Part 23 (1/2)

Kid Wolf had found the S Bar cattle easily enough. The brands had been gone over, being burned to an 8 Bar J. The work had been done so recently, however, that he was not deceived. He had called on the don and told him that he was ”interested in cattle,” which was true. The don's l.u.s.t for gold had done the rest. He supposed that Kid Wolf was an American who desired to go into the ranching business near the boundary. A good chance to get rid of the ”hot” herd of six hundred!

”Just the size of herd the senor needs to start,” Floristo had said.

”Six hundred head at ten pesos--six thousand pesos. Ees it not cheap, amigo?”

”Very cheap,” The Kid had told him. ”Now if these cattle were delivered at Mariposa----”

”Easy to say, but no harder to do, senor,” was the don's eager reply.

”I will give orders now to have them driven there. Do you wish to buy a ranch, senor? Or have you bought? Perhaps I could help.”

”Perhaps. But I want cattle right now. I have friends just no'th of the bordah.”

The don had smiled cunningly. This fool gringo would have trouble with those stolen cattle if he drove them back into the States. That, however, was no concern of Floristo's.

”Come back to-night, senor,” he had begged. And now The Kid was on his way to the don's hacienda. He had purposely timed his visit so that he would reach Floristo's rancho at a late hour. Already it was after midnight.

Blizzard was unusually full of spirit. The slow pace to which The Kid held him was hardly an outlet for his restless energy.

”Steady, boy,” The Kid whispered. ”We're savin' our strength--they'll be plenty of fast ridin' to do latah.”

The Kid could not resist the temptation to break into song. His soft chant rose above the faint whisper of the desert wind:

”Oh, theah's jumpin' beans and six-guns south o' Rio, And _muy malo_ hombres by the dozen, We're a-watchin' out fo' trouble south o' Rio, And when it comes, some lead will be a-buzzin'.”

He smiled up at the stars, and turned Blizzard's head to the eastward.

Before them loomed the low, white adobe walls of Don Floristo's hacienda.

A dark-faced peon on guard outside, armed with a carbine, opened the door for him. Late as the hour was, lights were s.h.i.+ning inside and he heard the welcoming sound of Don Floristo's voice as he pa.s.sed through the entrance.

”Ah, come in, come in, amigo. I was afraid the senor was not coming.

_Como esta usted?_”

”_Buenas noches_,” returned The Kid, with easy politeness. ”I trust yo' are in good health?”

The conversation after that was entirely in Spanish, as Kid Wolf spoke the language like a native. His Southern accent made the Mexican tongue all the more musical. He followed his host into a rather large, square room with a beautifully tiled floor. The don motioned The Kid to a chair.

”The cattle of which we--ah--spoke, senor,” said the don, as he lighted a long brown cigarette. ”They are on the way to Mariposa. Are probably there even now, amigo.”

”Yes?” drawled Kid Wolf.

”You will have men there to receive them?”

”Without fail,” replied the Texan, a strange inflection in his tones.

”It is well, my friend. With the cattle are four of my men. They will not turn over the herd, of course, until”--he paused significantly--”the money is paid.”

Kid Wolf smiled. He leaned back in his chair and crossed his legs.

”One does not pay for stolen cattle, Don Floristo,” he drawled.