The Collected Short Stories of Louis L'Amour, Volume Five

by Louis L'Amour

  CHAPTER III

  DESPERATE CHANCE

  Nothing more was said and they waited the hours out. The men changed jobs from time to time, and there was much low-voiced discussion among them. As the night drew on, it became rapidly colder. At dusk Benny came in from watching and the three ate, talked longer, then rolled up in their blankets and went to sleep.

  The Cactus Kid shivered in the cold, crisp air, his body held immobile by his bonds. He tried tensing groups of muscles to keep his circulation alive and ward off the worst of the cold, and after a while he tried his bonds. The four inches of chest expansion had given him a little slack with which to work, and he could turn his body on the dead tree. Yet for all his straining he could do little with the rawhide thongs that bound his hands behind him.

  Morning dawned cold and crisp and Benny walked over to him and untied him. “Set and eat,” he said briefly.

  For an hour they questioned him about the route south, and his answers evidently satisfied them. Much of this country was as strange to him as to them, but he did know that trail out, and he was sure that once they were traveling, his chance would come. Anyway, it was a reprieve, if only for a few days.

  After having him collect more wood while watched by Joe with a rifle, they tied him again, and this time left him sitting on the ground. This time, too, he held his breath and bulged his muscles while straining for slack. And again he got it, although not so much as before.

  Red was the first guard and he walked away from camp right away. Benny returned to the Kid and plied him with questions about the trail. He seemed disturbed by the trip, but why, the Cactus Kid could not gather.

  Then, almost at noon, Red came in leading the horses. “We’ll go,” he said. “Nobody’s coming. Far’s a man can see, that trail’s empty. We’ve lost ’em, but to go out thataway would be asking for trouble. The Kid can guide us over this south trail.”

  Although his weapons were carried by Joe Herring, the Cactus Kid was left unbound. At once, he headed off south through the mountains with Red beside him and the other Herrings immediately behind. Leaving the hills, they descended to Sage Plain, skirted Elk Ridge and the Bear’s Ears, dropped into Cottonwood Wash and proceeded along it and then out into a fantastic world of eerie towers and spires like the images of cathedrals cast in stone.

  At dark, he brought them up to a spring, a small trickle of water running from a fracture in the rock into a small basin, which overflowed in turn to be lost in the sand. Nearby were several windbreaks made by Indians from pine boughs or slabs of rock. There was no evidence of human life other than that, and no sign that anybody had been near in months.

  Once, on the rim of a canyon, Red Herring drew up sharply.

  “Thought you said there was nobody down thisaway?”

  “What do you see?” the Kid asked curiously.

  “House, or building over yonder.” Herring stood in his stirrups and squinted. “Sort of tower.”

  “Oh, that?” The Kid shrugged. “Injun ruins. Lots of them down here.” He turned the piebald down a steep trail to the canyon bottom. Here, in this well-watered place, they rode into groves of fir, pine, and black balsam, while snowberry and manzanita grew thick along the canyon walls. There was grass, and yet here and there clumps of desert plants had invaded this richer, moister soil.

  Late in the afternoon Red Herring suddenly snapped his rifle to his shoulder. Its report bellowed against the canyon walls and a mule deer plunged to its knees, tried to get up, then sprawled out.

  “Nothing like fresh meat,” Red said with satisfaction.

  “Who skins it?” Joe demanded belligerently. “Why don’t we make this sprout work?” He grinned at the Kid. “Let him earn his keep.”

  “Good idea,” Red said, “you’re cook from here on, Kid.”

  “Good!” the Cactus Kid said. “Now I can get some decent chuck for a while. That Joe cooks like he was fixing food for hogs.”

  Joe glared, and Benny chuckled. “Danged if it ain’t the truth!” he said. “He had you there, Joe!”

  Accepting the knife tossed to him, the Kid got busy over the deer, cutting out some fine steaks. As he worked, he was thinking swiftly. This might be the gamble he wanted, and in any event, it was worth taking a chance. As he gathered fuel for the fire and started his broiling of the steaks, he thought rapidly.

