CHAPTER XVII
POT SHOTS
There was an old mission at the outskirts of the town of Skull, established many years before there were any other buildings in the vicinity. The Spanish fathers had built it for the Indians, and it remained a sanctuary, in spite of the roughness and badness of the new cow town.
Early on the morning after Kid Wolf's arrival in the town, the old padre was astonished to find a package of money inside his door. It was addressed simply: "For the poor." It was a windfall and a much-needed addition to the mission's meager finances.
The padre considered it a gift from Heaven, and where it had come from remained a mystery. The package contained two thousand dollars. Needless to say, it was Kid Wolf's gift, and the money had been taken from the town's dishonest gamblers.
The Texan remained several days in Skull. He was in no hurry, and the town interested him. Although he heard threats, he was left alone. He saw no more of Gentleman John, nor did he see Blacksnake McCoy. They had disappeared from town, probably on evil business of their own.
A note thrust under The Kid's door at the hotel two mornings later threatened him and advised him to leave the country. The Texan, however, paid no attention to the warning.
The next day, he scouted about the country, sizing up the cattle situation. The honest cattlemen, he found, were very much in the minority. By force, murder, and illegal methods, Gentleman John had obtained most of the land and practically all of the vast cattle herds that roamed the rich rangelands surrounding the town on all sides. Yet to most of the honest element, Gentleman John's true colors were not known. He shielded himself, hiring others to do his unclean work. There was no law as yet in the county. Gentleman John had managed to keep it out. And even if there had been, it was doubtful if his crimes could be pinned to him, for he had covered his tracks well. Many thought him honest. Only The Kid's keen mind could sense almost immediately what was going on.
The country stretching out from Skull was wild and beautiful. It was an unsettled land, and the trails that led into it were faint and difficult to follow.
One morning, Kid Wolf saddled Blizzard and rode into the southwest toward the purple mountains tipped with snow. It was a beautiful day, cool and crisp. The tang of the air in that high altitude was sharp and invigorating. The big white horse swung into a joyous lope, and the Texan hummed a Southern melody.
Crossing a wide stretch of plain, they mounted a rise, and the character of the country changed. The smell of sage gave way to the penetrating odor of small pine, as they climbed into the broken foothills that led, in a series of steps, toward the jagged peaks. Splashing through a little creek of pure, cold water, The Kid turned Blizzard's head up a pass between two ridges of piñon-covered buttes.
"A big herd's passed this way," The Kid muttered, "and lately, too."
They climbed steadily onward, while the Texan searched the trail with
keen eyes that missed nothing. Suddenly he drew up his horse.
Blizzard had shied at something lying prone ahead of them, and The
Kid's eyes had seen it at the same instant.
Stretched out on the sandy ground, The Kid saw, when he urged his horse closer, was the body of a man, face down and arms flung out. A blotch of red on the blue of the shirt told the significant story—a bullet had got in its deadly work. Dismounting, the Texan found that the man was dead and had met with his wound probably twenty-four hours before. There was nothing with which to identify the body.
"Seems to me, Blizzahd," Kid Wolf mused, "that Gentleman John is a deepah-dyed villain than we even thought."
He continued on up the pass, eyes and ears open. The white horse took the climb as if it had been level ground, his hoofs ringing a brisk tattoo against the stones.
Nobody was in sight. The land stretched out on all sides—a vast lonesomeness of rolling green and red, broken here and there by towering rocks, grotesque in shape and twisted by erosion into a thousand fanciful sculptures. But at the bottom of a dry wash, Kid Wolf received a surprise.
Br-r-reee! Ping! A bullet breezed by his head, droning like a hornet, and glanced sullenly against a flat rock. Immediately afterward, The Kid heard the sharp bark of a .45. He knew by the sound of the bullet and by the elapsed time between it and the sound of the gun that he was within dangerous range. Crouching low in his saddle, he wheeled Blizzard—already turned half around in mid-air—and cut up the arroyo at a hot gallop.
Flinging himself from his horse when he reached shelter, he touched Blizzard lightly on the neck. The wise animal knew what that meant. Without slackening its pace, it continued onward, its hoofs drumming a rapid clip-clop, while its master was running in another direction with his head low.
Breaking up the ambush was easy. The Kid took advantage of every bit of cover and went directly toward the sounds of the shots, for guns were still barking. The men, whoever they were, were shooting in the direction of the riderless horse. Squirming through a little piñon thicket, Kid Wolf saw three men stationed behind a low ledge of red sandstone. The guns of the trio were still curling blue smoke.
"Will yo' kindly stick up yo' hands, gentlemen," the Texan drawled, "while yo're explainin'?"
The three whirled about—to find themselves staring into the two deadly black muzzles of The Kid's twin six-shooters. Automatically they thrust their arms aloft.
"Well, I guess yuh got us! Go ahead and shoot, yuh killer!"
Kid Wolf looked at the speaker in surprise. He was a little younger, perhaps, than the Texan himself—a slim, red-headed youth with a wide, determined mouth. The blue eyes, snapping angrily now, seemed frank and open. Then the Texan's eyes traveled to the youth's two companions. Both were older men, typical cow-punchers, rough and ready, and yet hardly of the same type of the men The Kid had noticed in the Longhorn Saloon in Skull.
"I'm not sure that I even want to shoot." The Kid smiled slowly.
"Maybe yo'd like to explain why yo' were tryin' to shoot me."
"I guess we won't need to explain that," snapped the redhead. "Yuh know as well as we do that yo're one o' Blacksnake's thievin' gunmen!"
"What makes yo' think so?" the Texan laughed.
The other opened his mouth to speak, then stopped. He was looking The
Kid up and down.
"Come to think about it," he muttered, "we've never seen you before.
And yuh don't look like one o' that rustler gang."
"Take my word fo' it," said the Texan earnestly, "I'm not. I thought yo' were Blacksnake and his gang myself." He reholstered his guns. "Put yo' hands down," he said, as he came toward them, "and we'll talk this thing ovah."
Reassured, the trio did so with sighs of relief. A few questions by each helped to clear things up. The Kid told them who he was, and in return he was told that the three were members of the Diamond D outfit.
"It's just half an outfit now," said the red-haired youth bitterly.
"They've run off our north herd. Yuh see, Mr. Wolf——"
"Just call me 'Kid,'" smiled the Texan, "fo' I think we'll be friends."
"I hope so," said the other, flashing him a grateful look. "Well, I'm 'Red' Morton. My brother and me own the Diamond D, and we've shore been havin' one hot time. Guess we're plumb beat."
"Wheah's yo' brother now?"
"He's at the sod house with our south herd. These two men are the only punchers left me—'Lefty' Warren and Mike Train. There was one more. The rustlers shot him." Red Morton's eyes gleamed fiercely.
"Yo' know who the rustlers were?"
"Blacksnake McCoy's gang. He's been causin' us a lot o' trouble. Until now, that bunch have just been runnin' a smooth iron and swingin' their loops wide. But yesterday they drove off every steer. Half of all the longhorns on the Diamond D!" Red's lips tightened grimly.
