IT WAS A LONG TALL ROOM but there were only three places set at the big table. As the Cactus Kid ate and talked, he also listened, his ears attuned to the slightest sound from without. Yet Don Estaban seemed not to be expecting anything. Later, as Marguerita played the piano, the Kid stood nearby, watching her.
How lovely she was! How fine was this life! How simple and easy! Good food, good wine, quiet hours in this wonderful old Spanish home, the stillness and coolness inside the house that seemed so far from the fevered air outside, or the work and struggle of the cattle trails to which he had been born. Yet beneath it all, there were the stirrings of evil, plotting men who wished to take all this from a slender, lovely girl, robbed of her father by the man who now sat in that high-backed chair, so certain everything would soon be his.
Don Estaban spoke suddenly. “You are an excellent shot, señor. It was most unexpected, your victory.”
“I think it surprised a lot of people.”
“Do you always wear two guns?” queried his host.
“When I am expecting trouble.”
“You expect trouble here? Now?” Don Estaban permitted his voice to carry a note of surprise. “In this house?”
The Cactus Kid turned his head slowly and looked to the older man. “I sure do,” he said quietly. “I expect it everywhere. The hombres who killed the general, who shot down Chafee, they expected me to be killed by DeCarte. Now that I’m here they’ll try to kill me.”
THE CACTUS KID OPENED his eyes and sat bolt upright in bed. It was dark and still. But outside in the hall, there was a faint footfall. Like a cat he eased into his trousers without a whisper of sound…he got his guns belted around him…reached for his boots…and then the door opened!
In the doorway stood Sandoval, and in his hands was a shotgun, half lifted to point toward the empty bed. Sandoval spoke softly, “Señor?”
“Hand that gun to me,” the Kid said softly, “butt first.”
Sandoval hesitated, then took a gamble. Springing back through the door, he swung the shotgun into position and the Kid fired. It was a wild gamble, for Sandoval’s leap had carried him back out of range, but the Kid fired his shot through the wall.
Sandoval cried out and the shotgun fell with a clatter to the floor. Instantly, the Kid swung around into the doorway. Sandoval had backed up against the wall and was clutching his stomach with both hands.
Along the balcony on the other side of the great hall, there was a scuffle of sound and the Kid ran in his stocking feet toward it. He reached the turn that led to Marguerita’s quarters and skidded to a halt. Two men stood at the door of the girl’s room, rattling the latch. Beyond them was Don Estaban.
“Open up,” Estaban called. “Open up, or we’ll break the door!”
The Cactus Kid swung around the corner and instantly, the two men whirled and lifted their rifles to fire. They were slow…much too slow!
The Kid dropped to a half crouch and fired three rapping, thundering shots. The nearest man cried out and fell against the shoulder of Don Estaban, disturbing his aim. The Kid’s second shot smashed the second rifleman, and his third was a clear miss. Don Estaban leaped forward and swung up his gun. In the close confines of the hall the Kid swung the barrel of his pistol. It thudded against the don’s skull, and he wilted to the floor.
“Marguerita?” He stepped quickly to the door. “It’s the Kid. Better come out.”
She came quickly, her eyes wide at the carnage. Swiftly they ran down the hall to the Kid’s room, where he got into his boots. He said, “Do the peóns like you?”
She nodded.
“Take me to the best one,” he said. “We’ll arm them and be ready for trouble. If somebody wants a fight, we’ll give them one!”
HE WAS THE SAME young Mexican whom the Kid had seen on his arrival, the one who had promised him the horse that so far had not been needed. Briefly, Marguerita explained and he listened attentively. “I will have twenty men within the hour,” he said then, “men who will die for the daughter of Ibanez!”
Swiftly they walked back through the trees, then stopped. A half-dozen riders were around the main gate, and there were as many empty saddles. More men had arrived. Suddenly a tall, slightly stooped man came through the gate and threw a cigarette into the dirt. He wore leather trousers, tight-fitting and flaring at the bottoms, and he wore two guns, tied down. His jacket was velvet and embroidered in red and gold, his sombrero was weighted with silver.
