"So far," McCay went on, "there's been no bloodshed. To-day it seems he's had Hodgson murdered. Looks as if things are about ripe for war!"

"He seems to have mo' men than yo'," murmured Kid Wolf.

"Yuh don't know the half of it. A dozen more of his hired gunmen rode south on the Chisholm Trail this mornin'."

"What does that signify?"

"Plenty," McCay explained. "Six o' my men are drivin' fifteen hundred steers up this way. Quite a haul, yuh see, for Hardy. They're due here tonight. If they don't get here----" The big man's wide mouth hardened.

"But I'm afraid I'm a poor host," he added apologetically. "Yuh'll have supper and stay the night with us, I'm sure. Tip, you an' Scotty go out and bring in The Kid's hoss."

The Texan consented, thanking him, and all began to make preparations for the night. The big general store seemed more like a fort in time of war than anything else. Some of the men slept on the counters in the main room. A place was made for Kid Wolf in the rear. Sentries were on watch during the entire night, which pa.s.sed uneventfully.

In the morning, just as the dawn was glowing in the east, the Texan was awakened by a horrified cry. All rushed to the front windows. Across the wide street, over the Idle Hour Saloon, a man was dangling, suspended from the roof by a rope! It was Durham--the man who had given Kid Wolf the cigarette-paper note. Some one had seen him in the act, and the fiends had lynched him.

"That settles it," said Kid Wolf grimly, turning to McCay. "I reckon I'm throwin' in with yo'. My guns are at yo' service!"

It was a situation not uncommon in that wilderness where "the law isn't, and the six-shooter is." Kid Wolf, however, had never seen a bolder attempt to trample on the rights of honest men. His veins beat hot at the thought of it. And Jack Hardy seemed to have the power to see it through to its murderous end.

It was not long after the discovery of Durham's murder when Tip McCay brought in a new note that had been pinned to the door.

"It was put there durin' the night some time, probably by one o'

Hardy's sneakin' half-breeds, because none o' our sentries saw any one the whole night through," Tip said.

The note was roughly penciled on a sheet of yellow paper, and the message it carried was significant:

Ef yu will all walk out of their without yore guns we promiss no harm will com to yu. Ef yuh dont, we will get yu to the last man. We alreddy got yore cattel. This offer dont go fer Kid Wolf. We no hes their and we aim to kill him!

"They don't like me." The Texan laughed. "Well, I don't want 'em to.

What do yo' intend to do, sah?"

The elder McCay's face was very red. His fingers, as he tore the insolent letter to bits, were trembling with anger.

"I say let 'em hop to it!" he jerked out. "I ain't givin' in to anybody!"

The others cheered. And it was a fighting group of men who gathered for a conference as to the defense of the store. It was agreed that their position was a serious one, outnumbered as they were.

Just how serious, they soon found out, for at the rising of the sun--as if it had been a signal--a burst of gunfire blazed out from the saloon across the street. Splinters flew from the logs as bullets thudded into them. Several whined through the two windows and crashed into the wall.

Kid Wolf took an active part in quickly getting ready for a stand. The windows and the doors were heavily barricaded, at his suggestion.

Sacks of flour, salt, and other supplies were piled over the openings, as these were best for stopping lead. Mattresses were stuffed behind the barricade for further protection, and just enough s.p.a.ce was left clear to allow a gun to be aimed through.

The volley from the Idle Hour had injured no one. The firing continued more or less steadily, however, and an occasional slug ripped its way between the logs. Jack Hardy's gang were firing at the c.h.i.n.ks.

Up until this time, the defenders had not fired a shot. Even now, after the preparations had been made, Kid Wolf advised against wasting ammunition. The rustler gang were firing from the cover of the saloon, and were well protected.

"Hunt up all the guns heah," the Kid cried, "and load 'em. If they rush us, we'll need to shoot fast!"

Several rifles were hunted up--Winchesters and two muzzle-loading Sharps .50s. There were also a powder-and-ball buffalo gun of the old pattern, and, to Kid Wolf's delight, a sawed-off, double-barreled shotgun.

In the light of the early morning, each detail of the grim scene was brought out minutely. It was a picture Kid Wolf never forgot! Across the street that formed the No Man's Land was the saloon, wreathed in powder smoke, as guns spat sullen flame. And swinging slightly above the splintered green-shuttered doors was the dead body of Durham, neck stretched horribly, head on breast. It seemed a grotesque phantom, warning them of death to come.

The horses had been run into the back of the store itself, as a protection against flying bullets. Kid Wolf suggested that they be saddled, so that they would be ready for use if occasion demanded it.

"We might have to make a run fo' it at any time," he warned.

The firing from the saloon went on for nearly an hour. Then there was a sudden lull.

"Look out now!" The Kid exclaimed. "Looks like they mean to rush us!"

"We'll cure 'em o' that!" Old Beef McCay cried grimly. He picked up the sawed-off shotgun.

The Texan was right. A yell went up from the saloon, and a dozen men rushed out, firing as they came. Six others carried a heavy beam, evidently torn from the interior of the Idle Hour. It was their intention to use this as a battering-ram to smash in the door of the store.

The cry from the defenders was "Let 'em have it!"

The terrific thunder of the shotgun and the buffalo rifle blended with the loud roar of six-guns. Hammers fell with deadly regularity. Fire blazed from every loophole and shooting s.p.a.ce.

When the smoke cleared away, Tip McCay emitted a whoop that the others echoed. The charge had been stopped, and very effectively. The big beam lay on the ground, with the writhing bodies of four men around it.

The "scatter gun" had accounted for three of them; Kid Wolf had put the other out of business with bullets through both legs. A little to one side were two more of the outlaws, one of whom had been brought down by Tip McCay, the other by the lantern-jawed, slow-spoken plainsman known as Scotty. The others had beaten a quick retreat to the shelter of the saloon.

CHAPTER VIII

ONE GAME HOMBRE

Hardy's gang did not attempt another rush. They had learned their lesson. Keeping under cover, they continued firing steadily, however, and their bullets began to do damage. Every crack and c.h.i.n.k was a target.

In the afternoon, more riders arrived to swell the Hardy faction. Some were ugly, half-clothed Indians, armed with rusty guns and bows and arrows. The odds were steadily increasing.

As there was ample food and water in the storehouse to last for several days, the besieged had no worries on that score. McCay knew, though, and Kid Wolf realized, that nightfall would bring trouble. Hardy was stung now by the loss of several men, and he would not do things by halves. He would show no mercy.

The first casualty took place in midafternoon. Anderson, in the act of aiming his revolver through a loophole, was. .h.i.t between the eyes by a bullet and instantly killed. The number of men defending the store was now cut down to seven.

Toward nightfall, tragedy overtook them, full force. Old Beef McCay was in the act of reloading a gun when a treacherous bullet zipped spitefully through an opening between two logs and caught him low in the chest. The impact sent him staggering against the wall, his round, moonlike face white and drawn.

"Dad!" called out Tip, in an agony of grief.

He and Kid Wolf rushed to the wounded man, supporting his great weight as it slowly sagged.

"Got me--son!" the cattleman jerked out.

Quickly the Texan tore away his shirt. He did not have to examine the wound to see how deadly it was; one glance was enough. Shot a few inches under the heart, McCay was dying on his feet.