White Wolf's Law: A Western Story

The next morning the rays of the sun awakened Squint. He groaned and moved uneasily. His eyes fluttered open, and he stared about in bewilderment, trying to recognize his surroundings. He sat up with an effort and clasped his aching head in his hands. Once more he opened his eyes and stared about.

“What the hell?” he cried, amazed.

He buried his head in his hands again and tried to think. The last thing he remembered, he had been sitting in a back room of a saloon, and now he was in the country. He saw several things when he opened his eyes again that he had missed the first time. His foot was securely bound by several strands of wire to the trunk of a tree. From the limb of another tree, near by, there dangled a noose with a neatly and expertly made hangman’s knot. Below it was a small boxlike arrangement. His jaw dropped open.

“Sorta looks as if some gent is goin’ to get his neck stretched,” he mumbled to himself.

He cast an uneasy glance about. There was no one in sight. Near him he saw a plate of food and some water. He drank deeply and then feverishly began to tug at the wire that fastened his foot to the tree. He soon discovered that the wire was fastened in such a way that he would need the aid of a pair of wire clippers to free himself. He cast an uneasy glance at the dangling noose. As the moments passed a conviction grew that the noose was intended for him.

Minutes slipped by, and then he saw four men approach through the trees. He opened his mouth to shout at them, but shut it with a snap when he recognized Slivers Hart. Again he glanced at the noose and again examined the wire.

The four walked by without speaking and seated themselves just out of earshot. They soon began to eat a hearty breakfast. Squint glanced at the plate of food near him, but his hangover and growing fears forbade his eating.

Hours slipped by, then more hours. Anything was better than this uncertainty, and Squint raised his voice and called to the four, but they gave no sign that they heard him. A little later he mouthed at them in anger.

“What yuh fellers goin’ to do? Where am I?”

Again there was no answer. Apparently he did not exist for them. He shouted vile curses. Always before him was that dangling noose. One of the men arose and walked away from the others, then called over his shoulder:

“Don’t worry, Slivers; the boss will be here soon.”

Squint shivered and cast an apprehensive glance at the noose. The sun slowly went down behind the hills and the shadows lengthened.

The silence of those men and the sight of the dangling noose further upset Squint’s already overwrought nerves. He shrieked curses and tugged at the wire until his hands were raw and bleeding. The uncertainty of the whole thing sapped his courage until he was cowering on the ground, muttering meaningless words.

“Mebbe yuh heard tell of me—I’m Jim-twin Allen.”

Squint Lane looked up with a start. He saw a small man who looked as if he might be a thousand years old. The man’s face was covered with wrinkles; his strange eyes were unfathomable; his voice was flat, expressionless. There was something inhuman in the small man, for his face showed neither cruelty, anger, nor hate.

Squint swallowed convulsively and then mumbled: “The Killer Wolf.”

“Yuh heard tell of me?” Allen repeated.

Squint nodded.

“Who paid yuh to kill Iky Small?”

The wretched man had long passed the time when he could think coherently.

“I didn’t do it—he—I swear I——”

“Shut up; that’s a lie. If yuh didn’t, who did?”

Little by little, Allen drew the whole story from Squint. Squint had been drunk at One-wing McCann’s hotel for a week before the murder. Then Boston Jack had come to him and taken him away. Squint was ordered to wait for Slivers at the crossroads and send him back to his own ranch on a wild-goose chase. Squint swore he had known nothing about the murder until afterward. He had once quarreled with Iky Small, and Boston Jack had threatened to hang the murder on him unless he ran away. Lefty Simms had accompanied him part of the way on his trip. Lefty had been a friend of Iky Small’s, and the two had decided, from various things they had heard and known, that Spur Treadwell was the principal in the plot against Slivers. They had discussed ways of levying blackmail on Spur after he was married to Dot.

Jim Allen was disappointed in the little information he had learned from Squint, but it added one more link in the chain of evidence against Spur Treadwell and definitely proved to him that Spur and Boston Jack were partners or at least closely associated. It also linked One-wing McCann with both Boston and Spur and made Allen at last see light in the tangled financial affairs of the ranch.

Resolving to pay a visit to Boston Jack’s place that night, he briefly told the others what he had learned from Squint and then mounted one of his gray horses. With the other one following, he started toward the Hard Pan for another attempt to discover its secret.

“The aggravatin’ little cuss! He don’t tell no one nothin’,” Slivers growled.

“Yeh, his trail is sure hard to follow,” Jack Allen smiled.

All that night Jim Allen rode through the winding, twisting maze of blind passages and cul-de-sacs in the Hard Pan. But even he, skillful tracker that he was, could find no trail in the flintlike surface. Toward morning, he circled the Hard Pan and reconnoitered Boston Jack’s ranch. But here, also, he drew a blank—he could find nothing that indicated rustling was going on at the ranch.

