Kid Wolf of Texas Read online

  Wolf's eyes blazed.

  "Won't the law help yo'?" he demanded.

  "There isn't any law," said the woman bitterly. "Now you understand why I fired at you. I was desperate—nearly frantic with grief. I hardly knew what I was doing."

  "Well, just go back home to yo' ranch, ma'am. I don't think yo' need to sell it."

  "But I can't run the S Bar alone!"

  "Yo' won't have to. I'll bring yo' ridahs back. Will I find them in

  San Felipe?"

  "I think so," said the woman, astonished. "But they won't come."

  "Oh, yes, they will," said The Kid politely.

  "But I can't ranch without cattle."

  "I'll get them back fo' yo'."

  "But they're over the line into Old Mexico by now!"

  "Nevah yo' mind, ma'am. I'll soon have yo' place on a workin' basis again. Just give me the names of yo' ridahs and I'll do the rest."

  "Well, there's Ed Mullhall, Dick Anton, Fred Wise, Frank Lathum, and the foreman—Steve Stacy. But, tell me, who are you—to do this for a stranger, a woman you've never seen before? I'm Mrs. Thomas."

  The Texan bowed courteously.

  "They call me Kid Wolf, ma'am," he replied. "Mah business is rightin' the wrongs of the weak and oppressed, when it's in mah power. Those who do the oppressin' usually learn to call me by mah last name. Now don't worry any mo', but just leave yo' troubles to me."

  Mrs. Thomas smiled, too. She dried her eyes and looked at the Texan gratefully.

  "I've known you ten minutes," she said, "and somehow it seems ten years. I do trust you. But please don't get yourself in trouble on account of Ma Thomas. You don't know those men. This is a hard country—terribly hard."

  Kid Wolf, however, only smiled at her warning. He remained just long enough to obtain two additional bits of information—the location of the S Bar and the distance to the town of San Felipe. Then he turned his horse's head about, and with a cheerful wave of his hand, struck out for the latter place. The last he saw of Mrs. Thomas, she was turning her team.

  Kid Wolf realized that he had quite a problem on his hands. The work ahead of him promised to be difficult, but, as usual, he had gone into it impulsively—and yet coolly.

  "We've got a big ordah to fill, Blizzahd," he murmured, as his white horse swung into a long lope. "I hope we haven't promised too much."

  He wondered if in his endeavor to cheer up the despondent woman he had aroused hopes that might not materialize. The plight of Mrs. Thomas had stirred him deeply. His pulses had raced with anger at her persecutors—whoever they were. His Southern chivalry, backed up by his own code—the code of the West—prompted him to promise what he had.

  "A gentleman, Blizzahd," he mused, "couldn't do othahwise. We've got to see this thing through!"

  Ma Thomas—he had seen at a glance—was a plains-woman. Courage and character were in her kindly face. The Texan's heart had gone out to her in her trouble and need.

  Once again he found himself in his native territory, but in a country gone strange to him. Ranchers and ranches had come in overnight, it seemed to him. A year or two can make a big difference in the West. Two years ago, Indians—to-day, cattle! Twenty miles below rolled the muddy Rio. It was Texas—stern, vast, mighty.

  And, if what Mrs. Thomas had said was correct, law hadn't kept pace with the country's growth. There was no law. Kid Wolf knew what that meant. His face was very grim as he left the wagon trail behind.

  The town of San Felipe—two dozen brown adobes, through which a solitary street threaded its way—sprawled in the bottom of a canyon near the Rio Grand. The cow camp had grown, in a few brief months, with all the rapidity of an agave plant, which adds five inches to its size in twenty-four hours. San Felipe was noisy and wide awake.

  It was December. The sun, however, was warm overhead. The sky was cloudless and the distant range of low mountains stood out sharp and clear against the sky. As Kid Wolf rode into the town, a hard wind was blowing across the sands and it was high noon.

  San Felipe's single street presented an interesting appearance. Most of the long, flat adobes were saloons—The Kid did not need to read the signs above them to see that. The loungers and hangers-on about their doors told the story. Sandwiched between two of the biggest bars, however, was a small shack—the only frame building in the place.

  "Well, this Majah Stover hombre must be in the business," muttered The

  Kid to himself.