Only his chin was visible, a sharp-boned chin with a drooping mustache. Marguerita caught his arm. “It is Bisco!”
The Kid looked again, his skin tightening over his stomach, his scalp crawling. So…now it was Bisco!
Three times the man had been across the border to raid and kill; he was the most feared gunman in Mexico. Half Yaqui, he was utterly poisonous. “They’ve brought him here for me,” he said quietly. “They know who I am.”
“Who are you?” Marguerita turned toward him, her eyes wide.
“My right name is Clay. I’m nobody, Marguerita, but he’s a man who is brought in to take care of trouble.”
“You are modest, I think. Yes, you are too modest. I heard you sold cattle here for your employer. That he trusts you to do this. I think you are brave, good, and I think you are most handsome!”
He chuckled. “Well, now. After that I should be up to almost anything. Right now I’ve got an urge to go out there and brace that Bisco.”
“No”—her face was white—“you must not! You must not be killed by him. Or by anybody.”
He looked down into her wide eyes and something seemed to take away his voice, so he stood there, with the cool wind on his face, and then almost without their own volition, they were in each other’s arms.
Then he stepped away, shaking his head. “You take a man’s mind off his business,” he said softly, “and if we expect to get out of this alive, we can’t have that happening.”
Behind them there was a light footfall. “No,” said a voice, “we cannot!”
The Cactus Kid froze where he stood. The voice was that of Don Estaban.
The Kid felt his guns lifted from their holsters, and then Don Estaban said quietly, “Now walk straight ahead…to the gate.”
Anger choked the Kid as they started forward, the girl beside him. The Kid saw Bisco turn and stare toward them, then come forward with long strides, grinning widely. “So! It is the Cactus Kid! I have long hoped we will one day meet, but—what is this? Perhaps I am not necessary.”
“If I had a gun,” the Kid replied, speaking Spanish, “you’d be necessary, all right! I’d take you right now!”
Bisco laughed.
The Kid looked past him and saw Fernandez standing in the gateway, his face puzzled. The young Mexican came forward swiftly. “Don Estaban! What does this mean? This man is our friend!”
The older man shook his head. “No, Enrique, he is not.”
Enrique’s face was stiff. Then he shrugged. “Perdoneme,” he said, “you know best.” He turned and strolled indifferently away.
The Kid stared after him, his eyes blazing. Watch yourself and trust nobody! That was what Chafee advised, and he had certainly been right!
“We’ll get this over at once!” Don Estaban turned to a man that stood near him. “Pedro, I want a firing squad of four vaqueros. We are going to execute this man—and then”—he smiled—“we will say he was plotting against the government, that he was executed formally.”
“You’re a white-livered thief.” The Cactus Kid spoke without violence. “With the heart of a snake and the courage of a coyote.”
Don Estaban’s face whitened and his eyes glittered. “Speak what you will,” he said contemptuously. “Soon you will be dead.”
Four men came into the yard with rifles, and the Cactus Kid was immediately led to the wall. Unbelievingly, Marguerita stared, and then she whirled to her uncle. “You cannot do this thing!” she cried out. “It is murder!”
Don Estaban smiled. “Of cours
e. And unless you obey me you shall join him. What do you think?” He turned on her suddenly. “Am I to turn all this over to you? A foolish girl? Why do you suppose your father died? What do you think that—?” He went on, his tirade growing louder. He was speaking in English, which only Bisco and the Kid could understand.
Suddenly, from behind the wall where he stood, the Kid heard a whisper:
“Amigo, if I make trouble, can you get over the wall?” It was Enrique Fernandez!
“Yes!”
“Your guns are here. Below the wall.”
Don Estaban turned away from the girl. “Enough!” he said. “Bisco, hold her. Now”—he turned to the man who had brought the riflemen—“tie his hands and shoot him.”
“Wait!” All eyes swung toward the gate. It was Fernandez. “You must not do this thing!”
