He glanced thoughtfully at the fence around the small patch of flowers, most of them looking very sick from the hot winds and no rain. She caught his look, and flared.
“No, ye don’t! I’m not to be fooled by the likes of ye, Cactus Kid! Ye come back here at night an’ every hand on the Slash Five will be digging rock salt out of your southern exposure! An’ it’s not just talkin’ I am!”
A HALF-DOZEN MEN loafed in the High Card Saloon and they all looked up when he shouldered through the door.
“Rye!” he said.
“What’s the matter?” Old Man Hawkins leered at him. “Ain’t you after the Herrings? Or have they got you buffaloed, too?”
The Cactus Kid looked at him with an unfriendly eye. “Got to get some flowers for Jenny,” he said lamely, “and she’s fussing about me getting into shooting scrapes.”
“’S the way with women,” the barkeep said philosophically. “Fall for a man, then set out to change him. Soon’s they got him changed they don’t like him no more. Never seen it to fail, Kid.”
“Speakin’ of flowers,” Sumner suggested, “I hear tell there’s a gent over to Escalante that orders ’em shipped in.”
“Be all dried up,” the barkeep objected. “Jenny’ll want fresh flowers.”
“Ain’t goin’ to find none!” Old Man Hawkins said cheerfully. “Might’s well give up, Kid, an’ hightail it after the Herrings. You would at least git some money if you got them…if you got ’em.”
The Cactus Kid stared malevolently at his unoffending drink. Meanwhile he tried to arrange his thoughts into some sort of order. Now, flowers. Where would a man be apt to find flowers? Nowhere on the flat-land, that was sure. The grass was dried up or the season wrong for any kind he knew of.
A man got up and walked to the bar and stopped beside the Kid. He was a big old man wearing a greasy buckskin shirt.
“I’m Ned Hayes,” he said, “prospector. Heard you talkin’ about flowers. You’ll find plenty in the Blue Mountains. Ain’t no drought up thataway. Country shore is green an’ purty.”
“Thanks.” The Kid straightened up, suddenly filled with hope. Then he hesitated, remembering Jenny’s admonition about fighting. “Ain’t any trouble down thataway, is there? I sure aim to keep out of it this trip.”
Hayes chuckled. “Why, man, you won’t see a living soul! Nobody ever goes down there ’cept maybe a drifting Injun. Robber’s Roost is some north, but they never git down so far. No, you won’t see a soul, but you better pack extra grub. There’s game, but you won’t find no cattleman an’ nary a sheep camp. I never seen nobody.”
THE EIGHT PEAKS of the mountain group were black against the sky when the Cactus Kid’s first day on the trail was ending. This was rough, wild, wind-worried and sun-scorched country, all new to him. Its wild and majestic beauty was lonely as a plateau on the moon, and water was scarce. He pushed on, remembering that Ned Hayes had said there was no drought in the Blues and not wanting to pitch dry camp out on the escarpment.
“Grassy on the east slopes, Kid,” Hayes had added. “What yuh’ll want to do is to cross the Divide. That is, go over the ridge to the west slope, and there you’ll find the greenest forest you ever saw, rushing mountain streams, an’ a passel of wildflowers of all kinds and shapes.”
All day he had seen no track of horse or man, not even the unshod track of an Indian pony. It was eerie, lonely country and the Kid found himself glancing uneasily over his shoulder and staring in awed wonder at the eight peaks. The mountains were new to him, and they comprised a large section of country, all of sixteen miles long and about ten across.
The piebald was climbing now, and he bent to it with a will. The Kid had stumbled upon the semblance of a trail, an ancient Indian route, probably not used in centuries. It was marked at intervals by small piles of stones such as used to mark their trails in the deserts farther west.
The horse liked it. He could smell the rich, nutritious grass, and was ducking his head for an occasional mouthful. He had no idea where this strange master of his was taking him, but it looked like horse country. Grouse flew up from under his feet, and once a couple of black-tailed deer darted away from his movement, then stopped not a dozen yards away to study him.
Before him the hills showed a notch that seemed to offer a pass to the farther side, and the Cactus Kid swung his horse that way. Then he reined in sharply and stared at the ground.
