United States or Micronesia ? Vote for the TOP Country of the Week !


They could see him raising his hand in a signal for them to halt. He came up in a cloud of dust, checked his pony, and surveyed the little party. His eyes at once sought out Kid Wolf. Goliday was a man of forty, black-haired and sallow of face. He wore a black coat and vest over a light-gray shirt. Beneath the former peeped the ivory handle of a .45. "Hello," panted the newcomer.

Br-r-rang, cling! Br-r-rang, ting! There were six coins, and The Kid fired six times. He never missed one! He picked the last one out of the air, three feet from the ground. Goliday watched this exhibition of uncanny target practice with bulging eyes. As the echoes of the last shot died away, he turned on The Kid with a bellow of wrath. "No, yo' don't!" Kid Wolf sang out.

At the crest of a mesquite-dotted swell of white sand, several hours later, The Kid paused to look over the situation that confronted him. Ahead of him, to the westward, were the buildings of the Goliday ranch. Strangely enough, there was no sign of life around it save for the horses in the large corral and the cattle meandering about the water hole. Was the entire ranch personnel in San Felipe?

The gun slid half out of its holster as he tipped it up. There was a noise in the little adobe like a thunderclap! A red pencil of flame streaked out between the two men. Then the smoke rolled out, dense and choking. Thud! A gun dropped to the hard, dirt floor. Goliday groped out with his two empty hands for support. His face was distorted. A long gasp came from his lips.

"Yuh can't convict a man on that," replied the ranchman with a forced laugh. "No?" The Kid drawled. "Well, that isn't all. The man who fired the death shot used a very peculiah revolvah very peculiar. The caliber was .45. Wait a moment a .45 with unusual riflin'." "Yo're crazy," said Goliday, but his face was pale.

Impossible! And yet he had seen no one. The Kid hoped that Goliday was not in town. A desert wash led its twisting way to one side of him, and he saw that by following its course he could reach the trees about the water hole unobserved. "Easy, Blizzahd," he said softly. The sand deadened the sound of the big white horse's hoofs as it took the dry wash at a speedy clip.

All mah life I've made it mah duty to right wrongs and not only that, but to put the wrongdoers wheah they can't commit any mo' wrongs. Goliday is the mastah mind in all this trouble. Is theah a sho't cut to his ranch?" Anton knew the trails of the district like a memorized map, and he gave The Kid detailed instructions.

The saddle shop was not far away. He strolled toward it, wading through the sand that reached nearly to his ankles. He paused in the doorway, and the hammering sound suddenly ceased. "Buenos dias," drawled the Texan. The man in the shop was Goliday! He had whirled about like a cat. The hammer slipped from his right hand and dropped to the hard-packed earth floor with a thud.

His eyes rolled wildly. "Don't kill me," he wheezed in an agony of fright. "It wasn't my fault. I I Goliday made me do it. He's the man behind me. D-don't kill me." Suddenly his head rolled to one side and his bulky body wilted. He sagged to the floor with a hiccupping sound. "Get up!" snapped the Texan. There was no response. The Kid felt of Stover's heart and straightened up with a low whistle.

They turned and saw a lone horseman riding toward them from the direction of San Felipe. The rider was astride a fast-pacing Indian pony and overhauling them rapidly. Since leaving the town, Kid Wolf's party had been in no hurry, and this had enabled the rider to overtake them. "It's Goliday," muttered Anton, shading his weather-beaten eyes with a brown hand. "Just who is he?" The Kid drawled.