White Wolf's Law

“Dang me, look at the little runt change hosses! If he does that, no wonder they can run all day!” Slivers cried as Jim Allen, without stopping the machinelike gallop of his horses, lightly sprang from Honeyboy to Princess.

The black pulled abreast of the grays.

“Dang yuh, Jim, don’t yuh go tearin’ into town by your lonesome,” Jack stormed.

“Get that elephant of yorn goin’ then,” Jim taunted.

Side by side, they raced on for another mile or two, then Jack felt his black commence to falter, and Princess shot ahead with Honeyboy pounding along behind her.

“No, yuh don’t!” Jack cried with a laugh.

And when Honeyboy came abreast of him, he leaned forward, grasped the gray’s mane, and swung to his back. Jim saw him and grinned joyfully.

“All right, we’ll bust into town like we usta afore yuh was a famous man an’ me a disreputable character,” he cried.

Side by side, they thundered into town. As they raced down the street, Jim Allen spotted the twins coming slowly from the hotel. Miser Jimpson’s house was almost directly opposite the livery stable, and so, when Jack flung himself from Honeyboy and hastily ran up the path to the house, Jim quietly turned into the livery yard and waited for the twins.

Jack Allen threw open the door and entered old Miser Jimpson’s. He found several people there. Dot Reed was sitting at a table with a paper in her hand. W. A. Raine was standing beside her. On the opposite side of the table sat old Miser, while behind him Spur Treadwell towered above One-wing McCann.

They all turned and stared at the dusty, bewhiskered little man who entered so unceremoniously. Spur marked his two low-hung guns and longed for the presence of the twins.

“Who are yuh?” old Miser squealed.

“Me – I’m Jack-twin Allen.”

“I’ve heard of you, Mr. Allen. You did some work for my bank once,” Raine said.

“Is my word good?” Allen asked.

“I would take it,” Raine replied promptly.

“Then, Miss Reed, yuh can believe me when I say yuh don’t have to sign that paper,” he said, smiling at the girl.

She flushed and looked in bewilderment from one face to the other.

“I don’t understand! Every one – Mr. Raine, dad’s old friend, the doctor – every one says I must sign or lose everything!”

Spur Treadwell cocked his ears and listened for the coming of the McGill twins. He saw that old Miser Jimpson had grown pale, that One-wing was fidgeting. All knew that the end had come for them, unless they could stop this man’s tongue or have the twins stop it for them.

Briefly Jack Allen sketched how Jim Allen had returned with Slivers Hart to help him clear his name, how little by little they had pieced various clews together. Then he went on to the events of that day and of what Boston Jack had told him.

Spur Treadwell knew that the little man would utterly damn him in another minute. He seized the moment when he thought Allen was not watching to snatch out his gun. There was a crashing roar, and the gun clattered to the floor, while he nursed a broken hand.

As if in echo to his shot, there came a volley from outside. When the last echo had died and silence again reigned, those in the room saw that Jack Allen’s face had grown white and strained. He knew from those shots that his brother had met the twins.

The twins, Sandy and Mac McGill, saw Jack and Jim Allen flash down the street on the two grays and pull up before old Miser Jimpson’s house. They watched Jack run up the path into the house and Jim lead the two horses into the livery-stable yard.

The same thought flashed into their minds. They were not sure of Jack, but they now knew the Wolf. Here was the chance to settle that question which had been argued so fiercely for years. Their eyes met, then, without speaking a word, they turned and walked slowly down the street toward the livery stable.

Gunmen, such as the McGill twins, were insanely proud of their reputation. This pride did more to rid the West of bad men than all the sheriffs and gallowses put together. Every man must admit that he was king or fight. There was no place on the throne for two kings. Gunmen went about with chips on their shoulders and said to all rivals: “Admit I am the best or go for your gun.” A gun fight meant the elimination for all time of either the champion or challenger; no one had a chance to promote a return engagement.

For years it had been argued as to which was the faster, the McGill twins or Jim Allen. So Mac and Sandy McGill marched down the street to prove definitely to themselves and to the world that they were quicker than the Wolf.

Their faces were always sinister and cruel, but now they were expressionless masks. People took one glance at them, hastily moved out of the way, and then followed them at a safe distance. Every one recognized the look of the killer and knew the town was soon to have gun play.

When Jim Allen entered the stable yard, the hostler stepped from the barn to help him loosen the cinches. His mouth opened in an amused grin when he saw the two big guns strapped to the slender legs. His eyes took in the tattered little figure as well as the homely, freckled face.

“Don’t yuh get tired packin’ them two big guns?” he asked with a broad smile.

Jim Allen grinned good-naturedly at him, but made no reply.

“Say, kid, why for do you pack them guns? There’s some real bad men in this here town, and they might take you seriously and you’d get hurt,” he warned, for he had sudden liking for this boy.

“Maybe so,” Allen said with another of his broad, loose grins. “No, don’t go takin’ the saddle off – ’cause I figger I’ll be leavin’ in a hurry pronto.”

“Hell and damnation!” the hostler exclaimed.

Sandy and Mac McGill had turned into the yard and were walking slowly toward them. The hostler rightly read the look on their faces and seized Allen by the arm.

“Quick, kid, get into the barn! Them devils has lost a peck of trouble and is huntin’ for it,” he said hurriedly.

Jim Allen turned and shook off the hostler’s detaining hand.

