he mused to himself. "Those aren't stahs, or
camp fiahs. Oil lamps mean a settlement."

Camps of any size were few and far between on the old Chisholm Trail.
The moon was creeping up as Kid Wolf and his prisoner arrived, and by
its light, as well as the few lights of the town, he could see that the
word "town" flattered the place known as "Midway."

There were a few scattered sod houses, and on the one street were two
large buildings, facing each other on opposite sides of the road. The
first was a saloon, brilliantly lighted in comparison to the
semidarkness of the other, which seemed to be a general store. A sign
above it read:

THE IDEL HOUR SALOONE

Below it, in similar letters, the following was spelled out, or rather
misspelled:

JACK HARDY
OWNER AND PROPRIATER

As the only life of Midway seemed to be centered here, Kid Wolf drew up
his horse, Blizzard, dismounted, and dragged his prisoner to the
swinging green doors that opened into the Idle Hour Saloon.

Pushing the half-breed through by main strength, he found himself in a
big room, lighted by three oil lamps and reflectors suspended from
beams in the roof. For all the haze of tobacco smoke, the place was
agleam with light. For a moment Kid Wolf stood still in astonishment.

To find such a group of men together at one place, and especially such
a remote place, was surprising. A score or more of booted-and-spurred
loungers were at the bar and at the gambling tables. A roulette wheel
was spinning at full clip, its little ivory ball dancing merrily, and
at other tables were layouts of faro and various games of chance.
Cards were being riffled briskly at a poker game near the door, and a
little knot of men were in a corner playing California Jack.

Kid Wolf took in these details at a glance. What puzzled him was that
these men did not appear to be cattlemen or followers of any calling,
unless possibly it was the profession of the six-gun. All were heavily
armed, and although that fact in itself was by no means unusual, The
Kid did not like the looks of several of the men he saw there. Some
were half-breeds of his prisoner's own stripe.

At The Kid's entrance with his still-struggling prisoner, every one
stared. The bartender--a bulky fellow with a scarred face--paused in
the act of pouring a drink, his eyes widening. The quiet shuffle of
cards ceased, the wheel of fortune slowed to a clicking stop, and every
one looked up i