The larger of the two men had several notches carved in his gun butt.
The Kid ordered his drink, but he decided he did not like the man with the bulging eyes. He had never liked anybody who carved notches in their gun butts, anyway. It was a tinhorn’s trick.
The Kid looked at Joe Chance, the bartender, who was obviously uneasy, and had been so ever since the Kid walked into the saloon.
The Kid had promised Bonita not to get into trouble, but nonetheless what he had found had been a cold-blooded, ruthless murder and one of the two men had done it. Both had been riding, as was obvious from the trail dust they carried, and, from the attitudes of the others in the room, both were strangers.
“Chance,” he said, “what would you think of a man who dry-gulched a passing rider, then walked up and shot into him a couple of times to make sure he was dead, then took his horse?”
Joe Chance knew the Cactus Kid. The mirror he now had behind the bar had caused the Kid to cough up three months wages to pay for it, and it had only been in place about sixty days.
Chance shifted his eyes warily and reached for a glass to polish. “Why, I’d think the man was a dirty murderer who deserved hangin’!”
After a pause, his own curiosity getting the best of him, he asked, “Who done such a thing?”
“Why, I don’t rightly know at this minute, but I got an idea we’ll find out. He came over the trail just ahead of me. He robbed the man he murdered, and he’s in town right now!”
The bowlegged man lifted his eyes to meet those of the Kid. There was something mocking and dangerous in those eyes. The Kid knew he was looking into the eyes of a man who both could and would shoot. “I just rode in,” the man said calmly.
“So did I.” The big man put his glass down hard on the bar. “Are you aimin’ that talk at us?”
“No,” the Kid said mildly, “only at one of you. Only, the other man must have heard those shots, and I’m wondering why he didn’t do anything.”
“What did you do?” the bowlegged man asked.
“Nothing. The killer caught sight of me and tried to cut me down, too. Hadn’t been for that I’d have ridden right on by and I’d never have seen the dead man.
“The man who was killed,” he added, “went by the name of Wayne Parsons. He was from Silver City.”
“Never heard of him.” The bigger of the two men obviously shifted his gun. “I come from Tombstone.” His eyes rested on the Cactus Kid, and their expression was anything but pleasant. “They call me the Black Bantam.”
“Never heard of you,” he lied. Bantam was a notorious outlaw who had been riding, it was said, with Curly Bill.
“There’s plenty of people who has,” Bantam said, “and if I was you, young feller, and I didn’t want to get all them purty clothes bloody, I’d go herd my cows and leave my betters alone.”
“I didn’t come to town huntin’ sheep,” the Cactus Kid said calmly, “or I’d dig my hands in your wool. Nor did I come for cows. I came to get some calico for my girl’s dress, which doesn’t leave me much time to curry your wool, Bantam.
“All I’ve got to say is that one of you is riding a dead man’s horse and carryin’ stolen money.”
Bantam’s fury was obvious. He was facing the bar, but he turned slowly to face the Kid. Men backed off to corners of the room, and the bartender took a tentative step toward them, then changed his mind and backed off. “Now, see here—!” he started to say, when—
“Hold it, Bantam!”
All heads turned at the interruption. It was the bowlegged rider. “Nobody’s asked me who I am, and I’m not plannin’ to explain. If you need a handle for me just call me Texas.
“But, Bantam, it seems to me this is between us. He says one of us is guilty, so why don’t we settle this between us? Just you and me?” Texas smiled. “Besides, I don’t think you’d like takin’ a whippin’ from that youngster.”
“Whuppin’? Why, I’d—!”
“No, you wouldn’t, Bantam. I’ve known all about you for a long time, and you never did hunt trouble with anybody who’d have a chance. This dude youngster here is the Cactus Kid.
“Now it seems to me it is between us, so why don’t we just empty our pockets on the table here so everybody can see what we’re carrying.
“The Kid is handy at readin’ sign, so maybe he will see something that will tell him which one of us is the killer.” He moved closer, his eyes dancing with a taunting amusement. “How about it, Kid?”
The Kid’s eyes shifted from one to the other, the one taunting and challenging, the other stubborn and angry.
