Tucumcari's Hand

: Kid Wolf Of Texas

Jack Hardy was annoyed. He had planned carefully, expecting to have no

difficulty in wiping out the hated McCays and those who sympathized

with them.



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.
br />


"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.



But The Kid cut him off. "Open that safe," he snapped, "and we'll see!"



Hardy took one look at his captor and decided to obey and to lose no

time in doing so. The Texan's eyes were crackling gray-blue.



A large sheaf of bills was in an inner drawer, along with a canvas bag

of gold coins. Ordering Hardy to take a chair opposite, Kid Wolf began

to count the money carefully. To allow himself the free use of his

hands, he holstered both his guns.



"When this little mattah is settled," the Texan drawled, "I have a

little personal business with yo', man to man."



Jack Hardy moistened his lips feverishly. Although he was not now

covered by The Kid's guns, he lacked the courage to begin a fight. He

knew how quick Kid Wolf could be, and he was a coward.



The Texan was stacking the gold into neat piles.



"Fo'teen thousand two hundred dollahs," he announced finally. "The odd

fo' thousand, two hundred will go to the families of the men yo'

murdahed yestahday. And now, Mistah Jack Hahdy, my personal business

with yo' will be----"



He did not finish. The door of the little office had suddenly opened,

and Tucumcari Pete stood in the entrance! His evil face was gloating,

his snaky eyes glittering with the prospect of quick revenge. In his

dirty hands was a rifle, and he was raising it to cover The Kid's heart!



Kid Wolf's hands were on the table. There was no time for him to draw

his Colts! It seemed that the half-breed had taken a hand in the game

and that he held the winning cards! In a second it would be over. The

half-breed's finger was reaching for the trigger; his mouth was twisted

into a gloating, vicious smile.



But while The Kid was seated in such a position at the table that he

could not hope to reach his guns quickly enough, he had his hole

card--the bowie knife in a sheath concealed inside his shirt collar.

The Kid could draw and hurl, if necessary, that gleaming blade as

rapidly as he could pull his 45s. His hand darted up and back.

Something glittered in the air for just a breath, and there was a

singing twang!



Tucumcari Pete gasped. His weird cry ended in a gurgle. He lowered

his rifle and teetered on his feet. The flying knife had found its

mark--the half-breed's throat! The keen-pointed blade had buried

itself nearly to the guard! Clawing at the steel, Tucumcari staggered,

then dropped to the floor with his clattering rifle. His body jerked

for a moment, then stiffened. Justice had dealt with a murderer.



"The thirteenth ace," The Kid drawled softly, "is always in the deck!"



But Hardy had taken advantage of Tucumcari's interruption. Jumping up

with an oath, he hurled the table over upon The Kid and leaped for the

door. The Texan scrambled from under the heavy table and darted after

him. Hardy was running for his life. He raced into the main room of

the Idle Hour with The Kid at his heels.



Kid Wolf could have drawn his guns and shot him down. But it was too

easy. Unless forced to do so, that was not the Texan's way.



Snatching open a drawer in one of the gambling tables, Hardy seized a

large-bore derringer and whirled it up to shoot. But The Kid's steel

fingers closed on his wrist. The ugly little pistol exploded into the

ceiling--once, and then the other barrel.



"There'll be no guns used!" said The Kid, with a deadly smile. "I told

yo' we'd have this out man to man!"



Hardy's lips writhed back in a snarl of hatred. He sent a smashing

right-hand jab at the Texan's heart. Kid Wolf blocked it, stepped to

one side and lashed the rustler king under the eye. Hardy staggered

back against the table, clutching it for support. The Kid pressed

closer, and Hardy dodged around the table, placing it between him and

his enemy. The Texan hurled it to one side and smashed his way through

the saloon owner's guard.



Hardy, head down to escape The Kid's terrific blows, bucked ahead with

all his power and weight advantage and seized him about the waist. It

was apparent that he was trying to get his hands on one of the Texan's

guns. At close range, Kid Wolf smashed at him with both hands, his

fists smacking in sharp hooks that landed on both sides of Hardy's jaw.

To save himself, Hardy staggered back, only to receive a mighty blow in

the face.



"I'll kill yuh for that, blast yuh!" he cried with a snarl.



Hardy was strong and heavy, but the punishment he was receiving was

telling on him. His breath was coming in jerky gasps. Seizing the

high lookout stool from the faro layout, he advanced toward The Kid,

his eyes glittering with fury.



"I'll pound yore head to pieces!" he rasped.



"Pound away," Kid Wolf said.



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 crashing 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. Smash! 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 mass 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

ejaculated, 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.



More

;