“Yuh fool, they’ll kill you!” the hostler cried in warning.

Then he thrilled, as he caught sight of the yellow flare in Allen’s eyes and heard his low laugh, as he walked forward to meet the twins on stiff legs, like a fighting wolf. The hostler stared with open mouth; he had heard tales about those yellow, flaring eyes, and knew the owner of them.

“Gosh, the kid’s the Wolf!” he exclaimed.

He crouched down against the barn and watched and waited. He saw Allen, hands swinging close to his guns, body loose and swaying, head straight for the twins, who, moving like two machines and side by side, advanced to meet him. When a scant ten feet separated them, they halted.

They stood there, silent, staring, for a time that seemed to the hostler to be hours.

“Gents, I’m countin’ three,” Allen said softly.

At that all three went for their guns.

Six big Colts roared together. The barn walls caught and tossed back the echoes of the reports. As quickly as the uproar started, it hushed.

Mac McGill’s hands had flashed faster than the eye could follow to the butts of his black-handled Colts. But, fast as he was, he was not fast enough. Before his guns came level, destruction smashed against his chest. Both of his guns exploded and the bullets sent up a shower of gravel at Allen’s feet. Then he staggered and sank to the ground. Desperately he raised himself and fired again, then when another slug tore through his neck, he slumped back and lay still.

Sandy McGill’s speed had been the equal of Allen’s, but as the outlaw went for his guns, he had ducked and leaped to one side. One of McGill’s bullets tore through Allen’s right sleeve, the other creased him on the side of the head. Allen’s first shot took Sandy in the pit of the stomach; he staggered backward, and again his guns exploded. But his eyes were dimming and could not follow the figure that leaped first to one side and then to the other. Again and again his guns roared; a continuous stream of fire flashed from the barrels. But each time they roared and missed, a heavy slug tore into his body. At last, his body sagged and crushed to the ground. He was dead on his feet before he fell.

Silence settled over everything.

The Wolf stood there peering through the smoke, then he commenced to laugh – strange laughter that bit into the hostler’s ears and left him shuddering – mocking yet mirthless.

Slowly the hostler recovered his senses. He saw Allen stuff fresh shells into his guns, then drop them into the holsters. After that he walked quickly to Honeyboy, tightened the cinch, swung into the saddle, and vanished out the back of the livery stable.

People ran to the livery yard, peered in and then, seeing nothing but those still bodies, they gained courage and crowded forward. A man, mounted on a dun, swung from his saddle, pushed through the crowd, glanced at the bodies, and gave a sigh of relief.

“The Wolf made his kill,” he said grimly. Then catching sight of the hostler, he grinned at him and added: “What yuh think of Jim now?”

“He ain’t human,” the hostler said. “He was laughin’ horrible – jumpin’ about like a grasshopper, and his guns goin’ so fast I couldn’t see ’em. No, sir, he ain’t no man, nor wolf, neither, ’cause he ain’t like nothin’ possible.”

Jack Allen turned his prisoners over to the local sheriff and then told the story as told to him by Boston Jack. This was later corroborated by two of the wounded rustlers.

It had been Boston Jack who had discovered that hidden valley. Spur Treadwell had refused to go with him unless things were so arranged that no one, except Boston Jack and One-wing McCann, knew of his connection with the rustling. They had blotted the Double R brands, driven the stolen cattle into the Nations, then swung them about and sold them back to old man Reed. Slivers Hart’s ranch was too close to the secret entrance to the valley, so Boston and Spur Treadwell framed him for murder, drove him from the country, and later bought his ranch.

After that things were easy. Men each night kept the cattle drifting from the south of the range to the north, so it was easy for the rustlers to drive fifty or a hundred head each night into the hidden valley. Later, after Dot Reed had been forced to sell and the three had bought the ranch through an agent, they planned to return the cattle from the hidden valley to the open range. It was arranged that the day after Dot Reed signed away her ranch, Spur was to collect a number of honest punchers and raid the valley, wipe out the rustlers, and thus remove all men who even suspected his dishonesty. Boston Jack, of course, would not be there. But Boston Jack, when the valley was raided by Allen’s men, believed that Spur had tried to double cross him and get rid of him at the same time he removed the rustlers. Hence, he had told what he knew.

“An’ who killed old man Reed?” Slivers asked.

“The twins,” said Jack. “Then they killed the two rustlers, who, they thought, knew too much, and so they downed two thirds with one stone – got rid of Mr. Reed and silenced two tongues.”

Dot Reed, her arm around Slivers, had listened in silence.

“And where is the – the Jim Allen now? I want to thank him,” she said.

“I’m goin’ to join him pronto – but he won’t come back here, I reckon,” Toothpick said, with a grin at the sheriff.

“You know where he is?” the sheriff asked sharply.

“Yuh figurin’ on arrestin’ him?” Toothpick asked sarcastically.

“Yuh is a fool if yuh does,” the hostler warned. “’Cause your family will sure wear crape if yuh starts after him. I tells yuh the little devil ain’t human.”

“Of course, it’s my duty – but I’ve only been married a couple of months, so I reckon I’ll let the Wolf live a while,” the sheriff said with a grin. He turned and looked at Spur Treadwell and One-wing McCann.

“Reckon I’ll rest content puttin’ the rope around these gents’ necks,” he added after a moment.

Six weeks later he did.