"Excuse us," spoke up one of the cowboys, Lefty Warren, "for takin' yuh fer one o' them cutthroats, but we was b'ilin' mad. It's a good thing fer us yuh wasn't. Yuh shore slipped in on us slick as a whistle."
"I'm hopin' my bud, Joe, don't think it was my fault that Blacksnake got away with the herd," groaned the red-haired youth. "Reckon we'll have to sell out now."
"That's it," agreed the eldest of the trio—the man called Mike Train.
"The Diamond D would be on Easy Street now, if we had the cattle back.
The mortgage——"
"Who would yo' sell to?" asked The Kid quietly.
"Gentleman John, the cattle king," explained Red Morton. "He told my brother some time ago that he'd like to buy it, if the price was low. Joe refused then, but reckon it'll be different now."
Kid Wolf raised his brows slightly.
"Is this—ah—Gentleman John the right sort of hombre?" he drawled.
"Why, I guess so," said Red in surprise. "He's one o' the biggest cattlemen in three States."
The Texan was silent for a moment, then he smiled.
"Wheah are yo' headed fo' now?" he asked.
"Why, we're on the trail of the stolen herd," Red replied, "and we intend to stop at the sod house and tell my brother, Joe, what's happened—that is, if he don't already know. Maybe he's had trouble, himself."
"If we find any of that Blacksnake gang, we'll fight," Lefty Warren spoke up. "The odds are mighty bad against us, but they got one o' the best punchers in the valley when they drilled Sam Whiteman."
"I'm interested," Kid Wolf told them. "Do yo' mind if I throw in with yo'?"
"Do we mind?" repeated Red joyously. "Say, it would shore be great!
And—well, Joe and I will try and make it right with yuh."
"Nevah mind that," the Texan murmured. "Just considah yo' troubles mine, too. And I'm downright curious to know what's happened to yo' steers. Let's go!" He whistled for Blizzard.
For several hours the quartet of horsemen pressed southward, following the trail left by the stolen beef herd. The four quickly became friends. Kid Wolf liked them all from the first, and the Diamond D men were overjoyed to have him enlisted in their cause. He learned that Red Morton and his older brother, Joe, had worked hard to make the Diamond D a success. The ranch had been left them by their father a few years before, heavily burdened with debt. Now, until the catastrophe of the day before, they were at the point of clearing it. Evidently the brothers did not know of Gentleman John's criminal methods, and the Texan said nothing. He was waiting for better proof.
"The ranch is in Joe's name," said Red proudly, "but we're partners. He could sell it to Gentleman John, all right, without my consent, but he wouldn't. I'm not quite twenty-one, but I'm a man, and Joe knows it."
"Will yo' have to sell the Diamond D now?" the Texan asked.
"I hope not. Joe and two riders still have the south herd—at least, they have if nothin's happened. It might pull us through. Eight hundred head."
After a time, they swung off the trail they had been following, in order to reach the sod house. Here Red expected to find his brother and the other two Diamond D riders.
"With them, that'll make seven of us," young Morton said. "Then we can show that Blacksnake gang a fight that is a fight! There's over a dozen of 'em, though I think Lefty here wounded one, just after Whiteman was killed. We saw red stains on the sagebrush for a hundred yards along the cattle trail."
Mounting a long rise, they began to descend again. A fertile valley stretched out beneath them, green with grass and watered by the bluest little stream that Kid Wolf had ever seen. It was a lovely spot; it was small wonder that Gentleman John wished to add the Diamond D to his holdings.
"That's Blue-bottle Creek," announced Red Morton. "Queer that we don't see any cattle. There's not a steer in sight. They ought to be feedin' through here."
There was no sign of anything moving throughout all the basin, either human or cattle. The silence was unbroken, save for the steady drumming of the little party's pony hoofs.
"There's the sod house—over there in those trees," said Red, after another mile.
He was worried. The two other Diamond D men, too, were showing signs of nervousness. Had the south herd gone the way of the other?
They neared the sod house—a structure crudely built of layers of earth. It had one door and one window, and near it was a corral—empty. There was no sign of any one about, and there was no reply to Red's eager shout.
"Oh, Joe!" he hailed.
His face was a shade paler, as he quickly swung himself out of his saddle. He entered the sod house at a half run.
"Is anything wrong?" Train shouted.
Then they heard Red Morton cry out in grief and horror. Without waiting for anything more, The Kid and the two Diamond D riders dismounted and raced toward the sod hut. None of them was prepared for the terrible thing they found there.
CHAPTER XVIII
ON BLACKSNAKE'S TRAIL
At first, they could see little, for not much light filtered through the small door and window. Then details of the interior began to grow more distinct in the hut's one room. A tarp had been tacked over the dirt ceiling to keep scorpions and centipedes from dropping down on the bunks below. There was only a little furniture, and that of a crude sort. Some of it was smashed, as if in a scuffle.
These things, however, were not noticed until later. What the visitors saw was the form of a man with legs and arms outstretched at queer angles.
Kid Wolf was accustomed to horrible sights, but he remembered this one ever afterward. The scene was stamped on his mind like a fragment of some wild nightmare.
The body was that of a man a few years older than Red Morton, and the features, though set and twisted, were the same. A rope had been tied to one wrist and fastened to one wall; another rope had been knotted about his other wrist and secured to the opposite side of the hut. The legs had been served the same way at the ankles. On the body of the suspended figure rocks had been piled. They were of many sizes, varying from a few pounds to several hundred. It was easy to see how the unhappy man had met his end—by slow torture. One by one, the rocks had been placed on his chest and middle, the combined weight of them first slowly pulling his limbs from their sockets and then crushing out the life that remained.
Red, after his first outcry of agony, took it bravely. The Kid threw his arm sympathetically around the youth's shoulders and drew him away, while the others cut the ropes that held the victim of the rustler gang's cruelty. In a few minutes, Red got a grip on himself and could talk in a steady voice.
"Reckon I'm alone now, Kid," he blurted. "Joe was all I had—and they got him! I swear I'll bring those hounds to justice, or die a-tryin'!"
"Yo're not alone, Red," said the Texan grimly. "I'm takin' a hand in this game."
Near the body they found a piece of paper—a significant document, for it explained the motive for the crime. Kid Wolf read it and understood. It was written in straggling handwriting:
I, Joe Morton, do hereby sell and turn over all interest in the Diamond
D Ranch property, for value received. My signature is below, and
testifies that I have sold said ranch to Gentleman John, of Skull, New
Mexico.
There was, however, no signature at the space left at the bottom of the paper. Joe Morton had died game!
"He refused to sign," said The Kid quietly, "and that means that yo're the lawful heir to the Diamond D. Yo' have a man's job to do now, Red."
