Jim Allen grinned good-naturedly at him, but made no reply.
“Say, kid, why for do you pack them guns? There’s some real bad men in this here town, and they might take you seriously and you’d get hurt,” he warned, for he had sudden liking for this boy.
“Maybe so,” Allen said with another of his broad, loose grins. “No, don’t go takin’ the saddle off—’cause I figger I’ll be leavin’ in a hurry pronto.”
“Hell and damnation!” the hostler exclaimed.
Sandy and Mac McGill had turned into the yard and were walking slowly toward them. The hostler rightly read the look on their faces and seized Allen by the arm.
“Quick, kid, get into the barn! Them devils has lost a peck of trouble and is huntin’ for it,” he said hurriedly.
Jim Allen turned and shook off the hostler’s detaining hand.
“Yuh fool, they’ll kill you!” the hostler cried in warning.
Then he thrilled, as he caught sight of the yellow flare in Allen’s eyes and heard his low laugh, as he walked forward to meet the twins on stiff legs, like a fighting wolf. The hostler stared with open mouth; he had heard tales about those yellow, flaring eyes, and knew the owner of them.
“Gosh, the kid’s the Wolf!” he exclaimed.