Emedasco charged out of his corner like a mad bull and takes a swing at Bamoulian that would have torn his head off had it landed, but Bambo ducked and sank a wicked left into the big boy’s stomach. Then, as Emedasco followed with a clubbing right to the head, he clinched, and they wrestled around the ring until the referee broke them. They sparred for a second or two, and then Bambo cut loose with a terrific right swing that missed, but hit the referee on the side of the head and knocked him completely out of the ring and into the press benches.
Then those two big lugs stood flat-footed in the center of the ring and slugged like a couple of maniacs with a delirious crowd on its feet screaming bloody murder. Emedasco was a good sixty pounds heavier, but he was in a spot that night, for if ever a man wanted to fight, it was my Bambo Bamoulian.
I was so excited by the fight that I forgot all about Dilbecker, or what might happen if Bamoulian won, which looked like could happen now.
When the next bell sounded, Bambo was off his stool and across the ring with a left he started clear from his own corner, and it knocked Emedasco into the ropes. But that big boy was nobody’s palooka, and when he came back, it was with a volley of hooks, swings, and uppercuts that battered Bambo back across the ring, where he was slammed to the floor with a powerful right to the beezer.
The dumbfounded crowd, who had come to see Emedasco knock over another setup, were on their chairs yelling like mad, seeing a regular knockdown-and-drag-out brawl like everybody hopes to see and rarely finds. Bambo was right in his element. He knocked Dead-Shot Emedasco staggering with a hard left to the head, slammed a right to the body, and then dropped his hands and laughed at him. But Emedasco caught himself up and with one jump was back with a punch that would have shook Gilbraltar to its base. The next thing I know, Bambo is stretched on his shoulder blades in my corner, as flat as a busted balloon.
I lean over the ropes and yell for him to get up, and you could have knocked me cold with an ax when he turns around and says, grinning, “I don’t have to get up till he counts nine, do I?”
At nine he’s up, and as Emedasco rushes into him, I yell, “Hit him in the wind! Downstairs! In the stomach!”
Holding the raging Emedasco off with one hand while the big guy punches at him like a crazy man, my prize beauty leans over and says, “What did you say, huh?”
“Hit him in the stomach, you sap!” I bellowed. “Hit him in the stomach!”
“Oooh, I get it!” he says. “You mean hit him in the stomach!” And drawing back his big right fist, he fired it like a torpedo into Emedasco’s heaving midsection.
With a grunt like a barn had fell on him, Emedasco spun halfway around and started to drop. But before he could hit the canvas, Bambo stepped in and slammed both hands to the chin, and Emedasco went flying like a bum out of the Waldorf, and stayed down and stayed out.
We hustled back to the dressing room with the crowd cheering so loud you could have heard them in Sarawak, wherever that is, and believe me, I am in a sweat to get out of there.
As we rush by, I hear a wild yell from the big ugly guy who has had his eye on me all evening, and when I glance back that whole crowd is coming for me like a lot of madmen, so I dive into the dressing room and slam the door.
“Hey, what’s the idea?” Bambo demands. “Somebody might want to come in!”
“That’s just what I’m afraid of!” I cry. “The hallway is full of guys that want to come in!”
“But my brother’s out there!” Bambo insists, and jerks the door open, and before you could spell Dnepropetrovak, the room is full of those big, tough-looking guys.
I make a break for the door, but my toe hooked in the corner of Bambo’s bathrobe, which has fallen across a chair, and I do a nosedive to the floor. The gun goes sliding. Then something smacks me on the dome, and I go out like a light.
When I came to, the Bambo is standing over me, and the guy with the black eyes is holding my head.
“Awright, you got me! I give up!” I said. “You got me, now make the most of it.”
“Say, you gone nuts?” Bambo squints at me. “What’s eatin’ you, anyway? Snap out of it, I want you t’ meet my brother!”
“Your who?” I yelps. “You don’t mean to tell me this guy is your brother?”
“Sure, he came to see me fight. All these guys, they my people. We come from the Balkans together, so they come to see me fight. They work on the docks with me.”
* * *
I AM STILL laughing when we drop in at the Green Fan for some midnight lunch, and it isn’t until we are all set down that I remember it is one of Sloppy Dilbecker’s places. Just when I find I am not laughing anymore from thinking of that, who should come up but Swivel-Neck Hogan. Only he is different now, and he walks plenty careful, and edges up to my table like he is scared to death.
“Mr. McGuire?” he says.
“Well, what is it?” I bark at him. I don’t know why he should be scared, but bluff is always best. And if he is scared, he must be scared of something, and if a gun guy like Swivel-Neck is calling me mister, he must be scared of me, so I act real tough.
“Sloppy—I mean Diamond-Back—said to tell youse he was just ribbing this afternoon. He ain’t wantin’ no trouble, and how would youse like to cut in on the laundry an’ protection racket with him? He says youse got a nice bunch of gun guys, but there is room enough for all of youse.”
For a minute I stare at him like he’s nuts, and then it dawns on me. I look around at those big, hard-boiled dock workers, guys who look like they could have started the Great War, because, when it comes right down to it…they did. I look back at Swivel-Neck.
“Nothing doing, you bum. Go an’ tell Sloppy I ain’t wanting none of his rackets. I got bigger an’ better things to do. But tell him to lay off me, see? And that goes for you, too! One wrong crack an’ I’ll have the Montenegran Mafia down on you, get me?”
He starts away, but suddenly I get an inspiration. Nothing like pushing your luck when the game is going your way.
“Hey!” I yells. “You tell Sloppy Dilbecker that my boys say they want the treats on the house t’night, an’ tell him to break out the best champagne and cigars he’s got, or else! Understand!”
I lean back in my chair and slip my thumbs into the armholes of my vest. I wink at Bambo Bamoulian, and grin.
“All it takes is brains, my boy, brains.”
“Yeah? How did you find that out?” he asks.
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. “Nothing 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 a
m 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.
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