Allen gave vent to a fat chuckle of amusement. “Don’t think I couldn’t,” he said, “but you sit still. We’ll talk to the Banker first.”
“No,” the Kid replied quietly, “I can’t wait.” In his hand he held a .44 Colt. “You come with me, Bull Run. Only you go first.”
Allen’s eyes grew ugly. “You can’t get away with this!” he sneered. “I ain’t goin’ nowheres, so go ahead an’ shoot. No durned kid can—” he lunged, both hands spread wide.
The Cactus Kid was in his element. He struck down Allen’s reaching left and smashed the barrel of his Colt over the big man’s ear, and Allen hit the floor as if dropped from a roof. Quickly, the Kid stepped outside to the balcony. Still clutching the carpetbag with his left hand, his right hovering near the butt of his .44, he walked down the stairs to the brawling room below, crowded with gamblers and drinkers.
Almost at the door he ran into Tim. The bouncer stopped him. “Where you goin’? The boss wanted you to talk to the Banker.”
“He wanted the Banker himself,” the Kid said shortly. “Hurry it up, he’s already sore.”
Tim stared hard at him, but stepped aside, and the Kid walked out into the dark street. Turning left he walked swiftly for a dozen steps then crossed the street and ducked into a dark alley. A few minutes later he arrived at the Palace Hotel.
IT WAS BROAD DAY when he awakened. While he bathed and shaved, he thought about his situation. Whoever had tipped the Banker and Starrett to the fact that he carried money must have been close to MacIntosh.
Two attempts had been made to get the money from him and it was likely that two groups now searched for him, only now both groups not only wanted the money but to kill him as well. Allen would not take that pistol blow without retaliation. He dared not—not in this town.
In a town where a man could be murdered for a drink, where it was the proud boast of many that “anything goes,” daylight would not end the search for him. Allen had not been boasting when he said his reach included the Palace. So, figure it this way: Bull Run Allen knew where he was. He would know within a matter of minutes of the time the Kid left the hotel. Even in such a fine place as the Palace was, men could be found who would give information for money.
The Kid’s safest bet was to get word to MacIntosh that he had the money, then make contact somewhere away from his business office, which might be watched. He checked his guns and returned them, fully loaded, to their places and walked into the hallway, carrying the bag.
A man in a brown suit sat at the end of the hall. He glanced up when the Kid stepped out, then, apparently unconcerned, went back to his paper and turned a page.
The Cactus Kid walked briskly along the hall. Around the corner, he sprinted to the far end and ducked down the back stairs, taking the first flight in about three jumps. Walking the rest of the way more slowly, he stepped out of the back door when the janitor’s back was turned. Entering the back door of another building he walked on through to the street and boarded a horsecar.
A roughly dressed man loitered in front of the building where MacIntosh had his office, and when the Kid got down from the car the fellow turned and started down the street, almost at a run. The Kid grinned and walked into the building and down the hall to the office door. MacIntosh’s name was on the door but he hesitated. If they were waiting for him elsewhere they might also have men planted here. Glancing around, he spotted a door marked Private. Taking a chance he opened it and stepped inside.
A big-shouldered man with a shock of white hair and a white, carefully trimmed beard looked up. He was about to speak when the outer door opened and a girl stepped in. Her eyes went wide when she saw the Kid and she stepped back hastily.
“Lily,” he exclaimed, and started forward.
Before he could get halfway across the room that door opened again and Banker Barber stepped in. His jaw was hard and his eyes cold. He held a gun in his hand. He motioned toward the carpetbag. “I’ll take that!” he said sharply. “Drop it on the floor and step back!”
The Kid knew from his eyes that the Banker would shoot. He also guessed he was more anxious to get the money than revenge and would not shoot in this building unless necessary. The Kid dropped the bag reluctantly and moved back. The Banker took a quick step forward and grasped the handle. Backing away, he unsnapped the top and thrust his hand inside. Keeping his eyes on the two men he drew out a thick sheaf and glancing quickly, his eyes came up, hard with triumph. Dropping the packet back into the bag he snapped it shut.
“Thanks!” he said grimly. “It was worth the trouble!”
