Kid Wolf of Texas

by Paul S. Powers

  CHAPTER XXI

  APACHES

  In the half light of the early morning, a stagecoach was rattling downa steep hill near the New Mexico-Arizona boundary line. The team ofsix bronchos fought against the weight of the lumbering vehicle behind,with stiff front legs threw themselves back against their harness. Thedriver, high on his box, sawed at the lines with his foot heavy on thecreaking brake.

  "Whoa!" he roared. "Easy, yuh cow-faced loco-eyed broncs! Steady now,or I'll beat the livin' tar outn yuh!"

  The ponies seemed to disregard his bellowing abuse. They had heard itbefore, and knew that he didn't mean a word he said. They were almostat the foot of the hill now, and the thick white dust, kicked up inchoking spurts by the rumbling wheels, sifted down on the leatherymesquite and dagger plants below.

  "I don't like the looks o' that brush down there," said the other manon the box. He was an express guard, and across his knees was asawed-off shotgun loaded with buckshot.

  "Perfect place fer an ambush, ain't it?" admitted the driver. "Well,if the Apaches do git us, I will say they'll make a nice haul."

  It was a dangerous time on the great Southwest frontier. Law had notyet come to that savage country of flaming desert and baking mountain.Even a worse peril than the operations of the renegades and bad men ofthe border was the threat of the Apaches. Behind any clump ofmesquites a body of these grim and terrible fighters of the arid landsmight lurk, eager for murder and robbery. And it was rumored that achief even more cruel than Geronimo, Cochise, or Mangus Colorado was attheir head.

  The men who operated the stage line knew the risk they were taking inthat unbroken country, but they were of the type that could look dangerin the face and laugh. The two steely-eyed men on the coach box, thisgray morning, were samples of the breed.

  Inside the vehicle were four passengers. Three of them were men pastmiddle life--miners and cattlemen. The third was a youth who addressedone of the older men as "father." All were armed with six-guns, andall were bound for the valley of San Simon.

  The stage had reached the bottom of the hill now, and as the teamreached the level ground, the driver lined them out and settled back inhis seat with a satisfied grunt. About both sides of the trail at thispoint grew great thickets of brush--paloverde, the darker mesquites,and grotesque bunches of prickly pear. One of the bronchos suddenlyreared backward.

  "Steady, yuh ornery----" the driver began.

  He did not finish. There was a sharp twang! An arrow whistled out ofthe mesquites and buried itself in the side of the coach nearly to thefeather! As if this were a signal, a dozen rifles cracked out from thebrush. Bowstrings snapped, and a shower of arrows and lead hummedaround the heads of the frightened ponies. The driver cried out inpain as a bullet hit his leg.

  "Apaches!" the express guard yelled, throwing up his sawed-off shotgun.

  Two streaks of red fire darted through the haze of black powder smokeas he fired both barrels into the brush. The driver recovered himself,seized the reins and began to "pour leather" onto his fear-crazed team.With drawn guns, the four passengers in the coach waited for somethingto shoot at. They were soon to see plenty.

  The mesquites suddenly became alive with brown-skinned warriors,hideous with paint and screaming their hoarse death cry. Some weremounted, and others were on foot. All charged the coach.

  There must have been fifty in the swarm, and still they came! Thosethat were armed with rifles fired madly into the coach and at the team.Others rushed up and tried to seize the bridles.

  "It's all up with us!" the guard cried, drawing his big .45 Colt.

  "But we ain't--goin' to sell out--cheap!" the driver panted.

  Escape was impossible now, for two of the horses went down, plungingand kicking at the harness in their death agony. The otheranimals--some wounded, and all of them mad with fright--overturned theold stagecoach. With a loud crash, the vehicle went over on its side!The driver and guard, teeth bared in grins of fury, raised theirsix-guns and prepared to sell their lives as dearly as possible. Thepassengers inside began firing desperately.

  The renegade Indians rushed. They nearly gained the wrecked stage, butnot quite. Before the straight shooting of the trapped whites, theyfell back to cover again. They did not believe in taking unnecessarychances. They had their victims where they wanted them, and it wouldbe only a question of time before they would be slaughtered. The fightbecame a siege.

