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twg_000012928700 | 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 | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000012928701 | 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 | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000012928702 | 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 | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000012928703 | 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 | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000012928704 | 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 | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000012928705 | 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. | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000012928706 | 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 | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000012928707 | 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 | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000012928708 | 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?" | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000012928709 | 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 | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000012928710 | 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 | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000012928711 | 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 | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000012928712 | 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 | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000012928713 | 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, | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000012928714 | 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 | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000012928715 | 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 | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000012928716 | 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 . revolver in a beaded holster. Suddenly a slim figure reeled through the open door, and with groping, | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000012928717 | 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 | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000012928718 | 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 | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000012928719 | 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, | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000012928720 | 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 | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000012928721 | 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 | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000012928722 | 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 . revolver. The newcomer's eyes held the | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000012928723 | 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 | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000012928724 | 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 | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000012928725 | oaths under his breath. "What's the trouble?" the stranger asked Robbins quietly. The youth seemed to know that he had found a friend, for he at once told the story of the ambushed stage. "I came here for help," he concluded, "and was turned down. These men are afraid to go. My--my father's on that stage. Won't you help me?" | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000012928726 | The stranger seemed to consider. "Sho'," he drawled at length, "I'll throw in with you." He paused to face the gathered company. "And these othah men are goin' to throw in with yo', too!" The men in the saloon stood aghast, open-mouthed. But they didn't hesitate long. When the stranger spoke again, his words came like the crack of a | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000012928727 | whip: "Get yo' hosses!" Garvey's heavy-jawed face went purple with fury. That this young unknown dared to try such high-handed methods so boldly in Lost Springs--which he ruled--maddened him! His big hand slid down toward his hip with the rapidity of a lightning bolt. There was a resounding crash--a burst of red flame. Garvey's hand never closed over his gun | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000012928728 | butt. The stranger had drawn and fired so quickly that nobody saw his arm move. And the reason that the amazed Garvey did not touch the handle of his . was because there was no handle there! The young newcomer's bullet had struck the butt of the holstered gun and smashed it to bits. Garvey stared at the handleless gun | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000012928729 | as if stupefied. Then his amazed glance fell upon the stranger, who was smiling easily through the flickering powder fumes. "Who--who are yuh?" he stammered. The stranger smiled. "Kid Wolf," he drawled, "from Texas, sah. My friends simply say 'Kid,' but to my enemies I'm The Wolf!" THE RESCUE The stranger's crisp words had their effect, since "Kid Wolf" was | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000012928730 | a name well known west of the Chisholm Trail. His reputation had been passed by word of mouth along the border until there were few who had not heard of his deeds. His very name seemed to fill