Kid Wolf of Texas Part 7

"Is it The Terror?" one of them questioned, paling.

"It is," replied Kid Wolf. "We must act quickly."

In a few minutes men were pouring out of the wagons, weapons in their hands. It was just light enough now to see. Modoc ran out of his wagon, strapping on his Colt .45 as he came. He advanced toward the Texan sneeringly. The others gathered about to see what would happen.

Something in Kid Wolf's eyes warned them of impending trouble.

"What's the idea now?" Modoc snarled, showing his stained teeth like a wolf. "Has this four-flusher been up to his tricks again?"

Kid Wolf's voice came cool and calm. "Modoc," he drawled, "what color will the moon be to-night?"

Modoc's face went the color of putty. Like a flash, the insolence had gone out of his eyes, to be replaced with fear. He moistened his lips feverishly.

"I--I don't know what yo're talkin' about," he stammered.

"Are yo' sure," said Kid Wolf with deadly quietness, "that the moon won't be red?"

Modoc began to tremble like a leaf. His gun hand moved part way to his hip, then stopped. Beads of perspiration stood out on his clammy forehead.

"Afraid to draw like a man?" the Texan drawled. "I wouldn't doubt it.

Men, this man is a betrayah. He is one of The Terror's bandits.

That's why he led yo' off the track. He brought yo' here to die like rats."

Modoc's face was blue-white as Kid Wolf continued:

"When I first showed up, Modoc thought I might be one of The Terror's messengahs. I didn't come through with the pa.s.sword, and he learned different. I didn't know what he meant, then, but I know now!"

The wagon men surged around Modoc threateningly. Fury was written over the faces of them all. There were cries of "Kill him!" "Hang the traitor!"

Kid Wolf still faced the fear-frozen Modoc, smiling coolly. There was quiet menace in that easy smile.

"I usually shoot the head off a rattlesnake when I see one," he said softly. "One day, yeahs ago, a rattlah killed a favorite dawg of mine.

I blew that snake apart, bit by bit. Modoc, that snake was a gentleman alongside of yo'. I'm givin' yo' an even chance to kill me. Fill yo'

hand!"

Modoc, with a wheezing, gasping breath, decided upon action. His hand streaked for his hip. But Kid Wolf had drawn a split second later and more than a split second faster. The fingers of his right hand closed upon the handle of one of his twin Colts. In the same instant, fire flew!

With the first explosion, Modoc grunted with pain, dropping his gun.

The bullet had caught him squarely in the wrist, rendering his fingers useless. But Kid Wolf kept firing, although he did not aim for Modoc's head or body. His gun flashed and stuttered twice, three times, four--five--six! Dust flew from Modoc's coat sleeve as the bullets landed with a series of terrific smashes. As he had torn the rattlesnake bit by bit, Kid Wolf ripped Modoc's gun arm.

Each bullet took effect, and Modoc staggered from the impacts, knees slumping to the ground. The traitor would never use that gun arm again. It dangled from his body, broken and useless. The others would have literally torn Modoc limb from limb had not the Texan ordered otherwise.

"He doesn't deserve hangin'," he said, "so let him be. We've got work to do. The Terror and his gang will be here at any minute. Now listen carefully to what I say."

Quietly he gave his orders, and just as carefully, the wagon men carried them out. Under Kid Wolf's masterly leadership they had regained their nerve. Panic left them, and they became grim and determined.

The Kid learned that there were thirty-four men in the outfit.

Thirty-four against at least a hundred! The odds were great, but the Texan had faced greater ones alone. With the train in the hands of Modoc--one of their own men--the marauders expected to take the outfit by surprise. Thanks to the Texan, all that was changed now. He gave orders that the wagons be shifted into a circle, with the children and women on the inside behind shelter. The men were posted in the wagons and behind them, Kid Wolf giving each man his station.

"Do not fiah until I give the coyote yell," he said. "And then keep yo' sights down. Shoot low!"

Kid Wolf himself took a position between two of the covered wagons, his horse Blizzard within quick call. In the narrow c.h.i.n.k, just wide enough for him to ride his horse through, he placed three loaded Sharps .50-caliber rifles, ready for quick use.

They had not long to wait. Only a few minutes had elapsed after the wagons had been shifted when Kid Wolf saw a body of hors.e.m.e.n approaching from the west. It was The Terror's band! Dust stirred by the hoofs of a hundred galloping horses rose in the air like brown thunderclouds.