"But I don't savvy this," burst out the red-haired youth. "Surely this
Gentleman John isn't——"
"He's the man behind it all, mah boy," the Texan told him. And in a few words, he related how he had been approached by the self-styled cattle king, and something of his shady dealings. "He wanted to buy me," he concluded, "not knowin' that I had nevah abused the powah of the Colt fo' mah own gain. Blacksnake is his chief gunman, actin' by Gentleman John's ordahs."
"Where's the other men—the two riders on duty with Joe?" Lefty Warren wanted to know.
It did not take much of a search to find them. One had fallen near the little corral, shot through the heart. The other lay a few hundred yards away, at the river bank. He, too, was dead.
"Mo' murdah," snapped the Texan grimly. "Well, we must make ouah plans."
In this sudden crisis, the other three left most of the planning to Kid Wolf himself. First of all, the bodies were buried. Rocks were piled on the hastily made graves to keep the coyotes out, and they were ready to go again.
The Texan decided to follow the trails left by the stolen cattle, for both herds were gone now, driven off the Diamond D range. Failing in their attempt to get Joe Morton's signature, the outlaws had evidently decided to take what they could get.
There was one big reason why Gentleman John wished to get his hands on the Diamond D. Although land was plentiful in that early day, Red's father had obtained a land grant from a Spanish governor—a grant that still held good and kept other herds from the rich grazing land and ample water along Blue-bottle Creek.
As they started down the trail again toward the broken, mountainous country to the southwest, The Kid sent Red a quick glance.
"Are yo' all right, son?" he asked.
"Fine," said young Morton, now sole owner of the Diamond D.
The Texan was glad to see that he had braced himself. Like his brother, Red was a man.
"We'll soon overtake 'em," old Mike Train muttered, savagely twirling the cylinder of his ancient .45. "Blacksnake's gang can't make fast time with those steers. He's probably drivin' 'em to Gentleman John's headquarters at Agua Frio."
"Why," asked Kid Wolf slowly, "do they call that hombre 'Blacksnake'?"
"Because he carries one with him—that's how he got his name," spoke up Lefty Warren. "He's a whipper. He's beaten more'n one Mex to death with it, and they say a white man or two. He can handle a blacksnake like a demon."
Kid Wolf smiled grimly. To have Blacksnake McCoy for an enemy was by no means a pleasant thing to think about, especially when the desperado was backed by all the power that his employer—Gentleman John—possessed. And yet The Kid was afraid of neither of them.
"It's shore great of yuh to help us this way," Red told him. "But I'm afraid we haven't a chance. If Gentleman John is behind all this, we're buckin' mighty big odds."
"I like a game like that," said The Kid. "Unlike pokah, it's perfectly legitimate to scratch the aces with yo' fingah nail."
They were soon off the limits of the Diamond D and on the Casas Amarillas—a ranch owned by Gentleman John and taking its Spanish name from two yellow houses of adobe several miles distant. They saw scattered cattle branded with a Lazy J—one of Gentleman John's many brands—but discovered no stragglers from the stolen Morton herds.
Following the trail was easy, and they struck a hot pace down through and out of the grassy valley, climbing through a pass and up on a rolling mesa dotted with thirsty-looking sage. For two full hours they rode, while the sun crept toward the west. Their horses were beginning to tire. A line of cedar-sprinkled hills loomed up ahead of them, but by keeping to the plateau they could circle them.
"I think we'd bettah keep to the mesa," The Kid advised.
"But we're about on 'em," put in Red. "They'll see us comin', miles away. If we cut down through those hills, we'll gain time, too, and keep hid."
"It's a fine place to be trapped in," mused the Texan. "Well, Red, yo' know this country, an' I don't, so use yo' own judgment."
Against the far horizon they could make out a faint yellow haze—dust from the trampling hoofs of many cattle. They could cut off a full mile by riding down into the cedars, and Red decided to do so. The Kid was dubious, but said nothing more. If Blacksnake had a rear guard of any kind, they might have been sighted. In that case, they would run into trouble—ambushed trouble.
Kid Wolf rode in the lead, the three others drumming along behind him. He was grimly wary. A chill gust of wind hit them, as they entered the depths of the notch between the hills. The straggling growth of cedars and stumpy evergreens loomed up ahead of them, and they crashed through. For several hundred yards they tore their way and found their pace slowed by the difficult going. The trees began to thin out. Then they heard a spring tinkling down among the red rocks, and the cedars began to thicken again, as the little canyon narrowed and climbed steeply.
"Stick 'em up!"
Kid Wolf fired at the sound of the voice while the loud shout was still echoing. His double draw was lightning fast. Before the others knew what was taking place, his two guns had flashed. At the dull boom of the twin explosions, a crashing sound was heard in the brush, as if something was wildly threshing about. Then bullets began to rip and smash their way through the undergrowth. Cedar twigs flew.
With a yell, Mike Train slumped down over his saddle pommel and rolled off his horse. At the same instant, the two others—Lefty Warren and Red Morton—reached for their guns. The thing had happened so quickly that until now they had not thought of drawing their weapons.
But Kid Wolf stopped them.
"Don't pull 'em, boys!" he cried. And at the same time, he dropped both his own guns. It was a surprising thing for the Texan to do, but his mind had worked quickly. His sharp eyes had taken in the situation. They were covered, and from all sides. His first quick shots had brought one man down, but there were at least six others, and all were behind shelter and had a deadly drop. If The Kid had been alone, he would, no doubt, have shot it out there and then, using his own peculiar tactics. But he had the others to think of. If they touched their guns, they would be killed instantly.
The Texan's doubts had been well founded. They should have kept to the mesa top. They had jumped into a trap. Surrender was the only thing to do now, for while there was life, there was hope. The Kid had slipped from tight situations before.
Lefty Warren, Red Morton, and The Kid elevated their hands. A low laugh came from behind the cedar thicket, and a group of desperadoes on foot slipped through, holding drawn and leveled Colts. In the lead was Blacksnake McCoy. His eyes fell on Kid Wolf and widened with surprise. Then his teeth showed through his close-cropped beard in a snarl of hate.
"Well, if it ain't the gamblin' Cotton-picker!" he ejaculated. "I didn't know I was goin' to have such luck as this! Keep yore mitts up, the three of yuh. Pedro, collect their guns!"
A grinning desperado disarmed Lefty and Red and picked up The Kid's two
Colts.
"It'd 'a' been better fer yuh if yuh'd shot it out," sneered Blacksnake, "because Gentleman John will have somethin' in store fer yuh that yuh won't like. Wait till he sets eyes on yuh, Cotton-picker! Boilin' alive will seem like a picnic! I knew we'd get yuh sooner or later, if yuh kept stickin' yore nose in other folks' business."
"Blacksnake," said The Kid softly, "yo're a cheap, fo'-flushin' bully."
Blacksnake's evil eyes went hard. His face reddened with anger, then paled. He was trembling with fury and deadly hate. He turned to his men.