At the word “wait,” the Kid spun on his heels and leaped at the wall. He had gauged it correctly and he caught both hands on the top. With a powerful jerk upward, he pushed himself belt-high to the top of the wall, and then swung his feet over.
Fernandez had succeeded even better than he expected, for the Kid was swinging over the wall before he was seen. A snap shot missed, and as he hit ground the Kid went to all fours. The guns were not three feet away, and he caught up the belt and swung it about him, buckling it hastily.
Inside there was a chorus of yells and a shot. The Kid raced around the corner of the wall to see Fernandez staggering back against the wall with a bullet through his shoulder, and then the riflemen poured from the gate.
They expected to find an unarmed man—instead they found a deadly gunfighter, and the range was less than twenty feet.
Four men came through the gate, and in the first burst of firing, three spilled over the ground. The last sprang back, and the Kid, turning abruptly, raced back the way he had come. There was a small wooden door in the far corner of the wall. He had noticed it earlier, and now he raced to it and jerked it open. Inside, a heavily constructed two-wheeled cart stood between him and the confusion in the courtyard. Bisco had let go of the girl who was standing near the door to the house. Don Estaban, gun in hand, was shouting orders to Bisco and the remaining guard, and the leader of the firing squad.
Suddenly, from outside there was a clatter of hoofs and wild shouts, “Viva Ibanez! Viva Ibanez!”
Don Estaban turned and started for the door, then stopped. “Bisco!” he said hoarsely.
The gunman turned at the word, then froze, his hands lifted and poised.
The Cactus Kid stood beside the wooden cart, facing them. His guns were in his holsters. “You can all give up,” he said quietly, his eyes on Bisco, “if you want to. Those are Ibanez men out there.”
“I never give up!” Bisco’s eyes held eagerness and challenge. His hands dropped and grasped his gun butts, the guns lifted and the black muzzles opened their eyes at the Kid, and suddenly the Cactus Kid’s guns bucked in his hands, and Bisco crumpled to the dust.
MUSIC SOUNDED SOFTLY from the patio, and Marguerita stood close beside him. “You are going then?” she asked him.
“I’ve got to,” he said. “I’ve got to go back north to deliver that money. I wouldn’t fit in here. This life is pleasant, but it’s not for me.”
“You won’t miss me?”
Sure I will, he thought, but sometimes ropin’ a girl was like ropin’ a grizzly. There might be great sport in the catching but it was hard to figure out what to do with one once caught. Later, as he turned his horse into the road that led to the border he laughed. Once you’d had your fun puttin’ a loop on a bear, the best thing to do was to shake loose and run.
About Louis L’Amour
“I think of myself in the oral tradition—as a troubadour, a village tale-teller, the man in the shadows of the campfire. That’s the way I’d like to be remembered—as a storyteller. A good storyteller.”
It is doubtful that any author could be as at home in the world recreated in his novels as Louis Dearborn L’Amour. Not only could he physically fill the boots of the rugged characters he wrote about, but he literally “walked the land my characters walk.” His personal experiences as well as his lifelong devotion to historical research combined to give Mr. L’Amour the unique knowledge and understanding of people, events, and the challenge of the American frontier that became the hallmarks of his popularity.
Of French-Irish descent, Mr. L’Amour could trace his own family in North America back to the early 1600s and follow their steady progression westward, “always on the frontier.” As a boy growing up in Jamestown, North Dakota, he absorbed all he could about his family’s frontier heritage, including the story of his great-grandfather who was scalped by Sioux warriors.
Spurred by an eager curiosity and desire to broaden his horizons, Mr. L’Amour left home at the age of fifteen and enjoyed a wide variety of jobs, including seaman, lumberjack, elephant handler, skinner of dead cattle, miner, and an officer in the transportation corps during World War II. During his “yondering” days he also circled the world on a freighter, sailed a dhow on the Red Sea, was shipwrecked in the West Indies, and stranded in the Mojave Desert. He won fifty-one of fifty-nine fights as a professional boxer and worked as a journalist and lecturer. He was a voracious reader and collector of rare books. His personal library contained 17,000 volumes.
