Part 16 (1/2)

Hardy whirled it over his head. Kid Wolf, however, instead of jumping backward to avoid it, darted in like a wild cat. While the stool was still at the apex of its swing, he struck, with the strength of his shoulder behind the blow. It landed full on the rustler's jaw, and Hardy went cras.h.i.+ng backward, heels over head, landing on the wreckage of the stool. For a moment he lay there, stunned.

”Get up!” snapped The Kid crisply. ”Theah's still mo' comin' to yo'.”

Staggering to his feet, Hardy made a run for the front door. Kid Wolf, however, met him. Putting all the power of his lean young muscles behind his sledgelike fists, he hit Hardy twice. The first blow stopped Hardy, straightened him up with a jolt and placed him in position for the second one--a right-hand uppercut. Smas.h.!.+ It landed squarely on the point of Hardy's weak chin. The blow was enough to fell an ox, and the rustler chief went hurtling through the door, carried off his feet completely.

What happened then was one of those ironies of fate. The rope on which Hardy had hanged the McCay spy, George Durham, still hung before the door, its noose swaying in the wind some five feet from the ground.

Hardy hit it. His head struck the rope with terrific force--caught in the loop for an instant. There was a sharp snap, and Hardy dropped to the wooden sidewalk. For a few moments, his body twitched spasmodically, then lay still and rigid. His neck had been broken by the shock!

For a minute Kid Wolf stared in unbelief. Then he smiled grimly.

”Guess I was right,” he murmured, ”when I said it was on the books fo'

Hahdy to die by the rope!”

Cattle were approaching Midway on the Chisholm Trail--hundreds of them, bawling, milling, and pounding dust clouds into the air with their sharp hoofs.

The Texan, watching the dark-red ma.s.s of them, smiled. McCay cattle, those! And there was a woman in Dodge City who was cared for now--Tip's mother.

”I guess we've got the job done, Blizzard.” He smiled at the big white horse that was standing at the hitch rack. ”Heah comes the boys!”

It was a wondering group that gathered, a few minutes later, in the ill-fated Idle Hour. They listened in amazement to Kid Wolf's recital of what had taken place since he left them.

”And so Hardy hanged himself!” the sheriff from Limping Buffalo e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed, when he could find his voice. ”Well, I must say that saves me the trouble o' doin' it! But there's some reward comin' to yuh, Mr.

Wolf.”

The Texan smiled. ”Divide it between Scotty, Caldwell, and White,” he drawled. ”And, Tip, heah's the ten thousand Mistah Hahdy donated.

Present it to yo' good mothah, son, with mah compliments.”

Tip could not speak for a minute, and when he did try to talk, his voice was choked with emotion.

”I can't begin to thank yuh,” he said.

Kid Wolf shook his head. ”Please don't thank me, Tip. Yo' see, I always try to make the troubles of the undah dawg, mah troubles. So long as theah are unfohtunates and downtrodden folks in this world, I'll have mah work cut out. I am, yo' might say, a soldier of misfohtune.”

”But yo're not goin'?” Tip cried, seeing the Texan swing himself into his saddle.

”I'm just a rollin' stone--usually a-rollin' toward trouble,” said the Texan. ”Some time, perhaps, we'll meet again. Adios!”

Kid Wolf swung his hat aloft, and he and his white horse soon blurred into a moving dot on the far sweeps of the Chisholm Trail.

CHAPTER XI

A BUCKSHOT GREETING

”Oh, the cows stampede on the Rio Grande!

The Rio!

The sands do blow, and the winds do wail, But I want to be wheah the cactus stands!

And the rattlah shakes his ornery tail!”