hey'll get 'em," he muttered to himself.

He was alone in his place, the Idle Hour. He had sent every available
man, even his bartender, out on the chase. He wanted to finish, at all
costs, what he had begun.

"It was all due to that blasted hombre from Texas!" he groaned. "I
wish I had him here, curse him! It would've all gone smooth enough if
he hadn't meddled. Well, he'll pay! The boys will get him. And when
they do----" Hardy thumped the bar with his fist in fury.

He paced the floor angrily. The deserted building seemed to be getting
on his nerves, for he went behind the bar several times and, with
shaking fingers, poured stiff drinks of red whisky. Then he walked to
one of the deserted card tables and began to riffle the cards aimlessly.

There were two reasons why the rustling saloon keeper had not joined in
the search for his victims. One was that he hated to leave unprotected
the big safe in his office, which always contained a snug sum of money.
The other was that Jack Hardy was none too brave when it came to gun
fighting. He was still seated at the card table, laying out a game of
solitaire, when the swinging doors of the saloon opened quietly. The
first inkling Hardy had of a stranger's presence, however, was the soft
drawl of a familiar voice:

"Good mohnin', Mistah Hahdy! Enjoyin' a little game o' cahds?"

Hardy's body remained stiff and rigid for a breathless moment, frozen
with surprise. Then he turned his head, and his right hand moved
snakelike downward. Just a few inches it moved, then it stopped.
Hardy had thought he had a chance, and then he suddenly decided that he
hadn't. At his first glance, he had seen Kid Wolf's hands carelessly
at his sides; at his second, he saw them holding two .45s!

Kid Wolf's smile was mocking as he sauntered into the room. His thumbs
were caressing the gun hammers.

"No, it wouldn't be best," he drawled, "to monkey with that gun o'
yo'n. They say, yo' know, that guns are dangerous because they go off.
But the really dangerous guns are those that don't go off quick enough."

The rustler leader rose to his feet on shaking legs. His face had
paled to the color of paper, and beads of perspiration stood out on his
pasty forehead.

"Yuh--yuh got the drop, Mr. Wolf," he pleaded. "Don't kill me!"

"Nevah mind," the Texan said softly. "When yo' die, it'll be on a
rope. It's been waitin' fo' yo' a long time. But now I have some
business with yo'