  It was sixty against six--or, rather, it was sixty to five. For theredskins had increased the odds by shooting down the driver. Thesecond bullet he received drilled him through the heart. The guard,scrambling for shelter, joined the four men in the overturned coach.

  The Apaches, back in their refuge among the brush, began playing awaiting game. The fire, for a moment, ceased.

  "They'll rush again in a minute," muttered the guard. "We'll do wellto stop 'em. Anyways, we won't hold out long. Just a question o'time."

  "Is there any chance o' help?" asked one of the men, while loading hisrevolver.

  He was a broad-shouldered, big-chested man of fifty--the father of theyouth who was now fighting beside him.

  The guard shook his head. "Afraid not. Unless one of us could getthrough to Lost Springs, six miles from here. Even if we could, Idon't think we'd get any help. There's not many livin' there, andthey're all scared of Apaches. Can't say I blame 'em."

  Bullets began to buzz again. The Indians were making another charge.A dense cloud of smoke hung over the ambushed coach. White powderspurts blossomed out from the brush, and the war cry came shrilly. Therush brought a line of half-naked warriors to within a few yards of thecoach. Then they fell back again, leaving four of their number dead orwounded 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 upquickly:

  "I'm willin' to take the chance o' gettin' to Lost Springs," he said.

  "Yuh can't make it alive through that bunch o' devils," the guard toldhim.

  "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 thetwo would ever see each other alive again. But father and son shookhands and passed it over with a smile.

  "Good luck, son!"

  And then the younger one slipped out of the coach and was gone.

  The others watched breathlessly. This movement had taken the savagesby surprise. The lad darted into the mesquites, running with head low.Bullets buzzed about him, kicking up clouds of dust at his feet.Arrows whistled after him. A yell went up from the Apaches.

  "Will he make it?" groaned the father, in an agonized voice.

  "Doubt it," said the guard.

  The messenger sprinted at top speed through the brush, then dived downinto an arroyo. A score of warriors swarmed after him, firing shotafter shot from their rifles. Already the youth was out of arrow range.

  The guard shaded his eyes with his hand. "He's got a chance, anyways,"he decided.

  The town of Lost Springs--if such a tiny settlement could have beencalled a town--sprawled in a valley of cottonwoods, a scattering oflow-roofed adobes. To find such an oasis, after traveling theheat-tortured wilderness to the east or the west, was such relief tothe wayfarer that few missed stopping.

  There was but one public building in the place--a large building ofplastered earth which was at the same time a saloon, a store, agambling hall, and a meeting place for those who cared to partake ofits hospitality.

  The crude sign over the narrow door read: "Garvey's Place." It wasenough. Garvey was the storekeeper, the master of the gamblers, andthe saloon owner. Lost Springs was a one-man town, and that man wasGil Garvey. His reputation was not of the best. Dark marks had beenchalked up against his record, and his past was shady, too. There werewhispers, too, of even worse things. It was, however, a land wherenobody asked questions. It was too
dangerous. Garvey was accepted inLost Springs because he had power.

  It was a hot morning. The thermometer outside Garvey's door alreadyregistered one hundred and five. Heat devils chased one another acrossthe valley. But inside the building it was comparatively cool.Glasses tinkled on the long, smooth bar. The roulette wheel whirred,and even at that early hour, cards were being slapped down, faces up,at the stud-poker table. Including the customers at the bar, therewere perhaps a dozen men in the house besides Garvey himself. Garveywas tending bar, which was his habit until noon, when his bartenderrelieved him.

  Gil Garvey was a menacing figure of a man, massive of build andsinister of face. His jet-black eyebrows met in the center of hisscowling forehead, and under them gleamed eyes cold and dangerous. Athin wisp of a dark mustache contrasted with the quick gleam of hisstrong, white teeth. On the rare occasions when he laughed, his mirthwas like the hungry snarl of a wolf.

  The sprinkling of drinkers at the bar strolled over to watch the farogame, and Garvey, taking off his soiled apron, joined them, lighting ablack cigar. The ruler of Lost Springs moved lightly on his feet forso heavy a man. Around his waist was a gun belt from which swung asilver-mounted .44 revolver in a beaded holster.