It was toward dawn when he at last turned and headed back toward the cavvy. He was sure he had reached it without being seen, but in this he was wrong. It was the two grays streaking through the pale morning light that had betrayed him and told Lefty Simms who he was. And Lefty’s agile brain was busy with plans to trap the Wolf as he headed back to the Double R.

W. A. Raine, the representative of the bank, had arrived at the Double R the day before and, accompanied by Spur Treadwell, Bill McAllister, and a dozen cowboys, had started to check the number of Double R cows.

As the day’s work progressed, Raine’s face grew grave, and Bill McAllister cursed. Where there had been once a thousand cows, there were now a hundred. Late that evening, when they returned to the ranch, the punchers were already gossiping about the fact that the bank intended to foreclose its mortgage at once.

“Dot, things look mighty bad, but I ain’t given up hope yet,” Spur told Dot Reed that night.

Her face paled. With an effort she regained her composure. “It’s not the money—but dad loved this place, an’ I hate to see it pass into the hands of a stranger.”

“Listen, Dot, yuh know I’ve always loved yuh, an’ if yuh’ll marry me, some day we’ll buy the ranch back again—for I’ll work an’——” A shake of her head stopped him. She looked up at him and asked herself why she could not care for him—he was kind, handsome, a real man. Yet deep down in her soul there was something that warned her against him.

“Yuh’re still dreamin’ of Slivers,” he cried harshly. With an effort, he recovered himself. “I’m sorry. Do yuh—do yuh ever hear from him?”

“Yeh, I got a letter from him just the other day. He is goin’ to prove he had nothin’ to do with the murder of Iky Small an’ that he wasn’t near here when dad—— He has a friend who brought—I mean is helpin’——” She came to a stumbling halt.

“Yuh mean he has a friend who is helpin’ him look up proof. If he brought yuh the letter, he must be now workin’ on the ranch,” he said quickly.

She shook her head in denial, but the fear that had leaped to her eyes told him the truth.

“All right, Dot—I hope—an’ yuh know I mean it—that this friend is successful,” he said calmly, but it was only with a great effort that he was able to keep his voice steady and not betray the seething hate that was biting at his vitals.

He would smash her, find this Slivers, and hang him. To be spurned by a chit of a girl! He, Spur Treadwell, to be spurned for a homeless cowboy! Instinctively he knew who Slivers’ friend was—that boy, for he was the only new arrival on the ranch. His mind leaped back to that scene in the bunk house. They had been blind—both he and the twins. Well, it was not too late to mend that. The twins were in town; he would go there, start the wheels working that would pauperize Dot; and to-morrow the twins could attend to the boy.

With a savage haste, he saddled his horse and rode furiously toward town. Dot Reed watched him go, and a growing terror seized her. That night she tossed in her bed until long after midnight, trying to decide what was best to do. She remembered that one little slip Allen had made on that first day when she fed him, and she resolved to speak to him the first thing in the morning.

At dawn she was up and waiting impatiently for Allen to return from the cavvy. The sun had been up for an hour before she saw him riding toward the corral. She tried to walk slowly, but her feet would run. He was unsaddling when she reached him, and he turned and greeted her with a broad smile.

“Howdy, miss.”

“Do yuh know Slivers Hart? Are yuh his friend?” she blurted out without any preliminary.

“Yep, I answers. Yes, twice. My name is Jim Allen,” he answered simply, and then waited for her to go on.

She told him of what she had said to Spur the evening before and of her fears.

“Don’t worry none, miss—mebbe I can fool ’em still,” he said, grinning at her cheerfully.

“But yuh must go at once. He will bring those terrible twins back with him—they’ll kill yuh!”

“Not any. I’m so darn small I’m plumb hard to hit,” he said cheerfully. “If I has to run—yuh tell Bill McAllister to keep watch on Hog Butte, an’ if he sees smoke rings, first one, then three, to get what men he can trust an’ meet me where the trail rounds Hard Pan toward Boston Jack’s. Now, don’t yuh worry none,” he told her, and then walked toward the cookhouse.

“Where yuh goin’?”

“Me? I’m plumb starved an’ I’m aimin’ to get cookie to rustle me some grub,” he replied.

She watched him walk nonchalantly toward the cookhouse. She noted he was wearing a gun in the holster by his side. This added to her fears, for it would give the twins an excuse to kill without any fear of punishment.

When Lefty Simms returned to the ranch, he had decided not to hurry things. He also noticed Allen was wearing a gun. He intended to wait until he caught Allen at a disadvantage and then, even while he called Allen’s name, he would fire. Thus the whole reward would be his, and his name would sweep along the border like wildfire as the one who had killed the Wolf. He would be the most famous gunman of all time.

He lolled near the bunk house. Half an hour later, he saw Allen step from the cookhouse, glance about and then roll a cigarette. Allen sauntered toward the bunk house, where he started to joke with several riders, who were loitering there waiting for Spur to return from town, when they would take up that day’s work of checking the cattle on the northeastern part of the range.

