Tiptoeing to the edge of the stream, he felt for the rock he wanted, two inches long and evenly balanced in weight. Taking the eighteen-inch rawhide, he knotted one end of it securely about the stone. Then he tried it in his hand.
Fading back into the shadows then, his boots still lying where Lobo had dropped them when they were jerked from his feet, the Kid melted into the almost solid blackness and began to cross the space between himself and the fire.
He didn’t like killing, and he didn’t like what he was going to have to do, yet he was not the one to underrate the fighting ability of the brothers Fernandez. They were cruel, vindictive men, lawless and given to murder. He knew what they would do to the girl, he knew the horror in which she would live for a few days or a few weeks, then murder. They dared not leave her alive, possibly to get back to Aragon.
To think that only a few miles away now, the dance was in progress! Only a few miles away old Buck Sorenson was calling dances and his sons were sawing their fiddles. There was help there, but it was too far. What was to be done, he must do himself.
Miguel knelt above the fire. He was cooking. Juan sat near the girl, and kept a hand on her. From time to time he made remarks to her in his sneering, irritating voice. Lobo sat across the fire, his eyes never leaving the girl’s slim body or her face.
In the darkness, the Cactus Kid watched. His guns were there, he could see them lying on a blanket. They were too far away. There was no chance to get them.
He waited. It was a deadly, trying waiting. Minutes seemed like hours. Then Miguel straightened. “Pedro!” he snapped impatiently.
The Fernandez who dozed on the sand looked up.
“Get me some water from the spring, you lazy one!”
Pedro started to complain, then Juan looked up.
“Get it!” he snapped.
Grudgingly, Pedro picked up a canteen and started off into the darkness. The Cactus Kid came to his feet, moving like a ghost in his socked feet, moving after Pedro.
He waited, while the hulking Mexican held the canteen in the spring to fill it, and then as he straightened, the Kid moved in behind him, holding a loop of the rawhide in his left hand and gripping the stone in his fingers.
He threw the stone suddenly, and its weight swung the rawhide around the Mexican’s neck. He had swung the stone from the right and with a quick, backhanded motion, and as it came around Pedro’s neck the Kid caught it with his right. Then he jerked hard with both hands, cutting off the startled yell that started to rise in the man’s throat, and gripping the rawhide hard, the Kid jerked his knee up into the small of Pedro’s back and turned his knuckles hard against the back of Pedro’s neck.
It was sudden, adroit, complete. For an instant the Kid held the man, then lowered him to the ground. Perhaps he was dead. Perhaps—there was no question now. Withdrawing the thong, the Kid searched him in vain for a gun, then slid away into darkness, and once more got close to the camp. He sighed regretfully. Pedro had been unarmed.
“Where is that fool, Pedro?” Miguel demanded impatiently. Then he yelled, “Pedro! Where are you?”
There was no answer.
The echo of Miguel’s voice died, and for a minute the three brothers stared at each other. Lobo got to his feet, staring into the darkness. There was no sound out there but the falling water in the spring, and the rustle from the stream.
Lobo Fernandez shifted uneasily, staring around into the darkness. “I’ll go see where is he,” he said, finally.
LYING CLOSE, the Kid waited. What he wanted was a chance at those guns. Once the guns were in his hands, all would be well. Was he the Cactus Kid for nothing?
Lobo walked off into the darkness. Suddenly there was a startled yell from him.
“Juan!” Lobo screamed. “Come quickly! Pedro is dead!”
Juan Fernandez sprang to his feet and lunged toward Lobo’s shouting voice. Miguel started up, his face ashen, and the Kid sprang, quickly, silently. Again the rawhide thong swung out, and again a man was jerked from his feet, but this time the Kid had no desire to kill.
“It is the spirits!” Lobo shouted. “The gringo told me they would be angry!”
Juan’s shout broke in. “The Keed? He has done this! He has gotten away!”
The Cactus Kid heard them rushing toward the anthill where he had been tied, but he dropped the unconscious Miguel and sprang for the guns. He came up with the gun belt swinging in his hands and, with a quick movement, caught it and buckled the guns on. Then he sprang across the fire to the girl and dragged her into the darkness.