"Take the others up to the Yellow Houses and wait for me there," he rasped. "Pedro, my whip's on my pony; bring it to me. I'm havin' this out with Cotton-picker, alone! When I'm through with him, I'll bring him on up. One of yuh ride up to the herd and tell Slim to let Gentleman John know we've got 'em. He'll finish with Cotton-picker when I'm done with him. Savvy?"
A blacksnake was brought to McCoy, and the others roughly surrounded
Lefty and Red, herding them through the timber and out of sight.
"Take the skin offn him, Black!" an outlaw yelled back.
The others laughed. And then Kid Wolf and his captor were left alone.
CHAPTER XIX
THE FANG OF THE WOLF
"Well, yuh'd better get ready to take yore medicine," sneered the outlaw, his voice shaking with rage. "I'm goin' to make yuh crawl on yore hands and knees, Cotton-picker!"
He holstered his gun, watching Kid Wolf cunningly, and drew back a little to give himself leeway with his whip. Then he began to roll up his sleeve.
"I'll make yuh beg, Cotton-picker," he taunted insultingly, as he bared his brawny right arm. "And if yuh run, I'll shoot—not to kill; that'd be too easy. I'll blow yore legs in two!"
Kid Wolf had been pulled from his horse by the others, and the faithful snow-white animal had been taken along up the pass with the two prisoners. There seemed no way of escape. Blacksnake had him, and the gang leader grinned confidently.
"Yo're a bully, sah," drawled the Texan. It was as if he were deliberately trying to get his enemy aroused to white-hot fury.
The words seemed to have that effect. With a loud oath, Blacksnake cracked his whip like a pistol shot. The whip was as strong and tough as a bull whip, with a loaded stock and a long, braided lash, thick in the middle, like a snake. The outlaw had aimed for The Kid's thigh, and he was an expert with it. The lash landed with such cutting force that it cut through the Texan's clothing and tore into his flesh.
"Now take off yore shirt!" Blacksnake bellowed. "I'm goin' to flay yuh alive! Take it off!"
There was no sign of pain in Kid Wolf's face. He was still smiling agreeably. Blacksnake McCoy did not know what was coming. The Texan was not entirely disarmed. True, his Colts had been taken away, and he was apparently helpless. The Kid, however, had his hole card that was always in the deck. This was his keen bowie knife, which more than once had saved his life. Cleverly concealed in its sheath sewn down the back of his shirt collar, it had been overlooked in the outlaws' quick search. Pretending to remove his shirt, The Kid's right hand went to his throat and closed on the handle of the knife.
Blacksnake, showing his teeth in a laugh of hate, stood a half dozen feet away from him, swinging his cruel whip slowly from side to side, waiting. He was holding the whipstock in his right hand, and that favored the Texan. For in order to draw the gun that swung at his hip, Blacksnake would first have to drop his implement of torture.
"Heah's wheah yo' get it!" snapped The Kid crisply.
Blacksnake's eyes bulged with sudden, startled terror, for he had a glimpse of the shining blade for one brief instant. His whip hand moved toward the butt of his gun. But he was too late. Kid Wolf could draw and throw his bowie as swiftly as he could pull his firearms. It flashed through the air—a streak of dazzling light! The fang of the wolf was striking!
Ping! The steel tore its way through the outlaw's right wrist. The Texan's throw had been as true as a rifle bead. Blacksnake yelled and tried to reach for his Colt with his left hand.
Then The Kid leaped in. Blacksnake was still squirming about and clawing for his .45 when the Texan's first blow landed. Blacksnake was burly, powerful. He weighed well over two hundred, and his shoulders were as broad as a gorilla's. But his bullet head went back with a jerk, as the Texan's hard fist thudded heavily on his cheek bone.
In the quick scuffle, the Big Colt slipped from Blacksnake's holster and fell to the ground. With all his fury now, the outlaw was lashing terrific, belting swings at Kid Wolf's head. The Texan dodged, elusive as a shadow. He leaped in, bored with his right and jolted Blacksnake from top to toe with a smashing left. The big outlaw staggered, then jumped back and tried to scoop up his gun. His right hand was helpless, however, and his left clumsy. His fingers missed it, and The Kid hit him again, bringing Blacksnake to his knees, groggy-headed and bleary-eyed. His hand closed over the whip. The stock was heavily loaded with lead, and it was a terrible weapon when held reversed. One blow from it could crush a skull like an eggshell.
"I'm a-goin' to brain yuh, Cotton-picker!" Blacksnake grated furiously.
He reeled to his feet, shook his head to get his tangled hair out of his eyes and came in, whip swung back! Kid Wolf had no time to duck down for the gun. The heavy stock was humming through the air in a swish of death!
Smash! Blacksnake rocked on his feet. His teeth had come together with a click. He wabbled, swayed. His whip fell from his relaxed fingers. The Kid's footwork had been as swift and cunning as a mountain cat's! He had stepped aside, rocked his body in a pivot from the hips and landed a knock-out punch full on the point of the big-chested outlaw's jaw! With a grunt, Blacksnake went down, first to his knees, and then face thudding the ground. He landed with such force that he plowed the sand with his nose like a rooting hog.
Taking a deep breath, Kid Wolf walked over and picked up Blacksnake's .45. Then he turned the outlaw face up, none too gently, by jerking his tangled hair. "All right. Snap out of it," he drawled.
Blacksnake was out for a full two minutes. Gradually consciousness began to show on his ugly, bruised face. He stared at the Texan, blinking his eyes in bewilderment.
"Blast yuh!" he said thickly, when he could speak. "Guess yuh got me,
Cotton-picker. I don't know yet how yuh done it."
He tried to seize the gun, but The Kid was too quick for him.
"None o' that," he drawled. "Get up! Yo're takin' me to the othahs.
Move pronto to the Yellow Houses!"
A cunning look mingled with the hate in Blacksnake's swollen eyes.
"They'll kill yuh," he sneered. "Yuh ain't out o' this yet, blast yuh!
My men will pull yuh to pieces."
"I'm thinkin' they won't." The Texan smiled. "If they do, it won't be very healthy fo' yo'. Now listen to what I say."
Half an hour later, Kid Wolf strolled up the hill to the Yellow Houses, arm in arm with his enemy—Blacksnake McCoy!
The outlaw was swearing under his breath. Kid Wolf was chuckling. For he had his hand under Blacksnake's vest, and that hand held a .45! In his left hand, the outlaw carried his whip. The other, wounded, was in his trousers pocket. The Texan had ordered him to keep it there, out of sight.
The two adobes, crumbling to ruins, dated from the Spaniards. For many years they had been used only as occasional stopping places for passing riders. It was here that Blacksnake had ordered Red Morton and Lefty Warren taken.
Kid Wolf was free now, and had he wished, he could have made his escape. That thought, however, did not enter the Texan's mind. He must rescue his friends if possible.
"Walk with me as if nothing had happened," he told Blacksnake softly. "If they suspect anything befo' I'm ready fo' 'em to know, you'll be sorry."