A minute later, Lefty Simms grinned evilly. Allen had squatted on his heels against the bunk-house wall. It was practically impossible for him to draw with any speed while in that position. Lefty loosened his gun in his low-hung holster and walked slowly toward the outlaw. He stopped before him and looked down at the small, tattered figure, then grinned, for the thing was now sure. Allen was in the act of rolling a cigarette and had both hands raised before him.

“So yuh’re the Wolf!” Lefty said thinly.

The grin left Allen’s face. To the left of Simms, he saw three horsemen pounding toward the ranch from the direction of town. He knew the riders were Spur Treadwell and the twins, and something told him that their haste was due to him. He made no attempt to deny Lefty’s accusation, for he was going to have to flee, anyway.

“I ain’t denyin’ it,” he replied flatly.

The riders scrambled away and watched the two. From somewhere in the front of the house, Dot screamed. She also divined Lefty’s purpose. From the direction of the corral, Bill McAllister pounded toward the two. His gun was in his hand. He realized that the little outlaw had been caught in a fatal position.

“Yuh lost any trouble?” Allen asked, looking up at Lefty.

Not a muscle in his body moved; he still held the cigarette paper and tobacco in his hands. Lefty crouched, his hand hovering like a claw above his gun.

“I always swore to kill the Wolf on sight,” he snarled.

There came a spurt of orange flame, a whirl of smoke, a thunderous report, and Lefty sagged at the knees and sank to the ground. Even before the cigarette paper that Allen had held in his hand fluttered to the ground, he had sprung to his feet and was running toward his saddled horse.

The spectators were still staring in stupefied amazement at Lefty’s huddled body, when there came a thunder of hoofs and Allen flashed along the corral fence and vanished behind some outbuildings.

“Gosh, he fooled Lefty clean—got a gun out with his left hand from a shoulder holster!” a rider cried in awe.

“Fooled him, hell! He outspeeded him. Lefty was standing all set, and look—he didn’t even get his gun out of the holster!”

“Who is the little runt?” still another asked.

Spur Treadwell and the twins swung into the lane and brought their horses to a sliding stop at the group by the bunk house. A babble of explanations greeted them.

“That’s the Wolf, Jim-twin Allen!” Spur roared. “Go get him! There’s ten thousan’ on his head, an’ I’ll clap another five on that to the man who brings me his scalp.”

Men flung themselves on horses and streamed away in pursuit, but all save Spur’s gunmen soon gave up the chase.

The grim-faced killers, however, heavily armed, followed that trail until far into the night.

Days passed, and Bill McAllister’s eyes were glued on the Hog Butte, but there came no signal from Allen. The bank representative completed his tally and returned to town. Dot knew that his report would be unfavorable.

At last, the grim-faced killers gave up the chase, and came back to the ranch. They reported that they had followed the outlaw’s trail as far as the Nations.

Then, just as both Dot and McAllister had decided that Allen had given up in despair, they saw smoke rings slowly travel upward in the heavy, overcast sky high above Hog Butte. It had rained all day, and the old horse wrangler was wet and tired, but when he saw those signs he raised his voice in a joyful whoop and then broke into song.

Just at dusk that night, Snoots Stevens and Flat-foot led two grays toward the trail to Boston Jack’s that skirted the Hard Pan.

When they reached the place where the trail skirted the Hard Pan country, Bill McAllister and three other Double R punchers joined them.

“Yuh boys use your ears an’ button your tongues, ’cause yuh’re apt to run into a bunch of gents what not only outnumber yuh but can fight a hell of a lot better,” Bill McAllister warned them.

Just as night fell, it started to rain, a soft, steady drizzle. The men swore philsophically, turned up their coat collars, and rode steadily through the night. A little later, they were joined by three other men who were strangers to them all, except Bill McAllister. The old wrangler had a short whispered conversation with one of the three, a heavily bearded man, and the little troop plodded on again through the night.

They rode silently, with no sound save the creaking of the leather and the occasional clank of a shod hoof against the flint rock. They traveled in single file, and the blackness of the night was so deep that each one could see only the blurred figure of the rider who preceded him. Somewhere a cougar called, and a little later a heavy crashing in the brush and the nervousness of the horses told them of the passing of a bear.

“We’re gettin’ close. My ol’ place is about a mile an’ a half to the left,” a whisper came from one of the men riding in the lead.

“Gosh, that’s Slivers Hart!” Flat-foot cried.

“I’m sure gettin’ curious about this party,” Snoots whispered back.

A short distance farther on, Jim Allen loomed out of the darkness and called to his brother, Jack. The two whispered together, and then all rode on again. When they were within three hundred yards of Boston Jack’s place, they pulled up.

“Yuh gents stay put, an’ if yuh hear shootin’ come a-runnin’,” Jim Allen ordered them briefly. Then he and Jack, Toothpick, and Slivers dismounted and vanished in the darkness toward the ranch houses.

