Gentleman John moistened his lips feverishly, and his hand trembled as he reached for the pen.
"I'll sign," he groaned.
When he had scratched his signature, Kid Wolf took the paper, folded it carefully and put it in his pocket.
"Bueno," he said softly. "Now get yo' hat and coat. I hate to rob yo' of yo' sleep, but I have some othah prisonahs to round up to-night."
And while binding Gentleman John's wrists, Kid Wolf hummed a new verse to his favorite tune, "On the Rio."
CHAPTER XXI
APACHES
In the half light of the early morning, a stagecoach was rattling down a steep hill near the New Mexico-Arizona boundary line. The team of six bronchos fought against the weight of the lumbering vehicle behind, with stiff front legs threw themselves back against their harness. The driver, high on his box, sawed at the lines with his foot heavy on the creaking brake.
"Whoa!" he roared. "Easy, yuh cow-faced loco-eyed broncs! Steady now, or I'll beat the livin' tar outn yuh!"
The ponies seemed to disregard his bellowing abuse. They had heard it before, and knew that he didn't mean a word he said. They were almost at the foot of the hill now, and the thick white dust, kicked up in choking spurts by the rumbling wheels, sifted down on the leathery mesquite and dagger plants below.