As the grim defenders watched, the band split up, divided into two rapidly moving lines, and began to surround the train in a sweeping circle. The circle formed, began to close in. Kid Wolf peered along the barrel of one of the Sharps rifles. Then, after what seemed minutes, he uttered his coyote cry:

"Yip, yip, yip-ee!"

It was followed by a terrific burst of fire from the wagon train. The signal had been given at the opportune time. The bandits faltered.

They hadn't expected this! The Terror had hoped to find the wagon train still asleep and defenseless. The rolling powder smoke cleared away somewhat, and it could be seen that a dozen or more of the attackers had melted out of their saddles, like b.u.t.ter on a hot stove.

But the raiders, outnumbering the defenders and realizing it, still came on. Kid Wolf threw aside the rifle and drew his twin .45s.

Deliberately stepping out into the open, he fanned the hammers from the level of his hip. His waistline, as he swung the thundering Colts from side to side, seemed to be alive with sputtering red sparks. Smoke rolled around him. The bandits in front of him dropped by twos and threes.

Holes appeared in this side of the bandits' circle--holes that did not close up. Riderless mounts dashed about frantically, their reins trailing; wounded horses added to the uproar with their death screams.

It was a battle!

Seeing that the force of the charge had been broken on this flank, Kid Wolf ran across to reenforce the other sides of the circle. At one point the outlaws had already broken through the circle of wagons. Kid Wolf sent three screaming slugs toward them, and they fell back in disorder, leaving one desperado stretched out behind them.

Reloading his guns, Kid Wolf climbed upon one of the wagons and again opened fire; this time with such an effect that all sides of the attacking circle began to break and fall back to safety. Mere force of numbers does not always count in a gun fight. Not more than half a dozen of the defenders had been hit. The survivors raised a hearty cheer. Kid Wolf's generalship had beaten back the first outlaw charge!

It was then that Modoc played his final card. Hoping to gain the protection of the outlaws, and fearing the wagon train's vengeance, he slipped out of the circle of covered wagons and, on foot, began running. His goal was ahead of him, but he never reached it. His late comrades--the bandits--evidently thought he had played the traitor with them, for they fired on him relentlessly. He fell, then rose again to scramble on. Bullets kicked up the sod around him. Others plumped into his body. Again he fell, this time to stay. His body was riddled with scores of bullets. So died the traitor.

Kid Wolf knew that a certain advantage always lies with the offensive.

Defenders haven't the power of attackers. The Texan decided to risk a counter-charge. He knew that it might break down the courage of the bandit band. At least it would be a surprise. He called for volunteers.

"I want a dozen men who can shoot straight from the back of a runnin'

hoss," he said. "It'll be dangerous. Who's with me?"

Immediately more men than he wanted spoke up. Quickly choosing twelve, he gave them their orders.

"At the next chahge," the Texan drawled, "we'll ride out theah and give 'em somethin' to think about. If I'm right, I think they'll scattah.

If I'm wrong--well, they'll probably wipe us out. Are yo' game?"

The men were game, as the Texan soon found out. They were fighting for their families, as well as their own lives and possessions.

Again the attacking line of hors.e.m.e.n formed, and in a cloud of dust, they came at the wagon train. Their bullets cut slashes in the covered-wagon tops, smashed into wheels and wagon trees, and kicked up geysers of sand. They would be hard to stop this time!

But Kid Wolf gave the word for his own charge. He had several reasons for doing this. It amounted to folly in the eyes of some, but the Texan knew the value of a countercharge. And if he could bring down The Terror himself, he knew the battle was as good as won. Out of the wagon circle they came, saddle leather creaking and guns blazing! The Kid, on his snow-white charger, was in the lead. A lane opened in the bandit ranks as if by magic.

Kid Wolf pressed his quick advantage. His movement had taken the outlaw band by surprise. The utter recklessness of it shook their nerve.

Two of the wagon men fell. The others kept on, clearing a swathe with their sputtering Colts.

The bandits hesitated. The defenders who had remained behind the wagons kept up their deadly barrage. They were dropping accurately placed shots where they would be sure to do the most good. Then The Terror's band retreated, broke formation. The retreat became a rout--a mad get-away with every man for himself. Outnumbered as they were, the defenders were making more than a good account of themselves.

Kid Wolf's eyes sought for The Terror himself--and found him. His red coat and gay trappings were easy to locate, even in that mad stampede.

The bandit chief was attempting to make his get-away. The Texan, however, cut him off after a hard, furious ride.