Breathless, the men waited behind. Minutes slipped by, and they began to handle their guns nervously. Then a voice came through the darkness.

“All right. Come on!”

The horses were unsaddled and then turned into the corral. A guard was set, and the rest trooped into the ranch house. The main room in the house was large and square. At one side, there was a big, blazing fire, and the place was lighted by a stable lantern swung from the ceiling. It showed the untidy, dirty traces of several men.

Those who knew Slivers swarmed about him and greeted him.

“Darn my ol’ bones, I’m sure glad to see yuh!” Flat-foot cried, as he wrung the boy’s hand.

“Say, spill what this here is about,” Snoots begged.

“I ain’t kiddin’ yuh—I don’t know. The twins is runnin’ this show,” Slivers replied.

Slivers briefly told them how he had been framed and that, while they did not have sufficient evidence to prove it legally, they were positive that Spur Treadwell was the instigator of the plot.

“Sure he was—’cause of Dot. Where we goin’ now?”

“I dunno. Yuh got to ast the twins; they’re runnin’ this show,” Slivers said, grinning at them.

“Them McGills!”

“Not any! Jim an’ Jack Allen.”

The two swung about and stared at the famous sheriff and the even more famous outlaw. Then, moved by a common impulse, they drifted toward the fire to have a closer look.

“I ain’t sayin’ Spur an’ Boston didn’t rustle Double R cows, but how did they get ’em out?” Bill McAllister asked. “Disposin’ of several thousan’ cows is a darned hard job.”

Allen took a large piece of rawhide from a package and laid it out where the light from the fire would play on it. They all leaned forward and stared. It had been taken from a Crossbar Double A cow. They frowned and looked questioningly at Allen, who only grinned at them.

“Shucks, that’s a blotted brand. Darned if it ain’t an ol’ Double R!” cried Snoots excitedly.

“Sure is—plain as the nose on your face!” Bill McAllister exclaimed.

“Sure it is—now yuh look at it!”

“If them Crossbar Double A cows was supposed to have come from a ranch near here, every one of yuh boys would have spotted them blotted brands pronto,” Jim Allen explained. “But seein’ they was supposed to have come from an outfit close to three hundred miles to the east of us, an’ the cows bein’ vented proper, yuh never thinks nothin’ about it. An’ if your eye did catch anythin’ funny, yuh wouldn’t have bothered to look close, ’cause yuh was sartin they couldn’t be blotted Double R cows.”

“The skunks!” cried Snoots. “They steal Double R cows, blot the brands, then sell ’em back to the Double R. Pretty slick, I calls it.”

“That’s why we couldn’t get track of any big herds bein’ sold that was suspicious,” Bill McAllister said in disgust. He frowned for a moment and then asked a question: “But we buys only twelve hundred head, an’ four times that many was stolen. How does that figger out?”

“I’m aimin’ to show yuh the rest to-morrow,” Jim Allen said.

“Ain’t yuh afraid Boston will be comin’ a-tearin’ back here?” some one asked.

“Not any. He an’ his whole gang left here just afore yuh gents arrived, an’ where they was a-goin’ is a good fifteen mile from here, so I don’t figger they’ll be back to-night,” Allen explained. “I figgered it was worth the chance for yuh to sleep dry to-night, ’cause yuh sure are goin’ to do a lot of scrappin’ to-morrow.”

For some time further, the punchers discussed the various phases of the rustling, and then they followed Allen’s example and curled up by the fire.

Before dawn the following morning, Allen aroused them, and they saddled their horses and, after eating a hasty breakfast, took the trail. They traveled almost due east. On their left was the Hard Pan country, and on the right the barren stretches that led to the Nations. Just as the first light touched the distant hills, Allen stopped and pointed to the sheer bluffs that marked the boundaries of the Hard Pan country.

“Yuh know, I bet I traveled a thousan’ mile tryin’ to find a trail through the darn Hard Pan. But I didn’t have no luck, ’cause there ain’t none. So I circles aroun’ here an’ tries the back door, an’ fin’s how they get in. Yuh see them trees along the base of that bluff? That’s where they goes through,” he explained.

The men stared at the trees and shook their heads. It seemed as if the bluff continued on in an unbroken line behind the trees. But one among them exclaimed in wonder, for the bluff was cut by a smooth slide that reached clear to the top.

“Shucks, a million cows has come by here,” Snoots cried out, and pointed to the chips that carpeted the ground.

Acting as an advance guard, the Allen twins pushed on up the slide; the others followed a hundred yards behind. At the crest, the trail again dipped sharply and wound its way between the familiar buttes, which slowly flattened out. Presently, the twins dismounted and waited for the others to arrive.

“Jack, suppose yuh take Toothpick an’ sorta circle to the left, an’ I’ll wander to the right an’ see if they has a guard set. Snoots, yuh come with me.”

