The figure in the buckboard was that of a woman! There was a moment's breathless pause.
"There's nine buckshot in the other barrel," said a feminine voice—a voice that for all its courage faltered a little.
"Please don't waste them on me," Kid Wolf returned, in his soft, Southern speech. "I'm afraid yo' have made a mistake. I can see that yo' are in trouble. May I help yo'?"
Doubtfully, the woman lowered her weapon. She was middle-aged, kindly faced, and her eyes were swollen from weeping. She looked out of place with the shotgun—friendless and very much alone.
"I don't know whether to trust you or not," she said wearily. "I suppose I ought to shoot you, but I can't, somehow."
"Well I'm glad yo' can't," drawled The Kid with contagious good humor.
His face sobered. "Who do yo' think I am, ma'am?"
"I don't know," the woman sighed, "but you're an enemy. Every one in this cruel land is my enemy. You're an outlaw—and probably one of the murderers who killed my husband."
"Please believe that I'm not," the Texan told her earnestly. "I'm a strangah to this district. Won't yo' tell me yo' story? I want to help yo'."
"There isn't much to tell," the driver of the buckboard said in a quavering voice. "I'm on the way to town to sell the ranch—the S Bar. I have my husband's body with me on the wagon. He was murdered yesterday."
Not until then did Kid Wolf see the grim cargo of the buckboard. His face sobered and his eyes narrowed.