"Stacy hadn't better know about this," Lathum decided.
"I was hopin' to get him back," said The Kid.
"No chance. He's in with the major now," spoke up Wise. "So's Mullhall. Neither of 'em will listen—and they'll make trouble when they find we're goin' back."
"If yo'-all feel the same way as I do," Kid Wolf drawled as they filed out of the back room, "they won't have to make trouble. It'll be theah fo' 'em."
As they approached the bar, Anton clutched The Kid's elbow.
"There's Steve Stacy and Mullhall now," he warned in a low voice.
Stacy and Mullhall were big men, heavily built. Upon seeing the party emerge from the back room, they pushed away from the bar and came directly toward Kid Wolf, who was walking in the lead.
"Steve Stacy's the hombre in front," Wise whispered. "Be on yore guard."
The Kid knew the ex-foreman's type even before he spoke. He was the loud-mouthed and overbearing kind of waddy—a gunman first and a cowman afterward. His beefy face was flushed as red as his flannel shirt. His eyes were fixed boldly on the Texan.
"The barkeeper tells me yuh were inquirin' fer me," he said heavily.
"What's on yore mind?"