"Oh, yes," said Kid Wolf again. He picked up the glass between thumb and forefinger and deliberately emptied it into a handy cuspidor. "I leave that stuff to mah enemies," he said, smiling. "By the way, can yo' tell me where I can find a Mistah Mullhall, a Mistah Anton, a Mistah Lathum, a Mistah Wise, and a Mistah Steve Stacy?"
When the bartender could recover himself, he pointed out a table near the door.
"Wise an' Lathum an' Anton is right there—playin' monte," he said.
"Stacy an' Mullhall was here this mornin', but I don't see 'em now."
Thanking him, Kid Wolf sauntered away from the bar and approached the gambling table.
The La Plata Saloon was fairly well patronized, even though it lacked several hours until nightfall. Kid Wolf had taken the measure of the loiterers at a glance. Most of them were desperadoes. "Outlaw" was written over their hard faces, and he wondered if Ma Thomas hadn't been right about the county's general lawlessness. San Felipe seemed to be well supplied with gunmen.
The three men at the table, although they were "heeled" with .45s, were of a different type. They were cowmen first, gunmen afterward. Two were in their twenties; the other was older.
"I beg yo' pahdon, caballeros," said The Kid softly, as he came up behind them, "but I wish to talk with yo' in private. Wheah can we go?"
There was something in the Texan's voice and bearing that prevented questions just then. The trio faced about in surprise. Plainly, they did not know whether to take Kid Wolf for a friend or for a foe. Like true Westerners, they were not averse to finding out.
"We can use the back room," said one. "Come on, you fellas."
One of them delayed to make a final bet in the came, then he followed. At a signal to the bartender, the back room, vacant, save for a dozen bottles, likewise empty, was thrown open to them.