Kid Wolf of Texas Part 22

Kid Wolf's opponent was also an American, but one well known to the Mariposans. A stack of gold coins was piled in front of him, and he riffled the cards as he dealt in the manner of a professional. This man was young, also. He wore a green eye shade, and a diamond glittered in his fancy s.h.i.+rt. He was a gambler.

The game seesawed for a time. First Kid Wolf would make a small winning, and then the man with the green eye shade. Most of the bets, however, were so heavy as to make the Mexicans about the table gasp with envy.

But the crisis was coming. The deal pa.s.sed from the gambler to The Kid and back to the gambler again. The pot was already swollen from the antes. The Kid opened.

"I'm stayin'," said the gambler crisply. He pushed in a small pile of gold. "How many cards?"

"Two," murmured The Kid.

The gambler took one. The chances were, then, that he had two pairs, or was drawing to make a flush or a straight.

Carefully the two men looked at their cards. Not a muscle of their faces twitched. The gambler's face was frozen--as expressionless as an Indian's. Kid Wolf was his easy self. His usual smile was very much in evidence, unchanged. He made a bet--a large one, and the gambler called and raised heavily. The Kid boosted it again. Then there was a silence, broken only by the tense breathing of the onlookers, who had pushed even closer about the table.

"Five hundred more," said the gambler after a nerve-racking pause.

"And five," The Kid drawled softly, pus.h.i.+ng most of his gold into the center of the table.

The gambler's hand shook the merest trifle. Again he looked at the pasteboards in his pale hands. Then he quickly pushed every cent he had into the pot.

"I'm seeing it, and I'm elevatin' it every coin on me. It'll cost yuh--let's see--eight hundred and sixty more!"

It was more than the Texan had--by four hundred dollars. He could, however, stay for his stack. The man in the green eye shade could take out four hundred to even the bet. The Kid, though, did not do this.

"I'll just write an I O U fo' the balance," he drawled.

"But supposin' yore I O U ain't good?"

"Then this is good," said Kid Wolf.

The gambler stared. The Texan had placed a .45 on the table near his right hand. And it had been done so quickly that the onlookers exchanged glances. Who was this hombre?

"All right," growled the man in the green eye shade.

Kid Wolf wrote something with a pencil stub on a bit of paper. When finished, he tossed it to the center of the gold pile, carefully folded.

"That calls yo'," he said coolly. "What have yo'?"

Nervously, the gambler spread his hand face up on the table. His hands were shaking more than ever.

"A king full," he jerked out, wetting his lips.

Three kings and a pair of tens--a very good layout in a two-handed game with a huge pot at stake!

"Beats me," said The Kid. "I congratulate yo'."

With a sigh of relief, the gambler began to pull the winnings toward him.

"Better look at the I O U," The Kid drawled, "and see that it's all right and proper." As he spoke, he tossed his cards carelessly toward the gambler, face down.

The youth in the green eye shade unfolded the paper and looked at the writing within. His eyes widened a little and he looked again, blinking. Slowly the following words swam into his consciousness:

Son, you can't gamble worth a cent, but rake in the money and follow me in five minutes. I'll meet you back of the saloon. I'm your friend, Harry Thomas, and your mother's happiness is at stake.

The gambler's face went a bit paler. Only his poker face kept the astonishment out of his eyes. Slowly and furtively he looked at the cards Kid Wolf had tossed away so carelessly. The Texan had held four aces!

CHAPTER XIV

AT DON FLORISTO'S

In the moonlight, behind the El Chihuahense Saloon, Kid Wolf and the gambler met. The latter found The Kid leaning silently against a ruined adobe wall in the deserted alleyway. The sound of the music from within the gambling hall could be heard faintly. There was a silence after the two men faced each other. Harry Thomas finally broke it:

"How did yuh know me? I go by the name of Phil Hall here. And who are yuh?"

"Just call me The Kid," was the soft answer. "I knew yo' by yo' one brown and one black eye."

"What did yore note mean?"

"Harry, the S Bar is in great danger. Yo' father is dead, and yo'

mothah----" And then Kid Wolf told the story in full.

Harry Thomas listened in agitation. He was overcome with grief and remorse. His voice trembled when he spoke:

"I've been a fool," he blurted, "worse than a fool. Poor mother! What can I do now?"

"It isn't too late to help her," The Kid told him kindly. "Yo' mothah needs yo' badly. Findin' those stolen cattle wasn't so hahd, aftah all. Theah on Don Floristo's ranch just below heah. I've talked to the don, and let the remahk drop that I'm interested in cattle. So I am, but the don doesn't know in what way. He thinks I'm a rich gringo wantin' to buy some."

"Kid, I've learned my lesson. I'll never gamble again," said Harry earnestly.

Kid Wolf took his hand warmly.

"Don Floristo has already given orders that the six hundred head of S Bar steers are to be driven to Mariposa to-night. I am to ride south to his ranch and close the deal. Early manana the three loyal S Bar men will seize the cattle and drive them home. Yo' and I must help."

"Yo're riskin' yore life for strangers, Kid. Floristo is a dyed-in-the-wool villain. If he suspects anything, he'll cut yore throat. But I'm with yuh! Yuh've brought me to myself. I didn't suppose they made hombres like you!"

"Thanks, Harry. Now listen carefully and I'll tell yo' exactly what to do."

For a few minutes The Kid talked earnestly to young Thomas, outlining their night's work. Then Kid Wolf took leave of the young man--slipping back through the shadows to the street again.

Harry Thomas walked quickly to the Establo--Mariposa's biggest livery stable. Kid Wolf mounted his horse Blizzard. He struck off through the town at an easy trot and headed southward through the darkness.

Don Manuel Floristo's rancho was the largest in that part of Mexico.

Several thousand steers roamed his range--steers that for the most part bore doubtful brands. Don Floristo's reputation was not of the best.

His rancho was suspected of being a mere trading ground for stolen herds. Rustlers from both sides of the line made his land their objective.