Three hard-ridden horses had cut in sharply from the north, then swung toward the same cut in the hills that he was heading for. And the trail was fresh!
“What d’ you know?” the Cactus Kid muttered. “Riders in this country! Well, nothing like company!”
Yet he rode more warily, for well he knew that riders in such an area might be on the dodge. North and west of here was a district in the canyons already becoming famous as Robber’s Roost, and strange bands of horses or cattle occasionally drifted through the country, herded by hard-eyed riders who kept their own counsel and avoided trails.
CHAPTER II
A RED HERRING
Shadows were gathering into black pools in the canyons when he finally saw the notch in the hills deepen into a real opening. The piebald, weary as he was, walked now with his ears cocked forward, and once the Cactus Kid was quite sure he smelled dust in the air.
Despite the heat of the day, the evening grew chill and the night would be cold. The atmosphere was thin here, and the altitude high, yet he wanted to go over the pass before he bedded down. His eyes and ears were alert for sight or sound of the riders who preceded him, but he heard nothing, saw nothing.
At last he rode into the deep shadows of an aspen grove and, hearing water, pushed toward it. Here, on the banks of a small stream, he found a hollow. He built a fire, carefully shielded, and picketed his horse. After a brief supper and coffee, he rolled in his blanket and poncho and slept the night through.
He awoke to find his fire only the soft gray of wood ashes, the sky of the same shade and texture. Chilled, he threw off his blankets and built a fire of mountain mahogany, young pine, and branches broken from the dead lower limbs of the aspen. Soon the fire was crackling and he had water on.
The morning was still and cold. Below him the tops of trees were like islands in the mist rising from the forest, a thick fog like the smoke of leaf fires. The air was damp and the smoke held low, but the hungry tongues of the fire ate rapidly at the dry branches. In a matter of minutes there was the smell of coffee and of beef frying.
Several times he walked away from the task of preparing breakfast to look out through the woods beyond the hollow in which he was camped. Without any reason, he felt uneasy and his mind kept returning to the three riders. No honest men would be in this country unless they were passing through, and there were easier routes to the east and north. He thought of the Herrings but dismissed it at once. They were east of here and by now the posse probably had them.
His breakfast over, he led the piebald to water, but the horse refused to drink from the cold stream. Quickly he saddled up, then mounted. The black-and-white horse pitched a few times in a casual, disinterested way, more as a matter of form than of conviction. The Kid moved out.
Almost at once he saw the flowers. Many of them were sego lilies, faintly orchid in these mountains rather than pure white. There were other flowers, mostly of purple or violet colors, shading to white and some to blue. Lilac sunbonnet, forget-me-not, chia, and many other flowers seemed to be blooming here, most of which he knew but slightly or from the Indian use of some of them as remedies or food.
Sighting a particularly thick field of flowers, the Cactus Kid swung from his saddle and started into the field. He had stooped to pick flowers when a hard voice spoke behind him.
“Hold it right there, sprout,” the voice said unpleasantly, “or you get a Winchester slug in your spine.”
The Kid froze, startled but puzzled. “What’s the matter?” he asked mildly. “I ain’t troubling nobody.”
“You ain’t
goin’ to, neither.” This was another voice. “What you doin’ here?”
“Came after some flowers for my girl,” the Kid said, realizing as he spoke that it sounded ridiculous.
A big man lumbered around in front of him, glancing at his face. “Yeah, you’re right, Red. It’s him. It’s the Cactus Kid, all right. Shucks, I figured him quite a man from all I heard! This one’s only a sprout.”
“I don’t like that word,” the Kid said coldly. “Who are you, and what do you want with me?”
The big man chuckled. “Hear that, Red? He don’t like being called sprout, an’ he’s only up here pickin’ flowers! Now, ain’t that sweet?”
The man guffawed, then sobered suddenly and struck the Kid a wicked, backhand blow that knocked him to the ground. The Kid, fury rising in him and throttling his good sense, grabbed for his guns. Instantly, a hawk-faced red-haired man confronted him and there was no arguing with the rifle in his hands.