Snoots hastily swung from his horse and, after thumbing his nose at those who were to be left behind, followed Allen through the brush along the slope to the right. Then, suddenly, Snoots drew his breath and swore softly to himself, for there before them lay a long, wide valley in the very center of the Hard Pan, and there were hundreds of cows in sight, contentedly munching on the heavy grass.

“If that ain’t a rustler’s paradise, I hope I never see one,” he whispered.

Allen silenced him with a gesture and pointed to a man about fifty feet below them to their right.

“A guard,” he breathed.

They watched the man who was squatting in a bit of shade and who was engaged in some occupation that he found highly amusing. He would burst into chuckles and then yank at a piece of cord. They could not see what was attached to the other end, but Snoots swore angrily.

“What’s he doin’ to that rabbit?”

Allen flashed a glance at him and then seemed to busy himself studying the lay of the land immediately surrounding the guard. Momentarily silenced by what he saw in the outlaw’s face, Snoots aroused himself when he saw Allen start to crawl off to the right.

“Let me go; I’m bigger. I can take him silently,” Snoots murmured.

“He ain’t goin’ to be took prisoner!”

Before Snoots could voice a further objection, Allen had crawled silently and as rapidly as a lizard behind a projecting rock and vanished. Snoots stared stupidly at the rock a moment and then covered the man on guard with his rifle.

Twenty minutes later, they rejoined the other men. Making their way to the south of the gully, they rode silently to another break in the valley that led to an obvious cul-de-sac. Concealing their ponies there, they reached points of vantage above the valley and studied the terrain before them. About a half mile to their right, and almost in the center of the valley, were two rough huts, in front of which stood several saddled horses. About the same distance to their left, three other horsemen were driving several hundred cows toward the hut. Midway between these, there was a lone man on a buckskin pony heading for the gully Snoots and Allen had just left.

“He’s goin’ to relieve the guard,” Snoots said.

“He’s goin’ to join the guard,” Allen laughed. Then he added: “Yuh boys stay put an’ let ’em all get in afore yuh starts shootin’.” Before any one could raise any objection, he vanished, and presently they saw him advance coolly toward the lone rider.

“I dunno, but I’m sayin’ I’m plumb tickled that I ain’t ridin’ a buckskin hoss, ’cause that little runt is sure mad an’ awful homicidal.

“I ain’t sayin’ that guard wasn’t treatin’ that rabbit scandalous, but after Allen knifed him an’ he’s coughin’ blood, Allen don’t pay no attention, but looks broodin’like at that bunny. An’ when he picks it up an’ sees that its leg is broke, he goes white, an’ I’ll swear there is tears in his eyes when he regretfully uses his sticker to end its misery.”

Snoots stopped, took a chew of tobacco, and then added reflectively: “Damn a knife, I say; it sure ain’t no white man’s weapon. Yet, I dunno. Some one had to stop that feller from yappin’, an’ a shot would sure have mussed up our plans. But he ought to have paid more attention to the feller he knifed than to the rabbit.”

“Sure, he ought to have begged his pardon for stickin’ him,” Flat-foot scoffed.

“Aw, shut up!” Slivers growled.

They sank into silence and watched Allen ride directly toward the man on the buckskin, until he was within two hundred yards. The little outlaw made no effort at concealment, but suddenly swung his pony and headed toward the ranch house. The man on the buckskin fired two shots and then started in pursuit. At the sound of the reports, several men ran from the hut, threw themselves on their ponies, and started to cut off Allen, now circling to the left.

Still swinging to the left in a wide circle, the outlaw ended by pointing directly toward the riders with the cattle, who were riding pell-mell to intercept him. Again he swung sharply to the left and, driving forward with the utmost speed, headed toward the gully where the cow-punchers lay hidden. Soon after he passed between the two converging groups of horsemen, they met and scattered up the gully behind him.

“He bunched ’em like I would cows,” Toothpick said admiringly. “Pick your man an’ let’s go.”

Thinking they had Allen in a trap, the rustlers pulled their ponies up and were dismounting, when the cowboys’ devastating volley took them at point-blank range. The rustlers were all desperate men. In spite of the surprise, they stood their ground and attempted to fight back. But their enemies were concealed, and the rustlers were subjected to a deadly cross-fire, so, at last, what was left of them broke and fled.

Jack Allen, mounted on his big black stallion, and Jim Allen, on Honeyboy, dashed, side by side, after the rustlers. Their horses leaped the mound of fallen men and ponies in the entrance. The rest of the cow-punchers streamed out from the cul-de-sac after the twins.

“Goshamighty! see that black horse go!” Flat-foot cried.

“Black, hell! Look at that gray! He runs with his belly touchin’ the groun’!” Snoots screamed.

Side by side, faster and faster, the twins overtook their quarry. Then they commenced to fire, first with their right and then with their left-hand gun. The rustlers started to drop and then scattered. Two jerked their horses to a standstill and held up their hands. The Allens swept by these and rode down the rest like greyhounds after rabbits. One man, and one man alone, reached the huts, and he slumped to his knees, as he dropped from his horse and tried to gain the house.

