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

by Louis L'Amour

  The Cactus Kid walked over to Jewell. “All I want from you is my money,” he said. “Dish it out.”

  Reluctantly, the two outlaws dug out the money and handed it back. When he counted it, the sum came to two hundred dollars more than he had lost. “For my trouble,” he said calmly, and pocketed it. “That’s all I want with you fellows. You can beat it.”

  “Oh, no, they can’t!” Kirby Brock walked up to Jewell and Farb. “Push me around, will you?” She kicked Jewell right on the shins.

  Farbeson bellowed with laughter, and coolly, she turned and kicked him in the same place. With both men howling with pain, Kirby turned and gathered up the reins of her horse. “Maybe,” she said, glaring at the Cactus Kid, “that wasn’t ladylike, but it sure was satisfying!”

  The Cactus Kid gathered up their weapons. Farbeson had been wearing the Kid’s own guns. Gravely, he handed guns to both Brock and Kirby.

  Mounting up, he studied Kirby. “You know, ma’am,” he said, “if you get a husband who’ll keep a tight rein on you, you’d make him a mighty good wife, but if you ever get the bit in your teeth, heaven help him!”

  He turned his horse and headed off up the trail.

  The Cactus Kid

  Pausing at the head of the four steps that led to the floor of the dining room, the Cactus Kid surveyed the room with approval. In fact, he surveyed the world with approval. For the Cactus Kid, christened Nesselrode Clay, had but an hour before he closed a sale for one thousand head of beef cattle, and the check reposed in his pocket.

  Moreover, the Kid was young, the Kid was debonair, and the Kid walked the earth with a lighthearted step and song on his lips. His suit was of tailored gray broadcloth, his hat of spotless white felt, his shirt was white, his tie black, and his black, perfectly polished hand-tooled boots were a miracle of Spanish leatherwork. Out of sight behind the black silk sash was a Smith & Wesson .44, one of the guns for whose skillful handling the Kid was renowned in places other than this.

  He was handsome, he was immaculate, he was alive in this best of all possible worlds, and before him lay the expected pleasure of an excellent meal and a bottle of wine, and afterward a cigar. Surely, this was the life!

  The wild grass ranges of Texas, Arizona, and Nevada were a dim memory, and lost with them was the smell of dust and cattle and singed hair and all the memories that attended the punching of cows.

  Only one seat remained unoccupied, and the Cactus Kid descended to the main floor with the manner of a king entering his domain, and wove his way among the crowded tables, then paused briefly, his hand on the back of the empty chair. “You do not object, gentlemen?”

  The two men who occupied the table lifted black, intent eyes and surveyed him with a cool and careful regard. Their faces were stern, their manners forbidding. “You are,” one of them said, “the Americano?”

  “As you can tell”—the Kid gestured with both hands—“I am most definitely an Americano.”

  “Be seated then, by all means.”

  Had they meant to emphasize that “the”? Or was it his imagination? The menu took his attention from such mundane matters, and he looked upon the gastronomic paradise suggested by the card with satisfaction. A far cry, this, from beef and beans cooked over an open fire with rain beating down on your back while you ate! As the waiter drew near, the Kid looked up, and found the two men regarding him intently.

  He returned their attention with interest. Both men were prosperous, well-fed. The waiter spoke, and the Kid turned and in flawless Spanish he ordered his meal. He was conscious, as he did so, that he had the undivided attention of his companions.

  When the waiter had gone they looked at him and one spoke. “You speak Spanish.”

  “As you see.”

  “It is unexpected, but fortunate, perhaps.”

  Something in their tone gave him the feeling they would have been more pleased had he not known their language.

  “So”—it was the first man again—“I see you arrived all right.”

  There was no reason for argument on that score. Despite various difficulties he had succeeded in bringing his herd of cattle through, and he had, he decided, arrived all right. “Yes,” he admitted.

  “You are ready?”

  A good question, the Kid decided. He decided, being in fine fettle, that he was undoubtedly ready. “Of course,” he said carelessly. And then he added, “I am always ready.”

  “Good! The hour will be at six, in the morning.”