With the cold end of the six-gun pressing his ribs inside his shirt, the outlaw dared not disobey.
The sun had set, and twilight was deepening. The faint dust haze on the far horizon had disappeared. That meant that the stolen Diamond D herd had been driven on. Blacksnake had been staying some distance in the rear to keep off any possible pursuit. Kid Wolf had five other outlaws to contend with—no, four. For Blacksnake had sent one of them ahead with the herd.
Odds meant nothing, however, to the Texan. He knew that surprise and quick action always counted more than numbers. Everything now depended on boldness. As they neared the two adobes, he pretended to reel and stagger close against Blacksnake for support, as if he had been beaten until he could hardly stand. This, too, allowed him to keep the gun against the outlaw's side without arousing suspicion.
At tile edge of the little cleared space surrounding the two adobes, one of the bandits was saddling a horse. The others seemed to be inside with the prisoners.
"Hello, Black!" the outlaw yelled. "Did yuh tear the hide offn him?
From his looks, I reckon yuh did."
"Tell him to go inside," murmured Kid Wolf softly, "and be careful how yo' tell him."
Blacksnake opened his lips to shout a warning, but felt the touch of steel against his ribs and quickly changed his mind.
"Go into the dobe with the others," he commanded gruffly.
The walls of one of the mud huts had crumbled utterly. Only one of
them was habitable, and it was to this one that the outlaw went, with
Blacksnake and Kid Wolf following close behind. A yell greeted
Blacksnake's arrival with his supposed prisoner.
"I thought yuh'd have to carry him back, Black, or drag him by the heels," one voice shouted. "Yuh must've got tired."
The time for action was at hand! The Kid and the outlaw stood framed for a brief second in the doorway. The Texan's eyes swept the room. The four outlaws were lazing comfortably about the ruined interior. Two were playing cards, and two were engaged in taking a drink from a whisky flask, one of these being the man Blacksnake had sent inside. The two prisoners—Lefty Warren and young Morton—were securely bound in lariat rope, sitting against one wall. The Kid saw their eyes light up as they recognized him. Evidently they had not expected to see him again alive. Kid Wolf jerked the revolver from Blacksnake's side, tripped him suddenly and sent him headlong into the room.
"Up with yo' hands!" the Texan sang out.
The outlaws were taken entirely by surprise. Only Blacksnake had known what was coming, and he was unarmed. Kid Wolf was no longer reeling and staggering. The desperadoes looked up to stare into the sinister muzzle of a .45!
"Shoot him to pieces!" Blacksnake yelled, picking himself up on all fours and whirling to make a jump for The Kid's ankles.
The Texan dodged to one side, his gun sweeping the room. A jet flame darted from the barrel, and there was a crash of broken glass. He had fired at the liquor flask that one of the outlaws still held at his lips.
"That's a remindah," he said crisply. "Put up yo' hands!"
Guns blazed suddenly. Two of the bandits had reached for their weapons at the same moment. The walls of the adobe shook under blended explosions, and powder smoke drifted down like a curtain, turning the figures of the men into drifting shadows.
The firing was soon over. The Kid's gun had roared a swift tattoo of hammering shots. Dust flew from the wall near his head, but he had spoiled the aim of both outlaws by fast, hair-trigger shooting. One sank against a broken-down bunk in one corner, reamed through the upper right arm and chest. The other fired again, but his gun hand was dangling, and he missed by a foot. Playing cards were scattered, as the other pair of bandits jumped up with their hands over their heads.
"We got enough!" they yelped. "Don't shoot!"
Kid Wolf lashed out at Blacksnake, who was rushing him again. The short, powerful blow to the jaw sent the leader down for good. He rolled over, stunned.
"Bueno." The Texan smiled. "Keep yo' hands right theah, please, caballeros."
Before the powder fumes had cleared away, he had liberated Lefty and
Red with quick strokes of his bowie.
"I reckon we've got the uppah hand now, boys." He smiled. "Let's try and keep it. Take their guns, Red."
The two Diamond D men had been as surprised as the outlaws had been. They had watched the gun fight fearfully and hopefully, and it was an enthusiastic pair that shook off their severed bonds to clap The Kid across the back. There was no time for conversation now, however, and they busied themselves with disarming their five prisoners and binding them with rope.
"Gee, Kid!" Red whistled. "We thought we were done, and when yuh came in and made sparks fly—whew!"
"Theah'll be moah spahks fly, I'm afraid," the Texan drawled. "How'd yo' like to make some spahks fly yo'selves?"
The others showed their eagerness. The fighting fever was in their veins, especially since the death of poor Mike Train. And now, with Blacksnake and half the outlaw gang captured, they felt that they had a good part of the battle won. Red tried to question Blacksnake about his brother's death, but the outlaw was stubborn and refused to talk. Had it not been for Kid Wolf, Red would have fallen on his enemy and beaten him with his fists. And none of them could blame him.
It was nearly dark, and they made quick plans The stolen herd was not far ahead, and with it were not more than seven of Gentleman John's riders.
"We'll take those cattle away from 'em," said Red fiercely, "and head the steers back to the Diamond D!"
It was decided that the prisoners could be left where they were for the time being, although Lefty Warren was for stringing them up there and then. Kid Wolf shook his head at this suggestion, however, and they armed themselves, "borrowing" the guns of the Blacksnake gang. Then they mounted their horses and headed south through the deepening dusk.
CHAPTER XX
BATTLE ON THE MESA
"Oh, the cowboy sings so mournful on the Rio!
To the dark night herd, so mournful and so sad,
And I'd like to be in the moonlight on the Rio,
Wheah good men are good, and bad men are bad!"
Kid Wolf sang the tune softly to the whispering wind, as the trio climbed under a New Mexican moon to the top of a vast mesa.
"Guess yuh'll find some plenty bad ones here in Skull County, eh, Kid?" laughed Red grimly.
The Texan, brightly outlined on his beautiful horse in the moonlight, looked like a ghost on a moving white shadow.
"Bad men," mused Kid Wolf, "aren't so plentiful. Usually theah's some good in the blackest. The men we're goin' to fight to-night, fo' instance, are probably just driftahs who've drifted the wrong way. But Gentleman John—well, he's one of the few really bad men I've met. He's really the one we want."
The splendor of the night had a sobering effect on them. To be thinking of possible bloodshed in all that dream beauty seemed terrible. Yet it was necessary. It was a hard land. A man had to be his own law. And in Kid Wolf's case, he had to be the law for others, in a fight for the weak against the strong.
"Listen!" cried Lefty suddenly.
"And look!" whispered Red. "See those black dots against the sky over there? And there's a camp fire, too."
He was right. The glow of a fire reddened the horizon and the distant bawling of uneasy cattle could be heard on the night wind.
The rustlers had made a camp on the mesa until the dawn. The big herd was shifting, restless and milling.
"A gun fight will stampede that herd," observed Red.
"Then," said The Kid, "we'll be sure to stampede them in the right direction. Let's make a wide circle heah."
