_ CHAPTER II. A THANKLESS TASK
Modoc waited, as if for an answer, and when it did not come, his face took on an expression of anger, in which cunning seemed to be mingled.
"What's yore message?" he rasped.
It took Kid Wolf several seconds to recover his composure. Was the wagon train being led to its doom by a madman? What did Modoc mean by his low-voiced, mysterious query? Or did he mean anything at all? The Texan put it down as the raving of a mind unbalanced by hardship and peril.
"I suppose yo'-all know," he drawled loudly enough for them all to hear, "that yo're on the most dangerous paht of the Llano, and that yo're off the road to Santa Fe."
"Yo're a liar!" the train commander snarled.
Kid Wolf tried to keep his anger from mounting. This was the thanks he got for trying to help these people!
"I'll prove it," sighed the kid patiently. "What rivah was that yo' crossed a few days ago?"
"Why, the Red River; we crossed it long ago," Modoc sneered. "Yo're either a liar or a fool, Kid! And I'd advise yuh to mind yore own business."
"Call me 'Wolf,'" said the Texan, a ring of steel in his voice. "I'm just 'The Kid' to friends. Others call me by mah last name. And speakin' of the trail, that wasn't the Red Rivah yo' crossed. It was the Wichita. And yo' must have gone ovah the Wichita Mountains, too."
"The Wichita!" ejaculated one of the other men. "Why, Modoc, yuh told us----"
"And I told yuh right!" said the leader furiously. "I've been over this route before, and I know just where we are."
"Yo're in The Terror's territory," drawled The Kid softly. "And I've heahd from a reliable source that he's planned to raid yo'."
The others paled at the mention of The Terror. But Modoc raised his voice in fury.
"Who are yuh goin' to believe?" he shouted. "This upstart, or me? Why, for all we know"--his voice dropped to a taunting sneer--"he might be a spy for The Terror himself--probably measurin' the strength of our outfit!"
The other men seemed to hesitate. Then one of them spoke out:
"Reckon we'll believe you, Modoc. We don't know this man, and we've trusted yuh so far."
Modoc grinned, showing a line of broken and tobacco-stained teeth. He looked at Kid Wolf triumphantly.
"Now I'll tell you a few things, my fine young fellow," he leered. "Burn the wind out o' here and start pronto, before yuh get a bullet through yuh. Savvy?"
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.
"Hello, 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 cockfighting, 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 pass 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 assembly 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 amusement 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 passed 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.
The Spanish captain, after his first gasp of surprise, had nothing to say. Chagrin and disgust were written over his face. If ever a man was crestfallen, the captain was. He hated to be made a fool of, and this quiet man from Texas had certainly accomplished it.
He was about to slink off when Kid Wolf drawled after him:
"Oh, captain! Pahdon, but haven't yo' forgotten somethin'?"
"What do you mean?" snapped the other.
"Yo' were goin' to pay for this man's sombrero, I believe," said Kid Wolf softly, "in gold."
"Bah!" snarled the officer. "That I refuse to do!"
The Texan's hand snapped down to his right Colt. A blaze of flame leaped from the region of his hip. Along with the crashing roar of the explosion came a sharp, metallic twang.
The bullet had neatly clipped away the captain's belt buckle! A yell of laughter rang out on all sides. For the captain's trousers, suddenly unsupported, slipped down nearly to his knees. With a cry of dismay, the disgruntled officer seized them frantically and held them up.
"Reach down in those," drawled the Texan, "and see if yo' can't find that piece of gold!"
The officer, white with rage in which hearty fear was mingled, obeyed with alacrity, pulling out a gold coin and handing it, with an oath, to the peon whose hat he had ruined.
"
Muchas gracias," murmured Kid Wolf, reholstering his gun. "And now, if the fun's ovah, I must bid yo'
buenas tardes. Adios!"
And doffing his big hat, the Texan took his departure with a sweeping bow, leaving the captain glaring furiously after him. _