From the very first, something seemed to warn The Kid of approaching trouble. Was it his imagination, or was a look flashed between the half-breed and several of the men in the room? He sensed an alert tenseness in the faces of those who were listening. One of the men, whom the Kid immediately put down as the owner of the saloon—Jack Hardy—was staring insolently.
Hardy was flashily dressed, wearing fancy-stitched riding boots, a fancy vest, and a short black coat, under which peeped the butt of a silver-mounted .44. Kid Wolf's intuition told him that he was the man he must eventually deal with.
The saloon owner had been watching the faro game. Now, having heard Kid Wolf out, he turned his back and deliberately faced the layout again.
"Go on with the game," he sneered to the dealer.
There was a world of contempt in his silky voice, and Kid Wolf flushed under his tan. Hardy pretended to ignore the visitor completely. The faro dealer slid one card and then another from his box; the case keeper moved a button or two on his rack. Then the dealer raked in the winnings from the losers. The game was going on as usual. The gamblers, taking their cue from Jack Hardy, turned to their games again. It was as if Kid Wolf had never existed.
The Kid took a firmer hold on the wriggling half-breed. "Do yo' know this man?" he demanded of the proprietor.
Hardy turned in annoyance, his black brows elevated sarcastically.
"It's 'Tucumcari Pete,'" he mocked. "What is it to yuh?"
Looking at the faro lookout, perched on his high stool, he winked. The lookout returned it knowingly.
Kid Wolf's eyes blazed. He had told his story so that all could hear. None had paid it any attention. All these men, then, were dishonest and unfriendly toward law and order.