The others watched breathlessly. This movement had taken the savages by surprise. The lad darted into the mesquites, running with head low.

Bullets buzzed about him, kicking up clouds of dust at his feet.

Arrows whistled after him. A yell went up from the Apaches.

"Will he make it?" groaned the father, in an agonized voice.

"Doubt it," said the guard.

The messenger sprinted at top speed through the brush, then dived down into an arroyo. A score of warriors swarmed after him, firing shot after shot from their rifles. Already the youth was out of arrow range.

The guard shaded his eyes with his hand. "He's got a chance, anyways,"

he decided.

The town of Lost Springs--if such a tiny settlement could have been called a town--sprawled in a valley of cottonwoods, a scattering of low-roofed adobes. To find such an oasis, after traveling the heat-tortured wilderness to the east or the west, was such relief to the wayfarer that few missed stopping.

There was but one public building in the place--a large building of plastered earth which was at the same time a saloon, a store, a gambling hall, and a meeting place for those who cared to partake of its hospitality.

The crude sign over the narrow door read: "Garvey's Place." It was enough. Garvey was the storekeeper, the master of the gamblers, and the saloon owner. Lost Springs was a one-man town, and that man was Gil Garvey. His reputation was not of the best. Dark marks had been chalked up against his record, and his past was shady, too. There were whispers, too, of even worse things. It was, however, a land where n.o.body asked questions. It was too dangerous. Garvey was accepted in Lost Springs because he had power.

It was a hot morning. The thermometer outside Garvey's door already registered one hundred and five. Heat devils chased one another across the valley. But inside the building it was comparatively cool.

Gla.s.ses tinkled on the long, smooth bar. The roulette wheel whirred, and even at that early hour, cards were being slapped down, faces up, at the stud-poker table. Including the customers at the bar, there were perhaps a dozen men in the house besides Garvey himself. Garvey was tending bar, which was his habit until noon, when his bartender relieved him.

Gil Garvey was a menacing figure of a man, ma.s.sive of build and sinister of face. His jet-black eyebrows met in the center of his scowling forehead, and under them gleamed eyes cold and dangerous. A thin wisp of a dark mustache contrasted with the quick gleam of his strong, white teeth. On the rare occasions when he laughed, his mirth was like the hungry snarl of a wolf.

The sprinkling of drinkers at the bar strolled over to watch the faro game, and Garvey, taking off his soiled ap.r.o.n, joined them, lighting a black cigar. The ruler of Lost Springs moved lightly on his feet for so heavy a man. Around his waist was a gun belt from which swung a silver-mounted .44 revolver in a beaded holster.

Suddenly a slim figure reeled through the open door, and with groping, outstretched arms, staggered forward.

"Apaches!" he choked.

Nearly every one leaped to his feet, hand on gun. Some rushed to the door for a look outside. A score of questions were fired at the newcomer.

"They're attackin' the stage at the foot of the pa.s.s!" explained the messenger.

There were sighs of relief at this bit of news, for at first they had thought that the red warriors were about to enter the town. But six miles away! That was a different matter.

"I'm Dave Robbins," the youth went on desperately. "I've got to go back there with help. When I left, they were holdin' 'em off. Fifty or sixty Indians!"

Some of the saloon customers began to murmur their sympathy. But it was evident that they were none too eager to go to the aid of the ambushed stagecoach.

Young Robbins--covered with dust, his face scratched by cactus thorns, and with an arrow still hanging from his clothing--saw the indifference in their eyes.

"Surely yuh'll go!" he pleaded. "Yuh--yuh've got to! My father's in the coach!"

Garvey spoke up, smiling behind his mustache.

"What could we do against sixty Apaches?" he demanded. "Besides, the men in the stage are dead ones by this time. We couldn't do any good."

Robbins' face went white. With clenched fists, he advanced toward Garvey.

"Yo're cowards, that's all!" he cried. "Cowards! And yo're the biggest one of 'em all!"

Garvey drew back his huge arm and sent his fist crashing into the youth's face. Robbins, weak and exhausted as he was, went sprawling to the floor.

And at that moment the swinging doors of the saloon opened wide. The man who stood framed there, sweeping the room with cool, calm eyes, was scarcely older than the youth who had been slugged down. His rather long, fair hair was in contrast with the golden tan of his face. He wore a shirt of fringed buckskin, open at the neck. His trousers were tucked into silver-studded riding boots, weighted with spurs that jingled in tune to his swinging stride. At each trim hip was the b.u.t.t of a .45 revolver.

The newcomer's eyes held the attention of the men in Garvey's Place.

They were blue and mild, but little glinting lights seemed to sparkle behind them. He was silent for a long moment, and when he finally spoke, it was in a soft, deliberate Southern drawl:

"Isn't it rathah wahm foh such violent exercise, gentlemen?"

Robbins, crimsoned at the mouth, raised on one elbow to look at the stranger. Garvey's lips curled in a sneer.

"Are yuh tryin' to mind my business?" he leered.

"When I mind somebody else's business," said the young stranger softly, "that somebody else isn't usually in business any moah."

Garvey caught the other's gaze and seemed to find something dangerous there, for he drew back a step, content with muttering oaths under his breath.

"What's the trouble?" the stranger asked Robbins quietly.

The youth seemed to know that he had found a friend, for he at once told the story of the ambushed stage.

"I came here for help," he concluded, "and was turned down. These men are afraid to go. My--my father's on that stage. Won't you help me?"

The stranger seemed to consider.

"Sho'," he drawled at length, "I'll throw in with you." He paused to face the gathered company. "And these othah men are goin' to throw in with yo', too!"

The men in the saloon stood aghast, open-mouthed. But they didn't hesitate long. When the stranger spoke again, his words came like the crack of a whip:

"Get yo' hosses!"

Garvey's heavy-jawed face went purple with fury. That this young unknown dared to try such high-handed methods so boldly in Lost Springs--which he ruled--maddened him! His big hand slid down toward his hip with the rapidity of a lightning bolt.

There was a resounding crash--a burst of red flame. Garvey's hand never closed over his gun b.u.t.t. The stranger had drawn and fired so quickly that n.o.body saw his arm move. And the reason that the amazed Garvey did not touch the handle of his .44 was because there was no handle there! The young newcomer's bullet had struck the b.u.t.t of the holstered gun and smashed it to bits.

Garvey stared at the handleless gun as if stupefied. Then his amazed glance fell upon the stranger, who was smiling easily through the flickering powder fumes.

"Who--who are yuh?" he stammered.

The stranger smiled. "Kid Wolf," he drawled, "from Texas, sah. My friends simply say 'Kid,' but to my enemies I'm The Wolf!"

CHAPTER XXII

THE RESCUE