  His eyes had fallen on the sign over the door:

  MAJOR STOVER LAND OFFICE

  Kid Wolf was curious. Strange to say, he had been thinking of the major before he had observed the sign, and wondering about the man's offer to buy the S Bar Ranch. The Texan whistled softly as he dismounted. He left Blizzard waiting at the hitch rack, and sauntered to the office door.

  He opened the door, let himself in, and found himself in a dusty, paper-littered room. A few maps hung on the walls. Kid Wolf's first impression was the disagreeable smell of cigar stumps.

  His eyes fell upon the man at the desk by the dirty window, and he experienced a sudden start—an uncomfortable feeling. The Texan did not often dislike a man at first sight, but he was a keen reader of character.

  "Do yuh have business with me?" demanded the man at the desk.

  Major Stover, if this were he, was a paunchy, disgustingly fat man. His face was moonlike, sensually thick of lip. His eyes, as they fell upon his visitor, were hoglike, nearly buried in sallow folds of skin.

  The thick brows above them had grown close together.

  "Well," The Kid drawled, "I don't exactly know. Yo' deal in lands, I believe?"

  "I have some holdings," said the fat man complacently. "Are yo' interested in the San Felipe district?"

  "Very much," said The Kid, nodding. "I am quite attracted by

  Rattlesnake County, and——"

  "This isn't Rattlesnake County, young man," corrected the land agent.

  "This is San Felipe County."

  "Oh, excuse me," murmured the Texan, "maybe I got that idea because of the lahge numbah of snakes——"

  "There's no more snakes here than——" the other began.

  "I meant the human kind," explained Kid Wolf mildly.

  Major Stover's eyes narrowed suspiciously. "What do yuh want with me?" he demanded.

  "Did yo' offah ten thousand dollahs fo' the S Bar Ranch?"

  "That is none of yore business!"

  "No?" drawled Kid Wolf patiently. "Yo' might say that I am heah as

  Mrs. Thomas' agent."

  The major looked startled. "Where's yore credentials?" he snapped, after a brief pause.

  Kid Wolf merely smiled and tapped the butts of his six-guns. "Heah, sah," he murmured. "I'm askin' yo'."

  Major Stover looked angry. "Yes," he said sharply, "I did at one time make such an offer. However, I have reconsidered. My price is now three thousand dollars."

  "May I ask," spoke The Kid softly, "why yo' have reduced yo' offah?"

  "Because," said the land dealer, "she has to sell now! I've got her where I want her, and if yo're her agent, yuh can tell her that!"

  One stride, and Kid Wolf had fat Major Stover by the neck. For all his weight, and in spite of his bulk, The Kid handled him as if he had been a child. An upward jerk dragged him from his chair. The Texan held him by one muscular hand.

  "So yo' have her where yo' want her, have yo'?" he cried, giving the major a powerful shake.

  He passed his other hand over the land agent's flabby body, poking the folds of fat here and there over Major Stover's ribs. At each thump the major flinched.

  "Why, yo're as soft as an ovahripe pumpkin," Kid Wolf drawled, deliberately insulting. "And yo' dare to tell me that! No, don't try that!"

  Major Stover had attempted to draw an ugly-looking derringer. The Kid calmly took it away from him and threw it across the room. He shook the land agent until his teeth rattled like dice in a box.

  "Mrs. Thomas' ranch, sah," he said crisply, "is
not in the mahket!"

  With that he hurled the major back into his chair. There was a crashing, rending sound as Stover's huge body struck it. The wood collapsed and the dazed land agent found himself sitting on the floor.

  "I'll get yuh for this, blast yuh!" gasped the major, his bloated face red with rage. "Yo're goin' to get yores, d'ye hear! I've got power here, and yore life ain't worth a cent!"

  "It's not in the mahket, eithah," the Texan drawled, as he strolled toward the door. At the threshold he paused.

  "Yo've had yo' say, majah," he snapped, "and now I'll have mine. If I find that yo' are in any way responsible fo' the tragedies that have ovahtaken Mrs. Thomas, yo'd bettah see to yo' guns. Until then—adios!"

  CHAPTER XII

  THE S BAR SPREAD

  The bartender of the La Plata Saloon put a bottle on the bar in front of the stranger, placing, with an added flourish, a thick-bottomed whisky glass beside it. This done, he examined the newcomer with an attentive eye, pretending to polish the bar while doing so.

