Kid Wolf of Texas Part 18

Major Stover, if this were he, was a paunchy, disgustingly fat man.

His face was moonlike, sensually thick of lip. His eyes, as they fell upon his visitor, were hoglike, nearly buried in sallow folds of skin.

The thick brows above them had grown close together.

"Well," The Kid drawled, "I don't exactly know. Yo' deal in lands, I believe?"

"I have some holdings," said the fat man complacently. "Are yo'

interested in the San Felipe district?"

"Very much," said The Kid, nodding. "I am quite attracted by Rattlesnake County, and----"

"This isn't Rattlesnake County, young man," corrected the land agent.

"This is San Felipe County."

"Oh, excuse me," murmured the Texan, "maybe I got that idea because of the lahge numbah of snakes----"

"There's no more snakes here than----" the other began.

"I meant the human kind," explained Kid Wolf mildly.

Major Stover's eyes narrowed suspiciously. "What do yuh want with me?"

he demanded.

"Did yo' offah ten thousand dollahs fo' the S Bar Ranch?"

"That is none of yore business!"

"No?" drawled Kid Wolf patiently. "Yo' might say that I am heah as Mrs. Thomas' agent."

The major looked startled. "Where's yore credentials?" he snapped, after a brief pause.

Kid Wolf merely smiled and tapped the b.u.t.ts of his six-guns. "Heah, sah," he murmured. "I'm askin' yo'."

Major Stover looked angry. "Yes," he said sharply, "I did at one time make such an offer. However, I have reconsidered. My price is now three thousand dollars."

"May I ask," spoke The Kid softly, "why yo' have reduced yo' offah?"

"Because," said the land dealer, "she has to sell now! I've got her where I want her, and if yo're her agent, yuh can tell her that!"

One stride, and Kid Wolf had fat Major Stover by the neck. For all his weight, and in spite of his bulk, The Kid handled him as if he had been a child. An upward jerk dragged him from his chair. The Texan held him by one muscular hand.

"So yo' have her where yo' want her, have yo'?" he cried, giving the major a powerful shake.

He pa.s.sed his other hand over the land agent's flabby body, poking the folds of fat here and there over Major Stover's ribs. At each thump the major flinched.

"Why, yo're as soft as an ovahripe pumpkin," Kid Wolf drawled, deliberately insulting. "And yo' dare to tell me that! No, don't try that!"

Major Stover had attempted to draw an ugly-looking derringer. The Kid calmly took it away from him and threw it across the room. He shook the land agent until his teeth rattled like dice in a box.

"Mrs. Thomas' ranch, sah," he said crisply, "is not in the mahket!"

With that he hurled the major back into his chair. There was a cras.h.i.+ng, rending sound as Stover's huge body struck it. The wood collapsed and the dazed land agent found himself sitting on the floor.

"I'll get yuh for this, blast yuh!" gasped the major, his bloated face red with rage. "Yo're goin' to get yores, d'ye hear! I've got power here, and yore life ain't worth a cent!"

"It's not in the mahket, eithah," the Texan drawled, as he strolled toward the door. At the threshold he paused.

"Yo've had yo' say, majah," he snapped, "and now I'll have mine. If I find that yo' are in any way responsible fo' the tragedies that have ovahtaken Mrs. Thomas, yo'd bettah see to yo' guns. Until then--adios!"

CHAPTER XII

THE S BAR SPREAD

The bartender of the La Plata Saloon put a bottle on the bar in front of the stranger, placing, with an added flourish, a thick-bottomed whisky gla.s.s beside it. This done, he examined the newcomer with an attentive eye, pretending to polish the bar while doing so.

The man he observed was enough to attract any one's notice, even in the cosmopolitan cow town of San Felipe. Kid Wolf was worth a second glance always. The bartender saw a lean-waisted, broad-shouldered young man whose face was tanned so dark as to belie his rather long light hair. He wore a beautiful s.h.i.+rt of fringed buckskin, and his boots were embellished with the Lone Star of Texas, done in silver.

Two single-action Colts of the old pattern swung low from his beaded belt.

"Excuse me, sir," said the bartender, "but yore drink?"

"Oh, yes," murmured The Kid, and placed a double eagle on the bar.

"No, yuh've already paid fer it." The bartender nodded at the whisky gla.s.s, still level full of the amber liquor. "I was just wonderin' why yuh didn't down it."

"Oh, yes," said Kid Wolf again. He picked up the gla.s.s between thumb and forefinger and deliberately emptied it into a handy cuspidor. "I leave that stuff to mah enemies," he said, smiling. "By the way, can yo' tell me where I can find a Mistah Mullhall, a Mistah Anton, a Mistah Lathum, a Mistah Wise, and a Mistah Steve Stacy?"

When the bartender could recover himself, he pointed out a table near the door.

"Wise an' Lathum an' Anton is right there--playin' monte," he said.

"Stacy an' Mullhall was here this mornin', but I don't see 'em now."

Thanking him, Kid Wolf sauntered away from the bar and approached the gambling table.

The La Plata Saloon was fairly well patronized, even though it lacked several hours until nightfall. Kid Wolf had taken the measure of the loiterers at a glance. Most of them were desperadoes. "Outlaw" was written over their hard faces, and he wondered if Ma Thomas hadn't been right about the county's general lawlessness. San Felipe seemed to be well supplied with gunmen.

The three men at the table, although they were "heeled" with .45s, were of a different type. They were cowmen first, gunmen afterward. Two were in their twenties; the other was older.

"I beg yo' pahdon, caballeros," said The Kid softly, as he came up behind them, "but I wish to talk with yo' in private. Wheah can we go?"

There was something in the Texan's voice and bearing that prevented questions just then. The trio faced about in surprise. Plainly, they did not know whether to take Kid Wolf for a friend or for a foe. Like true Westerners, they were not averse to finding out.

"We can use the back room," said one. "Come on, you fellas."

One of them delayed to make a final bet in the came, then he followed.

At a signal to the bartender, the back room, vacant, save for a dozen bottles, likewise empty, was thrown open to them.