They rode to the west, so that they would not be outlined against the moon. A full, curving mile slipped under their horses' pounding hoofs before The Kid gave the signal for the turn. He had the outlaws spotted, every one, and all depended now on his generalship. He knew that the two riders on the far side of the night herd would be out of it—for the time, at least. When the herd started their mad stampede toward the Diamond D, they would have a high time just taking care of themselves. The others, five in number, would be dealt with first.
The trio slipped closer as silently as moving phantoms. The Kid saw three mounted men—two blocking their path, and the other on the far wing. Two other outlaws were at the fire. The Texan sniffed and smiled. They were making coffee.
"The two at the fiah make excellent tahgets," murmured Kid Wolf. "I'll leave them to yo', Red. Lefty, start now and ride toward the fah ridah. I'll try mah hand with these two. We'll count to fifty, Lefty; that'll give yo' time to get in range of yo' man. And then I'll give the coyote yell, and we'll start ouah little row. Don't kill unless necessary, but if they show fight, shoot fast."
Lefty grinned in the moonlight, roweled his horse lightly and drifted.
Red and the Texan waited—ten seconds—twenty—thirty—forty——
"Yipee yip-yipee-ee!" The coyote cry rose, mournful and lonely.
Then came a terrific rattle of gunfire, with the dull drum of horses' hoofs as a bass accompaniment. Red spurred his horse toward the fire, shouting his battle cry and throwing down on the two startled men who leaped to their feet, reaching for their guns. Kid Wolf's great white charger burned the breeze at the two guards on the west wing.
"Throw up yo' hands!" The Kid invited.
But they didn't. Lead began to hum viciously. Bending low in their saddles, they drew and opened up a splattering fire. Their guns winked red flashes.
Lefty's man had shown fight, Lefty had bowled him over with a double trigger pull, and Lefty came racing back to help Red with the two rustlers at the camp fire.
There were fireworks, and plenty of them! The herd, mad with fear, started moving away—a frantic rush that became a wild stampede. Their plunging bodies milled about, and with uplifted tails and tossing horns, they were on the run northward toward the home range—the Diamond D!
Although it was a case of shoot or be killed now, The Kid was aiming to cripple. A leaden slug burned a flesh wound just below his left armpit, as he opened up on the two rustlers. His gun hammers stuttered down, throwing bullets on both sides of him, as he drove Blizzard between his two enemies at full tilt. One, raked with lead through both shoulders, thudded from his pony to the ground. The other leaned over his saddle and dropped his Colt. Two bullets, a few inches apart, had nipped his gun arm.
The two rustlers at the fire were giving trouble. They had dashed out of the dangerous firelight and had opened up on Lefty and Red. Kid Wolf's heart gave a little jump. Red was down! Lefty and one of the bandits were engaged in a hand-to-hand scuffle, for Warren's horse had been shot under him. The other outlaw had lifted his gun to finish Red, who was crawling along the ground. The range was a good fifty yards, but Kid Wolf fired three times. The rustler standing over Red dropped. Lefty broke away from his man, just as The Kid rode up with lariat swinging.
"Don't shoot!" the Texan sang out. "I've got him!"
The rope hummed through the air, spread out and tightened. The last of the outlaws went off his feet with a jerk.
"One of 'em's runnin' away!" yelled Lefty, pointing to the man Kid Wolf had shot through the arm. He was making a hot race in the direction of Skull.
"Let him go," said The Kid. "We don't want him. See how bad Red's hurt."
Outlined against the eastern sky were three riders now, far away and becoming rapidly smaller. The two north riders were making their get-away, also. The victory was complete.
To their relief, Lefty and The Kid found that Red had received only a flesh wound above the knee.
Kid Wolf tied the man he had caught with his lariat, then caught Red's horse and one of the loose outlaw ponies for Lefty.
"Now yo' ought to be able to ease those Diamond D cattle on home," he drawled. "I'll see how yo' are makin' it in the mo'ning."
"Why, where are yuh goin'?" Red asked in surprise.
"Goin' after Gentleman John." Kid Wolf smiled. "How far is it to his headquartahs at Agua Frio?"
"About nine miles straight west, over the mesa. But say, yuh'd better let one of us go with yuh."
The Texan shook his head. "I'm playin' a lone hand, Red. Yo' job is to line out yo' steers and get 'em back to the Diamond D feedin' grounds. Adios, amigos!"
And Kid Wolf, on his fleet white horse, swung off to the westward.
Gentleman John sat up suddenly in his bed and opened his eyes. The moon had gone down, and all was pitch dark. It was nearly morning.
He had heard something—for Gentleman John was a light sleeper. He listened intently, then sat on the edge of his bed to draw on his boots. The sound came again from the direction of the patio. Had his man, José, forgotten to lock the gate? Surely he had heard the chain rattling! Some horse, no doubt, or possibly a mule, had strayed into the little courtyard. Perhaps it was some of his men returning. And yet hardly that, for they would not dare disturb him at such an hour, but would go to their quarters behind the house until daybreak. Tiptoeing to the door, he put his ear to it. He heard faint noises, as if some one were moving about.
"José!" Gentleman John called angrily. "What are yuh fumblin' at in there? What's the matter? Me oye usted?"
There was no reply, and Gentleman John went to one corner of his room, scratched a sulphur match, and with its sputtering flame he lighted a small lamp by his bedside. Then he slyly drew a derringer from under his pillow. Again he went to the door, putting his hand on the knob.
"José! Come here!" he cried, with an oath.
The door swung open, and the lamplight shone on a human face—a face that was not José's, but a stern white one with glinting blue eyes!
"José can't come," said a voice in a soft drawl. "He's tied up. But if I will do as well, I am at yo' service, sah!"
The color fled from Gentleman John's amazed face.
"Kid Wolf!" he almost screamed, and at the words he whirled up his black and ugly double-barreled pistol!
Span-ng-g-g-g! Br-r-rang! Both barrels of the derringer exploded in two quick roars. The leaden balls, however, went wild. A steel hand had closed lightning-swift on Gentleman John's right wrist.
"Be careful," the Texan mocked. "Yo' almost put out the lamp."
A terrific wrench made the bones pop in the cattle king's hand, and with a yell of pain he let go. Kid Wolf took the derringer, empty now, and tossed it contemptuously to one side.
"I'm ashamed of yo'," he drawled, with a slow smile. "Yo' ought to know bettah than to use a toy like that. Sit down on the bed, sah. I have a few things to say to yo'."
In his left hand The Kid held a big Colt .45. Gentleman John obeyed.
"My men will kill yuh fer this!" he raged.
"Yo' haven't any men, sah. They're done. And now yo' are done." Kid Wolf rolled a cigarette and lighted it over the lamp chimney. "Gentleman John," he drawled, "whoevah named yo' suah had a sense of humah. Yo' are a murderah, and a cowardly one, because yo' have othahs do yo' dirty work."
"Kill me and get it over!" jerked Gentleman John.
