"I was just saying, señor, that many men who wear two guns do not know how to use even one. You understand, señor? Or perhaps the señor does not know the Spanish?"
Kid Wolf turned quietly.
"The señor knows the Spanish," he said softly.
The captain turned to his companions with a knowing wink. Then he addressed the Texan.
"Then, amigo, that is well," he mocked. "Perhaps the señor can shoot also. Perhaps the señor could do this."
A peon stood near by, and the captain pulled off the fellow's straw sombrero and tossed it into the street. The wind caught it and the hat sailed for some distance. With a quick movement the Spanish captain drew a pistol from his belt and fired. With a sharp report, a round, black hole appeared in the hat, low in the crown.
The crowd murmured its admiration at this feat. The captain stroked his thin black mustache and smiled proudly.
"Perhaps the señor might find that difficult to do," he mocked.
"Quién sabe?" Kid Wolf shrugged and started to pass on. He did not care to make a public exhibition of his shooting, especially when he had graver matters on his mind. But the jeers and taunts that broke loose from the half-drunken assembly were more than any man could endure, especially a Texan with fiery Southern blood in his veins. He turned, smiling. His eyes, however, were as cold as ice.
"Why," he asked calmly, "should I mutilate this po' man's hat?" His words were spoken in perfectly accented Spanish.