CHAPTER VI
ON THE CHISHOLM TRAIL
From the sweeps of high country bordering close upon Santa Fe, it wasno easy journey to the Chisholm Trail, even for a trail-eating horse ofBlizzard's caliber. But The Kid had taken his time. His ultimatedestination, unless fate altered his plans, was his own homeland--thesandy Rio Grande country.
More than anything else, it was the thirst for adventure that led thebuckskin-clad rider to the beaten cattle road which cut throughwilderness and prairie from Austin to the western Kansas beef markets.
And now, after following the trail for one uneventful day, Kid Wolf hadleft it--in search of water. A line of lofty cottonwoods on theeastern horizon marked the course of a meandering stream and The Kidhad been glad of the chance to turn Blizzard's head toward it. Horseand rider, framed in the intense blue of the western sky, formed apicture of beauty and grace as they drummed through the unmarkedwastes. The Kid, riding "light" in his saddle, his supple body risingand falling with the rhythm of his loping mount and yet firm in hisseat, dominated that picture. His face was tanned to the color of thebuckskin shirt he wore, and a vast experience, born of hardship anddanger on desert and mountain, was in his eyes--eyes that weresometimes gray and sometimes steely blue. Just now they were ascarefree as the skies above.
A stranger might have wondered just what Kid Wolf's business was. Hedid not appear to be a cow-puncher, or a trapper or an army scout. Areata was coiled at his saddle, and two big Colts swung from a beadedIndian belt. No matter how curious the stranger might be, he wouldhave thought twice before asking questions.
The horse, in color like snow with the sun on it, was splitting thebreeze--and yet the stride was easy and tireless. Blizzard, big andimmensely strong, was as fast as the winds that swept the Panhandle.
The stream, Kid Wolf discovered, was a fairly large creek bordered witha wild tangle of bushes, vines, and creeper-infested trees. It was noeasy matter to force one's way through the choked growth, especiallywithout making a great deal of noise.
But The Kid never believed in advertising his presence unnecessarily.He had the uncanny Apache trick of slipping silently throughunderbrush, even while on horseback. The country of the IndianNations, at that time, was a territory infested with peril. And evennow, although he seemed to be alone on the prairie, he was cautious.
Some distance before he reached it, he saw the creek, swollen and brownfrom rains above. So quiet was his approach that even a watermoccasin, sunning itself on the river bank, did not see him.
Suddenly the white horse pricked up its ears. Kid Wolf, too, had heardthe sound, and he pulled up his mount to watch and listen, still as astatue.
Splash! Splash! A rider was bringing his horse down to the creek at awalk. The sounds came from above and from across the stream. Thewater on that side had overflowed its bank and lay across the sand inblue puddles. In a few minutes Kid Wolf caught sight of a man on astrawberry roan, coming at a leisurely gait. As it was a white man,and apparently a cattleman, The Kid's vigilance relaxed a little.
In another moment, though, his heart gave a jump. And then, evenbefore his quick muscles could act in time to save the newcomer it hadhappened. From behind a bush clump, a figure had popped up, rifleleveled. A thin jet of flame spat out of the rusty gun barrel,followed by a cracking report and a little burst of steaming smoke.
The man on the strawberry roan lurched wildly, groaned, and pitchedheadlong from his saddle, landing in the creek edge with a loud splash.One foot still stuck in a stirrup, and for a few yards the frightenedpony dragged him through the muddied water. Then something gave way,and the murdered man plumped into the water and disappeared.
The killer stood on his feet, upright. He laughed--a chilling,mirthless rattle--and began to reload his old-pattern rifle. He was ahalf-breed Indian. The dying sun glistened on his coppery, stronglymuscled flesh, for he was stripped to the waist. He wore trousers anda hat, but his hair hung nearly to his shoulders in a coarse snarl, andhis feet were shod with dirty moccasins.
Kid Wolf's eyes crackled. He had seen deliberate murder committed, anunsuspecting man shot down from ambush. His voice rang out:
"Drop that rifle and put up yo' hands!"
The soft drawl of the South was in his accents, but there was nothingsoft about his tone. The half-breed whirled about, then slowlyloosened his hold on his gun. It thudded to the grass. On a line withhis bare chest was one of Kid Wolf's big-framed .45s.
The snaky eyes of the half-breed were filled with panic, but as The Kiddid not shoot or seem to be about to do so, they began to glitter withmockery. Kid Wolf dismounted, keeping his gun leveled.
"Why did yo' shoot that man?" he demanded.
The half-breed was sullenly silent for a long moment. "What yuh doabout it?" he sneered finally.
Kid Wolf's smile was deadly. His answer took the murderer by surprise.The half-breed suddenly found his throat grasped in a grip of steel.The fingers tightened relentlessly. The Indian's beady eyes began tobulge; his tongue protruded. With all his strength he struggled, butKid Wolf handled him with one arm, as easily as if he had been a child!