While she sobbed with relief he tore at the knots with frenzied, eager fingers.
“Where are the horses?” he said. “Get to them quickly! Get two and turn the others free. Then wait for me where the trail begins.”
The girl asked no more questions, but slipped off into the darkness.
There was not a sound from the brothers. Miguel, his face blue, lay on the ground near the fire. He was not dead.
The Kid glided from behind the fire and, staring into the darkness, began to probe for the brothers Fernandez. Both were armed, as Pedro had not been. Both men were deadly with six-guns, and in any kind of a shoot-out they would be hard men to handle. Keeping his eyes away from the fire, he moved into the shadows, hoping to get near the horses, but out of line with the girl.
There was no sign from her. Then he heard a horse stamp and blow. He waited. Then he heard a footfall, so soft he scarce could hear. He whirled, gun in hand, and in the darkness he saw the looming figure of Lobo, just the faint outline of his figure in the light from the fire.
Their guns came up at the same instant, and both blasted fire. The Kid felt a quick stab at his side, not of pain, but rather a jolt as though someone had jerked him violently. Then he fired again, and saw the big figure of Lobo wilting, saw the gun dribble from his fingers, and at the same instant there was a scream from near the horses.
Turning in his tracks, he charged toward the scream and came up running. There was a wild scuffling in the dark, then a muttered curse and the sound of a blow. He saw them, and holstering his gun, the Kid lunged close and caught Juan with one hand at his shirt collar and one at his belt.
With a tremendous jerk, he ripped the Mexican free and shoved him violently away. With a cry, Juan turned like a cat in midair and hit the ground in a sitting position. He must have drawn as he fell, for suddenly his gun belched fire and then the Kid fired.
Juan Fernandez rolled over and the Kid dropped to the ground. They lay there, only a few feet apart, each waiting for a move from the other. Somewhere off to the right the girl was also lying still. Back at the fire Miguel might be coming to. What was to be done must be done now.
He could hear the horses moving, so evidently Bess had reached them safely again after he had pulled Juan away from her. All was quiet, and then he thought he detected a movement off to the right.
Picking up a small pebble, he tossed it into the water. It drew no fire, no reaction. Getting carefully to his feet, he tried to penetrate the darkness ahead of him. Circling, he headed toward where he believed Juan to be. Yet when he reached the spot, the outlaw was no longer there!
Glancing back toward the fire, he saw that Miguel, too, was gone.
Gun in hand, he started working toward the entrance to the trail where he had warned Bess to meet him.
THE WHEREABOUTS of the brothers disturbed him. Their hatred over his responsibility, small as it had been, in the death of Ace, would be nothing at all now that he had escaped them, killed Pedro, and taken Bess O’Neal from them. Above all, once the two left this valley, the brothers Fernandez would know only too well their day around Aragon was over.
A movement near him, and he froze into a crouch, his gun lifted. Then he saw a dark shadow, and just as he lifted the gun and turned it toward the figure there came to his nostrils a faint, scarcely tangible breath of perfume!
A moment only he waited, then he took a chance. “Bess!” he hissed.
In a moment she was beside him. Her lips against his ear, she breathed softly, “Miguel is at the trail entrance! We cannot get away!”
“The horses?”
“I’ve yours and mine in the cutback under the shelf. Near that image!”
Taking her hand, he began to move on careful feet toward the place she mentioned. It was dark there, in the overhang of the cliff. He drew her to him and slipped his left arm around her waist. Freed from his bonds, with Bess O’Neal beside him, and his guns on his slim hips, the Cactus Kid was once more himself. Grimly, he waited.
Morning would come, and with it—well, the brothers Fernandez could run, or they could die, as they wished.
Dawn came, as dawns will, slipping in a gray mystery of beginning light along the far wall of the narrow canyon, then growing into light. The gray turned softer and lay down along the gravel bench. The ants, unaware of what they had missed, began to bestir themselves, and the Kid, seated against the wall with the head of Bess O’Neal on his shoulder, watched the light and was thankful.