Mr. L’Amour “wanted to write almost from the time I could talk.” After developing a widespread following for his many frontier and adventure stories written for fiction magazines, Mr. L’Amour published his first full-length novel, Hondo, in the United States in 1953. Every one of his more than 120 books is in print; there are more than 300 million copies of his books in print worldwide, making him one of the bestselling authors in modern literary history. His books have been translated into twenty languages, and more than forty-five of his novels and stories have been made into feature films and television movies.
His hardcover bestsellers include The Lonesome Gods, The Walking Drum (his twelfth-century historical novel), Jubal Sackett, Last of the Breed, and The Haunted Mesa. His memoir, Education of a Wandering Man, was a leading bestseller in 1989. Audio dramatizations and adaptations of many L’Amour stories are available on cassettes and CDs from Random House Audio publishing.
The recipient of many great honors and awards, in 1983 Mr. L’Amour became the first novelist ever to be awarded the Congressional Gold Medal by the United States Congress in honor of his life’s work. In 1984 he was also awarded the Medal of Freedom by President Reagan.
Louis L’Amour died on June 10, 1988. His wife, Kathy, and their two children, Beau and Angelique, carry the L’Amour publishing tradition forward with new books written by the author during his lifetime to be published by Bantam.
Bantam Books by Louis L’Amour
ASK YOUR BOOKSELLER FOR THE BOOKS YOU HAVE MISSED.
* * *
NOVELS
Bendigo Shafter
Borden Chantry
Brionne
The Broken Gun
The Burning Hills
The Californios
Callaghen
Catlow
Chancy
The Cherokee Trail
Comstock Lode
Conagher
Crossfire Trail
Dark Canyon
Down the Long Hills
The Empty Land
Fair Blows the Wind
Fallon
The Ferguson Rifle
The First Fast Draw
Flint
Guns of the Timberlands
Hanging Woman Creek
The Haunted Mesa
Heller with a Gun
The High Graders
High Lonesome
Hondo
How the West Was Won
The Iron Marshal
The Key-Lock Man Kid Rodelo
Kilkenny
Killoe
Kilrone
Kiowa Trail
Last of the Breed
Last Stand at Papago Well
s
The Lonesome Gods
The Man Called Noon
The Man from the Broken Hills
The Man from Skibbereen Matagorda
Milo Talon
The Mountain Valley War
North to the Rails
Over on the Dry Side
Passin’ Through
The Proving Trail
The Quick and the Dead Radigan
Reilly’s Luck
The Rider of Lost Creek
Rivers West
The Shadow Riders
Shalako
Showdown at Yellow Butte
Silver Canyon
Son of a Wanted Man
Taggart
The Tall Stranger
To Tame a Land
Tucker
Under the Sweetwater Rim
Utah Blaine
The Walking Drum
Westward the Tide
Where the Long Grass Blows
SHORT STORY COLLECTIONS
Beyond the Great Snow Mountains
Bowdrie
Bowdrie’s Law
Buckskin Run
The Collected Short Stories of Louis L’Amour (vols. 1–5)
Dutchman’s Flat
End of the Drive
From the Listening Hills
The Hills of Homicide
Law of the Desert Born Long Ride Home
Lonigan
May There Be a Road
Monument Rock
Night over the Solomons
Off the Mangrove Coast
The Outlaws of Mesquite
The Rider of the Ruby Hills
Riding for the Brand
The Strong Shall Live
The Trail to Crazy Man Valley of the Sun
War Party
West from Singapore
West of Dodge
With These Hands
Yondering
SACKETT TITLES
Sackett’s Land
To the Far Blue Mountains
The Warrior’s Path
Jubal Sackett
Ride the River
The Daybreakers
Sackett
The Collected Short Stories of Louis L'Amour, Volume Five Page 57