"

Kid Wolf saw that two headboards had been erected near the shallow
graves. One of them had the following significant epitaph written on
it in neatly printed Spanish:

_Aqui llacen restos de Kid Wolf._

This in English was translated: "Here lies in the grave, at rest, Kid
Wolf."

The other headboard was the same, except that the name "Bill Robbins"
had been inserted.

"Those graves will be filled," sneered Garvey, "unless yuh both come
through. Now what's yore answer?"

"Garvey," spoke up Kid Wolf, "I've known of othah white men who hired
the Apaches to do their dirty work. They all came to a bad end. And
so, if yo' want my answah--take it!"

Garvey's gang found themselves staring into the muzzles of two .45s!

The draw had been magical, so swiftly had the Texan's hands snapped
down at his hips. Al Arnold, alone of the six riders, saw the movement
in time even to think about drawing his own weapon. And perhaps it
would have been better if he had not seen, for his own gun pull was
slow and clumsy in comparison with Kid Wolf's. His right hand had
moved but a few inches when the Texan's left-hand Colt spat a wicked
tongue of flame.

Before the thunder of the explosion could be heard, the leaden slug
tore its way through Arnold's wrist. Before the puff of black powder
smoke had drifted away, Arnold's gun was thudding to the ground. The
others dared not draw, as Kid Wolf's other six-gun still swept them.
They knew that the Texan could not fail to get one or more of them, and
they hesitated. Garvey himself remained motionless, frozen in the
saddle. His lips trembled with rage.

"I'm not a killah," Kid Wolf drawled. "I nevah take life unless it's
forced on me. If I did, I'd soon make Lost Springs a bettah place to
live in. Now turn yo' backs with yo' hands in the air--and ride! The
next time I shoot, it's goin' to be on sight! Vamose! Pronto!"

Muttering angrily under their breath, Garvey and his gunmen obeyed the
order. Yet Kid Wolf knew that the trouble had not been averted, but
merely postponed. He was not through with the Lost Springs bandit gang.

The driver of the coach--the only member of the posse who had remained
loyal in the face of peril--was a man of courage. Johnson was his
name, and he offered his adobe house as a place of refuge for the night.

"I'm thinkin' yuh'll be needin' it," he told the Texan. "We can stand
'em off there, for a while, anyway. Garvey will have a h