litan cow town of San Felipe. Kid Wolf was worth a second
glance always. The bartender saw a lean-waisted, broad-shouldered
young man whose face was tanned so dark as to belie his rather long
light hair. He wore a beautiful shirt of fringed buckskin, and his
boots were embellished with the Lone Star of Texas, done in silver.
Two single-action Colts of the old pattern swung low from his beaded
belt.

"Excuse me, sir," said the bartender, "but yore drink?"

"Oh, yes," murmured The Kid, and placed a double eagle on the bar.

"No, yuh've already paid fer it." The bartender nodded at the whisky
glass, still level full of the amber liquor. "I was just wonderin' why
yuh didn't down it."

"Oh, yes," said Kid Wolf again. He picked up the glass between thumb
and forefinger and deliberately emptied it into a handy cuspidor. "I
leave that stuff to mah enemies," he said, smiling. "By the way, can
yo' tell me where I can find a Mistah Mullhall, a Mistah Anton, a
Mistah Lathum, a Mistah Wise, and a Mistah Steve Stacy?"

When the bartender could recover himself, he pointed out a table near
the door.

"Wise an' Lathum an' Anton is right there--playin' monte," he said.
"Stacy an' Mullhall was here this mornin', but I don't see 'em now."

Thanking him, Kid Wolf sauntered away from the bar and approached the
gambling table.

The La Plata Saloon was fairly well patronized, even though it lacked
several hours until nightfall. Kid Wolf had taken the measure of the
loiterers at a glance. Most of them were desperadoes. "Outlaw" was
written over their hard faces, and he wondered if Ma Thomas hadn't been
right about the county's general lawlessness. San Felipe seemed to be
well supplied with gunmen.

The three men at the table, although they were "heeled" with .45s, were
of a different type. They were cowmen first, gunmen afterward. Two
were in their twenties; the other was older.

"I beg yo' pahdon, caballeros," said The Kid softly, as he came up
behind them, "but I wish to talk with yo' in private. Wheah can we go?"

There was something in the Texan's voice and bearing that prevented
questions just then. The trio faced about in surprise. Plainly, they
did not know whether to take Kid Wolf for a friend or for a foe. Like
true Westerners, they were not averse to finding out.

"We can use the back room," said one. "Come on, you fellas."

One of them delayed to make a final bet in the came, then he followed.
At a