_ 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 chink 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 hit 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.
"I'm done--all right," he grunted. "Listen, Tip. And you, Kid Wolf. I know yo're a true-blue friend. I want yuh to recover those cattle, if yuh ever get out of here alive. Yuh promise to try?" He turned glazing eyes at the Texan. "The cattle should go--to Tip's mother. She's in Dodge City."
"Believe me, sah," promised Kid Wolf earnestly, "if we evah get out of this trap alive, Tip and I will do ouah best."
The stricken man's face lighted. He grasped his son, Tip, with one hand, the Texan with the other.
"I'll pass on easier now."
Suddenly he drew himself up to his full height of well over six feet, squared his enormous shoulders, and with crimson welling from his wound, walked firmly and steadily to the door and began kicking the barricade aside.
"What are yuh doin'?" one of the defenders cried, thinking he was delirious from his hurt.
McCay, fighting against the weakness that threatened to overcome him, turned with a smile, grim and terrible.
"I'm goin' out there," he said, "to take some of those devils--with me!"
In vain Kid Wolf and Tip attempted to restrain him. The old man waved them back.
"I'm done for, anyway," he said. "I haven't got ten minutes to live. What if they do fill me with lead? I'll get one or two while they're doin' it!"
He seemed stronger now than ever. Sheer will power was keeping him on his feet. Seizing two revolvers, one in each big fist, he wabbled through the door.
With horror-widened eyes, they watched his reeling progress. He faltered to the hitch rack with bullets humming all around him. He clung to it for a moment, then went on, stalking toward the Idle Hour like grim vengeance! His guns sputtered red fire and bursts of black powder smoke. Hit time after time--they could see the dust fly from his clothing as he staggered along under the dreadful impacts--he kept going. It was glorious, terrible!
Tip hid his eyes, with a despairing cry. Kid Wolf watched, his face white under his sunburn.
Up to the very door of the Hardy refuge, the old man walked, his guns hammering claps of thunder. Hit several times in the body, he sprawled once and fell, but was on his feet again before the smoke drifted away. He plunged through the door, and The Kid saw two men drop under his blazing guns. Then McCay, too, fell--for the last time.
"Yo' dad was one game hombre, Tip," murmured the Texan, putting a comforting hand on the boy's shoulder. "Let's hope that when ouah turn comes, we can go as bravely."
He had never seen such an exhibition of undaunted courage. Although the tragedy had clutched at his heart, the spectacle had thrilled him, too. He knew that if he should escape, he would do his best to make good his promise to Old Beef McCay!
The McCay store was surrounded on all sides, and its four walls were scarred and pitted with bullet holes. And night was coming on rapidly. Kid Wolf saw the peril of their position. He knew, only too well, that the darkness would add to their troubles.
Twilight was deepening into dusk. Soon it became dark, and the moon would not be up for an hour. Kid Wolf, Tip McCay, and their four companions were never more alert. But even their keen eyes could not watch everything.
Young McCay was very pale. His father's death had touched him deeply, and fury against his killers burned in his glance. The others, too, were grim, thinking not of their own peril, but of the murderous Hardy gang. Thirsty for vengeance, they kept their eyes glued to their peepholes, fingers on gun triggers.
Tip had found a friend in Kid Wolf. No words were wasted on sympathy now, or regrets, but Tip knew that the drawling Texan understood.
There was little shooting being done now, and the suspense was telling on the nerves of all of them. What was Hardy up to? Would he again attempt to batter down the door and force a way in, under cover of darkness this time? But they were not left long in doubt.
"I smell smoke!" cried Blake.
Immediately afterward a sharp, crackling sound came to their ears. Hardy's gang had set fire to the store! Under cover of darkness, one of the slinking Indians had crept up and ignited a pile of oil-soaked rags against the logs of the building. The flames rose high, licking hungrily upward.
"Get water!" some one shouted.
A bucketful or two from their supply tossed accurately through a loophole by Kid Wolf extinguished the blaze before it could rise higher. It was a close call, and it showed them what to expect now. The Indian's mistake had been in setting his fire where it could be reached by the defenders.
"We were pretty blamed lucky," Caldwell began. "If thet fire----"
"Not so lucky," sang out the Texan. "Look at
that!"
From the direction of the saloon, a half dozen streaks of flame shot up into the sky like so many rockets. Fire whistled in the wind. The streaks were burning arrows, fired by Hardy's red-skinned cutthroats!
"That settles it!" groaned Tip resignedly. "They're fallin' on the roof!"
It was a wonder Hardy's evil brain hadn't thought of it before. Possibly some of his savage recruits had suggested it. At any rate, it was more to the rustler chief's purpose than smashing in the door. It would soon be all over for the defenders now.
In a breath, the roof was afire. Little jets of smoke began to spurt down from the beams over their heads, and the flames were fanned into a roar by the wind. Desperately the little handful of fighters exchanged glances. Things looked black indeed. They could not remain long in the burning death trap, and outside was Hardy's gang, waiting in the darkness to shoot them down if they ventured to escape.