"Really, yo' shouldn't judge me by what yo' would do yo'self undah the circumstances," said The Kid mildly. "I'm not heah to kill yo'. I'm heah to take yo' back to Skull fo' trial and punishment."
"Fer trial!" repeated the cattle king. "Why, there ain't any law——"
"I hope yo' don't think," drawled the Texan, "that I wasted the time I spent in town. Theah's a new cattlemen's organization theah—and they've decided on drastic measures."
"Yuh can't prove a thing!" Gentleman John shot at him loudly.
The Kid raised his eyebrows.
"No?" he said softly. "Yo' men slipped up a little and left evidence when they murdahed Joe Morton. They left the bill o' sale he wouldn't sign! It'll go hahd with yo, but I'm givin' yo' one chance."
Kid Wolf glanced around the room, and his eyes fell on paper and pen near the lamp. Placing his gun at his elbow, within easy reach, the Texan wrote steadily for a full minute. Then he turned and handed the cattle king the slip of paper.
"Yo' through in Nueva Mex, Gentleman John," The Kid drawled. "It's just a question of who falls heir to yo' holdin's. Read that ovah."
The cattle king read it. It was brief, but to the point:
I, Gentleman John, do hereby give and hand over all my estates, land, holdings, and live stock to Red Morton, of Skull County, New Mexico, for consideration received.
"Theah's a bill o' sale fo' yo' to sign." The Texan smiled grimly.
"If I sign under pressure, it won't hold good," blustered Gentleman
John.
"Yo' won't be in this country to contest it," Kid Wolf drawled. "This won't in any way repay Red fo' the loss of his brothah, but it's something. Yo' can do as yo' like about signin' it."
"Then of course I won't sign!" snarled the other.
"The honest cattlemen at Skull will probably hang yo'," reminded The
Kid softly.
Beads of sweat suddenly stood out on Gentleman John's forehead. His own guilty conscience told him that what The Kid said was true. His gimlet eyes grew big with fear. There was a long silence.
"If—if I sign, yo'll let me go?" he quavered.
The Texan's face grew hard and stern.
"No," he said. "I haven't any right to do that. Justice demands that yo' face the ones yo' have wronged. And justice has always been my guidin' stah. I'm a soldier of misfohtune, fightin' fo' the undah dawg. I'm takin' yo' to Skull, sah."
Gentleman John groaned in terror. All the blustering bravado had gone out of him.
"I can't promise yo' yo' life," Kid Wolf went on. "I can, howevah, recommend banishment instead of death, and mah word carries some weight in Skull, undah the new ordah of things. If yo' sign—thus doin' right by Red Morton, whom yo' wronged—I'll do what I can to save yo' from the rope, but I can't promise that yo'll escape it. Are yo' signin'?"
Gentleman John moistened his lips feverishly, and his hand trembled as he reached for the pen.
"I'll sign," he groaned.
When he had scratched his signature, Kid Wolf took the paper, folded it carefully and put it in his pocket.
"Bueno," he said softly. "Now get yo' hat and coat. I hate to rob yo' of yo' sleep, but I have some othah prisonahs to round up to-night."
And while binding Gentleman John's wrists, Kid Wolf hummed a new verse to his favorite tune, "On the Rio."
CHAPTER XXI
APACHES
In the half light of the early morning, a stagecoach was rattling down a steep hill near the New Mexico-Arizona boundary line. The team of six bronchos fought against the weight of the lumbering vehicle behind, with stiff front legs threw themselves back against their harness. The driver, high on his box, sawed at the lines with his foot heavy on the creaking brake.
"Whoa!" he roared. "Easy, yuh cow-faced loco-eyed broncs! Steady now, or I'll beat the livin' tar outn yuh!"
The ponies seemed to disregard his bellowing abuse. They had heard it before, and knew that he didn't mean a word he said. They were almost at the foot of the hill now, and the thick white dust, kicked up in choking spurts by the rumbling wheels, sifted down on the leathery mesquite and dagger plants below.
"I don't like the looks o' that brush down there," said the other man on the box. He was an express guard, and across his knees was a sawed-off shotgun loaded with buckshot.
"Perfect place fer an ambush, ain't it?" admitted the driver. "Well, if the Apaches do git us, I will say they'll make a nice haul."
It was a dangerous time on the great Southwest frontier. Law had not yet come to that savage country of flaming desert and baking mountain. Even a worse peril than the operations of the renegades and bad men of the border was the threat of the Apaches. Behind any clump of mesquites a body of these grim and terrible fighters of the arid lands might lurk, eager for murder and robbery. And it was rumored that a chief even more cruel than Geronimo, Cochise, or Mangus Colorado was at their head.
The men who operated the stage line knew the risk they were taking in that unbroken country, but they were of the type that could look danger in the face and laugh. The two steely-eyed men on the coach box, this gray morning, were samples of the breed.
Inside the vehicle were four passengers. Three of them were men past middle life—miners and cattlemen. The third was a youth who addressed one of the older men as "father." All were armed with six-guns, and all were bound for the valley of San Simon.
The stage had reached the bottom of the hill now, and as the team reached the level ground, the driver lined them out and settled back in his seat with a satisfied grunt. About both sides of the trail at this point grew great thickets of brush—paloverde, the darker mesquites, and grotesque bunches of prickly pear. One of the bronchos suddenly reared backward.
"Steady, yuh ornery——" the driver began.
He did not finish. There was a sharp twang! An arrow whistled out of the mesquites and buried itself in the side of the coach nearly to the feather! As if this were a signal, a dozen rifles cracked out from the brush. Bowstrings snapped, and a shower of arrows and lead hummed around the heads of the frightened ponies. The driver cried out in pain as a bullet hit his leg.
"Apaches!" the express guard yelled, throwing up his sawed-off shotgun.
Two streaks of red fire darted through the haze of black powder smoke as he fired both barrels into the brush. The driver recovered himself, seized the reins and began to "pour leather" onto his fear-crazed team. With drawn guns, the four passengers in the coach waited for something to shoot at. They were soon to see plenty.
The mesquites suddenly became alive with brown-skinned warriors, hideous with paint and screaming their hoarse death cry. Some were mounted, and others were on foot. All charged the coach.
There must have been fifty in the swarm, and still they came! Those that were armed with rifles fired madly into the coach and at the team. Others rushed up and tried to seize the bridles.
"It's all up with us!" the guard cried, drawing his big .45 Colt.
"But we ain't—goin' to sell out—cheap!" the driver panted.
Escape was impossible now, for two of the horses went down, plunging and kicking at the harness in their death agony. The other animals—some wounded, and all of them mad with fright—overturned the old stagecoach. With a loud crash, the vehicle went over on its side! The driver and guard, teeth bared in grins of fury, raised their six-guns and prepared to sell their lives as dearly as possible. The passengers inside began firing desperately.