  Back along the line there had been some desert brush, among them a plant he had recognized. It was a low-growing shrub, without leaves at this time of year, but with its stems dotted with odd, glandlike swellings. As he worked, the Kid kept his eyes busy and finally located the plant he sought, a relative of the rue known in many lands for medicinal effects. Carefully, from under the plant he gathered some of the dried leaves and, when making coffee, crushed a double handful and dropped them into the boiling water with the coffee. Finding more of the plants, he gathered a stack of the leaves while collecting wood and put them down not far from the fire.

  Red bit into his first piece of steak, then looked up at the Kid. “You just got yourself a few more days, podner. This is grub!”

  Even the surly Joe agreed that the Cactus Kid could cook, but when he tasted the coffee, he stared at it.

  “Tastes funny,” he said, scowling.

  Red picked up his cup and tried it. “Tastes good to me,” he said. “It’s just that your taster has been ruint by that alkali and coffee junk you put out for coffee.”

  The Kid added more fuel to the fire. Soon they would tie him, but how soon? He had to guess right and beat them to it. Whether his stunt would work, he did not know, but it was a gamble he had to take. The Utes had told him of the plant and its effects, that it was used by them as a sedative, and that leaves thrown on a fire provided undisturbed sleep.

  He poured a liberal cup of coffee for himself, but he managed to see that his cup came only after they had been served, and from a second batch that contained none of the leaves. Getting up, the Kid threw some more brush on the fire, and with it the small mound of leaves he had gathered. They burned slowly, and the smoke grew thicker, but the aroma was not unpleasant.

  Benny looked up suddenly. “Joe, you better tie him up. I’m getting sleepy.”

  “Me, too,” Red agreed. “That was a long ride, and I ate more’n usual.”

  Joe Herring lumbered to his feet. Crossing to the Kid he jerked his wrists behind him and tied them together, his fingers clumsy with sleep. Then he tied the Kid’s feet together and walked back to his bedroll.

  Red was already asleep, his blanket pulled over him. At the fire, Benny dozed, and while the Cactus Kid watched hopefully, smoke drifted across his face and the man nodded. Finally, with a glance over at the Kid, Benny got up and went to his bedroll. And then, for a long time, there was silence.

  THE KID WAS WORKING HARD. His breath coming hoarsely, he struggled with the poorly tied thongs on his wrists. Unable to do much with them, he hooked the toes of his boots under a log and carefully, with much struggling, succeeded in drawing his feet out of the boots. Then he backed around to them and managed to dig their toes down into the sand so that he could rub the rawhide on the rowels of his spurs. It took him more than an hour and then the thongs dropped free and he drew his wrists from behind him. They were chafed and bloody, but free!

  Sitting perfectly still, he worked his fingers to restore circulation, then removed the thongs from around his boots and put them on. Crossing to the stack of guns, he picked up his own and belted them on, then put his rifle carefully to one side and considered the situation.

  The Herrings were not doped. Not, at least, to the extent that they had passed out. From what he had heard, the qualities of the plant he had used were sufficient only to induce a sound sleep, which, added to their natural drowsiness from the long day in the saddle and warm food, had been sufficient. Yet he was sure that the slightest sound of a squabble and they would awaken.

  Knowing them, he knew they would come awake fighting. They would gamble. Whether he could manage withou
t awakening them he did not know, and his first instinct was for flight. Yet here they were, the men wanted so badly, and the reward would do a lot toward stocking a ranch as well as removing from circulation some badmen no better than mad dogs.

  Red was sleeping with his guns on and his rifle beside him. Benny had been more careless, yet his weapons were close. Joe, who had been carrying the Kid’s weapons, had left them all together.

  Moving carefully out of camp, the Kid got the piebald and saddled him. When he was ready, in case of emergency, the Kid walked slowly back to camp. Very gently, he slipped a loop over Joe’s wrists and drew it as tight as he dared. The big man was sleeping with his knees drawn up, so the Kid bound his wrists down to his knees. He was just straightening up when, lifting his eyes, he looked into the startled, staring eyes of Ben Herring!

  Instantly, Ben yelled, “Red! Look out! The Kid’s loose!” And at the same instant he grabbed for his gun.

  “Drop it!” The Cactus Kid’s gun leaped into his hand. “Drop!”