No living thing beyond the ants appeared on the bench. He arose, and awakening the girl, they swung into the saddle and, walking their horses, started cautiously for the trail. When they rounded the cluster of boulders that concealed it from them, there was no one in sight. “Looks like they’ve gone!” he said.
“Not yet.”
Juan Fernandez, sided by the younger Miguel, stepped from the boulders at their side. Juan’s eyes were hot with hatred, and the gun in his hand spoke clearly of what was to come.
“We are going to kill you, señor.”
“Looks like it,” the Kid said calmly. “Can I smoke first?”
Juan shrugged. “Why not? If your tobacco and papers are in your breast pocket?”
Very carefully, the Cactus Kid reached for them and built a cigarette.
“Too bad,” he said, “a few more minutes and we’d have been in the clear.” He put the cigarette in his mouth, then struck the match on the saddle. Holding it in his fingers, he grinned at Juan. “No offense,” he said, “but I should have killed you last night. Still, they’ll get you, the bunch at Aragon. They’ll figure this out.” The match was burning slowly. Too slowly. “Somebody must have seen you kidnap Bess.”
“Nobody saw us,” Juan said, with satisfaction. “If you are going to smoke, you better light that cigarette.”
“Nevertheless,” the Kid protested, “I think—” Then the flame of the match burned down to his fingers, and at the twinge of pain, he yelled “Ouch,” and jerked back his hand, dropping the match.
Only his hand never stopped moving. He palmed his gun, and his gun bellowed with that of Juan Fernandez. The bullet of Juan cut a furrow across the saddle fork in front of him, but his own bullet slammed Juan in the chest and he staggered and fell to the sand even as the Cactus Kid’s gun spoke another time.
Miguel let go his gun and grabbed at his side with an expression of shocked surprise in his eyes. He fell from the saddle and sprawled on his face in the sun. Juan tried to rise, then fell back.
Two hours and some twelve miles farther away toward the ranch where Bess lived with her uncle, the Cactus Kid tilted his sombrero back on his head and looked at Bess. Her eyes were bright and shining with promises. “You were very brave!” she said.
The Kid lifted a deprecating shoulder. “Not very,” he said. “It wasn’t that, but luck.” Then, recalling in the flush of his success the ancient arrowhead, he added, “It was luck, and the Yaqui gods. They were with me, with us.”
“Give them all the credit you want!” she insisted. “I think you’re wonderful!”
The Cactus Kid smiled benevolently and brushed his fingernails lightly against the front of his shirt, then glanced at them.
“Of course,” he said, “you may be right. Who am I to argue with a lady?”
Love and the Cactus Kid
CHAPTER I
FLOWERS FOR JENNY
Jenny Simms, who was pocket-sized and lovely, lifted her determined chin. “If you loved me, you would! You know you would! It’s just that you don’t love me enough! Why, just look at what the knights used to do for their ladies! And you won’t even get me some flowers!”
“Flowers?” The Cactus Kid stared at her gloomily. “Now it’s flowers! Girls sure do beat me! Where in this country would a man find flowers?”
His wave at the surrounding country where their picnic lunch was spread was expressive and definite. “Look at it! Ain’t been a drop of rainfall in four months, and you know it! Scarcely a blade of grass that’s even part green! Worst drought in years, and you want flowers!”
“If you loved me you’d get them!” Her voice was positive and brooked no argument. “If a man really loves a girl he can do anything!”
Her blue eyes flashed at him, and their beauty shook him anew. “Nesselrode, if you love me…!”
“Sssh!” he pleaded, glancing panic-stricken around. “If anybody heard that name they’d hooraw me out of the country. Call me Clay, or Kid, or anything but Nesselrode!”
“It’s your name, isn’t it? Nesselrode Clay. I see nothing wrong with it, nothing at all! Furthermore”—she was not to be diverted—“if you love me you’ll get me some flowers! I told the girls you were giving me flowers and they laughed at me! They did. They said there were no flowers closer than California, this time of year.”
The Cactus Kid rolled a smoke and stared at it with dark disgust. Women! He snorted. What they could think of! Jenny could think of things nobody else would dream of. That came of reading so many books, all romances and the like. Made her look for a man on a white charger who would do great feats to win her love.