“Why not?” Bantam thrust a big hand into his pocket and began putting the contents of his pockets on the table. The man who called himself Texas did likewise.
“There it is, Kid. Look it over!”
Joe Chance leaned over the bar to watch, as did Slim Reynolds and Art Vertrees, the only others present.
In the pile Texas made were a worn tobacco pouch, a jackknife, a plug of chewing tobacco, several coins, a small coil of rawhide string, and a small handful of gold coins wrapped in paper. There were two rifle bullets.
In Bantam’s pile there was a wad of paper money, some sixty dollars worth, some small change, a Mexican silver peso, a jackknife, a plug of chewing tobacco, a stub pipe, a tight ball of paper, a comb, and some matches.
Thoughtfully, the Cactus Kid looked over the two piles. There was nothing that could be identified with any man. It was merely such stuff as could be found in the pockets of any cowhand. Except—he picked up the ball of tightly rolled paper and slowly unrolled it.
It unfolded into a plain sheet of writing paper that had been folded just once. There were also marks that made it appear the paper had been folded about something. The crinkling from being rolled up was obviously more recent that the soiled line of the old crease.
It was not the fold the Kid was noticing, nor the faint imprint of what might have been carried within that folded sheet but rather the diagonal line of the sweat stain that ran across the papers.
“That ain’t mine!” Bantam protested. “I had no such paper in my pocket!” He was suddenly frightened and his lips worked nervously. “I tell you—!”
Texas had drawn back to one side, poised and ready.
The Cactus Kid drew the dead man’s papers from his pocket and placed them beside the folded paper. The diagonal sweat stains matched perfectly.
“So?” Texas said. “It was you, Bantam! You killed him!”
“You’re a liar!” Bantam said angrily. “I done no—!”
Texas’s hand streaked for his gun, and Bantam grabbed at his own gun. The two shots sounded almost as one, but it was Bantam who fell.
Texas holstered his gun. “Had no idea he’d draw on me, but a man’s got to watch those kind.”
Nobody replied, and he gathered his things from the bar and went outside.
The Kid turned back to Joe Chance. “Better give me another shot of rye; then I’m picking up my calico and headin’ for home. This town’s too sudden for me.”
Two of the bystanders took the big man’s body out, and later Slim Reynolds came in. “He must have cached that stolen money somewhere because he surely didn’t have it on him.”
“Bantam’s had it coming for a long time,” Vertrees said, “and Texas was right. He never killed anybody in a fair fight.”
“What about that grulla mustang of his?” Reynolds asked. “That’s a mighty fine horse.”
The Kid put his glass down on the bar. “Did Bantam ride the grulla? Are you sure?”
“Of course,” Vertrees replied, surprised. “I was on the street when he rode in. He was only a little ahead of Texas, who was riding a bay.”
The Cactus Kid turned and started for the door. He was in the saddle and started down the street when he thought of the calico.
Bonita wouldn’t like this. He had promised her faithfully he’d return with that calico, and after all, hunting killers was the sheriff ’s job. An
grily, he turned the paint and trotted back to the store. “Got some red and white calico?” he asked.
“Sure haven’t! I’m sorry, Kid, but a fellow just came in and bought the whole bolt. Red and white it was, too.”
“What kind of a fellow?” The Kid asked suspiciously.
“A pretty salty-lookin’ fellow. He was bowlegged and had a Texas drawl.”
“Why, that dirty, no-account—!” The Kid ran for his horse.
As he started out of town Reynolds flagged him down.
“Kid? What d’ you make of this?” He indicated a place in the skirt of Bantam’s saddle where the stitching had been slit. Obviously something had been hidden there. “Do you believe that Texas man stole that money?”
“No, he was the killer, himself!”
Why Texas had headed back along the trail down which they had come he could not guess, but that was exactly what he was doing.
It was a grueling chase. The paint pony liked to run, however, and although the bay was a long-legged brute they moved up on him. Occasionally, far ahead, he glimpsed dust. Then it dawned on him that Texas was not trying to escape. He was simply staying enough ahead to be safe for the time being.
That could mean he planned to trap him in the hills somewhere ahead. After all, Texas had dry-gulched that other man.