“Be careful that Bull Run doesn’t take that away from you,” the Cactus Kid advised. “He has this place watched and he knew I came here.”
“Don’t worry!” the Banker replied grimly. “He won’t get this! Nobody,” he added, “gets this but me.” He backed to the door and opened it. “I’d like to know who taught you to bottom deal. You’re good!” He stepped back through the door. “And don’t try to follow me or I’ll kill you.”
He jerked the door shut. There was a thud, a grunt, and something heavy slid along the door. Then there were running footsteps. Outside in the street there was a shout, a shot, then more running feet.
MACINTOSH LEANED BACK in his chair. “Well,” he said testily, “I’m not taking the loss! The money was still in your possession! I’m sorry for Jim Wise, but he still owes me fifteen thousand dollars!”
With a cheerful smile the Cactus Kid went to the door and pulled it open. The body of Banker Barber fell into the room. His skull was bloody from the blow that had felled him, but he was still alive.
“Down in the street,” the Kid said, “somebody was just shot. I’m betting it was Starrett. And in a few minutes Bull Run Allen will be cussing a blue streak!”
“He got the money,” MacIntosh said sourly, “so why should he cuss?”
The Cactus Kid grinned broadly. From his inside coat pocket he drew an envelope and took from it a slip of paper. He handed it to MacIntosh. “A bank draft,” the Kid said complacently, “for fifteen thousand dollars! This morning after I slipped away from them, I went to the Wells Fargo and deposited the money with them. Now make out the receipt and I’ll make this right over to you.”
Old MacIntosh chuckled. “Fooled ’em, did you? I might have known anybody old Jim Wise would send with that much money would be smart enough to take care of it. What was in the bag?”
“Some packets of carefully trimmed green paper topped with one-dollar bills,” he said, grinning. “It cost me a few bucks, but it was worth it.”
MacIntosh chuckled, his eyes lively with humor. “I’d like to see Bull Run’s face when he opens that carpetbag! He fancies himself a smart one!” Then he sobered. “You called that girl by name. You know her?”
“She was with them on the boat,” the Kid explained. “She even got into the poker game when they tried to rook me. She’s good, too,” he added, “but she must have been the one who tipped them off. It had to be somebody who knew I’d be carrying money. Who is she?”
“She’s been working for me!” MacIntosh said angrily. “Working until just now. I never did put no truck in womenfolks workin’ around offices but she convinced me she could help me and she didn’t cost me no more’n a third what a man cost!”
“With a woman,” the Cactus Kid said, “it ain’t the original cost. It’s the upkeep!”
Battle at Burnt Camp
The Cactus Kid had crossed the Terlingua and was bearing right toward Black Ridge, when he saw the girl.
She was young and she was made up and she was pretty as a bay pony with three white stockings. She was standing beside the dim trail with her hands on her hips and her nose red from the sun.
The Kid drew up. “Howdy,” he said gravely, “goin’ far?”
“Without a horse?” Her eyes flashed. “Where could anybody go in this country without a horse? Where, I ask you?”
“Well,” the Kid said seriously, “it depends on what
you’re lookin’ for an’ how far you need to go. Would you mind tellin’ a feller what you’re doin’ out here afoot?”
“That’s none of your business!” she flared. “Are you going to give me a ride, or not?”
The Kid looked at her sadly. “Ma’am, for one who’s askin’ favors you sure aren’t very polite. Where were you raised, anyway?”
Her eyes narrowed. “Why, you—!” She stopped, flashing a sudden smile. “I’m sorry. It wasn’t your fault at all. Please, would you give me a ride?”
“Get up behind,” he said. “I’d sure not want to leave a lady out here in the desert with nobody to fuss at but rattlers. It wouldn’t be civilized!”
Putting her foot in his stirrup, she swung up behind him, and then before he could even speak she shucked one of his guns from its holster and shoved the muzzle into his spine. “Get off,” she said coldly. “Get off, an’ see how it feels to be afoot!”
“Now, look—!” The Kid started to protest, but the gun peeled hide from his spine and he heard the hammer click back as she cocked it. “Get off!” she ordered. “One yelp out of you and I’ll shoot your ears off!”