the riffraff of the barroom with courage. Some of them cheered, and all prepared to obey the young Texan's orders. Every one | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000012928731 | was soon busy loading and examining six-guns. Garvey was the one exception. He was infuriated, and his malignant eyes gleamed with hate. Kid Wolf had made an enemy. He was, however, accustomed to that. Smiling ironically, he faced Garvey, who was quivering all over with helpless rage. "Yo' won't need to come along," he drawled. "I'd rathah have Apaches in | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000012928732 | front of me than yo' behind me." Kid Wolf lost no time in rounding up his hastily drafted posse. A horse was procured for Robbins and The Kid prepared to ride by his side. Kid Wolf's horse was "tied to the ground" outside, and a shout of genuine admiration went up as the men caught sight of the magnificent creature, | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000012928733 | beautiful with muscular grace. Swinging into his California saddle, the Texan, with Robbins at his side and the posse, numbering eleven men, swept down toward the mountain pass. Some of the men carried Winchesters, but for the most part they were armed with six-guns. Now that they were actually on the way, the men seemed eager for the battle. Perhaps | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000012928734 | Kid Wolf's cool and determined leadership had something to do with it. Young Robbins reached over and clasped the Texan's hand. "I'll never forget this, Mr. Kid Wolf," he said, tears in his eyes. "If it wasn't for you----" "Call me 'Kid,'" said the Texan, flashing him a smile. "We'll save yo' fathah and the men in the stage if | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000012928735 | we can. Anyway, we'll make it hot fo' those Apaches." After a few minutes of fast going, they could hear the faint crackling of gunfire ahead of them, carried on the torrid wind. Robbins brightened, for this meant that some survivors still remained on their feet. Kid Wolf, experienced in Indian warfare, understood the situation at once, and ordered his | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000012928736 | men to scatter and come in on the Indians from all sides. "Robbins," he said, "I want yo' with me. Yo' two," he went on, singling out a couple of the posse, "ride in from the east. The rest of yo' come in from the west and south. Make every shot count, fo' if we don't scattah the Apaches at | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000012928737 | the first chahge, we will be at a big disadvantage!" It was a desperate situation, with the odds nearly five to one against them. Reaching the pass, they could look down on the battle from the cover of the mesquites. From the overturned stage, thin jets of fire streaked steadily, and a pall of white smoke hung over it like | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000012928738 | a cloud. From the brush, other gun flashes answered the fire. Occasionally a writhing brown body could be seen, crawling from point to point. The thicket seemed to be alive with them. Kid Wolf listened for a moment to the faint popping of the guns. Then he raised his hand in a signal. "Let's go!" he sang out. A second | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000012928739 | later, Blizzard was pounding down the pass like a snowstorm before the wind. The leader of this band of murderous Apaches was a youthful warrior named Bear Claw, the son of the tribal chief. Peering at the coach from his post behind a clump of paloverde, his cruel face was lighted by a grin of satisfaction. From time to time | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000012928740 | he gave a hoarse order, and at his bidding, his braves would creep up or fall back as the occasion demanded. Bear Claw was in high good humor, for he saw that the ambushed victims in the stage could not hope to hold out much longer. Only three remained alive in the coach, and some of these were wounded. The | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000012928741 | white men's fire was becoming less accurate. The young leader of the Apaches was horrible to look at. He was naked save for a breechcloth and boot moccasins and his face was daubed with ocher and vermilion. Across his lean chest, too, was a smear of paint just under the necklace of bear claws that gave him his name. He | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000012928742 | was armed with a .-caliber Sharps single-shot rifle and with the only revolver in the tribe--an old-fashioned cap-and-ball six-shooter, taken from some murdered prospector. Bear Claw was about to raise his left hand--a signal for the final rush that would wipe out the white men in the overturned coach--when a terrific volley burst out like rattling thunder from all sides. | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000012928743 | Bullets raked the brush in a deadly hail. An Indian a few paces from Bear Claw jumped up with a weird yell and fell back again, pierced through the body. The young chief saw whirlwinds of dust swooping down on the scene from every direction. In those whirlwinds, he knew, were horses. Bear Claw had courage only when the odds | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000012928744 | were with him. How many men were in the attacking force, he did not know. But there were too many to suit him, and he took no chances. He gave