  Their meals came, giving the Kid time for thought. Now what the deuce had he run into, anyway?

  “That’s mighty early,” he suggested.

  They looked at him sternly. “Of course. It must be early. You will be waiting outside?”

  Perhaps, if he agreed, more information would be forthcoming.

  “Yes, I’ll be waiting.”

  Instead, they finished their meals in silence and left him, and he stared after them wondering. Oh, well. It was an entertaining dinner, anyway, and that was that. Catch him getting up at six in the morning! This was the first time in months that he’d had a chance to sleep late.

  He scowled. What was it all about? Obviously, they thought he was someone else. Who did they think he was? His boss had told him to go ahead and enjoy himself for a couple of days after the cattle were delivered, and the Cactus Kid meant to do just that. And one way he planned to enjoy himself was sleeping late.

  He was sitting over a glass of wine and a cigar when the door opened and he saw a tall, fine-looking old man come in with a girl—a girl who took his breath away.

  The Cactus Kid sat up a little straighter. She was Spanish, and beautiful. Her eyes swept the room and then came to rest on him. They left him, and they returned. The Kid smiled.

  Abruptly her glance chilled. One eyebrow lifted slightly and she turned away from him. The Kid hunched his shoulders, feeling frostbitten around the edges of his ego. The two seated themselves not far away, and the Kid looked at the older man. His profile was what is called “aristocratic,” his goatee and mustache were purest white. The waiters attended them with deference, and spoke to them in muted voices. Where one nonchalant waiter had drifted before, now a dozen of them rushed to and fro, covering the table with dishes, lavishing attention.

  One waiter, and suddenly the Kid was aware that it was the same who had served him, was bending over the table talking to them in a low voice. As he talked, the girl looked toward the Cactus Kid, and after the waiter left, the older man turned and glanced toward him.

  That he was an object of some interest to them was plain enough, but why? Could it have some connection with the two odd men he had just shared his meal with? In any event, the girl was undoubtedly the most beautiful he had ever seen—and quite aware of it.

  Calling the waiter, he paid his bill, noting the man’s surreptitious glances. “Anything wrong?” he asked, studying the waiter with a cold glance.

  “No, no, señor! Only…” He paused delicately.

  “Only what?” the Kid demanded.

  “Only the señor is so young! Too young,” he added, significantly, “to die so soon!”

  Turning quickly, he threaded his way among the tables and was gone. The Cactus Kid stared after him, then walked to the dining-room steps and climbed them slowly. At the door he glanced back over his shoulder. The girl and the older man were watching him. As he caught their glance the girl made a little gesture with her hand and the Kid walked out of the room.

  Whatever was happening here was too much for him. Unfortunately, he knew nobody in this part of Mexico except the man to whom he had delivered the cattle, and that had been more miles to the south. Somehow he had become involved in a plot, some development of which he knew nothing at all.

  An hour of fruitless speculation told him nothing. He searched back through the recent weeks to find a clue, but he found no hint. And then he remembered the mysterious appointment for six tomorrow morning.

  “At six?” he asked himself. “Nothi
ng doing!”

  An old Mexican loitered at the gate that led from the patio into the street. Casually, the Kid drifted across the patio to him, and there he paused. Taking his time, he built a cigarette, then offered the makings to the old Mexican.

  The man glanced up at him out of shrewd old eyes. “Gracias, señor,” he said softly. He took the makings and rolled a cigarette, then returned the tobacco and papers to the Kid, who was about to strike a match. “No, señor,” he whispered, “behind the wall. It is not safe.”

  The Cactus Kid scowled. “What isn’t safe?” he asked. “I don’t understand.”

  “You have not been told? The man has many friends; they might decide it is safer to kill you now. The señor,” he added, “has a reputation.”

  “Who do you think I am?” the Kid asked.

  “Ah?” The peón looked at him wisely. “Who am I to know such a thing? It is enough that you are here. Enough that you will be here tomorrow.”

  The Kid studied it over while he smoked, taking his time. The oblique angle seemed best. “Who,” he said, “was the beautiful señorita in the dining room?”

