Part 15 (1/2)

His plans had only partially succeeded. The elder McCay was dead, but Tip and some of the others had slipped through his clutches. To have the McCay faction wiped out of Midway forever meant money and power to him. And now his job was only half finished.

”They'll get 'em,” he muttered to himself.

He was alone in his place, the Idle Hour. He had sent every available man, even his bartender, out on the chase. He wanted to finish, at all costs, what he had begun.

”It was all due to that blasted hombre from Texas!” he groaned. ”I wish I had him here, curse him! It would've all gone smooth enough if he hadn't meddled. Well, he'll pay! The boys will get him. And when they do----” Hardy thumped the bar with his fist in fury.

He paced the floor angrily. The deserted building seemed to be getting on his nerves, for he went behind the bar several times and, with shaking fingers, poured stiff drinks of red whisky. Then he walked to one of the deserted card tables and began to riffle the cards aimlessly.

There were two reasons why the rustling saloon keeper had not joined in the search for his victims. One was that he hated to leave unprotected the big safe in his office, which always contained a snug sum of money.

The other was that Jack Hardy was none too brave when it came to gun fighting. He was still seated at the card table, laying out a game of solitaire, when the swinging doors of the saloon opened quietly. The first inkling Hardy had of a stranger's presence, however, was the soft drawl of a familiar voice:

”Good mohnin', Mistah Hahdy! Enjoyin' a little game o' cahds?”

Hardy's body remained stiff and rigid for a breathless moment, frozen with surprise. Then he turned his head, and his right hand moved snakelike downward. Just a few inches it moved, then it stopped.

Hardy had thought he had a chance, and then he suddenly decided that he hadn't. At his first glance, he had seen Kid Wolf's hands carelessly at his sides; at his second, he saw them holding two .45s!

Kid Wolf's smile was mocking as he sauntered into the room. His thumbs were caressing the gun hammers.

”No, it wouldn't be best,” he drawled, ”to monkey with that gun o'

yo'n. They say, yo' know, that guns are dangerous because they go off.

But the really dangerous guns are those that don't go off quick enough.”

The rustler leader rose to his feet on shaking legs. His face had paled to the color of paper, and beads of perspiration stood out on his pasty forehead.

”Yuh--yuh got the drop, Mr. Wolf,” he pleaded. ”Don't kill me!”

”Nevah mind,” the Texan said softly. ”When yo' die, it'll be on a rope. It's been waitin' fo' yo' a long time. But now I have some business with yo'. First thing, yo'd bettah let me keep that gun o'

yo'n.”

The Kid pulled Hardy's .44 from its holster beneath the saloon man's black coat.

”Next thing,” he drawled, ”I want yo' to take that body down from in front o' yo' do'.”

Kid Wolf referred to the corpse of the unfortunate McCay spy whom Hardy had hanged. It still hung outside the Idle Hour, blocking the door.

The Texan made him get a box, stand on it and loosen the rope from the dead man's neck. Released from the noose, the body sagged to the ground.

”Just leave the noose theah,” ordered The Kid. ”It may be that the sheriff will have some use fo' it.”

”The sheriff!” Hardy repeated blankly.

”Yes, he'll be heah soon,” murmured Kid Wolf softly. ”I have some business with yo' first. Maybe we'd bettah go to yo' office.”

Jack Hardy's office was a little back room, divided off from the main one of the Idle Hour. In spite of his protests, Hardy was compelled to unlock this apartment and enter with his captor.

”Tip has recovahed his fathah's cattle,” The Kid told him pointedly, ”but theah's the little mattah of the burned sto' to pay fo'. In behalf of Tip and his mothah, I'm demandin'--well, I think ten thousand dollahs in cash will just about covah it.”

”I haven't got ten thousand!” Hardy began to whine.