  Suddenly a slim figure reeled through the open door, and with groping,outstretched arms, staggered forward.

  "Apaches!" he choked.

  Nearly every one leaped to his feet, hand on gun. Some rushed to thedoor for a look outside. A score of questions were fired at thenewcomer.

  "They're attackin' the stage at the foot of the pass!" explained themessenger.

  There were sighs of relief at this bit of news, for at first they hadthought that the red warriors were about to enter the town. But sixmiles away! That was a different matter.

  "I'm Dave Robbins," the youth went on desperately. "I've got to goback there with help. When I left, they were holdin' 'em off. Fiftyor sixty Indians!"

  Some of the saloon customers began to murmur their sympathy. But itwas evident that they were none too eager to go to the aid of theambushed stagecoach.

  Young Robbins--covered with dust, his face scratched by cactus thorns,and with an arrow still hanging from his clothing--saw the indifferencein their eyes.

  "Surely yuh'll go!" he pleaded. "Yuh--yuh've got to! My father's inthe coach!"

  Garvey spoke up, smiling behind his mustache.

  "What could we do against sixty Apaches?" he demanded. "Besides, themen in the stage are dead ones by this time. We couldn't do any good."

  Robbins' face went white. With clenched fists, he advanced towardGarvey.

  "Yo're cowards, that's all!" he cried. "Cowards! And yo're thebiggest one of 'em all!"

  Garvey drew back his huge arm and sent his fist crashing into theyouth's face. Robbins, weak and exhausted as he was, went sprawling tothe floor.

  And at that moment the swinging doors of the saloon opened wide. Theman who stood framed there, sweeping the room with cool, calm eyes, wasscarcely older than the youth who had been slugged down. His ratherlong, fair hair was in contrast with the golden tan of his face. Hewore a shirt of fringed buckskin, open at the neck. His trousers weretucked into silver-studded riding boots, weighted with spurs thatjingled in tune to his swinging stride. At each trim hip was the buttof a .45 revolver.

  The newcomer's eyes held the attention of the men in Garvey's Place.They were blue and mild, but little glinting lights seemed to sparklebehind them. He was silent for a long moment, and when he finallyspoke, it was in a soft, deliberate Southern drawl:

  "Isn't it rathah wahm foh such violent exercise, gentlemen?"

  Robbins, crimsoned at the mouth, raised on one elbow to look at thestranger. 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 dangerousthere, for he drew back a step, content with muttering oaths under hisbreath.

  "What's the trouble?" the stranger asked Robbins quietly.

  The youth seemed to know that he had found a friend, for he at oncetold the story of the ambushed stage.

  "I came here for help," he concluded, "and was turned down. These menare afraid to go. My--my father's on that stage. Won't you help me?"

  The stranger seemed to consider.

  "Sho'," he drawled at length, "I'll throw in with you." He paused toface the gathered company. "And these othah men are goin' to throw inwith yo', too!"

  The men in the saloon stood aghast, open-mouthed. But they didn'thesitate long. When the stranger spoke again, his words came like thecrack of a whip:

  "Get yo' hosses!"

  Garvey's heavy-jawed face went purple with fury. That this youngunknown dared to try such high-handed methods so boldly in LostSprings--which he ruled--maddened him! His big hand slid down towardhis hip with the rapidity of a lightning bolt.

  There was a resounding crash--a burst of red flame. Garvey's handnever closed over his gun butt. The stranger had drawn and fired soquickly that nobody saw his arm move. And the reason that the amazedGarvey did not touch the handle of his .44 was because there was nohandle there! The young newcomer's bullet had struck the butt of theholstered gun and smashed it to bits.

  Garvey stared at the handleless gun as if stupefied. Then his amazedglance fell upon the stranger, who was smiling easily through theflickering powder fumes.

  "Who--who are yuh?" he stammered.

  The stranger smiled. "Kid Wolf," he drawled, "from Texas, sah. Myfriends simply say 'Kid,' but to my enemies I'm The Wolf!"