"Thanks, sheriff," said the Texan. "I'm leavin' Mr. Tip McCay heah to tell yo' ouah story, if yo'll excuse me fo' a while."
"Where yuh goin', Kid?" demanded young McCay, astonished.
"To Midway," drawled the Texan, swinging himself into Blizzard's saddle. "Looks like a clean sweep has been made of the Hahdy gang—except Hahdy himself. I reckon I'll ride in and get him, so's to make the pahty complete."
"Hardy!" the officer ejaculated. "I want that malo hombre—and mighty bad, dead or alive!"
"Let us go along!" burst out Tip.
"No," laughed the Texan quietly. "Yo' boys have had enough dangah and excitement fo' one day, not includin' yestahday. I'd rathah settle this little business with Jack Hahdy alone. Yo' drive the cattle on and meet me latah."
And lifting his hand in farewell, The Kid touched his white charger with the spur. In a few minutes he was a tiny spot on the horizon, bound for the lair of Jack Hardy, the rustler king.
There was one thing, however, that Kid Wolf was not aware of, and that was a pair of beady black eyes watching him from behind a prairie-dog hill! One of the renegade half-breeds had managed to slip away from the posse unseen. It was Tucumcari Pete, and in a draw a few yards away was his pony.