to lose no time in doing so. The Texan's eyes were crackling gray-blue.

  A large sheaf of bills was in an inner drawer, along with a canvas bag of gold coins. Ordering Hardy to take a chair opposite, Kid Wolf began to count the money carefully. To allow himself the free use of his hands, he holstered both his guns.

  "When this little mattah is settled," the Texan drawled, "I have a little personal business with yo', man to man."

  Jack Hardy moistened his lips feverishly. Although he was not now covered by The Kid's guns, he lacked the courage to begin a fight. He knew how quick Kid Wolf could be, and he was a coward.

  The Texan was stacking the gold into neat piles.

  "Fo'teen thousand two hundred dollahs," he announced finally. "The odd fo' thousand, two hundred will go to the families of the men yo' murdahed yestahday. And now, Mistah Jack Hahdy, my personal business with yo' will be——"

  He did not finish. The door of the little office had suddenly opened, and Tucumcari Pete stood in the entrance! His evil face was gloating, his snaky eyes glittering with the prospect of quick revenge. In his dirty hands was a rifle, and he was raising it to cover The Kid's heart!

  Kid Wolf's hands were on the table. There was no time for him to draw his Colts! It seemed that the half-breed had taken a hand in the game and that he held the winning cards! In a second it would be over. The half-breed's finger was reaching for the trigger; his mouth was twisted into a gloating, vicious smile.

  But while The Kid was seated in such a position at the table that he could not hope to reach his guns quickly enough, he had his hole card—the bowie knife in a sheath concealed inside his shirt collar. The Kid could draw and hurl, if necessary, that gleaming blade as rapidly as he could pull his 45s. His hand darted up and back. Something glittered in the air for just a breath, and there was a singing twang!

  Tucumcari Pete gasped. His weird cry ended in a gurgle. He lowered his rifle and teetered on his feet. The flying knife had found its mark—the half-breed's throat! The keen-pointed blade had buried itself nearly to the guard! Clawing at the steel, Tucumcari staggered, then dropped to the floor with his clattering rifle. His body jerked for a moment, then stiffened. Justice had dealt with a murderer.

  "The thirteenth ace," The Kid drawled softly, "is always in the deck!"

  But Hardy had taken advantage of Tucumcari's interruption. Jumping up with an oath, he hurled the table over upon The Kid and leaped for the door. The Texan scrambled from under the heavy table and darted after him. Hardy was running for his life. He raced into the main room of the Idle Hour with The Kid at his heels.

  Kid Wolf could have drawn his guns and shot him down. But it was too easy. Unless forced to do so, that was not the Texan's way.

  Snatching open a drawer in one of the gambling tables, Hardy seized a large-bore derringer and whirled it up to shoot. But The Kid's steel fingers closed on his wrist. The ugly little pistol exploded into the ceiling—once, and then the other barrel.

  "There'll be no guns used!" said The Kid, with a deadly smile. "I told yo' we'd have this out man to man!"

  Hardy's lips writhed back in a snarl of hatred. He sent a smashing right-hand jab at the Texan's heart. Kid Wolf blocked it, stepped to one side and lashed the rustler king under the eye. Hardy staggered back against the table, clutching it for support. The Kid pressed closer, and Hardy dodged around the table, placing it between him and his enemy. The Texan hurled it to one side and smashed his way through the saloon owner's guard.

  Hardy, head down to escape The Kid's terrific blows, bucked ahead with all his power and weight advantage and seized him about the waist. It was apparent that he was trying to get his hands on one of the Texan's guns. At close range, Kid Wolf smashed at him with both hands, h
is fists smacking in sharp hooks that landed on both sides of Hardy's jaw. To save himself, Hardy staggered back, only to receive a mighty blow in the face.

  "I'll kill yuh for that, blast yuh!" he cried with a snarl.

  Hardy was strong and heavy, but the punishment he was receiving was telling on him. His breath was coming in jerky gasps. Seizing the high lookout stool from the faro layout, he advanced toward The Kid, his eyes glittering with fury.

  "I'll pound yore head to pieces!" he rasped.

  "Pound away," Kid Wolf said.

  Hardy whirled it over his head. Kid Wolf, however, instead of jumping backward to avoid it, darted in like a wild cat. While the stool was still at the apex of its swing, he struck, with the strength of his shoulder behind the blow. It landed full on the rustler's jaw, and Hardy went crashing backward, heels over head, landing on the wreckage of the stool. For a moment he lay there, stunned.