Carefully, the Kid swung down, and without a word she slapped spurs to his horse and started off. His lips parted in a smile, the Cactus Kid let her go, then suddenly he pinned his lips over his teeth and whistled shrilly. The horse stopped so sharply that the girl had no chance. She went right off over his head and fell hard. The horse trotted back toward him.
The Kid came up on the run, and before she could retrieve his gun, he grabbed it up. Then he caught her by the hands and twisted them behind her. With a piggin string from his belt he tied her wrists despite her struggles. He got to his feet and wiped the dust from his face and stared down at her. “There, now. That should hold you. Now, what’s the idea?”
She glared furiously. “I’ll kill you for this! I’ll kill you!”
“No reason to get so wrought up.” The Cactus Kid coolly began to build a smoke. “What’s all the fuss? No need to steal my horse an’ set me afoot just because you’re mad at somebody. Tell me where you want to go an’ I’ll take you there.”
“Untie my hands!” she demanded.
“Not a chance. You might try to steal my horse again.”
“That was a nasty, vile trick!” she declared. “I skinned my nose!”
“That,” he said, studying her nose critically, “won’t do it any harm. I figure maybe it’s a mite too long anyway.”
She glared at him. “Let me up!” she demanded. “Turn my hands loose!”
“It’s up to you. Be good and you get a ride to wherever you’re goin’. Keep on fussin’ an’ I’ll leave you right here to cook.”
She stopped, still angry, but aware that he meant what he said. “All right,” she said, “but you just wait!”
This time he took her on the saddle in front of him and that made it necessary for his arm to be around her waist, which was, he realized appreciatively, a small, firm, and very nice waist. Her reddish hair came against his cheek and her body pressed closely to him. This, too, he found agreeable.
She said nothing, but sat quietly. Finally, he asked, “Where do you want to go? Where’s home?”
“I want to go to Burnt Camp, in the Solitario.”
Now, the Cactus Kid, whose birth certificate might have said he was Nesselrode Clay, knew but little of the Big Bend of Texas. What he did know was that Burnt Camp in the Solitario was no place for a beautiful girl of eighteen or so. In fact, it was to just that place that the Kid himself was going, but for no friendly purpose. “That’s no place for a girl,” he said. “I’ll take you to another place.”
“You’ll take me there, and when they find me with my hands tied, it will be a sad time for you! Just wait until I tell Kit Branch about this!”
“He your sweetheart?” The Kid wanted to know.
“Branch?” she scoffed. “He’d like to be, but he’s not! I’m Kirby Brock!”
“Bully Brock’s daughter?” The Kid was aghast. “Don’t tell me that old blister sired a sweet little filly like you!”
“He’s my uncle! And he’s not an old blister! Although I’ll tell him you said that and he’ll wipe the floor with you, that’s what he’ll do!”
The Cactus Kid chuckled. He felt good this morning. He wore his tailored gray trousers, a bright red shirt, and a black handkerchief tight about his throat. His hat was black with a snake-hide band, and his boots hand-tooled. The Kid was five feet seven and weighed exactly one hundred and fifty pounds soaking wet. He consulted a large railroad watch that he kept in the pocket of his pants; it was ten forty-five in the morning.
Black Ridge was north of them now and they cut the trail leading to the Black Tinaja. Although the Cactus Kid had never visited the wild and lonely region called the Solitario, he knew well the route that led to it. Leaving the tinaja, they would turn due west and hit the canyon of the Lefthand Shutup, which would take them right into the region.
As they rode he puzzled over the situation. What had Kirby Brock been doing out in the desert without a horse? And how could such a girl be the niece of Bully Brock? For years now Bully had ranched in the wild region around the canyon west of Burnt Camp. It was an area frequented by smugglers from over the border and by rustlers. And that was why he was coming here now. He was looking for some men.
Several days before, in San Antonio, he had left the Variety Theatre one night, and had seen a man behind him. Later he had seen the same man, and knew he was being followed. And then there had been three men.
He had turned the corner near his hotel when they closed in on him, one coming toward him, one crossing the street, and the third had come from nowhere to grab his arms. He had been slugged, robbed, and left lying in the street.