Not that he wouldn’t. Why right now, instead of being on a picnic with Jenny, he ought to be out with the posse chasing the Herring boys. There were three of them, and all were gun-slick and tough. They had stopped the U.P. train on a grade about fifteen miles from here, killed the express messenger and the fireman. They had looted the safe of forty thousand dollars in gold and bills. There was a reward on them, a thousand apiece for Benny and Joe, and four thousand for Red.
With the money he could buy some cows and stock that little ranch he was planning on. He could set up a home for a girl like Jenny to be proud of, and with his know-how about cows they could soon be well off. But no, instead of hunting for the Herrings, she wanted him to go hunt flowers!
“It’s little enough to do for me,” she persisted. “All you think of is running around shooting people in the stomach! You ought to be ashamed, Nesselrode!”
He winced and started to speak, but his voice was lost in the storm of words.
“If you don’t bring me some flowers for my birthday, Nesselrode, I’ll never speak to you again! Never!”
“Aw, honey!” he protested. “Don’t be like that! The sheriff asked me particular to go along and hunt for the Herrings. The boys’ll think I’m scared!”
“Nesselrode Clay! You listen to me! If you don’t get me those flowers, I never want to see you again! And don’t you be shooting anybody, either! Every time you go to do something for me you get into trouble, shooting somebody in the stomach!”
Jenny Simms was five feet one inch of dark-haired loveliness and fire. Almost, sometimes, the Cactus Kid wished there were less of the fire. At other times, he welcomed it.
The fact that she was the prettiest girl in four counties, that her five feet one inch was firm, shapely, and trim as a two-year-old filly, all conspired to make the Kid cringe at the thought of losing her. He was, unfortunately, in love, and the male animal in love is an abject creature when faced by the tyranny of his beloved. At the time he should be firm, he is weak. At the time he should have been getting her accustomed to driving in harness he was so much in love that he was letting her get the bit in her teeth.
The Cactus Kid, five feet seven inches of solid muscle and bone, curly-haired and given to smiling with a charm all his own, was the most sought-after young man around. At the moment, nobody would h
ave guessed. Nor would they have guessed that the black-holstered, walnut-stocked .44s hanging just now on his saddle were considered by some to be the fastest and deadliest guns in the Rocky Mountain country.
“All right,” he said weakly, “I’ll get your flowers. Come hell or high water, I’ll get ’em!” He gave her his hands and helped her up from the flat rock where she was sitting.
AWAY FROM THE FLASHING BEAUTY of Jenny’s eyes, he was no longer so confident. Flowers! There wasn’t a water hole in fifteen miles that wasn’t merely cracked earth and gray mud. The streams had stopped running two months ago. Cattle were dying, all that hadn’t been hurriedly sold off, and the leaves on the trees had turned crisp and brown around the edges.
Flowers! He scowled thoughtfully. The Widow Finnegan had a garden, and usually there were flowers in bloom. Now maybe…
The piebald gelding with the pink nose and pink-rimmed eyes was a fast horse on the road, and it moved fast now, going through the hills toward the Slash Five and the Widow Finnegan’s elm-shaded yard. Yet long before he reached it he could see that even the elms looked parched and bare.
The Widow Finnegan was five feet ten and one hundred and eighty pounds of Irishwoman and she met him at the gate.
“Not here!” She looked about as approachable as a bulldog with a fresh bone. “Not here you don’t be gettin’ no flowers, Kid!”
“Why, I…” His voice trailed away under the pale blue of her glaring eyes.
“There’ll be no soft-soapin’ me, nayther!” the Widow Finnegan said sharply. “I know the likes of you, Cactus Kid! Full of blarney an’ honey-tongued as a thrush! But I know all about the flowers ye’ll be wantin’, an’ there’s few enough left, an’ them withered!”
“You…heard of it?” he asked.
“Heard of it? An’ hasn’t that colleen o’ yours been sayin’ all aboot that ye were bringin’ her flowers for her birthday! Flowers enough to decorate the rooms with? Flowers in this country where a body is that lucky to find a green blade of grass?”
The Collected Short Stories of Louis L'Amour, Volume Five Page 49