Kid Wolf decided to make one last appeal. If Modoc were insane, it seemed terrible that these others should be led to their doom on that account. Only the Texan could fully appreciate their peril. The wagon train was loaded with valuable goods, for these men were traders. The Terror would welcome such plunder, and it was his custom never to leave a man alive to carry the tale.

"Men," he said, "yo'-all got to believe me! Yo're in terrible danger, and off the right road. One man has already given his life to save yo', and now I'm ready to give mine, if necessary. Let me stay with yo' and guide yo' to safety, fo' yo' own sakes! Mah two guns are at yo' service, and if The Terror strikes, I'll help yo' fight."

The advance guard heard him out. Unbelief was written on all their faces.

"I think yuh'd better take Modoc's advice," one of them said finally, "and git! We can take care of ourselves."

His heart heavy, Kid Wolf shrugged and turned away. The rebuff hurt him, not on his own account, but because these blindly trusting men were being deceived. Modoc, whether purposely or not, had led them astray.

He was about to ride away when his eyes fell upon the foremost of the wagons, which was now creaking up, pulled by its straining team. Kid Wolf gave a start. Thrust out of the opening in the canvas was a child's head, crowned with golden hair. There were women and children, then, in this ill-fated outfit!

The Texan rode his horse over to the wagon and smiled at the youngster.

It was a boy of three, chubby-faced and brown-eyed.

"h.e.l.lo, theah," Kid called. "What's yo' name?"

The baby returned the smile, obviously interested in this picturesque stranger.

"Name's Jimmy Lee," was the lisped answer. "I'm goin' to Santa Fe.

Where you goin'?"

Kid Wolf gulped. He could not reply. There was small chance that this little boy would ever reach Santa Fe, or anywhere else. Tears came to his eyes, and he wheeled Blizzard fiercely.

"Good-by!" came the small voice.

"Good-by, Jimmy Lee," choked the Texan.

When he looked back again at the wagon train, he could still see a small, golden head gleaming in the first prairie schooner.

"Blizzahd," muttered Kid Wolf, "we've just got to help those people, whethah they want it or not."

He pretended to head eastward, but when he was out of sight of the wagon train, he circled back and drummed west at a furious clip. The only thing he could do, he saw now, was to go to Santa Fe for help.

With the obstinate traders headed directly across the Llano, they were sure to meet with trouble. If he could bring back a company of soldiers from that Mexican settlement, he might aid them in time. "If they won't let me help 'em at this end," he murmured, "I'll have to help 'em at the othah."

The town of Santa Fe--long rows of flat-topped adobes nestling under the mountain--was at that day under Spanish rule. Only a few Americans then lived within its limits.

It was a thriving, though sleepy, town, as it was the gateway to all Chihuahua. A well-beaten trail left it southward for El Paso, and its main street was lined with cantinas--saloons where mescal and tequila ran like water. There were gambling houses of ill repute, an open court for c.o.c.kfighting, and other pastimes. The few gringos who were there looked, for the most part, like outlaws and fugitives from the States.

It lacked a few hours until sunset when Kid Wolf drummed into the town.

The mountains were already beginning to cast long shadows, and the sounds of guitars and singing were heard in the gay streets.

Galloping past the plazas, the Texan at once went to the presidio--the palace of the governor. It was of adobe, like the rest of the buildings, but the thick walls were ornately decorated with stone. It was a fortress as well as a dwelling place, and it contained many rooms. Several dozen rather ragged soldiers were loafing about the presidio when Kid Wolf reached it, for a regiment was stationed in the town.

Kid Wolf sought an interview with the governor at once, but in spite of his pleading, he was told to return in two hours. "The most honored and respected Governor Manuel Quiroz," it seemed, was busy. If the senor would return later, Governor Quiroz would be highly pleased to see him.

There was nothing to do but wait, and the Texan decided to be patient.

He spent an hour in caring for his horse and eating his own hasty meal.

Then, finding some time on his hands, he walked through the plaza, watching the crowds with eyes that missed nothing.

He found himself in a street where frijoles, peppers, and other foods were being offered for trade or barter. Cooking was even being done in open-air booths, and the air was heavy with seasoning and spice. Here and there was a drinking place, crowded with revelers. It was evidently some sort of feast day in Santa Fe.

In front of one of the wine shops a little knot of men and soldiers had gathered. All were flushed with drink and talking loudly in their own tongue. One of them--a captain in a gaudy uniform--saw the Texan and made a laughing remark to his companions.

Kid Wolf's face flushed under its tan. His eyes snapped, but he continued his walk. He had too much on his mind just then to resent insults.

But the captain had noticed his change of expression. The gringo, then, knew Spanish. His remarks became louder, more offensive. More than half intoxicated, he called jeeringly:

"I was just saying, senor, that many men who wear two guns do not know how to use even one. You understand, senor? Or perhaps the senor does not know the Spanish?"

Kid Wolf turned quietly.

"The senor knows the Spanish," he said softly.

The captain turned to his companions with a knowing wink. Then he addressed the Texan.

"Then, amigo, that is well," he mocked. "Perhaps the senor can shoot also. Perhaps the senor could do this."

A peon stood near by, and the captain pulled off the fellow's straw sombrero and tossed it into the street. The wind caught it and the hat sailed for some distance. With a quick movement the Spanish captain drew a pistol from his belt and fired. With a sharp report, a round, black hole appeared in the hat, low in the crown.

The crowd murmured its admiration at this feat. The captain stroked his thin black mustache and smiled proudly.

"Perhaps the senor might find that difficult to do," he mocked.

"Quien sabe?" Kid Wolf shrugged and started to pa.s.s on. He did not care to make a public exhibition of his shooting, especially when he had graver matters on his mind. But the jeers and taunts that broke loose from the half-drunken a.s.sembly were more than any man could endure, especially a Texan with fiery Southern blood in his veins. He turned, smiling. His eyes, however, were as cold as ice.

"Why," he asked calmly, "should I mutilate this po' man's hat?" His words were spoken in perfectly accented Spanish.

"The hat? Ah," mocked the captain, "if the senor hits it, I will pay for it with gold."

Kid Wolf drew his left-hand Colt so quickly that no man saw the motion.

Before they knew it, there was a sudden report that rolled out like thunder--six shots, blended into one stuttering explosion. He had emptied his gun in a breath!

A gust of wind blew away the cloud of black powder smoke, and the crowd stared. Then some one began to laugh. It was taken up by others.

Even the customers in the booths chuckled at Kid Wolf's discomfiture.

The captain's laugh was the loudest of all.

"Six shots the senor took," he guffawed, "and missed with them all!

Ah, didn't I tell you that the Americans are bluffers, like their game of poker? This one carries two guns and cannot use even one!"

Kid Wolf smiled quietly. A faint look of amus.e.m.e.nt was in his eyes.

"Maybe," he drawled, "yo'-all had bettah look at that hat."

Curiously, and still smiling, some of the loiterers went over to examine the target. When they had done so, they cried out in amazement. It was true that just one bullet hole showed in the front of the sombrero. The captain's shot had drilled that one. Naturally all had supposed that the gringo had missed. Such was not the case.

All of Kid Wolf's six bullets had pa.s.sed through the captain's bullet mark! For the back of the hat was torn by the marks of seven slugs!

Some one held the sombrero aloft, and the excited crowd roared its approval and enthusiasm. Never had such shooting been seen within the old city of Santa Fe.