  The man he observed was enough to attract any one's notice, even in the cosmopolitan cow town of San Felipe. Kid Wolf was worth a second glance always. The bartender saw a lean-waisted, broad-shouldered young man whose face was tanned so dark as to belie his rather long light hair. He wore a beautiful shirt of fringed buckskin, and his boots were embellished with the Lone Star of Texas, done in silver. Two single-action Colts of the old pattern swung low from his beaded belt.

  "Excuse me, sir," said the bartender, "but yore drink?"

  "Oh, yes," murmured The Kid, and placed a double eagle on the bar.

  "No, yuh've already paid fer it." The bartender nodded at the whisky glass, still level full of the amber liquor. "I was just wonderin' why yuh didn't down it."

  "Oh, yes," said Kid Wolf again. He picked up the glass between thumb and forefinger and deliberately emptied it into a handy cuspidor. "I leave that stuff to mah enemies," he said, smiling. "By the way, can yo' tell me where I can find a Mistah Mullhall, a Mistah Anton, a Mistah Lathum, a Mistah Wise, and a Mistah Steve Stacy?"

  When the bartender could recover himself, he pointed out a table near the door.

  "Wise an' Lathum an' Anton is right there—playin' monte," he said.

  "Stacy an' Mullhall was here this mornin', but I don't see 'em now."

  Thanking him, Kid Wolf sauntered away from the bar and approached the gambling table.

  The La Plata Saloon was fairly well patronized, even though it lacked several hours until nightfall. Kid Wolf had taken the measure of the loiterers at a glance. Most of them were desperadoes. "Outlaw" was written over their hard faces, and he wondered if Ma Thomas hadn't been right about the county's general lawlessness. San Felipe seemed to be well supplied with gunmen.

  The three men at the table, although they were "heeled" with .45s, were of a different type. They were cowmen first, gunmen afterward. Two were in their twenties; the other was older.

  "I beg yo' pahdon, caballeros," said The Kid softly, as he came up behind them, "but I wish to talk with yo' in private. Wheah can we go?"

  There was something in the Texan's voice and bearing that prevented questions just then. The trio faced about in surprise. Plainly, they did not know whether to take Kid Wolf for a friend or for a foe. Like true Westerners, they were not averse to finding out.

  "We can use the back room," said one. "Come on, you fellas."

  One of them delayed to make a final bet in the came, then he followed. At a signal to the bartender, the back room, vacant, save for a dozen bottles, likewise empty, was thrown open to them.

  "Have chairs, gentlemen," The Kid invited, as he carefully closed the door.

  The trio took chairs about the table, looking questioningly at the stranger. The oldest of them picked up a deck of cards and began to shuffle them absently. Kid Wolf quietly took his place among the trio.

  "Boys," he asked slowly, "do yuh want jobs?"

  There was a pause, during which the three punchers exchanged glances.

  "Lay yore cards face up, stranger," invited one of them. "We'll listen, anyway, but——"

  "I want yo' to go to work fo' the S Bar," said The Kid crisply.

  "That settles that," growled the oldest puncher, after sending a searching glance at the Texan's face. The others looked amazed. "No. We've quit the S Bar."

  "Who suggested that yo' quit?" The Kid shot at them.

  The man at the Texan's right flushed angrily. "I don't see that this is any of yore business, stranger," he barked.

  "Men," said The Kid, and his voice was as chill as steel, "I'm makin' this my business! Yo're comin' back to work fo' the S Bar!"

  "And yo're backin' thet statement up—how?" demanded the oldest cow hand, suddenly ceasing to toy with the card deck.

  "With these," returned Kid Wolf mildly.

  The trio stared. The Kid had drawn his twin .45s and laid them on the table so quickly and so quietly that none of them had seen his arms move.

  "Now, I hope," murmured The Kid, "that yo' rather listen to me talk than to those. I've only a few words to say. Boys, I was surprised. I didn't think yo' would be the kind to leave a po' woman like Mrs. Thomas in the lurch. Men who would do that, would do anything—would even run cattle into Mexico," he added significantly.

  All three men flushed to the roots of their hair.

  "Don't think we had anything to do with thet!" exclaimed one.

  "We got a right to quit if we want to," put in the oldest with a defiant look.

  "Boys, play square with me and yo' won't be sorry," Kid Wolf told them earnestly. "I know that all these things happened after yo' left. Since then, cattle have been rustled and Mr. Thomas has been murdahed—yo' know that as well as I do. That woman might be yo' mothah. She needs yo'. What's yo' verdict?"