“Reckon we bagged the lot,” Jack Allen said soberly, and methodically reloaded his gun.

“Yeh, an’ that feller over by the hut that Jim plugged last is Boston Jack himself,” Bill McAllister said.

They gathered up the wounded and dead and laid them in rows in the shade of the huts. There were six dead, three mortally wounded and five others injured. Boston Jack had been shot through a lung, and his wound was fatal. He stared unblinkingly at his captors.

“Yuh aimin’ to nuss these here bimbos back to health or are yuh goin’ to string ’em up pronto?” Toothpick asked jokingly.

“Now—pronto!” Silent Moore said briefly.

“Naw, let’s keep ’em to show Spur,” Slivers jested.

The expression on Boston Jack’s face changed. His fevered eyes caught Allen’s.

“What’s that about Spur?”

“Nothin’—but we’re aimin’ to keep yuh gents to show Spur afore we string yuh up—to sorta show Spur we——”

Caught by something in Boston Jack’s eyes, Allen hastily laid a hand on Slivers’ arm.

“Spur—he’s comin’? He sent yuh gents here?” Boston Jack asked.

“Sure did,” Allen replied easily.

Boston Jack was silent for a moment, then his lips opened and a string of curses poured forth.

“The dirty double crosser! He’d double cross his own mother! Damn him, tryin’ to hog it all! I’d cook his goose, only yuh’re his men an’——” He stopped suddenly.

“Naw, we ain’t his men. This here is Jack-twin Allen, the Wyoming sheriff,” Jim said, beckoning Jack forward.

Boston Jack stared with fevered eyes, then he nodded.

“Yeh, yuh sure is him. An’ I knows yuh ain’t working for no skunk like Spur. Come closer, an’ I’ll tell yuh somethin’ that will cut that double crosser’s horns,” Boston muttered.

Jack Allen knelt beside the dying outlaw, who whispered to him. His voice grew fainter and fainter, and Jack Allen stooped lower and lower, until his ear was close to the dying man’s lips. Then Boston sighed and straightened out. Jack Allen arose to his feet and looked down on the dead man.

“Did he finish?” Jim asked.

“He told me enough to hang Spur a dozen times,” Jack answered, “an’ I reckon there’ll be others who’ll be willin’ to save their necks by corroborating what he said. Usually, crooks will talk to save their own necks, so guard these wounded men carefully,” Jack said.

Bill McAllister and three men were left as guards, and the rest started on the return trip to the Double R Ranch. It was not until they had reached Boston’s ranch that Jack Allen told them of what the outlaw had confessed. When he had finished, they were all silent for a time, for it was a terrible tale of murder and treachery.

“But even if yuh hang Spur—that won’t save Dot her ranch if she signs them papers this afternoon,” Slivers cried suddenly.

“Sign this afternoon?” Jack Allen exclaimed sharply.

“Yep, Bill McAllister tol’ me she was goin’ to town to-day to see the bank man,” Slivers said.

“But she’s not to sign until to-morrow—that was the plan Boston and Spur agreed on,” Jack countered.

“Hell,” Jim Allen cried, “the kid’s plumb correct. I’m bettin’ that Spur is figgerin’ on doin’ just what we made Boston believe he done an’ he fixed the signin’ a day ahead.”

“Then let’s get goin’—an’ the first man there tell Dot she’s got thousands of cows in that valley all wearin’ the Double R brand, an’ there ain’t no use of her sellin’ the outfit!” Jack yelled as he ran toward his horse.

Flat-foot, Snoots, and Slivers were off first. They were followed by Jack Allen on his big black, Toothpick on the dun and Jim Allen last on Honeyboy, followed by Princess. For the first two miles, the three leaders made a terrific pace and drew rapidly ahead. Then, step by step, they fell back. The big black passed them easily, one by one; then the dun sent her nose ahead. For several miles, Jack and Toothpick led Jim Allen, but at last the two grays rapidly drew abreast and then ahead. They were running like machines.

“Dang me, look at the little runt change hosses! If he does that, no wonder they can run all day!” Slivers cried as Jim Allen, without stopping the machinelike gallop of his horses, lightly sprang from Honeyboy to Princess.

The black pulled abreast of the grays.

“Dang yuh, Jim, don’t yuh go tearin’ into town by your lonesome,” Jack stormed.

“Get that elephant of yorn goin’ then,” Jim taunted.

Side by side, they raced on for another mile or two, then Jack felt his black commence to falter, and Princess shot ahead with Honeyboy pounding along behind her.

“No, yuh don’t!” Jack cried with a laugh.

And when Honeyboy came abreast of him, he leaned forward, grasped the gray’s mane, and swung to his back. Jim saw him and grinned joyfully.

“All right, we’ll bust into town like we usta afore yuh was a famous man an’ me a disreputable character,” he cried.