  “What?” The old peón was incredulous. “You do not know? But that is she, señor! The Señorita Marguerita Ibanez.” With that the old peón drifted off into the street and the Kid turned and walked back to the inn and climbed to his room. He opened the door and stepped inside, closing it carefully after him.

  Then he struck a match and lighted the candle. “Señor?” It was a feminine voice, but he turned sharply around, cursing himself mentally for being so careless. He was wearing but one gun, in position for a right-hand draw, and the candle was in that hand.

  Then he stared. Before him, a vision of loveliness, was the señorita from the dining room.

  “I have come to tell you,” she said hastily, “that you must not do this thing. You must go, go at once! Get your horse, slip out of the compound tonight, and ride! Ride like the wind for the border, for you will not be safe until you cross it.”

  THE CACTUS KID CHUCKLED suddenly. Puzzled as he was, he found himself enjoying it. And the girl was so beautiful. He put the candle down and motioned for her to be seated. “We’ve some talking to do,” he said. “Some explanations are in order.”

  “Explanations?” She was plainly puzzled at the word. “I know of nothing to explain. I cannot stay, already my uncle will have missed me. But I had to warn you. I had not expected anyone so—so young! An older man—no, it cannot be. You must go! I will not have you killed because of me.”

  “Look, ma’am,” he said politely, “there’s something about this I don’t understand. I think you’ve got the wrong man. You seem to believe I am somebody I am not.”

  “Oh!” She was impatient. “Do not be a fool, señor! It is all very well to conceal yourself, but you have no concealment. Everyone knows who you are.”

  He chuckled again and sat down on the bed. “Everyone but me,” he said, “but whatever it is, it does not matter. No matter what happens I shall always be able to remember that I was visited once by the most beautiful girl in Mexico!”

  “It is not time for gallantry,” she protested. “You must go. You will be killed. Even now it may be too late!”

  “What’s this all about?” he protested. “Tell me!”

  “Oh, don’t be a fool!” She was at the door now and there was no mistaking her sincerity. Her face was unusually pale, her eyes enormous in the dim light from the candle. “If you kill him, they will kill you. If you do not kill him—then he will kill you.” Turning quickly, she was gone.

  “Well of all the fool…” He stopped speaking. What was happening, he could not guess, but somehow he was right in the middle of a lot of trouble, and trouble of which he knew nothing. Now the Cactus Kid was no stranger to trouble, nor to gunplay, but to go it blind and in somebody else’s country, that was a fool’s play. The girl was right. The only way was to get out. If he stayed he was trapped; to kill or be killed in a fight of which he understood nothing.

  He hesitated, and then he looked suddenly toward his saddlebags and rifle. There was a back stairs—it would be simple to get to the stable…and he could be off and away. It wasn’t as if he was running. It simply wasn’t his fight. He had stumbled on a lot of trouble, and…

  THERE WAS NO MOON and the trail was only a thin white streak. He walked his horse until he was a mile away from the town, and then he lifted into a canter. He glanced back just once. The señorita had been very lovely, and very frightened.

  He frowned, remembering the man in the shadows. For he had not escaped without being seen. There had been a man standing near the wall, but who he had been, the Kid had no idea. There had been no challenge, and the Cactus Kid had ridden away without trouble.

  STEADILY HE RODE NORTH, slowing at times to a walk. Remembering the trail on the way down, he recalled a village not far ahead, and he was preparing to run out and skirt around it when he heard a rider coming. He slowed and started to swing his horse, then the other horse whinnied.

  The Cactus Kid shucked his six-gun. “Who is it?” he asked in Spanish.

  “I ride to the inn with a message for Señorita Ibanez, have you been there?”

  “You will find her,” the Kid paused for a second, “but be careful, there is trouble.”

  The man sat on his horse, a dark shape against the stars. “Much trouble, yes? You speak like an American, I think.”

  “Yes, I am. Why?”

  “At my house there is a wounded man, an American. He tries to tell me things I do not understand.” He rode closer and peered at the Kid from under a wide sombrero. “He is dying. It is better, perhaps, that you talk to him, rather than a gentle lady.”