“Drop it, Kid! We hear you’re mighty fast on the draw, but you ain’t that fast!”
Reluctantly, the Cactus Kid lifted his hands away from the guns and raised them shoulder-high.
“Keep that big lug off me, then,” he protested, “or else take my guns and turn me loose! I’ll tear down his meat house!”
“Why, you dumb sprout!” The big man started forward. “I got a notion to…!”
“Cut it out!” Red said angrily. “What’s the matter, Joe? You lettin’ him get your goat? Forget it.” The red-haired man turned his cold gray eyes on the Kid. “Who’s with you?”
“Nobody! I come up here alone, and like I said, I’m after flowers.”
“Flowers!” Joe sneered. “He’s after flowers! Now, wouldn’t that kill you? The Cactus Kid, gunfighter and manhunter, after flowers!”
The Kid glared. “I’ll peel your hide for this, you buttonheaded maverick!”
“Shut up!” Red spoke harshly. “Get along toward that dead fir. Right over there! Joe”—Red’s voice was sharp—“bring that piebald. We can use a good horse.”
“You aiming to set me afoot?” The Kid spoke more quietly. “Look, Red Whatever-your-name-is, I’m on the level about this flower business. My gal down to Helper, she’s giving a party. You know how women are.”
“How are they?” Red questioned. “I ain’t talked to a woman in three months. You keep movin’, an’ watch your talk to Joe an’ Benny. They get mighty touchy.”
Joe and Benny…and Red.
The Herring brothers!
HE WAS SO STARTLED he almost missed his footing and fell, but caught himself in time. Of course! What had he been thinking of not to guess at once who they were? Joe and Benny Herring, killers both of them, wanted for bank and train holdups, but nothing at all to the deadly Red Herring, the gunman from the Gila. A cold-blooded and vicious killer with a flashing speed that had sent more than one marshal and sheriff to Boot Hill.
The Herrings…and they had him cold turkey. The boys who had forced a banker to open the bank safe, then escort them from town, and on the outskirts had coolly shot him dead.
And Jenny had warned him against getting into a fight. He groaned, and Red Herring prodded him with a rifle barrel.
“What’s that for?” he demanded.
“Aw, Jenny…she’s my girl. She warned me not to get in any fights.”
Red chuckled without humor. “Don’t worry, cowhand, you ain’t in no fight, nor liable to be. You lost this one afore it started. Frankly, we’d as soon hang your hide on the cabin wall as rob a bank. We heard of you.”
The Kid decided nothing was to be gained by conversation. He had no doubt Red meant just what he said. They might have had friends, if such men ever had friends, whom he had gunned down or helped send over the road to the pen. Anyway, in outlaw hangouts the killing of the Cactus Kid would be something to boast about.
Suddenly the earth broke sharply off in a thick grove of aspen where a steep, rocky trail wound downward through the trees. It was a one-man-at-a-time trail, and when they reached the bottom they were in a nest of boulders mingled with ancient trees, huge white-limbed deadfalls, and the sound of running water.
Benny Herring was a thin, saturnine man with a scar on his chin. He looked up at them, staring at the Kid.
“He the one followed us?” He stared evilly at the Kid. “How’d you spot our trail? Who else knows about it?”
“He says he come up here huntin’ flowers!” Joe sneered.
Benny eyed him without humor or interest. “What did you bring him back for? Why didn’t you shoot him an’ leave him lay?”
“Buzzards.” Red’s voice was casual. “Tie him up, Joe.”
“Sure.” Joe shambled up to him, grinning out of his narrow eyes. Then he smashed the Kid across the face, over and back, caught him before he fell, and shoved him against a stunted tree scarcely taller than the Kid himself.
The Cactus Kid felt blood trickling down his chin, and he glared at Joe, taking a deep breath. Joe tied him tightly and thoroughly. Then he stared at the Kid, who stared back at him. Setting himself, Joe hooked a right to his wind and the Kid felt his breath leave him with a gasp.
Without a backward glance, Joe Herring slouched to the fire and the three began eating, talking in a low-voiced, desultory fashion. Despite their questions about who else knew of their trail, they seemed unworried, so the Kid deduced they had actually seen him behind them on the previous day, and knew he was alone.