  There was a long silence. The three riders looked like small boys whose hands had been caught in the cooky jar.

  "How much did Majah Stovah pay yo' to quit?" added the Texan suddenly.

  The former S Bar men jumped nervously. The man at The Kid's left gulped.

  "Well," he blurted, "we was only gettin' forty-five, and when Stover offered to double it, and with nothin' to do but lie around, why, we——"

  "Things are changed now," said The Kid gently. "Ma Thomas is alone now."

  "That's right," said the oldest awkwardly. "I suppose we ought to——"

  "Ought to!" repeated one of the others, jumping to his feet. "By

  George, we will! I ain't the kind to go back on a woman like Mrs.

  Thomas. I don't care what yuh others do!"

  "That's what I say," chorused his two companions in the same breath.

  "I'll show yo' I aim to play fair," Kid Wolf approved. He took a handful of gold pieces from his pocket and placed them on the table in a little pile. "This is all I have, but Mrs. Thomas isn't in a position to pay right now, so heah is yo' first month's wages in advance."

  The three looked at him and gulped. If ever three men were ashamed, they appeared to be. The old cow-puncher pushed the pile back to The Kid.

  "We ain't takin' it," he mumbled. "Don't get us wrong, partner. We ain't thet kind. We never would've quit the S Bar if it hadn't been for Steve Stacy—the foreman. And, of course, things was goin' all right at the ranch then. Guess it's all our fault, and we're willin' to right it. We don't know yuh, but yo're O.K., son."

  They shook hands warmly. The Kid learned that the oldest of the three was Anton. Wise was the bow-legged one, and Lathum was freckled and tall.

  "Stacy hadn't better know about this," Lathum decided.

  "I was hopin' to get him back," said The Kid.

  "No chance. He's in with the major now," spoke up Wise. "So's Mullhall. Neither of 'em will listen—and they'll make trouble when they find we're goin' back."

  "If yo'-all feel the same way as I do," Kid Wolf drawled as they filed out of the back room, "they won't have to make trouble. It'll be theah fo' 'em."

  As they approached the
bar, Anton clutched The Kid's elbow.

  "There's Steve Stacy and Mullhall now," he warned in a low voice.

  Stacy and Mullhall were big men, heavily built. Upon seeing the party emerge from the back room, they pushed away from the bar and came directly toward Kid Wolf, who was walking in the lead.

  "Steve Stacy's the hombre in front," Wise whispered. "Be on yore guard."

  The Kid knew the ex-foreman's type even before he spoke. He was the loud-mouthed and overbearing kind of waddy—a gunman first and a cowman afterward. His beefy face was flushed as red as his flannel shirt. His eyes were fixed boldly on the Texan.

  "The barkeeper tells me yuh were inquirin' fer me," he said heavily.

  "What's on yore mind?"

  Mullhall was directly behind him, insolent of face and bearing. The two seemed to be paying no attention to the trio of men behind The Kid.

  "I was just goin' to offah yo' a chance to come back to the S Bar," explained Kid Wolf. "These three caballeros have already signed the pay roll again."

  It was putting up the issue squarely, with no hedging. Both Stacy and

  Mullhall darkened with fury.

  "What's yore little game? I guess it's about time to put an extra spoke in yore wheel!" snarled Mullhall, coming forward.

  "Who in blazes are you?" sneered Stacy.

  "Just call me The Wolf!" The Kid barked. "I'm managin' the S Bar right now, and if yo' men don't want to be friends, I'll be right glad to have yo' fo' enemies!"

  Mullhall had pressed very close. It was as if the whole thing had been prearranged. His hands suddenly shot out and seized Kid Wolf's arms—pinning them tightly.

  It was an old and deadly trick. While Mullhall pinioned the Texan,

  Steve Stacy planned to draw and shoot him down. The pair had worked

  together like the cogwheels of a machine, and all was perfectly timed.

  Stacy drew like a flash, cocking his .45 as it left the holster.

  The play, however, was not worked fast enough. Kid Wolf was not to be victimized by such a threadbare ruse. He was too fast, too strong. He whirled Mullhall about, his left boot went behind Mullhall's legs. With all his force he threw his weight against him, tearing his arms free.