The renegade Indians rushed. They nearly gained the wrecked stage, but not quite. Before the straight shooting of the trapped whites, they fell back to cover again. They did not believe in taking unnecessary chances. They had their victims where they wanted them, and it would be only a question of time before they would be slaughtered. The fight became a siege.
It was sixty against six—or, rather, it was sixty to five. For the redskins had increased the odds by shooting down the driver. The second bullet he received drilled him through the heart. The guard, scrambling for shelter, joined the four men in the overturned coach.
The Apaches, back in their refuge among the brush, began playing a waiting game. The fire, for a moment, ceased.
"They'll rush again in a minute," muttered the guard. "We'll do well to stop 'em. Anyways, we won't hold out long. Just a question o' time."
"Is there any chance o' help?" asked one of the men, while loading his revolver.
He was a broad-shouldered, big-chested man of fifty—the father of the youth who was now fighting beside him.
The guard shook his head. "Afraid not. Unless one of us could get through to Lost Springs, six miles from here. Even if we could, I don't think we'd get any help. There's not many livin' there, and they're all scared of Apaches. Can't say I blame 'em."
Bullets began to buzz again. The Indians were making another charge. A dense cloud of smoke hung over the ambushed coach. White powder spurts blossomed out from the brush, and the war cry came shrilly. The rush brought a line of half-naked warriors to within a few yards of the coach. Then they fell back again, leaving four of their number dead or wounded on the sand.
"So far, so good," panted the guard. "But we can't do that forever!"
The youngest of the party, pale of face but determined, spoke up quickly:
"I'm willin' to take the chance o' gettin' to Lost Springs," he said.
"Yuh can't make it alive through that bunch o' devils," the guard told him.
"It's our only chance," the other returned. "I'm goin' to try.
Good-by, dad!"
It was a sad, heart-wrenching moment. There was small chance that the two would ever see each other alive again. But father and son shook hands and passed it over with a smile.
"Good luck, son!"
And then the younger one slipped out of the coach and was gone.
The others watched breathlessly. This movement had taken the savages
by surprise. The lad darted into the mesquites, running with head low.
Bullets buzzed about him, kicking up clouds of dust at his feet.
Arrows whistled after him. A yell went up from the Apaches.
"Will he make it?" groaned the father, in an agonized voice.
"Doubt it," said the guard.
The messenger sprinted at top speed through the brush, then dived down into an arroyo. A score of warriors swarmed after him, firing shot after shot from their rifles. Already the youth was out of arrow range.
The guard shaded his eyes with his hand. "He's got a chance, anyways," he decided.
The town of Lost Springs—if such a tiny settlement could have been called a town—sprawled in a valley of cottonwoods, a scattering of low-roofed adobes. To find such an oasis, after traveling the heat-tortured wilderness to the east or the west, was such relief to the wayfarer that few missed stopping.
There was but one public building in the place—a large building of plastered earth which was at the same time a saloon, a store, a gambling hall, and a meeting place for those who cared to partake of its hospitality.
The crude sign over the narrow door read: "Garvey's Place." It was enough. Garvey was the storekeeper, the master of the gamblers, and the saloon owner. Lost Springs was a one-man town, and that man was Gil Garvey. His reputation was not of the best. Dark marks had been chalked up against his record, and his past was shady, too. There were whispers, too, of even worse things. It was, however, a land where nobody asked questions. It was too dangerous. Garvey was accepted in Lost Springs because he had power.
It was a hot morning. The thermometer outside Garvey's door already registered one hundred and five. Heat devils chased one another across the valley. But inside the building it was comparatively cool. Glasses tinkled on the long, smooth bar. The roulette wheel whirred, and even at that early hour, cards were being slapped down, faces up, at the stud-poker table. Including the customers at the bar, there were perhaps a dozen men in the house besides Garvey himself. Garvey was tending bar, which was his habit until noon, when his bartender relieved him.
Gil Garvey was a menacing figure of a man, massive of build and sinister of face. His jet-black eyebrows met in the center of his scowling forehead, and under them gleamed eyes cold and dangerous. A thin wisp of a dark mustache contrasted with the quick gleam of his strong, white teeth. On the rare occasions when he laughed, his mirth was like the hungry snarl of a wolf.
The sprinkling of drinkers at the bar strolled over to watch the faro game, and Garvey, taking off his soiled apron, joined them, lighting a black cigar. The ruler of Lost Springs moved lightly on his feet for so heavy a man. Around his waist was a gun belt from which swung a silver-mounted .44 revolver in a beaded holster.
Suddenly a slim figure reeled through the open door, and with groping, outstretched arms, staggered forward.
"Apaches!" he choked.
Nearly every one leaped to his feet, hand on gun. Some rushed to the door for a look outside. A score of questions were fired at the newcomer.
"They're attackin' the stage at the foot of the pass!" explained the messenger.
There were sighs of relief at this bit of news, for at first they had thought that the red warriors were about to enter the town. But six miles away! That was a different matter.
"I'm Dave Robbins," the youth went on desperately. "I've got to go back there with help. When I left, they were holdin' 'em off. Fifty or sixty Indians!"
Some of the saloon customers began to murmur their sympathy. But it was evident that they were none too eager to go to the aid of the ambushed stagecoach.
Young Robbins—covered with dust, his face scratched by cactus thorns, and with an arrow still hanging from his clothing—saw the indifference in their eyes.
"Surely yuh'll go!" he pleaded. "Yuh—yuh've got to! My father's in the coach!"
Garvey spoke up, smiling behind his mustache.
"What could we do against sixty Apaches?" he demanded. "Besides, the men in the stage are dead ones by this time. We couldn't do any good."
Robbins' face went white. With clenched fists, he advanced toward
Garvey.
"Yo're cowards, that's all!" he cried. "Cowards! And yo're the biggest one of 'em all!"
Garvey drew back his huge arm and sent his fist crashing into the youth's face. Robbins, weak and exhausted as he was, went sprawling to the floor.
And at that moment the swinging doors of the saloon opened wide. The man who stood framed there, sweeping the room with cool, calm eyes, was scarcely older than the youth who had been slugged down. His rather long, fair hair was in contrast with the golden tan of his face. He wore a shirt of fringed buckskin, open at the neck. His trousers were tucked into silver-studded riding boots, weighted with spurs that jingled in tune to his swinging stride. At each trim hip was the butt of a .45 revolver.
The newcomer's eyes held the attention of the men in Garvey's Place. They were blue and mild, but little glinting lights seemed to sparkle behind them. He was silent for a long moment, and when he finally spoke, it was in a soft, deliberate Southern drawl:
"Isn't it rathah wahm foh such violent exercise, gentlemen?"
Robbins, crimsoned at the mouth, raised on one elbow to look at the stranger. Garvey's lips curled in a sneer.
"Are yuh tryin' to mind my business?" he leered.
"When I mind somebody else's business," said the young stranger softly, "that somebody else isn't usually in business any moah."
Garvey caught the other's gaze and seemed to find something dangerous there, for he drew back a step, content with muttering oaths under his breath.