the order for retreat, and the startled Apaches made a rush for their ponies, hidden in an arroyo. Bear Claw scrambled after them, with lead kicking up dust all about | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000012928745 | him. But it did not take Bear Claw long to see that his band outnumbered the white posse, more than four to one. Throwing himself on his horse, he decided to set his renegade warriors an example. Giving the Apache war whoop, he kicked his heels in his pony's flanks and led the charge. Picking out the foremost of the | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000012928746 | posse--a bronzed rider on a snow-white horse--he went at him with leveled revolver. What happened then unnerved the Apaches at Bear Claw's back. The man Bear Claw had charged was Kid Wolf! The Texan did not return the Indian's blaze of revolver fire. He merely ducked low in his saddle and swung his big white horse into Bear Claw's pony! | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000012928747 | At the same time, he swung out his left hand sharply. It caught Bear Claw's jaw with a terrific jolt. The weight of both speeding horses was behind the impact. Something snapped. Bear Claw went off his pony's back like a bag of meal and landed on the sand, his head at a queer angle. His neck was broken! Then | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000012928748 | Kid Wolf's guns began to talk. Fire burst from the level of both his hips as he put spurs to Blizzard and charged with head low directly into the amazed Apaches. The others, too, followed the Texan's example, but it was Kid Wolf who turned the trick. It was the deciding card, and without their chief, the redskins were panic-stricken. | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000012928749 | The only thing they thought of now was escape. The little hoofs of their ponies began to drum madly. But instead of rushing in the direction of the whites, they drummed away from them. Kid Wolf ordered his men not to follow. Nor would he allow any more firing. "No slaughter, men," he said. "Save yo' bullets till yo' need | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000012928750 | them. Let's take a look at the stage." Wheeling their mounts, the posse, who had lost not a man in the encounter, raced back to the overturned coach. The vehicle, riddled with bullets and arrows, resembled a butcher's shop. On the ground near it was the body of the driver, while the guard, hit in a dozen places, lay half | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000012928751 | in and half out of the coach, dead. Young Robbins had left four men alive when he made his escape toward Lost Springs. There now remained only two. And one of these, it could be seen, was dying. "Dad!" Robbins cried. "Are yuh hurt?" "Got a bullet in the shoulder and one in the knee," replied his father, crawling out | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000012928752 | with difficulty. "Good thing yuh got here when yuh did! See to Claymore. He's hit bad. I'm all right." Kid Wolf drew out the still breathing form of the other survivor. He was quick to note that the man was beyond any human aid. The frontiersman, his six-gun still emitting a curl of blue smoke, was placed in the shade | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000012928753 | of the coach, and water was given to him. "I'm all shot to pieces, boys," he gasped. "I'm goin' fast--but I'm glad the Apaches won't have me to--chop up afterward. Take my word for it--there's some white man--behind this. There's twenty thousand dollars in the express box----" His words trailed off, and with a moan, he breathed his last. Kid | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000012928754 | Wolf gently drew a blanket over his face and then turned to the others. "I think he's right," he mused, as he took off his wide-brimmed hat. "When Indians murdah, theah's usually a white man's brains behind them." Garvey, when Kid Wolf had left with his quickly gathered posse, went to the bar and took several drinks of his own | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000012928755 | liquor. It was a fiery red whisky distilled from wheat, and of the type known to the Indians as "fire water." It did not put Garvey in any better humor. Wiping his lips, he left his saloon and crossed the road to a tiny one-room adobe. A young Indian was sleeping in the shade, and Garvey awakened him with a | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000012928756 | few well-directed kicks. The Indian's eyes widened with fear at the sight of the white man's rage-distorted face, and when he had heard his orders, delivered in the hoarse Apache tongue, he raced for his pony, tethered in the bushes near him, and drummed away. "Tell 'em to meet me in the saloon pronto!" Garvey shouted after him. The saloon | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000012928757 | keeper passed an impatient half hour. A quartet of Mexicans entered his place demanding liquor, but Garvey waved them away. Something important was evidently on foot. Soon the dull _clip-clop_ of horses' hoofs was heard, and he went to the door to see five riders approaching Lost Springs from the north. He waved his hand to them before they had | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000012928758 | left the cover of the cottonwoods. The group of sunburned, booted men who hastily entered Garvey's Place were individuals of the Lost Springs ruler's