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Updated: June 10, 2025
Smoke spurted from windows and other points of vantage and hung wavering in the heated air. The shattering of woodwork told of heavy slugs finding their rest, and the whines that grew and diminished in the air sang the course of .45s. While the fight raged hottest Mr.
He had seen deliberate murder committed, an unsuspecting man shot down from ambush. His voice rang out: "Drop that rifle and put up yo' hands!" The soft drawl of the South was in his accents, but there was nothing soft about his tone. The half-breed whirled about, then slowly loosened his hold on his gun. It thudded to the grass. On a line with his bare chest was one of Kid Wolf's big-framed .45s.
The table went into kindling wood; chips and markers flew! A chair banged against the lookout's high perch, just as he was bringing his sawed-off shotgun to his shoulder. Br-r-r-ram, bang! The double charge went into the ceiling, as the lookout toppled to the floor to join his companions, now a mass of waving arms and legs. Kid Wolf's twin .45s had come out as if by magic. He ducked low.
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