  "Get up!" snapped The Kid crisply. "Theah's still mo' comin' to yo'."

  Staggering to his feet, Hardy made a run for the front door. Kid Wolf, however, met him. Putting all the power of his lean young muscles behind his sledgelike fists, he hit Hardy twice. The first blow stopped Hardy, straightened him up with a jolt and placed him in position for the second one—a right-hand uppercut. Smash! It landed squarely on the point of Hardy's weak chin. The blow was enough to fell an ox, and the rustler chief went hurtling through the door, carried off his feet completely.

  What happened then was one of those ironies of fate. The rope on which Hardy had hanged the McCay spy, George Durham, still hung before the door, its noose swaying in the wind some five feet from the ground. Hardy hit it. His head struck the rope with terrific force—caught in the loop for an instant. There was a sharp snap, and Hardy dropped to the wooden sidewalk. For a few moments, his body twitched spasmodically, then lay still and rigid. His neck had been broken by the shock!

  For a minute Kid Wolf stared in unbelief. Then he smiled grimly.

  "Guess I was right," he murmured, "when I said it was on the books fo'

  Hahdy to die by the rope!"

  Cattle were approaching Midway on the Chisholm Trail—hundreds of them, bawling, milling, and pounding dust clouds into the air with their sharp hoofs.

  The Texan, watching the dark-red mass of them, smiled. McCay cattle, those! And there was a woman in Dodge City who was cared for now—Tip's mother.

  "I guess we've got the job done, Blizzard." He smiled at the big white horse that was standing at the hitch rack. "Heah comes the boys!"

  It was a wondering group that gathered, a few minutes later, in the ill-fated Idle Hour. They listened in amazement to Kid Wolf's recital of what had taken place since he left them.

  "And so Hardy hanged himself!" the sheriff from Limping Buffalo ejaculated, when he could find his voice. "Well, I must say that saves me the trouble o' doin' it! But there's some reward comin' to yuh, Mr. Wolf."

  The Texan smiled. "Divide it between Scotty, Caldwell, and White," he drawled. "And, Tip, heah's the ten thousand Mistah Hahdy donated. Present it to yo' good mothah, son, with mah compliments."

  Tip could not speak for a minute, and when he did try to talk, his voice was choked with emotion.

  "I can't begin to thank yuh," he said.

  Kid Wolf shook his head. "Please don't thank me, Tip. Yo' see, I always try to make the troubles of the undah dawg, mah troubles. So long as theah are unfohtunates and downtrodden folks in this world, I'll have mah work cut out. I am, yo' might say, a soldier of misfohtune."

  "But yo're not goin'?" Tip cried, seeing the Texan swing himself into his saddle.

  "I'm just a rollin' stone—usually a-rollin' toward trouble," said the

  Texan. "Some time, perhaps, we'll meet again. Adios!"

  Kid Wolf swung his hat aloft, and he and his white horse soon blurred into a moving dot on the far sweeps of the Chisholm Trail.

  CHAPTER XI

  A BUCKSHOT GREETING

  "Oh, the cows stampede on the Rio Grande!

  The Rio!

  The sands do blow, and the winds do wail,

  But I want to be wheah the cactus stands!

  And the rattlah shakes his ornery tail!"

  Kid Wolf sang his favorite verse to his favorite tune, and was happy.

  For he was on his beloved Rio.

  He had left the Chisholm Trail behind him, and now "The Rollin' Stone" was rolling homeward, and—toward trouble.

  The Kid, mildly curious, had been watching a certain dust cloud for half an hour. At first he had thought it only a whirling dervish—one of those restless columns of sand that continually shift over the arid lands. But it was following the course of the trail below him on the desert—rounding each bend and twist of it.

  The Texan, astride his big white horse, had been "hitting the high places only," riding directly south at an easy clip, but scorning the trail whenever a short cut presented itself.

  Descending from the higher ground of the mesa now, by means of an arroyo leading steeply down upon the plain, he saw what was kicking up the dust. It was a buckboard, drawn by a two-horse team, and traveling directly toward him at a hot clip. There was one person, as far as he could see, in the wagon. And across this person's knees was a shotgun. The Kid saw that unless he changed his course he would meet the buckboard and its passenger face to face.