  Ben’s finger whitened on the trigger and the Kid’s gun bellowed. It was point-blank range and a fast shot. The bullet hit the cartridges in Ben’s belt and glanced, smashing his elbow. The thin man dropped his gun and grabbed his arm, while on the ground Joe thrashed around, trying to free himself.

  A gun bellowed from the brush and the Kid dove for shelter among some rocks. Red had not waited to draw iron, but had leaped instantly for shelter. Now he crouched there across the fire, and the Cactus Kid knew he was in for the fight of his life.

  “Quiet down, Joe,” the Kid called, “or I’ll put a slug in you!”

  Joe ceased struggling and Ben sat there by the fire, gripping his bloody arm. “I’m out of this! You crippled me!”

  “See you stay out of it!” the Kid replied shortly. Then he faded back into the deeper darkness.

  He was desperately worried. The night was intensely dark, and he knew from his own moving around that a man could move easily and make no sound. The trees were not too close together, and the clumps of brush could be avoided. And Red Herring was a killer, a man with every sense alert, knowing that if captured he would hang.

  Moreover, the man would be filled with hatred now, and the Kid knew he had never faced a man more dangerous, more filled with concentrated evil and malice, than Red Herring.

  CHAPTER IV

  JENNY’S PARTY

  The Cactus Kid lay still, well back from the fire. He knew that every second he was out of sight of the camp was a second fraught with even greater danger, for if they realized he was gone, Ben would free Joe and he would be facing two men and possibly a third.

  There was no sound. The darkness lay thick and still around him. The stars were lost above a cushion of thick cloud; there was no wind. Somewhere a stone rattled, but it was far away. The Kid began to sweat. His stomach felt hollow and he stared, straining his eyes into the darkness, fighting down his desire to move, to get away from there. Yet to move might mean death, and his best plan was not to move, but to lie still, to force Red to come to him. And he knew that Red Herring, outlaw and murderer, would do just that.

  One of the horses stamped, and somewhere a grouse called into the night. The Cactus Kid shifted his gun and dried his sweaty palm on his shirt. Ever so carefully, the Kid moved, sliding his body along the ground, edging toward a clump of manzanita that would permit a view of the fire.

  Ben was fighting to bind his arm, and Joe was cursing steadily, staring toward the outer circle of darkness. The Kid waited, and an hour went slowly by.

  Suddenly, he stiffened with realization. While he waited, tense with watching for Red, who would be stalking him, the fire was dying!

  With the fire dead, and the two men in the circle of its light freed from his watching eyes, he would lose control over the situation and at once he would become the hunted, not the hunter!

  Yet he dared not call out to order them to build the fire. To speak would be to have his position riddled with bullets. Cold in the blackness, he fought for a solution, and then, suddenly, he had what seemed to be the answer.

  The loot.

  It lay almost halfway around the circle, on the edge of the firelight. Soon the place where it lay would be in darkness. Probably as soon as he could get to it. Lying there, forgotten in the face of more immediate problems, it could be the key to the whole show. If he could get the money, then get to his horse, he might at least save the loot. And he might succeed in drawing the Herrings into a trap. For if he had the money, they would follow him.

  Slowly, inch by inch, he worked his way along the ground, circling the fire. At any instant he might come face to face with Red; at any instant they might shoot it out. And over there in the circle of trees, the fire was flickering only in a few spots now.

  Then the sacks of loot were there, only a short distance from his hands. With infinite care, he reached out and lifted them one by one back into the brush. Fortunately, there was little gold, so the weight was nothing to worry about. With the sacks in his left hand he eased back and got to his feet.

  He found the piebald by his white spots and moved to him. The horse sidestepped and instantly the area flamed with light! A gun bellowed and a shot plucked at his sleeve.

  Red Herring, guessing he would come for the saddled horse, had waited beside a stack of dry brush covered with leaves!

  The flare of the fire, the stab of the shot, and his own action were one. Flinging himself in a long dive, the Kid went, not for shelter or for the horse, but straight at the stabbing flame of the shot!

  A gun roared again and he heard the slam of the shot past his ear and then he was in the brush. Red Herring sprang to his feet and triggered the gun at point-blank range, but the Kid was coming too hard, and as he fired, Herring tried to step back. A rock rolled under his foot and his shot missed, and then the Cactus Kid hit him with his pistol.