Side by side, they thundered into town. As they raced down the street, Jim Allen spotted the twins coming slowly from the hotel. Miser Jimpson’s house was almost directly opposite the livery stable, and so, when Jack flung himself from Honeyboy and hastily ran up the path to the house, Jim quietly turned into the livery yard and waited for the twins.

Jack Allen threw open the door and entered old Miser Jimpson’s. He found several people there. Dot Reed was sitting at a table with a paper in her hand. W. A. Raine was standing beside her. On the opposite side of the table sat old Miser, while behind him Spur Treadwell towered above One-wing McCann.

They all turned and stared at the dusty, bewhiskered little man who entered so unceremoniously. Spur marked his two low-hung guns and longed for the presence of the twins.

“Who are yuh?” old Miser squealed.

“Me—I’m Jack-twin Allen.”

“I’ve heard of you, Mr. Allen. You did some work for my bank once,” Raine said.

“Is my word good?” Allen asked.

“I would take it,” Raine replied promptly.

“Then, Miss Reed, yuh can believe me when I say yuh don’t have to sign that paper,” he said, smiling at the girl.

She flushed and looked in bewilderment from one face to the other.

“I don’t understand! Every one—Mr. Raine, dad’s old friend, the doctor—every one says I must sign or lose everything!”

Spur Treadwell cocked his ears and listened for the coming of the McGill twins. He saw that old Miser Jimpson had grown pale, that One-wing was fidgeting. All knew that the end had come for them, unless they could stop this man’s tongue or have the twins stop it for them.

Briefly Jack Allen sketched how Jim Allen had returned with Slivers Hart to help him clear his name, how little by little they had pieced various clews together. Then he went on to the events of that day and of what Boston Jack had told him.

Spur Treadwell knew that the little man would utterly damn him in another minute. He seized the moment when he thought Allen was not watching to snatch out his gun. There was a crashing roar, and the gun clattered to the floor, while he nursed a broken hand.

As if in echo to his shot, there came a volley from outside. When the last echo had died and silence again reigned, those in the room saw that Jack Allen’s face had grown white and strained. He knew from those shots that his brother had met the twins.

The twins, Sandy and Mac McGill, saw Jack and Jim Allen flash down the street on the two grays and pull up before old Miser Jimpson’s house. They watched Jack run up the path into the house and Jim lead the two horses into the livery-stable yard.

The same thought flashed into their minds. They were not sure of Jack, but they now knew the Wolf. Here was the chance to settle that question which had been argued so fiercely for years. Their eyes met, then, without speaking a word, they turned and walked slowly down the street toward the livery stable.

Gunmen, such as the McGill twins, were insanely proud of their reputation. This pride did more to rid the West of bad men than all the sheriffs and gallowses put together. Every man must admit that he was king or fight. There was no place on the throne for two kings. Gunmen went about with chips on their shoulders and said to all rivals: “Admit I am the best or go for your gun.” A gun fight meant the elimination for all time of either the champion or challenger; no one had a chance to promote a return engagement.

For years it had been argued as to which was the faster, the McGill twins or Jim Allen. So Mac and Sandy McGill marched down the street to prove definitely to themselves and to the world that they were quicker than the Wolf.

Their faces were always sinister and cruel, but now they were expressionless masks. People took one glance at them, hastily moved out of the way, and then followed them at a safe distance. Every one recognized the look of the killer and knew the town was soon to have gun play.

When Jim Allen entered the stable yard, the hostler stepped from the barn to help him loosen the cinches. His mouth opened in an amused grin when he saw the two big guns strapped to the slender legs. His eyes took in the tattered little figure as well as the homely, freckled face.

“Don’t yuh get tired packin’ them two big guns?” he asked with a broad smile.

Jim Allen grinned good-naturedly at him, but made no reply.

“Say, kid, why for do you pack them guns? There’s some real bad men in this here town, and they might take you seriously and you’d get hurt,” he warned, for he had sudden liking for this boy.

“Maybe so,” Allen said with another of his broad, loose grins. “No, don’t go takin’ the saddle off—’cause I figger I’ll be leavin’ in a hurry pronto.”

“Hell and damnation!” the hostler exclaimed.

Sandy and Mac McGill had turned into the yard and were walking slowly toward them. The hostler rightly read the look on their faces and seized Allen by the arm.

“Quick, kid, get into the barn! Them devils has lost a peck of trouble and is huntin’ for it,” he said hurriedly.

Jim Allen turned and shook off the hostler’s detaining hand.

“Yuh fool, they’ll kill you!” the hostler cried in warning.

Then he thrilled, as he caught sight of the yellow flare in Allen’s eyes and heard his low laugh, as he walked forward to meet the twins on stiff legs, like a fighting wolf. The hostler stared with open mouth; he had heard tales about those yellow, flaring eyes, and knew the owner of them.

“Gosh, the kid’s the Wolf!” he exclaimed.