own stamp. All were gunmen, and some wore two revolvers. Most of them were wanted by the law for dark deeds done elsewhere. Sheriffs from the Texas Panhandle would have recognized two of them as Al | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000012928759 | and Andy Arnold--brother murderers. Another was a killer chased out of Dodge City, Kansas--a slender, quick-fingered youth known as "Pick" Stephenson. Henry Shank--a gunman from Lincoln, New Mexico--strode in their lead. The fifth member of the quintet was the most terrible of them all. He was a half-breed Apache, dressed partly in the Indian way and partly like a white. | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000012928760 | He wore a battered felt hat with a feather in the crown. He wore no shirt, but over his naked chest was buttoned a dirty vest, around which two cap-and-ball Colt revolvers swung. His stride, muffled by his beaded moccasins, was as noiseless as a cat's. This man--Garvey's go-between--was Charley Hood. He grinned continually, but his smile was like the | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000012928761 | snarl of a snapping dog. "What's up, Garvey?" Shank demanded. "We was just ready to start out fer a cattle clean-up." "Plenty's up," snarled Garvey. "Help yoreselves to liquor while I tell yuh. First o' all, do any of yuh know Kid Wolf?" It was evident that most of them had heard of him. None had seen him, however, and | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000012928762 | Garvey went on to tell what had happened. "How many men did he take with him?" Stephenson wanted to know. "About a dozen." "Bear Claw will wipe him out, then," grinned Al Arnold. "Somehow I don't think so," said Garvey. "And if that stage deal fails us----" "A twenty-thousand-dollar job!" Shank barked angrily. "And we get half!" "We get all," | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000012928763 | chuckled Garvey. "The Apaches will give their share to me for fire water. That's why this must go through. If Bear Claw and his braves slip up, we'll have to finish it. As for Kid Wolf----" Garvey's expression changed to one of malignant fury, and he made the significant gesture of cutting a throat. "I hear that this Kid Wolf | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000012928764 | makes it his business to right wrongs," Shank sneered. "Thinks he's a law of himself. Justice, he calls it." "Well, one thing!" roared Garvey, thumping the bar. "There ain't no law west o' the Pecos! And he's west o' the Pecos now! The only law here is this kind," and he tapped his .. "What's happened to yore gun?" one | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000012928765 | of them asked. Garvey's face suddenly went dark red. "I dropped it this mornin' and busted the handle," he lied. "If it had been in workin' order, I'd have got this Kid Wolf the minute he opened his mouth." "Well, if the Apaches don't get him, we will," Stephenson declared. "By the way, Garvey, there's another deal on foot. What | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000012928766 | do yuh think o' this?" And he laid a chunk of ore on the bar under the saloon keeper's nose. "Solid silver!" Garvey gasped. "Where's it from?" "From the valley of the San Simon. It's from land owned--owned, mind yuh--by an hombre named Robbins. Gov'ment grant." "We'll figger a way to get it," returned Garvey, then his eyes narrowed. "What | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000012928767 | name did yuh say?" "Robbins. Bill Robbins." Garvey grinned. "Why, he was on the stage! It was his kid that came here and made his play fer help. Looks like things is comin' our way, after all." The conference was interrupted by the sound of galloping hoofs. An Indian pounded up in front of the saloon in a cloud of | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000012928768 | yellow dust. The pony was lathered and breathing hard. "It's a scout!" Garvey cried. "Let him in, and we'll see what he has to say." The Indian runner's words, gasped in halting, broken English, brought consternation to Garvey and his treacherous gunmen: "No get money box. Have keel two-three, maybe more, of white men in stage wagon. Then riders come. | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000012928769 | White chief on white devil horse, he break Bear Claw's neck. Bear Claw die. We ride away as fast as could do. White men fix stage wagon. Hunt for horse to drive it to Lost Springs." Garvey clenched his huge fists. "Get me another gun!" he rasped. "We'll have this out with Kid Wolf right now!" Charley Hood spoke for | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000012928770 | the first time, and his bestial face with distorted with rage. "Bear Claw son of Great Chief Yellow Skull! Yellow Skull get Keed Wolf if he have to follow him across world! And when he get him----" Charley Hood, the half-breed, laughed insanely. "I never thought of that," said Garvey. "Maybe we'd be doin' Mr. Wolf from Texas a favor | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000012928771 | by puttin' lead through him. Bear Claw was Yellow Skull's favorite. The old chief is an expert at torture. I'd like to be on hand to see it. But I've got an idea. Shank, have Jos dig a grave on Boot Hill--make it two of 'em. We've got to get that express money." "And the silver," chuckled the desperado, as | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000012928772 | he took a farewell drink at