  They rode swiftly, but the distance was short. It was an isolated cabin of adobe off the main trail and among some huge boulders. Swinging down from their horses, the Mexican led the way into the house.

  The man on the pallet was finished, anyone could see that. He was a big man, and his hard-drawn face was pale under what had been the deep brown of his skin. Nearby on a chair was a pair of matching Colts and the man’s bloody clothing. Yet he was conscious and he turned his head when the Kid came in.

  “I’m…I’m a lousy coyote if it ain’t…ain’t a Yank,” he said hoarsely.

  The Kid, with the usual rough frontier knowledge of treating wounds, bent over him. It required no expert skill to see these simple Mexican folk had done all that could be done. The amazing thing was that the man was alive at all. He had been shot at least six times.

  “I’m Jim Chafee,” he whispered. “I guess they got me this time.”

  The Cactus Kid stared at the dying man. Chafee! General in at least two Mexican revolts, almost dictator in one Central American country, and a veteran soldier of fortune. Even in his dying hours, the man looked ten years younger than he must have been.

  “Hey!” Realization broke over the Kid. “I’ll bet you’re the guy they thought I was.” Bending over the wounded man he talked swiftly, and Chafee nodded, amused despite his condition.

  “He’s bad,” Chafee whispered. “I was dry-gulched…by her uncle and six gunmen.”

  “Her uncle?” The Kid was startled. “You mean…what do you mean?”

  The Mexican interposed. “Bad for him to talk,” he objected.

  Chafee waved the man aside. “I’m through,” he said. “I only wish I could get even with those devils and get that girl out of there!” He looked at the Kid. “Who’re you?”

  “They call me the Cactus Kid,” he replied.

  Chafee’s eyes gleamed. “I’ve heard of you! You’re that hell-on-wheels gunfighter from up Nevada way.” He sagged back on the pallet. “Kid,” he whispered, “go back there an’ help that girl. But don’t trust nobody.”

  The Cactus Kid stared down at the wounded man. His face was relaxing slowly, yet his eyes were still bright…. “Knew her father,” he whispered, “good man. That old devil…the uncle, he killed him…she don’t know that.”


  While the Kid sat beside him, the dying man fumbled out the words of the story, but only a part of it, for he soon stopped talking and just lay there, breathing heavily.

  Slowly, the Kid got to his feet. He had gone to his room at about nine o’clock. He had been riding north for almost three hours…if he started now and rode fast, he could be back in half that time. From his pocket he took a handful of silver pesos, more money than this peón would see in three months. “Take care of him,” he told him, “keep him alive if you can, if not, see there is a priest. I will come by again, in a few weeks.”

  “He shall be my brother, señor,” the Mexican said, “but take your money. No money is needed to buy care in the house of Juan Morales.”

  “Keep it,” the Kid insisted. “It is my wish. Care for him. I’ll be back.”

  With a leap he was in the saddle, and the horse was legging it south toward the town. As he rode, the Kid was suddenly happy again. “I never rode away from a fight before—nor a girl that pretty!” he added.

  IT SEEMED he had been in bed no more than a few minutes when he was called. Yet actually he had crawled into bed at two o’clock and had all of four hours’ sleep behind him. He dressed swiftly and went down the stairs. The Mexicans in the kitchen looked at him wide-eyed, and one huge woman poured him a brimming bowl of coffee, which he drank while eating a tortilla and beans. He was saddling up when the two men from the dinner table appeared.

  “Ah, you are still here,” one said. “Did you sleep well?”

  “Oh, very well!” the Kid replied glibly. He turned to them grinning. “Now just who are you?”

  “I am Pedro Sandoval! This man is Enrique Fernandez. We rode with the old general, and you must have heard of us. Surely, Señor Chafee—!”

  They mounted up and rode around the inn and started out the road. Nothing was said for almost a mile, and he was puzzled. Both Sandoval and Fernandez seemed unusually quiet, yet he did not dare ask any questions.

  Without warning the two men beside him swung their horses into the woods and he turned with them. On the edge of a clearing, they swung down. On the far side were several men, and now one of them came hurrying toward them.