He crouched down against the barn and watched and waited. He saw Allen, hands swinging close to his guns, body loose and swaying, head straight for the twins, who, moving like two machines and side by side, advanced to meet him. When a scant ten feet separated them, they halted.

They stood there, silent, staring, for a time that seemed to the hostler to be hours.

“Gents, I’m countin’ three,” Allen said softly.

At that all three went for their guns.

Six big Colts roared together. The barn walls caught and tossed back the echoes of the reports. As quickly as the uproar started, it hushed.

Mac McGill’s hands had flashed faster than the eye could follow to the butts of his black-handled Colts. But, fast as he was, he was not fast enough. Before his guns came level, destruction smashed against his chest. Both of his guns exploded and the bullets sent up a shower of gravel at Allen’s feet. Then he staggered and sank to the ground. Desperately he raised himself and fired again, then when another slug tore through his neck, he slumped back and lay still.

Sandy McGill’s speed had been the equal of Allen’s, but as the outlaw went for his guns, he had ducked and leaped to one side. One of McGill’s bullets tore through Allen’s right sleeve, the other creased him on the side of the head. Allen’s first shot took Sandy in the pit of the stomach; he staggered backward, and again his guns exploded. But his eyes were dimming and could not follow the figure that leaped first to one side and then to the other. Again and again his guns roared; a continuous stream of fire flashed from the barrels. But each time they roared and missed, a heavy slug tore into his body. At last, his body sagged and crushed to the ground. He was dead on his feet before he fell.

Silence settled over everything.

The Wolf stood there peering through the smoke, then he commenced to laugh—strange laughter that bit into the hostler’s ears and left him shuddering—mocking yet mirthless.

Slowly the hostler recovered his senses. He saw Allen stuff fresh shells into his guns, then drop them into the holsters. After that he walked quickly to Honeyboy, tightened the cinch, swung into the saddle, and vanished out the back of the livery stable.

People ran to the livery yard, peered in and then, seeing nothing but those still bodies, they gained courage and crowded forward. A man, mounted on a dun, swung from his saddle, pushed through the crowd, glanced at the bodies, and gave a sigh of relief.

“The Wolf made his kill,” he said grimly. Then catching sight of the hostler, he grinned at him and added: “What yuh think of Jim now?”

“He ain’t human,” the hostler said. “He was laughin’ horrible—jumpin’ about like a grasshopper, and his guns goin’ so fast I couldn’t see ’em. No, sir, he ain’t no man, nor wolf, neither, ’cause he ain’t like nothin’ possible.”

Jack Allen turned his prisoners over to the local sheriff and then told the story as told to him by Boston Jack. This was later corroborated by two of the wounded rustlers.

It had been Boston Jack who had discovered that hidden valley. Spur Treadwell had refused to go with him unless things were so arranged that no one, except Boston Jack and One-wing McCann, knew of his connection with the rustling. They had blotted the Double R brands, driven the stolen cattle into the Nations, then swung them about and sold them back to old man Reed. Slivers Hart’s ranch was too close to the secret entrance to the valley, so Boston and Spur Treadwell framed him for murder, drove him from the country, and later bought his ranch.

After that things were easy. Men each night kept the cattle drifting from the south of the range to the north, so it was easy for the rustlers to drive fifty or a hundred head each night into the hidden valley. Later, after Dot Reed had been forced to sell and the three had bought the ranch through an agent, they planned to return the cattle from the hidden valley to the open range. It was arranged that the day after Dot Reed signed away her ranch, Spur was to collect a number of honest punchers and raid the valley, wipe out the rustlers, and thus remove all men who even suspected his dishonesty. Boston Jack, of course, would not be there. But Boston Jack, when the valley was raided by Allen’s men, believed that Spur had tried to double cross him and get rid of him at the same time he removed the rustlers. Hence, he had told what he knew.

“An’ who killed old man Reed?” Slivers asked.

“The twins,” said Jack. “Then they killed the two rustlers, who, they thought, knew too much, and so they downed two thirds with one stone—got rid of Mr. Reed and silenced two tongues.”

Dot Reed, her arm around Slivers, had listened in silence.

“And where is the—the Jim Allen now? I want to thank him,” she said.

“I’m goin’ to join him pronto—but he won’t come back here, I reckon,” Toothpick said, with a grin at the sheriff.

“You know where he is?” the sheriff asked sharply.

“Yuh figurin’ on arrestin’ him?” Toothpick asked sarcastically.

“Yuh is a fool if yuh does,” the hostler warned. “’Cause your family will sure wear crape if yuh starts after him. I tells yuh the little devil ain’t human.”

“Of course, it’s my duty—but I’ve only been married a couple of months, so I reckon I’ll let the Wolf live a while,” the sheriff said with a grin. He turned and looked at Spur Treadwell and One-wing McCann.

“Reckon I’ll rest content puttin’ the rope around these gents’ necks,” he added after a moment.

Six weeks later he did.