Taking a deep breath, Kid Wolf walked over and picked up Blacksnake's .45. Then he turned the outlaw face up, none too gently, by jerking his tangled hair. "All right. Snap out of it," he drawled.
Blacksnake was out for a full two minutes. Gradually consciousness began to show on his ugly, bruised face. He stared at the Texan, blinking his eyes in bewilderment.
"Blast yuh!" he said thickly, when he could speak. "Guess yuh got me,
Cotton-picker. I don't know yet how yuh done it."
He tried to seize the gun, but The Kid was too quick for him.
"None o' that," he drawled. "Get up! Yo're takin' me to the othahs.
Move pronto to the Yellow Houses!"
A cunning look mingled with the hate in Blacksnake's swollen eyes.
"They'll kill yuh," he sneered. "Yuh ain't out o' this yet, blast yuh!
My men will pull yuh to pieces."
"I'm thinkin' they won't." The Texan smiled. "If they do, it won't be very healthy fo' yo'. Now listen to what I say."
Half an hour later, Kid Wolf strolled up the hill to the Yellow Houses, arm in arm with his enemy—Blacksnake McCoy!
The outlaw was swearing under his breath. Kid Wolf was chuckling. For he had his hand under Blacksnake's vest, and that hand held a .45! In his left hand, the outlaw carried his whip. The other, wounded, was in his trousers pocket. The Texan had ordered him to keep it there, out of sight.