When they reached the hills, the Kid turned off the trail. This was his old stomping grounds, and he had hunted strays all through these hills and knew their every turn and draw. He knew Mule Creek and the Maverick Mountains like it was his own dooryard.
Climbing the pony up the banks of the draw, the Kid skirted a cluster of red rocks and rode down through a narrow canyon where the ledges lay layer on layer like an enormous chocolate cake, and emerged on a cedared hillside.
He loped the paint through the cedars, weaving a purposely erratic path, so if observed he would not make an effective target, then he went down into the draw, crossed the Agua Fria, and circled back toward the trail, moving slowly with care. He was none too soon.
Texas was loping the bay and glancing from side to side of the trail. Almost opposite the Kid’s hiding place, he reined in suddenly and swung down, headed for a bunch of rocks across the way.
The Kid stepped into the open. “It was a good idea, Texas,” he said, “only I had it, too.”
Startled, the man turned very slowly. “I knew you’d figure it out, Kid. I thought I’d just buy all that calico to make sure you followed me. I just don’t want any witnesses left behind.
“Anyway, that girl of yours would still need a dress, and I could always say your dyin’ words were that I should take it to her, and that I was to stay by an’ care for her, like.”
He let go of the reins of his horse. “I would like to know how you figured it out, though.”
“It was the Henry rifle. When you rode off on the bay with the Henry in the scabbard I knew it had to be you. I found a shell from that rifle.
“Bantam was really surprised when he saw that paper. You’d slipped it into his pocket when you were standing close, then you called him a liar and killed him before he had a chance to talk. Then you went to his saddle and recovered the money.”
“It was this way, Kid. I’d tailed Parsons to kill him for his money, but after I did, Bantam opened fire on me and run me off. He’d been trailing him, too. Then he went down to the body, got the money and lit out.
“Anyway,” Texas added, “now you know how it was. When you came into sight, Bantam took a shot at you to warn you off until he could get out of sight.
“But I guess you got me, so it all went for nothing. I’m not sorry about Bantam, he was simply no good, but as for you—”
He would hang for what he had done, and both he and the Kid knew it, and the Kid, knowing his man, knew he would take a chance. Texas went for his gun and the Kid shot him.
Then he walked over to the bay, which showed no intention of running away, and recovered the bolt of calico, and then the money from Texas’s body.
“Parsons will likely have some folks who can use this,” he told himself, then rolled the body over the bank, tumbled rocks and sand over it and, gathering the reins of the bay he mounted the paint and headed for home.
When he cantered up to the gate Bonita came running, eyes sparkling with happiness. Having known other girls before, he was not sure whether it was for him or the calico, but contented himself with the conclusion it was probably a little of both.
“See?” she said. “When you just go into town and come right back there’s never any trouble. It’s easy to stay out of trouble if you just want to. Now this wasn’t any trouble, was it?”
“No, honey, no trouble at all.”
He glanced at the paint pony, who was looking at him with a skeptical eye. “You shut up!” he told the paint, and followed Bonita into the house.
The pony yawned and switched his tail at a fly.
Medicine Ground
A CACTUS KID STORY
The Cactus Kid was in a benevolent mood and the recent demise of Señor “Ace” Fernandez was far from his thoughts. Had the Kid’s own guns blasted a trail down the slippery ladder to hell, he would have been wary, for he knew well the temper of the four brothers Fernandez.
He had not, however, done a personal gun job on Ace. He had merely acted for the moment as the finger of destiny, and but for a certain small action of his, the agile fingers of the elder Fernandez might still be fleecing all and sundry at the Cantina.
Nobody who knew him could question the Kid’s sense of humor, and it extended as far as poker, which is very far indeed. The humor of Martin Jim (so called because he was the second of two Jim Martins to arrive in Aragon) was another story. Jim had a sense of humor all right, but it ended somewhere south of poker. Martin Jim was a big, muscular man who packed a pistol for use.
