n sudden silence.

Kid Wolf dragged the half-breed to the center of the room, holding him
by the scruff of the neck.

"Men," he said quietly, "this man is a murderah!" In a few more words,
he told the gathering what had happened.

From the very first, something seemed to warn The Kid of approaching
trouble. Was it his imagination, or was a look flashed between the
half-breed and several of the men in the room? He sensed an alert
tenseness in the faces of those who were listening. One of the men,
whom the Kid immediately put down as the owner of the saloon--Jack
Hardy--was staring insolently.

Hardy was flashily dressed, wearing fancy-stitched riding boots, a
fancy vest, and a short black coat, under which peeped the butt of a
silver-mounted .44. Kid Wolf's intuition told him that he was the man
he must eventually deal with.

The saloon owner had been watching the faro game. Now, having heard
Kid Wolf out, he turned his back and deliberately faced the layout
again.

"Go on with the game," he sneered to the dealer.

There was a world of contempt in his silky voice, and Kid Wolf flushed
under his tan. Hardy pretended to ignore the visitor completely. The
faro dealer slid one card and then another from his box; the case
keeper moved a button or two on his rack. Then the dealer raked in the
winnings from the losers. The game was going on as usual. The
gamblers, taking their cue from Jack Hardy, turned to their games
again. It was as if Kid Wolf had never existed.

The Kid took a firmer hold on the wriggling half-breed. "Do yo' know
this man?" he demanded of the proprietor.

Hardy turned in annoyance, his black brows elevated sarcastically.

"It's 'Tucumcari Pete,'" he mocked. "What is it to yuh?"

Looking at the faro lookout, perched on his high stool, he winked. The
lookout returned it knowingly.

Kid Wolf's eyes blazed. He had told his story so that all could hear.
None had paid it any attention. All these men, then, were dishonest
and unfriendly toward law and order.

"I want yo' to understand me," he said in a voice he tried to make
patient. "This hombre--Tucumcari Pete, yo've called him--shot and
killed a man from ambush. Isn't there any law heah?"

With long, tapered fingers, Jack Hardy rolled a cigarette, placed it
between his lips and leered insultingly.

"There's only one law in Midway," he laughed evilly, "and that law is
that all strangers must attend to their own business. N