Kid Wolf returned his still-smoking gun to its holster, turned his back and sauntered leisurely toward the door. Halfway to it, he turned quickly. He did not draw his guns again, but only looked Blacksnake steadily in the eyes.
"Remembah," he said, "that I can see yo' in the mirrah."
With an oath, Blacksnake took his hand away from his gun butt, toward which it had been furtively traveling. He had forgotten about the bullet-scarred glass over the long bar.
As the Texan strolled through the door, a man who had been watching the scene turned to follow him.
"Kid Wolf," he called, "I'd like to see yuh, alone."
The voice was friendly. Kid Wolf turned, and as he did so, he jostled the speaker, apparently by accident.
"Excuse me," drawled the Texan. "I didn't know yo' were so close behind me."
"I'm a friend," said the other earnestly. "Let's walk down the street a way. I've something important to say—something that might interest yuh."
The Kid had appraised him at a glance, although this stranger was far from being an ordinary person either in face or dress. His garb was severe and clerical. He wore a long black coat, black trousers neatly tucked into boots, a white shirt, and a flowing dark tie. Yet he was not of the gambler type. He seemed to be unarmed, for he had no gun belt. His face, seen from the reflected lights of the saloon, was clean-shaven. His eyes seemed set too close together, and the lips were very thin.
"Very well, I'll listen," The Kid consented.