"Steady, boys!" encouraged the Texan. "Theah may be a chance fo' us yet."
But one of them--Blake--was overcome with terror. In spite of what the others did to restrain him, he ran outside, tearing his way through the barricade. His hands were raised wildly over his head in token of surrender. But that made no difference to Hardy. There was a dull spat, and Blake went sprawling, shot through the heart.
"I hope nobody else tries that," drawled The Kid. "When we go, let's go togethah. By the light of this fiah they can see the colah of ouah eyes. We haven't a chance in the world to escape that way."
"We can't stay here and burn to death!" groaned Terry White.
The heat and smoke were driving them out of the main room. Already flames were creeping down the walls, and the air was as hot as the breath of an oven. Their faces were blistered, their exposed hands cooked. Tip's coat was afire, as all five of them made a dash for the smaller room, taking the extra guns and ammunition with them.
This gave them a short respite. As yet the fire had not reached this apartment, although it would not take long. The smoke was soon so thick as nearly to be blinding. Stationing themselves at the loopholes, they began to work havoc with their rifles and revolvers. For the outlaws, bolder now, had ventured closer and made good targets in the glare of the burning building.
Suddenly there was a tremendous crash. The roof over the main room had come smashing in! Instantly the fire roared louder; tongues of it began to lick through the walls. Wood popped, and the heat became maddening. One side of the room became a mass of flames. The imprisoned men began to wet their clothing with the little water that was left.
"The stable!" ordered Kid Wolf. "Quick!"
The stable was built against the side of the store in the rear, and a door of the smaller room opened into it. There they must make their last stand.
The horses--and among them was Kid Wolf's white charger, Blizzard--were trembling with fear. They seemed to know, as well as their masters, that they were in terrible danger.
"We'll make ouah get-away with 'em, when the time comes," drawled the Texan.
"Not a chance in the world, Kid!" Tip groaned.
"Just leave it to me," was the quiet reply. "We've got a slim chance, if mah idea works."
Fanned by the wind, the flames soon were eating at the stable. And once caught, it burned like tinder. The horses screamed as the fire licked at them, and all was confusion. To make matters worse, bullets ripped through continually.
The Hardy band had gathered about the burning buildings in a close ring, ready to shoot down any one the instant he showed himself. The situation looked hopeless.
"Stay in there if yuh want to!" a voice shouted outside. "Burn up, or take lead! It's all the same to us!"
The heat-tortured Scotty staggered to his feet and groped toward one of the plunging, screaming horses.
"Lead is the easiest way," he choked. "They'll get me, but I'm goin' to try and ride this hoss out o' here!"
"Wait a minute!" Kid Wolf cried. "All get yo' hosses ready and make the break when I say the word. But not until!"
Gritting their teeth, they prepared to endure the baking heat for a few minutes more. They did not know what Kid Wolf was going to do, but they had faith that he would do something. And they knew, as things stood, that they could not hope for anything but death if they tried to escape now.
The stable was a mass of flames. The walls were crumbling and falling in. The Texan gave his final orders.
"If any of us get through," he gasped, "we'll meet on the Chisholm Trail--below heah. Ride hard, with heads low--when I say the word!"
Then Kid Wolf played his trump card. Upon leaving the store itself, he had taken a small keg with him--a powder keg. Until now, none of the others had noticed it. Holding it in his two hands, he darted through the door into the open! Bits of burning wood were all about him; flames licked at his boots as he stood upright, the keg over his head.
"Scattah!" he shouted at the astonished Hardy gang. "I'm blowin' us all to kingdom come!"
The Texan made a glorious picture as he stood there, framed in red and yellow. Fire was under his feet and on every side. The glow of it illuminated his face, which was stained with powder smoke and blackened by the flames. His eyes shone joyously, and a laugh of defiance and recklessness was on his lips as he swung the poised keg aloft.
The Hardy gang, frozen with terror for an instant, scattered. They ran like frightened jack rabbits. To shoot Kid Wolf would have been easy, but none of them dared to attempt it. For if the keg was dropped, one spark would set it off. Overcome with panic, the ring of outlaws melted into the night.
The Texan gave the signal, and Tip, Caldwell, Scotty, and White tore out of the doorway on their frightened horses, heads low, scattering as they came. Kid Wolf whistled sharply for Blizzard and pulled himself effortlessly into the saddle as the big white horse went by at a mad gallop. He tossed away the keg as he did so.
The Hardy faction began shooting then, but it was too late. Bullets hummed over the heads of the escaping riders, but not one found its mark.
Kid Wolf found himself riding alongside Tip McCay. The others had taken different routes. The sounds of guns behind them were rapidly growing fainter, and they were hidden by the pitch darkness. Kid Wolf heard Tip laughing to himself--a rather high-pitched, nervous laugh.
"Are yo' all right, Tip?" sang out the Texan.
"Great! Yore plan worked to a T! But do yuh know what was in that powder keg yuh used?"
"Yes, I knew all the time," chuckled The Kid. "It wasn't powdah at all. It was lime. I found that out when I tried to load a Sharps rifle from it. But just the same, Tip, the bluff worked!" _