in' to have law! Kid Wolf law--and yo' may not like it as
well as the othah kind!"

A score of revolver slugs, aimed at the sound of his voice, sent
showers of splinters flying from the green-shuttered doors. The Texan,
though, had taken care not to remain in the line of fire.

When the inmates of the Idle Hour swarmed out, looking for vengeance,
they were disappointed. Kid Wolf and his horse, Blizzard, were nowhere
to be seen!

CHAPTER VII

M'CAY'S RECRUIT

The Texan, after circling the town of Midway, rode in again. It was
not his way to leave a job unfinished, with only a threat behind. The
cigarette-paper note had aroused his curiosity to a fever heat. He
read it by the light of the moon. It consisted of three
pencil-scrawled words:

GO CROSS STREET

Across the wide street from the saloon, there was but one building.
Was it here that he was to go? Was it a trap of some kind? He
dismissed the latter possibility and decided to go at once to the big
frame general store, using all the caution possible.

Approaching the place from behind, he looked it over carefully before
dismounting. As Blizzard was conspicuous in the moonlight, he left him
in a thick clump of bushes and slipped through the shadows on foot. As
he neared the building, he discovered that it was not merely of frame,
as he had at first thought. The boards in front masked a fortress of
logs. It was so planned that a handful of defenders might hold it
against great odds.

As Kid Wolf knocked softly on the rear door, he wondered if it had been
built merely as a security against the renegade Indians, or for some
other and deeper purpose. For a few minutes after he knocked, there
was silence, then the door slowly opened. The Texan found himself
looking into the barrel of a .45!

"What do yuh want here?"

Framed in the doorway, the Kid saw a grim young face glaring at him
over the sights of the six-gun.

"Speak quick!" said the voice again.

"I will," the Texan said, "if yo'll kindly take that .45 out of my eye.
I can talk bettah when I'm not usin' yo' gun barrel fo' a telescope."

"That gun," said the other sharply, "is goin' to stay just where I've
got it!"

But it didn't. Kid Wolf's left hand snapped up under the gun and
rapped smartly at just the right spot the wrist that held it. It was a
trick blow--one that paralyzed the nerves for a second. The Colt
dropped from the boy's quickly extended fingers and fell