Mullhall was directly behind him, insolent of face and bearing. The two seemed to be paying no attention to the trio of men behind The Kid.
"I was just goin' to offah yo' a chance to come back to the S Bar," explained Kid Wolf. "These three caballeros have already signed the pay roll again."
It was putting up the issue squarely, with no hedging. Both Stacy and
Mullhall darkened with fury.
"What's yore little game? I guess it's about time to put an extra spoke in yore wheel!" snarled Mullhall, coming forward.
"Who in blazes are you?" sneered Stacy.
"Just call me The Wolf!" The Kid barked. "I'm managin' the S Bar right now, and if yo' men don't want to be friends, I'll be right glad to have yo' fo' enemies!"
Mullhall had pressed very close. It was as if the whole thing had been prearranged. His hands suddenly shot out and seized Kid Wolf's arms—pinning them tightly.
It was an old and deadly trick. While Mullhall pinioned the Texan,
Steve Stacy planned to draw and shoot him down. The pair had worked
together like the cogwheels of a machine, and all was perfectly timed.
Stacy drew like a flash, cocking his .45 as it left the holster.
The play, however, was not worked fast enough. Kid Wolf was not to be victimized by such a threadbare ruse. He was too fast, too strong. He whirled Mullhall about, his left boot went behind Mullhall's legs. With all his force he threw his weight against him, tearing his arms free.
Mullhall went backward like a catapult, directly at Stacy. The gun exploded in the air, and as the slug buzzed into the roof, both Mullhall and the exforeman went down like bags of meal—a tangled maze of legs and arms.