Part 32 (1/2)

CHAPTER XIX

THE FANG OF THE WOLF

”Well, yuh'd better get ready to take yore medicine,” sneered the outlaw, his voice shaking with rage. ”I'm goin' to make yuh crawl on yore hands and knees, Cotton-picker!”

He holstered his gun, watching Kid Wolf cunningly, and drew back a little to give himself leeway with his whip. Then he began to roll up his sleeve.

”I'll make yuh beg, Cotton-picker,” he taunted insultingly, as he bared his brawny right arm. ”And if yuh run, I'll shoot--not to kill; that'd be too easy. I'll blow yore legs in two!”

Kid Wolf had been pulled from his horse by the others, and the faithful snow-white animal had been taken along up the pa.s.s with the two prisoners. There seemed no way of escape. Blacksnake had him, and the gang leader grinned confidently.

”Yo're a bully, sah,” drawled the Texan. It was as if he were deliberately trying to get his enemy aroused to white-hot fury.

The words seemed to have that effect. With a loud oath, Blacksnake cracked his whip like a pistol shot. The whip was as strong and tough as a bull whip, with a loaded stock and a long, braided lash, thick in the middle, like a snake. The outlaw had aimed for The Kid's thigh, and he was an expert with it. The lash landed with such cutting force that it cut through the Texan's clothing and tore into his flesh.

”Now take off yore s.h.i.+rt!” Blacksnake bellowed. ”I'm goin' to flay yuh alive! Take it off!”

There was no sign of pain in Kid Wolf's face. He was still smiling agreeably. Blacksnake McCoy did not know what was coming. The Texan was not entirely disarmed. True, his Colts had been taken away, and he was apparently helpless. The Kid, however, had his hole card that was always in the deck. This was his keen bowie knife, which more than once had saved his life. Cleverly concealed in its sheath sewn down the back of his s.h.i.+rt collar, it had been overlooked in the outlaws'

quick search. Pretending to remove his s.h.i.+rt, The Kid's right hand went to his throat and closed on the handle of the knife.

Blacksnake, showing his teeth in a laugh of hate, stood a half dozen feet away from him, swinging his cruel whip slowly from side to side, waiting. He was holding the whipstock in his right hand, and that favored the Texan. For in order to draw the gun that swung at his hip, Blacksnake would first have to drop his implement of torture.

”Heah's wheah yo' get it!” snapped The Kid crisply.

Blacksnake's eyes bulged with sudden, startled terror, for he had a glimpse of the s.h.i.+ning blade for one brief instant. His whip hand moved toward the b.u.t.t of his gun. But he was too late. Kid Wolf could draw and throw his bowie as swiftly as he could pull his firearms. It flashed through the air--a streak of dazzling light! The fang of the wolf was striking!

_Ping!_ The steel tore its way through the outlaw's right wrist. The Texan's throw had been as true as a rifle bead. Blacksnake yelled and tried to reach for his Colt with his left hand.

Then The Kid leaped in. Blacksnake was still squirming about and clawing for his .45 when the Texan's first blow landed. Blacksnake was burly, powerful. He weighed well over two hundred, and his shoulders were as broad as a gorilla's. But his bullet head went back with a jerk, as the Texan's hard fist thudded heavily on his cheek bone.

In the quick scuffle, the Big Colt slipped from Blacksnake's holster and fell to the ground. With all his fury now, the outlaw was las.h.i.+ng terrific, belting swings at Kid Wolf's head. The Texan dodged, elusive as a shadow. He leaped in, bored with his right and jolted Blacksnake from top to toe with a smas.h.i.+ng left. The big outlaw staggered, then jumped back and tried to scoop up his gun. His right hand was helpless, however, and his left clumsy. His fingers missed it, and The Kid hit him again, bringing Blacksnake to his knees, groggy-headed and bleary-eyed. His hand closed over the whip. The stock was heavily loaded with lead, and it was a terrible weapon when held reversed. One blow from it could crush a skull like an eggsh.e.l.l.

”I'm a-goin' to brain yuh, Cotton-picker!” Blacksnake grated furiously.

He reeled to his feet, shook his head to get his tangled hair out of his eyes and came in, whip swung back! Kid Wolf had no time to duck down for the gun. The heavy stock was humming through the air in a swish of death!

_Smas.h.!.+_ Blacksnake rocked on his feet. His teeth had come together with a click. He wabbled, swayed. His whip fell from his relaxed fingers. The Kid's footwork had been as swift and cunning as a mountain cat's! He had stepped aside, rocked his body in a pivot from the hips and landed a knock-out punch full on the point of the big-chested outlaw's jaw! With a grunt, Blacksnake went down, first to his knees, and then face thudding the ground. He landed with such force that he plowed the sand with his nose like a rooting hog.

Taking a deep breath, Kid Wolf walked over and picked up Blacksnake's .45. Then he turned the outlaw face up, none too gently, by jerking his tangled hair. ”All right. Snap out of it,” he drawled.

Blacksnake was out for a full two minutes. Gradually consciousness began to show on his ugly, bruised face. He stared at the Texan, blinking his eyes in bewilderment.

”Blast yuh!” he said thickly, when he could speak. ”Guess yuh got me, Cotton-picker. I don't know yet how yuh done it.”

He tried to seize the gun, but The Kid was too quick for him.

”None o' that,” he drawled. ”Get up! Yo're takin' me to the othahs.

Move p.r.o.nto to the Yellow Houses!”

A cunning look mingled with the hate in Blacksnake's swollen eyes.