On the memorable afternoon of Ace’s death, that gentleman was sitting in a little game with Martin Jim, the Cactus Kid, Pat Gruen, and an itinerant miner known as Rawhide. The Kid, being the observant type, had taken note of the smooth efficiency of Señor Ace when he handled the cards. He also noted the results of a couple of subsequent hands. Thereafter the Kid was careful to drop out when Ace was doing the dealing. The others, being less knowing and more trustful, stayed in the game, and as a result the pile of poker chips in front of Ace Fernandez had grown to an immodest proportion.
Finally, when Pat Gruen and Rawhide were about broke, there came a hand from which all dropped away but Ace Fernandez and Martin Jim. With twelve hundred dollars of his hard-earned money (cowhands were making forty a month!) in the center of the table, Martin Jim’s sense of humor had reached the vanishing point.
The Cactus Kid, idly watching the game, had seen the black sheep lead the burly lamb to the slaughter; he also chanced to glimpse the cards Ace Fernandez turned up. He held a pair of fours, a nine, ten, and a queen. A few minutes later his eyes shifted back to the hand Fernandez held and there was no nine, ten, or queen, but three aces were cuddling close to the original pair of fours.
Naturally, this phenomenon interested him no end, especially so as he had seen the way, an odd way, too, Ace held his arm.
WHEN THE SHOWDOWN CAME, Martin Jim laid down two pair, and Ace Fernandez, looking very smug, his full house.
Leaning forward as if to see the cards better, the Cactus Kid deftly pushed the cuff of Ace’s white sleeve over the head of a nail that projected an inch or so from the edge of the table.
Smiling with commiseration, Ace Fernandez made his next-to-last gesture in a misspent life. He reached for the pot.
As his eager hands shot out there was a sharp, tearing sound, and the white sleeve of the elder Fernandez ripped loudly, and there snugly against his arm was what is known in the parlance of those aware of such things as a sleeve holdout. In it were several cards, among them the missing nine, ten, and queen.
For one utterly appalling instant Ace Fernandez froze, with what sinking of the heart you can imagine. Then he made the sec
ond of his last two gestures. He reached for his gun.
It was, of course, the only thing left to do. Nobody from the Gulf to the Colorado would have denied it. Martin Jim, as we have said, wore a six-gun for use, and moreover he had rather strict notions about the etiquette of such matters as poker.
He looked, he saw, he reached. By the manner of presentation, it must not be inferred that these were separate actions. They were one.
His gun came level just as that of Señor Ace Fernandez cleared his holster, and Martin Jim fired twice right across the tabletop.
Lead, received in those proportions and with that emphasis and range, is reliably reported to be indigestible.
The test of any theory is whether it works in practice, and science must record that theory as proved. They buried Señor Ace Fernandez with due ceremony, his full house pinned to his chest over the ugly blotch of blood, the torn sleeve and holdout still in evidence. If, in some distant age, his body is exhumed for scientific study, no poker player will look twice to ascertain the cause of death.
Now, as we have said, the Cactus Kid was giving no thought to the abrupt departure of Ace Fernandez, nor to the manner of his going. Nor did he think much about the fact that he might be considered a responsible party. The Kid was largely concerned with random thoughts anent the beauty and the grace of Bess O’Neal, the Irish and very pretty daughter of the ranching O’Neals, from beyond the Pecos.
It was the night of the big dance at Rock Creek School, and Bess had looked with favor on his suggestion that he meet her at the dance and ride home with her. What plans were projected for the ride home have no part in this story. It is enough to say the Kid was enjoying the anticipation.
Twice, the Kid had agreed to meet Bess, and twice events had intervened. Once he had inadvertently interrupted a stage holdup and in the resulting exchange of comments had picked up a bullet in the thigh. Not a serious wound, but a painful one, so painful that he missed the dance and almost missed the funerals of the two departed stage robbers.
On the second occasion, someone had jestingly dared the Kid to rope a mountain lion. The Cactus Kid had never roped a lion and was scientifically interested in the possibilities. Also, he never refused a dare. He got a line on the cat, but the cat reversed himself in midair, hit the ground on his feet, and left the ground in that same breathtaking instant, taking a leap that put him right in the middle of the Kid’s horse.
The Collected Short Stories of Louis L'Amour, Volume Five Page 47