  Kid Wolf had no intention of avoiding the meeting, but something in the tenseness of the figure on the seat of the vehicle, even at that distance, caused his gray-blue eyes to pucker.

  The distance between him and the buckboard rapidly decreased as Kid Wolf's white horse drummed down between the chocolate-colored walls of the arroyo. Between him and the team on the trail now was only a stretch of level white sand, dotted here and there with low burrow weeds. Suddenly, the driver of the buckboard whirled the shotgun. The double barrels swung up on a line with Kid Wolf.

  Quick as the movement was, the Texan had learned to expect the unexpected. In the West, things happened, and one sought the reason for them afterward. His hands went lightning-fast toward the twin .45s that hung at his hips.

  But Kid Wolf did not draw. A look of amazement had crossed his sun-burned face and he removed his hands from his gun butts. Instead of firing on the figure in the buckboard, Kid Wolf wheeled his horse about quickly, and turned sidewise in his saddle in order to make as small a target as possible.

  The shotgun roared. Spurts of sand were flecked up all around The Kid and the big white horse winced and jumped as a ball smashed the saddletree a glancing blow. Another slug went through the Texan's hat brim. Fortunately, he was not yet within effective range.

  Even now, Kid Wolf did not draw his weapons. And he did not beat a retreat. Instead, he rode directly toward the buckboard. The click of a gun hammer did not stop him. One barrel of the shotgun remained unfired and its muzzle had him covered.

  But the Texan approached recklessly. He had doffed his big hat and now he made a courteous, sweeping bow. He pulled his horse to a halt not ten yards from the menacing shotgun.

  "Pahdon me, ma'am," he drawled, "but is theah anything I can do fo' yo', aside from bein' a tahget in yo' gun practice?"

  The figure in the buckboard was that of a woman! There was a moment's breathless pause.

  "There's nine buckshot in the other barrel," said a feminine voice—a voice that for all its courage faltered a little.

  "Please don't waste them on me," Kid Wolf returned, in his soft, Southern speech. "I'm afraid yo' have made a mistake. I can see that yo' are in trouble. May I help yo'?"

  Doubtfully, the woman lowered her weapon. She was middle-aged, kindly faced, and her eyes were swollen from weeping. She looked out of place with the shotgun—friendless and very much alone.

  "I don't know whether to trust you or not," she said wearily. "I suppose I ought to shoot you, but I can't, somehow."

  "Well I'm glad yo' can't," drawled The Kid with contagious good humor.

  His face sobered. "Who do yo' think I am, ma'
am?"

  "I don't know," the woman sighed, "but you're an enemy. Every one in this cruel land is my enemy. You're an outlaw—and probably one of the murderers who killed my husband."

  "Please believe that I'm not," the Texan told her earnestly. "I'm a strangah to this district. Won't yo' tell me yo' story? I want to help yo'."

  "There isn't much to tell," the driver of the buckboard said in a quavering voice. "I'm on the way to town to sell the ranch—the S Bar. I have my husband's body with me on the wagon. He was murdered yesterday."

  Not until then did Kid Wolf see the grim cargo of the buckboard. His face sobered and his eyes narrowed.

  "Do yo' want to sell, ma'am?"

  "No, but it's all I can do now," she said tearfully. "Major Stover, in San Felipe, offered me ten thousand for it, some time ago. It's worth more, but I guess this—this is the end. I don't know why I'm tellin' you all this, young man."

  "This Majah Stovah—is he an army officer?" The Kid asked wonderingly.

  The woman shook her head. "No. He isn't really a major. He never was in the army, so far as any one knows. He just fancies the title and calls himself 'Major Stover'—though he has no right to do so."

  "A kind of four-flushin' hombre—a coyote in sheep's clothin', I should judge," drawled Kid Wolf.

  "Thet just about describes him," the woman agreed.

  "But yo' sho'ly aren't alone on yo' ranch. Wheah's yo' men?" asked The

  Kid.

  "They quit last week."

  "Quit?" The Kid's eyebrows went up a trifle.

  "All of them—five in all, includin' the foreman. And soon afterward, all our cattle were chased off the ranch. Gone completely—six hundred head. Then yesterday"—she paused and her eyes filled with tears—"yesterday my husband was shot while he was standing at the edge of the corral. I don't know who did it."

  No wonder this woman felt that every hand was turned against her. Kid