the bar. TWO OPEN GRAVES It was some time before the overturned stagecoach could be righted. It took longer to provide a team for it. When the bodies of the unfortunate white men had been loaded into the vehicle and the ponies lined out it was late in the afternoon. Kid Wolf had examined | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000012928773 | the contents of the express box and found that it contained a small fortune in money. He decided to take charge of it and see that it reached proper hands. Twenty miles west of Lost Springs, he learned, were an express-company station and agent. The Texan planned to guard the money at Lost Springs overnight and then take it on | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000012928774 | to the express post, located at Mexican Tanks. The two Robbinses, both father and son, were overcome with gratitude toward the man who had saved them. They at once agreed to stay with Kid Wolf. The posse members that the Texan had drafted at revolver point were not so willing. Although most of them were honest men, they feared Garvey's | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000012928775 | gang and the consequences of their act. All of them suspected that Garvey had a hand in the plot to rob the stagecoach. Most of them made excuses and rode away in different directions. "We beat the Apaches," explained one, "so I reckon I'll go back to the ranch. Adios, and good luck!" Kid Wolf smiled. He knew that the | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000012928776 | men were leaving him for other reasons. Perhaps a man with less courage would have avoided Lost Springs, or even abandoned the money. The young Texan, however, was not to be swerved from what he believed to be the right. "Look out for Garvey, Kid," begged Dave Robbins. "He hates yuh for what yuh done." "I've heard of him," the | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000012928777 | elder Robbins added. "If helpin' us has got you into trouble, I'm sorry. He's a man without a heart." "Then some day," Kid Wolf said softly, "he's liable to find a bullet in the spot wheah his heart ought to be. I don't regret comin' to yo' aid, not fo' a minute. And I guess Blizzahd and I are ready | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000012928778 | to see this thing through to the end." Kid Wolf was riding on his white horse alongside the rumbling stage. The only member of the drafted posse who had stayed was driving the vehicle, and beside him on the box rode the two Robbinses, father and son. The road to Lost Springs was not the direct route the Indian messenger | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000012928779 | had taken. It led around steep side hills and high-banked washes in which nothing grew but tough, stunted clumps of thirsty paloverde. Near the tiny settlement, the trail climbed a long slope to swing around a cactus-cluttered mound which served as Lost Springs' Boot Hill. The stage trail cut the barren little graveyard in two, and on both sides of | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000012928780 | it were headboards, some rotting with age, and others quite new, marking the last resting places of men who had died with smoke in their eyes. It was nearly sundown when Kid Wolf and the party with the bullet-riddled coach reached this point. They found a group of hard-eyed men waiting for them. With Garvey were his five gunmen, mounted, | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000012928781 | armed to the teeth, and blocking the road! Kid Wolf caught the driver's eyes and nodded for him to go on. The stage rumbled up to the spot where Garvey waited. "Stop!" the Lost Springs ruler snarled. "I reckon we want some words with yuh!" "Is it words yo' want," drawled the Texan, drawing up his snowy mount, "or bullets?" | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000012928782 | "That depends on you!" Garvey snapped. "We mean business. Hand over that express money." "And the next thing?" the Texan asked softly. "Next thing, we got business with that man!" Garvey pointed to Dave Robbins' father. "With me?" Robbins demanded in astonishment. "The same. We want yuh to sign this paper, turnin' over yore claim in the San Simon to | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000012928783 | me. Now both of yuh have heard!" "But why should yuh want my claim in San Simon?" "Yuh might as well know," Garvey sneered in reply, "there's silver on it. And I want it. Hand over that express box now and sign the paper. If yuh don't----" "And if we don't?" Kid Wolf asked mildly. His eyebrows had risen the | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000012928784 | merest trifle. "Here's the answer!" Garvey rasped. He pointed at two mounds of freshly disturbed earth a few feet from the road. "Read what's written over 'em, and take yore choice." Kid Wolf saw that two headboards had been erected near the shallow graves. One of them had the following significant epitaph written on it in neatly printed Spanish: _Aqui | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000012928785 | llacen restos de Kid Wolf._ This in English was translated: "Here lies in the grave, at rest, Kid Wolf." The other headboard was the same, except that the name "Bill Robbins" had been inserted. "Those graves will be filled," sneered Garvey, "unless yuh both come through. Now what's yore answer?" "Garvey," spoke up Kid Wolf, "I've known of othah white | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000012928786 | men who hired the Apaches to do their dirty work. They all came to a bad end. And so, if yo' want my answah--take it!" Garvey's gang found themselves staring into the muzzles of two .45s! The draw had been magical, so swiftly had the Texan's hands snapped down at his hips. Al Arnold, alone of the six riders, saw | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000012928787 | the movement in time even to think about drawing his own weapon. And perhaps it would have been better if he had not seen, for his own gun pull was slow and clumsy in comparison with Kid Wolf's. His right hand had moved but a few inches when the Texan's left-hand Colt spat a wicked tongue of flame. Before the | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000012928788 | thunder of the explosion could be heard, the leaden slug tore its way through Arnold's wrist. Before the puff of black powder smoke had drifted away, Arnold's gun was thudding to the ground. The others dared not draw, as Kid Wolf's other six-gun still swept them. They knew that the Texan could not fail to get one or more of | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000012928789 | them, and they hesitated. Garvey himself remained motionless, frozen in the saddle. His lips trembled with rage. "I'm not a killah," Kid Wolf drawled. "I nevah take life unless it's forced on me. If I did, I'd soon make Lost Springs a bettah place to live in. Now turn yo' backs with yo' hands in the air--and ride! The next | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000012928790 | time I shoot, it's goin' to be on sight! Vamose! Pronto!" Muttering angrily under their breath, Garvey and his gunmen obeyed the order. Yet Kid Wolf knew that the trouble had not been averted, but merely postponed. He was not through with the Lost Springs bandit gang. The driver of the coach--the only member of the posse who had remained | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000012928791 | loyal in the face of peril--was a man of courage. Johnson was his name, and he offered his adobe house as a place of refuge for the night. "I'm thinkin' yuh'll be needin' it," he told the Texan. "We can stand 'em off there, for a while, anyway. Garvey will have a hundred Mexes and Injuns with him before mornin'." | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000012928792 | Kid Wolf accepted, and the coach was deserted. They buried the bodies of the men they had brought in the stage, not in the Lost Springs graveyard, but in an arroyo near it. Then they removed the valuable express box and took it with them to the Johnson adobe. The house was a two-room affair, not more than a quarter | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000012928793 | of a mile from the Springs, and still closer to Boot Hill. On the side next to the water hole, the grass and tulles grew nearly waist-high. On the other three sides, barren ground swept out as far as eye could reach. Kid Wolf placed the express box in the one living room of the hut. As a great deal | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000012928794 | might depend upon having horses ready, Blizzard, along with two pinto ponies, was quartered in the other apartment. This redone, and with one of the four men standing watch at all times, they prepared a hasty meal. "One thing we lack that we got to have," stated Johnson. "It's water. I'll take a bucket and go to the spring. I | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000012928795 | know the path through the tulles." They watched him proceed warily toward the water hole. The landscape was peaceful. Not a moving thing could be seen. In a few moments, Johnson was swallowed up in the high grass. He reappeared again, carrying a brimming bucket. They could see the setting sun sparkling on the water as he swung along. Then | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000012928796 | suddenly a shot rang out sharply--the unmistakable crack of a Sharps .-caliber rifle! Without a cry, Johnson sank into the tulles, the bucket clattering beside him. He had been shot in the back! A cry of horror burst from the lips of the watchers in the adobe. It was all that Kid Wolf could do to hold back the excitable | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000012928797 | younger Robbins, who wanted to avenge their friend's death immediately. "No use fo' us to show ouahselves until we know how the cahds are stacked," the Texan said grimly. "Nevah mind, Dave. They'll pay fo' it!" It was hard to tell just how many of their enemies might be lurking in the tulles or beyond them. They were soon to | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000012928798 | find that there were far too many. Gunfire began to blaze out in sharp, rechoing volleys. Bullets clipped the adobe shack, sending up spurts of gray dust. "Don't show yo'selves," Kid Wolf warned. His keen eyes lined out the sights of his own twin Colts, and he fired twice, and then twice again. As far as the others could see, | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000012928799 | there was nothing in view to shoot at; but agitated threshings about in the tulles showed them that at least some of his bullets had found human lodging places. Garvey had evidently succeeded in adding men to his gang, for more than a dozen gun flashes burst out at once. The attackers soon learned, however, that it wasn't healthy to | 60 | gutenberg |
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