Kid Wolf of Texas Part 10

"All right," he snarled. "Mr. Wolf, you clear out!"

The Texan's fiery Southern temper had reached its breaking point. It snapped. In a twinkling, things were happening. Using quick, almost superhuman strength, he picked up the half-breed by the neck and one leg and hurled him, like a thunderbolt, into the group at the faro table!

Tuc.u.mcari Pete's wild yell was drowned out by the tremendous crash of splintering wood and thudding flesh, as the half-breed's body hurtled through the air to smash Jack Hardy down to the floor with the impact.

The table went into kindling wood; chips and markers flew! A chair banged against the lookout's high perch, just as he was bringing his sawed-off shotgun to his shoulder.

_Br-r-r-ram, bang!_ The double charge went into the ceiling, as the lookout toppled to the floor to join his companions, now a ma.s.s of waving arms and legs.

Kid Wolf's twin .45s had come out as if by magic. He ducked low. He did not need eyes in the back of his head to know that the men at the bar would open fire at the drop of the hat! A bullet winged venomously over him. Another one whined three inches from his ear. At the same instant, a bottle, hurled by the bartender, smashed to fragments against the wall.

But with one quick spring, Kid Wolf had his back against the green-shuttered door. For the first time, his Colts splattered red flame and smoke. There were three distinct reports, but they came so rapidly that they blended into one sullen, ear-shattering roar. He had aimed at the swinging lamps, and they went out so quickly that it seemed they had been extinguished by the force of one giant breath.

Gla.s.s tinkled on the saloon floor, and all was wrapped in darkness.

The Texan's voice rang out like the clang of steel on granite:

"Yo're goin' to have law! Kid Wolf law--and yo' may not like it as well as the othah kind!"

A score of revolver slugs, aimed at the sound of his voice, sent showers of splinters flying from the green-shuttered doors. The Texan, though, had taken care not to remain in the line of fire.

When the inmates of the Idle Hour swarmed out, looking for vengeance, they were disappointed. Kid Wolf and his horse, Blizzard, were nowhere to be seen!

CHAPTER VII

M'CAY'S RECRUIT

The Texan, after circling the town of Midway, rode in again. It was not his way to leave a job unfinished, with only a threat behind. The cigarette-paper note had aroused his curiosity to a fever heat. He read it by the light of the moon. It consisted of three pencil-scrawled words:

GO CROSS STREET

Across the wide street from the saloon, there was but one building.

Was it here that he was to go? Was it a trap of some kind? He dismissed the latter possibility and decided to go at once to the big frame general store, using all the caution possible.

Approaching the place from behind, he looked it over carefully before dismounting. As Blizzard was conspicuous in the moonlight, he left him in a thick clump of bushes and slipped through the shadows on foot. As he neared the building, he discovered that it was not merely of frame, as he had at first thought. The boards in front masked a fortress of logs. It was so planned that a handful of defenders might hold it against great odds.

As Kid Wolf knocked softly on the rear door, he wondered if it had been built merely as a security against the renegade Indians, or for some other and deeper purpose. For a few minutes after he knocked, there was silence, then the door slowly opened. The Texan found himself looking into the barrel of a .45!

"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, b.u.t.t 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."

Pa.s.sing 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 s.n.a.t.c.hed 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.