"Yo're goin' to answer fo' yo' crime--that's what I'm goin' to do aboutit!" The Kid declared.
The half-breed's yell was wild and unearthly, when the grip at histhroat was released. All the fight was taken out of him. Kid Wolfshook him until his teeth rattled, picked him up bodily and hurled himacross his saddle.
"I'm takin' yo' to the law," he drawled. "I might kill yo' now and bejustified, too. But I believe in doin' things in the right way."
At the mention of "law," the half-breed snarled contemptuously.
"Ain't no law," he grunted, "southwest o' Dodge. Yuh no take me there.Too far."
Kid Wolf knew that the killer was right. Still, on the prairie, menmake their own commandments.
"Theah's a new town, I hear, not far from heah--Midway, I think theycall it," he drawled. "Yo're goin' theah with me, and if theah's nolaw in Midway, I'll see that some laws are passed. And yo' won't needthat, eithah!" he added suddenly.
The knife that the half-breed had attempted to draw tinkled to theground as The Kid gave the treacherous wrist a quick twist.
"Step along, Blizzahd," sang out Kid Wolf in his Southern drawl. "Backto the trail, as soon as we get a drink of watah, then no'th!"
At the mention of Midway, the half-breed's expression had changed toone of snakelike cunning. But if The Kid noted his half-concealedsmile, he paid no attention to it. They were soon on their way.
Always, even in the savage lands beyond civilization, Kid Wolf tried totake sides with the weak against the strong, with the right against thewrong. And on more than one occasion he had found himself in hot waterbecause of it.
The average man of the plains, upon seeing the murder committed, wouldhave considered it none of his business, and would have let well enoughalone. Another type would have killed the half-breed on generalprinciples. Kid Wolf however, determined that the murderer would begiven a fair trial and then punished.
Again striking the Chisholm Trail--a well-beaten road several hundredyards wide--he veered north. Thousands upon thousands of longhornsfrom Texas and New Mexico had beaten that trail. This was the halfwaypoint. Kid Wolf had heard of a new settlement in the vicinity, and,judging from the landmarks, he estimated it to be only a few milesdistant.
In the meantime, the sun went down, creeping over the level horizon toleave the world in shadows which gradually deepened into dusk. All thewhile, the half-breed maintained a stoical silence. Kid Wolf, keepinga careful eye on him, but ignoring him otherwise, hummed a fragment ofsong:
"Oh, theah's hombres poison mean, on the Rio! And theah's deadly men at Dodge, no'th o' Rio! And to-day, from what I've seen, Theah's some bad ones in between, And I aim to keep it clean, beyond the Rio!"
Stars began to twinkle cheerily in the black vault overhead. Then TheKid made out a few points of yellow light
on the plain ahead of them.
"That must be Midway," he mused to himself. "Those aren't stahs, orcamp fiahs. Oil lamps mean a settlement."
Camps of any size were few and far between on the old Chisholm Trail.The moon was creeping up as Kid Wolf and his prisoner arrived, and byits light, as well as the few lights of the town, he could see that theword "town" flattered the place known as "Midway."
There were a few scattered sod houses, and on the one street were twolarge buildings, facing each other on opposite sides of the road. Thefirst was a saloon, brilliantly lighted in comparison to thesemidarkness of the other, which seemed to be a general store. A signabove it read:
THE IDEL HOUR SALOONE
Below it, in similar letters, the following was spelled out, or rathermisspelled:
JACK HARDY OWNER AND PROPRIATER
As the only life of Midway seemed to be centered here, Kid Wolf drew uphis horse, Blizzard, dismounted, and dragged his prisoner to theswinging green doors that opened into the Idle Hour Saloon.
Pushing the half-breed through by main strength, he found himself in abig room, lighted by three oil lamps and reflectors suspended frombeams in the roof. For all the haze of tobacco smoke, the place wasagleam with light. For a moment Kid Wolf stood still in astonishment.
To find such a group of men together at one place, and especially sucha remote place, was surprising. A score or more of booted-and-spurredloungers were at the bar and at the gambling tables. A roulette wheelwas spinning at full clip, its little ivory ball dancing merrily, andat other tables were layouts of faro and various games of chance.Cards were being riffled briskly at a poker game near the door, and alittle knot of men were in a corner playing California Jack.
Kid Wolf took in these details at a glance. What puzzled him was thatthese men did not appear to be cattlemen or followers of any calling,unless possibly it was the profession of the six-gun. All were heavilyarmed, and although that fact in itself was by no means unusual, TheKid did not like the looks of several of the men he saw there. Somewere half-breeds of his prisoner's own stripe.
At The Kid's entrance with his still-struggling prisoner, every onestared. The bartender--a bulky fellow with a scarred face--paused inthe act of pouring a drink, his eyes widening. The quiet shuffle ofcards ceased, the wheel of fortune slowed to a clicking stop, and everyone looked up in sudden silence.