After he recovered he devoted two days to making inquiries, only to discover finally that the men had left town. The three were known as Farbeson, Breeden, and Jewell. They were known thieves and rustlers, and they ran with Kit Branch.
At Del Rio, he heard about Branch and that he could be found in the Solitario, but that a man would be some kind of a fool to try to go in after him. The Cactus Kid was that kind of a fool. They had slugged him, which was bad enough, but they had taken seven hundred dollars from him. It was more money than he had ever had all at one time.
“How’s it happen you’re afoot?” he asked suddenly.
“My horse threw me,” she replied sullenly.
At the Black Tinaja they stopped, watered the horse, and drank. The dun was feeling the double burden, so the Kid put him on some grass and sat down in the shade. He glanced at Kirby and smiled. “Might as well sit down,” he said. “We’ll have to let that horse rest a mite.”
She was looking at the ground nearby. Glancing over curiously, he saw she was intently studying some tracks.
Suddenly she looked around at him. “Let me use that gun. I can get some horses for us.” She spoke in a near whisper and appeared to tense.
“Nothing doing. You’d run off and leave me high and dry.” He had untied her hands.
“Suit yourself,” she said.
“So, Kit’s bad medicine, is he? What about Jewell?”
She stiffened with surprise. “What do you know about him?”
“Not much. Not any more than I know about Breeden or Farbeson.”
A slight sound made him turn, but there was no chance to draw. The man holding the shotgun was Jewell and he was no more than fifteen feet away. At that distance he would tear the Kid apart. His eyes widened when he saw the Kid. “You, is it? I figured you’d still be lyin’ in the street. What you doin’ here?”
“Huntin’ you.” The Kid spoke quietly. “Huntin’ you an’ those louse-bound partners of yours. I want my money.”
The man laughed coarsely. “You’ll git something, but it ain’t gonna be what you’re lookin’ for!” he promised. Then: “Where’d you meet her?”
“Down the road a piece. Do you want to hand me over that money n
ow or do I take it out of your hide?”
“My hide?” Jewell stared. “Who’s holdin’ this shotgun, anyway?” He did not move his eyes, but said, “Pick up his guns, Kirby. Go behind him.”
He felt the girl move up behind him and felt his guns leave his holsters. His eyes narrowed slightly as he saw the evident relief in Jewell’s eyes. Slowly, the shotgun lifted and he realized with a shock that the man was going to murder him.
“I wouldn’t if I were you.” Kirby Brock had the guns in her hands and was watching Jewell. “Bring up the horses and we’ll ride in. Bully will want to see this gent.”
Reluctantly, Jewell lowered the gun. When he led up the horses, the Cactus Kid was surprised to see that one of them was obviously the girl’s horse. It carried a sidesaddle and the stirrup was just right for her. The Kid was ordered to mount and they turned west.
IT WAS LATE AFTERNOON when they reached the houses and old stone corral at Burnt Camp. The smoke from several fires was rising, and the Kid saw a man come out and shade his eyes at them. They rode on into the camp and the Kid watched the big man coming toward them. He was almost twice the size of the Kid, towering several inches above six feet and weighing well over two hundred pounds. He had a thick black beard.
He looked at the Kid, then turned his eyes to the girl. The Cactus Kid frowned uncertainly, for the big man seemed almost frightened when he recognized her.
Other men came forward. Farbeson was one of them. He was almost as large as Bully Brock and he grinned when he saw the Cactus Kid. Breeden, who was standing nearby said, “What do you think, Farb? This kid came up here to git his money?”
The others all laughed and then the crowd parted for a slender whiplash of a man with a narrow face and wide gash for a mouth. He came down the path and stood staring at Kirby with a slight smile. “Didn’t get far, did you?” he said. “I told you we were meant for each other.”
Breeden laughed and Farb joined in. The younger man made an inquiry about the Cactus Kid and was told the story of what had happened both in San Antonio and here. He listened, nodding slightly. “All right,” he said, “we’ll get this over with all at once.”
The Collected Short Stories of Louis L'Amour, Volume Five Page 53