Kid Wolf's brain was clearing. On the ground, a few feet away, lay
Dave Robbins, still stunned.
"I'm not sayin'," the Texan returned calmly.
Garvey's blotched face was convulsed with rage.
"Yuh'll wish yuh had, blast yuh!" he snarled. "I'm turnin' yuh both over to Yellow Skull! He's got somethin' in store for yuh that'll make yuh wish yuh'd never been born! Yo're west o' the Pecos now, Mr. Wolf—and there's no law here but me!"
The Kid eyed him steadily. "Theah's no law," he said, "but justice.
And some of these times, sah, yo' will meet up with it!"
"I suppose yuh think yuh can hand it to me yoreself," leered the bandit leader.
"I may," said Kid Wolf quietly.
Garvey laughed loudly and contemptuously.
"Yellow Skull!" he called. "Come here!"
The man who strode forward with snakelike, noiseless steps was horrible, if ever a man was horrible. He was the chief of the renegade Apache band, and as insane as a horse that has eaten of the loco weed. Sixty years or more in age, his face was wrinkled in yellow folds over his gaunt visage. Above his beaked nose, his beady black eyes glittered wickedly, and his jagged fangs protruded through his animal lips. He wore a breechcloth of dirty white, and his chest was naked, save for two objects—objects terrible enough to send a thrill of horror through the beholder. Suspended on a long cord around his neck were two shriveled human hands. Above this was a necklace made of dried human fingers.