Kid Wolf dragged the half-breed to the center of the room, holding himby the scruff of the neck.
"Men," he said quietly, "this man is a murderah!" In a few more words,he told the gathering what had happened.
From the very first, something seemed to warn The Kid of approachingtrouble. Was it his imagination, or was a look flashed between thehalf-breed and several of the men in the room? He sensed an alerttenseness in the faces of those who were listening. One of the men,whom the Kid immediately put down as the owner of the saloon--JackHardy--was staring insolently.
Hardy was flashily dressed, wearing fancy-stitched riding boots, afancy vest, and a short black coat, under which peeped the butt of asilver-mounted .44. Kid Wolf's intuition told him that he was the manhe must eventually deal with.
The saloon owner had been watching the faro game. Now, having heardKid Wolf out, he turned his back and deliberately faced the layoutagain.
"Go on with the game," he sneered to the dealer.
There was a world of contempt in his silky voice, and Kid Wolf flushedunder his tan. Hardy pretended to ignore the visitor completely. Thefaro dealer slid one card and then another from his box; the casekeeper moved a button or two on his rack. Then the dealer raked in thewinnings from the losers. The game was going on as usual. Thegamblers, taking their cue from Jack Hardy, turned to their gamesagain. It was as if Kid Wolf had never existed.
The Kid took a firmer hold on the wriggling half-breed. "Do yo' knowthis man?" he demanded of the proprietor.
Hardy turned in annoyance, his black brows elevated sarcastically.
"It's 'Tucumcari Pete,'" he mocked. "What is it to yuh?"
Looking at the faro lookout, perched on his high stool, he winked. Thelookout returned it knowingly.
Kid Wolf's eyes blazed. He had told his story so that all could hear.None had paid it any attention. All these men, then, were dishonestand unfriendly toward law and order.
"I want yo' to understand me," he said in a voice he tried to makepatient. "This hombre--Tucumcari Pete, yo've called him--shot andkilled a man from ambush. Isn't there any law heah?"
With long, tapered fingers, Jack Hardy rolled a cigarette, placed itbetween his lips and leered insultingly.
"There's only one law in Midway," he laughed evilly, "and that law isthat all strangers must attend to their own business. Now I don't knowwho yuh are, but----"
"I'm Kid Wolf," came the soft-spoken drawl, "from Texas. My enemiesusually call me by mah last name."
A man brushed near the Kid; his eye caught the Texan's significantly.But instead of speaking, he merely thrust a wadded cigarette paper inthe Kid's hand as he passed by. So quickly was it done that nobody, itseemed just then, had seen the movement. Kid Wolf's heart gave alittle leap. There was some mystery here! If he had made a friend,was that friend afraid to speak to him? Was there a note in that paperball?
Hardy's eyes met the Texan's. They were insect eyes, beady andglittering black.
"All right," he snarled. "Mr. Wolf, you clear out!"
The Texan's fiery Southern temper had reached its breaking point. Itsnapped. In a twinkling, things were happening. Using quick, almostsuperhuman strength, he picked up the half-breed by the neck and oneleg and hurled him, like a thunderbolt, into the group at the farotable!
Tucumcari Pete's wild yell was drowned out by the tremendous crash ofsplintering wood and thudding flesh, as the half-breed's body hurtledthrough the air to smash Jack Hardy down to the floor with the impact.
The table went into kindling wood; chips and markers flew! A chairbanged against the lookout's high perch, just as he was bringing hissawed-off shotgun to his shoulder.
_Br-r-r-ram, bang!_ The double charge went into the ceiling, as thelookout toppled to the floor to join his companions, now a mass ofwaving arms and legs.
Kid Wolf's twin .45s had come out as if by magic. He ducked low. Hedid not need eyes in the back of his head to know that the men at thebar would open fire at the drop of the hat! A bullet winged venomouslyover him. Another one whined three inches from his ear. At the sameinstant, a bottle, hurled by the bartender, smashed to fragmentsagainst the wall.
But with one quick spring, Kid Wolf had his back against thegreen-shuttered door. For the first time, his Colts splattered redflame and smoke. There were three distinct reports, but they came sorapidly that they blended into one sullen, ear-shattering roar. He hadaimed at the swinging lamps, and they went out so quickly that itseemed they had been extinguished by the force of one giant breath.Glass tinkled on the saloon floor, and all was wrapped in darkness.The Texan's voice rang out like the clang of steel on granite:
"Yo're goin' to have law! Kid Wolf law--and yo' may not like it aswell as the othah kind!"
A score of revolver slugs, aimed at the sound of his voice, sentshowers of splinters flying from the green-shuttered doors. The Texan,though, had taken care not to remain in the line of fire.
When the inmates of the Idle Hour swarmed out, looking for vengeance,they were disappointed. Kid Wolf and his horse, Blizzard, were nowhereto be seen!
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