  Herring staggered, then caught himself and swung wickedly with the barrel of his gun for the Kid’s head, but, rolling over, the Cactus Kid smashed his body against Herring’s legs and the cursing outlaw went down.

  Both men came up without guns and the Cactus Kid, fighting with the madness of fear, realizing his time was short, slashed into the outlaw with both fists winging. His right caught Herring on the jaw and knocked him into a tree, and before Red could set himself, the Cactus Kid closed in, smashing left and right to the head, a smashing right to the body, and a wicked left that broke Herring’s nose and showered him with blood. Herring swung, missed, and his chin blocked a wicked right with all the Kid’s lean, muscular power behind it. Herring hit the sand flat on his face and the Kid dove for his gun even as Joe and Ben came plowing through the brush.

  “Freeze!” The Kid’s gun was on them. “Drop ’em, boys, or I’ll plant all of you right here!” He had the drop…and they let go their guns.

  IT WAS MIDAFTERNOON, four days later. The town was crowded with the Saturday flux of ranchers. Suddenly, there was a startled yell, and men poured into the streets.

  Down the dusty main drag came four riders. Three rode abreast, and all who saw them immediately recognized the three bloody Herrings. Joe, who rode on the right, had a huge armful of sego lilies, as did Ben, who rode on the left. Red, who rode in the middle, his horse carefully roped to the other two, carried a huge armful of western forget-me-nots and purple verbena mingled with a few bunches of lilac sunbonnets.

  The town stared, then it cheered, and the Herrings glowered. Up the street they went, followed by the crowd, and halted before the Simms’s home.

  “Oh, Nesselrode! You’re wonderful! You got my flowers!”

  “Yeah.” He dismounted stiffly and began taking the flowers from the arms of the three surly outlaws. Red’s head was wrapped in a bloody bandage torn from a shirt. Ben’s arm was in a sling.

  “Got ’em. Better get ’em in water. They may be wilted some.”

  If Jenny noticed the Herrings it was not obvious. “Oh, Nesselrode! I knew you could do it! I just knew you coul
d!”

  Joe Herring glowered. “Huh! Nesselrode! Kotched by an hombre name of Nesselrode!”

  The Cactus Kid turned and his eyes were deadly. “I never shot a man with his hands tied, but you mention that name again and you’ll be the first!”

  The sheriff came pounding up with two deputies and took the prisoners.

  “Well, what do you know, Jenny!” he exclaimed. “This cowpuncher of yours caught the Herring boys!”

  “The Herring boys?” She smiled prettily. “Oh, Sheriff, will you ask your wife to come over and help me decorate? I don’t know whether that verbena would go better in the parlor or—”

  The sheriff bit off a chew.

  “You catch the three meanest outlaws west of the Rockies,” he said to the Kid, “and she wants to know whether the verbena will look better in one room or t’other!” He spat. “Women! I never will get ’em figured out!”

  The Cactus Kid grunted, and dug out the makings. He was unshaven and the desert dust was thick on his clothes. He was half dead from his long ride and lack of sleep.

  Jenny appeared suddenly in the door. “Oh, Nesselrode? Will you help me a minute, please? Pretty please?”

  The Kid looked at the sheriff, and the sheriff shrugged. “Yeah,” the Kid said, low-voiced. Then he looked up. “Coming, honey!” he said.

  The Cactus Kid Pays a Debt

  Four people, two women and two men, boarded the San Francisco boat in company with the Cactus Kid. Knight’s Landing was a freight landing rather than a passenger stop, and the five had been drawn together while waiting on the dock.

  Mr. Harper, pompous in black broadcloth, wore muttonchop whiskers and a prominent mustache. Ronald Starrett, younger and immaculate in dark suit and hat, looked with disdain at the Kid’s wide white hat, neat gray suit and high-heeled boots.

  The Kid carried a carpetbag that never left his hands, a fact duly noted by both men and one of the women. The Kid, more at home aboard the hurricane deck of a bronc than on a river steamer, had good reason for care. He was taking fifteen thousand dollars, the final payment on the Walking YY, from his boss, Jim Wise, to old MacIntosh.