He was no fool. His situation was desperate. That they would not hesitate to leave him dead, he knew. All three of these men would hang if caught alive and they had proved too many times in the past that they had no hesitation about killing a helpless man. None of them was the sort to be troubled by qualms or conscience.
Red was obviously the leader, yet from his looks Benny was no fool. Joe was a hulking brute, physically powerful, but mentally his range was bare.
The Kid’s chances looked nil, and they might kill him at any time. However, if they would leave him alone for a while…He had his own ideas about that, and his first ruse had worked.
Red had said they did not kill him because of buzzards. They were afraid attention might be drawn to the area by some chance rider seeing circling buzzards. That implied they were not ready to leave. For all he knew, this area might be a permanent hideout for them, and might explain why they had so often dropped from sight on previous occasions.
Tentatively, he tried his bonds. Having taken a deep breath and swelled his muscles before being tied, he now had a little slack. It was little enough, but he was thankful that he had not been hit in the wind before being tied, as that little slack might make all the difference in the world. His four inches of chest expansion had been a help before this, but never had he needed it so much.
His wrists, however, were tightly bound, although he knew he could move around the tree with some ease if left alone.
When they finished eating, Benny mounted a horse and drifted out of the hollow—to act as a lookout, the Kid guessed. Red smoked a cigarette and eyed the Kid irritably. Obviously, he was in the way, and wouldn’t be kept around for long.
Red Herring was wise in not attracting attention to their hideout, for the Cactus Kid knew that searchers were not even coming this way, and as this country was seldom traveled, it was perfection itself for their purposes. There was small chance that anyone might see the circling buzzards, but at this time caution was the smart thing and Red Herring had the cunning of a wolf. At the same time, the Kid knew that it would serve no purpose to keep him alive. He was only an encumbrance, and the sooner they rid themselves of him the better off they were.
An idea came to the Kid suddenly, an idea that might keep him alive a little longer, and he desperately wanted to live.
“You got it mighty good here,” he said. “Only that money won’t do you much good in this hole.”
“We don’t aim to stay.” Red threw a couple of dry sticks on the fire. “Just to let things quiet down.”
“They
’ll be watching for you at Hanksville, Greenriver, and Dandy Crossing. At Helper and Henrieville, too.”
Herring looked up, studying the Kid. “How’d you know that?”
“They wanted me in the posse. I wouldn’t go because my girl wanted the flowers.”
Red grunted. “You stickin’ to that story? Why come way down here?”
“Figure it out for yourself. With this drought there ain’t none anywhere around. Prospector told me about these flowers. Hombre name of Hayes.”
Red nodded. “Know about him. So they got us bottled up, have they? Why tell us? Why not let us ride into a trap?”
The Kid grinned wryly. “Because I want to live. To get you killed after I’m dead doesn’t help me, and the way I figure it, you don’t aim to let me live that long.”
“That’s right. We’ll kill you before the day’s out. Drop you in a hole over west of here. Still, I don’t see why you tell me.”
“I said, because I want to live…and there’s a way out of this country.”
“Out of here? How?” The Kid was aware of Red’s awakened interest. If he could keep him hooked…
“South of here, if you know the water holes. Otherwise, you can die out there.”
“South?” Red studied the situation. “That’s a mighty long ride. I heard a man couldn’t make it through. You know the water holes?”
“Sure, I know ’em. And I know the trails like an Injun. You boys aren’t known down thataway, either, are you?”
Red got to his feet and walked over, rolling a smoke. He stuck the cigarette in the Kid’s lips and lit it.
“No, we ain’t.” He studied the Kid carefully. “You figure we’ll let you go if you take us through?”
The Kid grinned. “No. I never heard of you doing anybody any favors, Red. But the longer I stay alive the better my chances are. You might decide to lay off, or I might get a chance to light a shuck.”
Red chuckled but without humor. “Yeah, that’s reasonable enough. You’re buying time.”
The Collected Short Stories of Louis L'Amour, Volume Five Page 50