Collection 2001 - May There Be A Road (v5.0)

by Louis L'Amour

  The Mexican came forward and took the horse. “I will prepare for you a fine horse, señor, who runs like the wind and never stops! And I will warn you if they come. Go down to the house…but be careful.”

  Taking nothing with him but what he wore, the Cactus Kid turned and walked swiftly toward the gate. Now he would find out what this was all about and there need be no more going it blind. That he was far from out of the woods, he knew. Whoever these enemies of the old general were, they seemed to have influence enough to employ the army, and they would certainly want him dead. Yet the Kid knew that he was relatively unimportant and what they feared was that he might try to aid the señorita.

  He walked through the gate and across to the door of the house. When he stepped through he became immediately conscious of his dusty, disheveled appearance. His boots sounded loud on the worn stone floor and he walked on into the large room with dark panels on the walls.

  The whisper of a footstep startled him and he turned. It was Marguerita, her magnificent eyes wide and frightened. “Señor! You must leave at once! They are searching for you everywhere. Here they will look, and we, my uncle and I, we are suspect.”

  “Your uncle?” His eyes searched her face. “He is here?”

  “Yes, of course. He was so pleased when he heard of your victory. It was magnificent, señor. But,” she hurried on, “you must not stay. DeCarte had powerful friends and they are searching for you. My uncle says you must not come here.”

  “He didn’t see me come now?” the Kid asked hastily. “If he didn’t, don’t tell him.”

  “And why not?” The voice was cool. “You think me ungrateful, my young friend?”

  The Cactus Kid half turned to face the tall, aristocratic man with the white goatee and mustache. Certainly, he had never seen a finer appearing man, and yet as the uncle drew nearer, the Kid could see the hard lines around his mouth, half concealed by the mustache, and the coldness in the man’s eyes.

  “I am Don Estaban,” he said, “the master here. We are at your service.”

  “You own the ranch?” The Cactus Kid looked surprised. “It was my impression that it belonged to the señorita.”

  Don Estaban’s lips tightened and his eyes flashed hard and cold. This man, the Kid reflected, had a mean temper. “So it does,” Don Estaban said quietly. “I am but the manager, the master in function, if you will.”

  The Kid turned to Marguerita. “May I talk with you? There is much to say.”

  Before she could reply, Don Estaban interrupted. “It is not the custom in Mexico,” he said, “for young ladies to talk to gentlemen unchaperoned. I cannot permit it.”

  “Perhaps he would like to bathe and prepare for dinner, Uncle Estaban,” Marguerita said quickly. “If you would show him to a room. Or I can call Juana.”

  Turning, she called out and a slender girl came quickly into the room, and the Kid followed her away. Behind him he heard low conversation.

  Once in the room, he glanced suspiciously about. It was spacious, with a huge four-poster bed. Throwing his hat on a hook, he poured water into a basin and unfastened his neckerchief and started unbuttoning his shirt. Then the door opened quickly and the señorita stepped into the room. “Always I come to your room!” she whispered. “It is most improper!”

  “I like it.” The Kid looked at her appreciatively. “I like it very much. I wish you’d make a habit of it. Now tell me what this is all about, and quickly.”

  The story was simple enough, and she told it rapidly with no time wasted on details. The ranch was part of a grant that had been in the hands of her family since the Conquest, but of late it had become more and more valuable. During the reign of Maximilian—who had been shot only a short time before—it had been taken from their family and given to the DeCartes, who were adventurous followers of the French king.

  When he was thrown out, the estate had been returned to its original owners, but by that time DeCarte had married into an influential Mexican family and he had continued to claim the estate. There had been some furious words between the old general and DeCarte, and the resulting challenge. The fact that the general had been a renowned pistol shot might have had something to do with his assassination. Jim Chafee had been planning to take up the challenge when he himself had been shot, and the arrival of the Cactus Kid at the time Chafee was expected had led Fernandez and Sandoval to believe he was their man.

  DeCarte was dead…the bullet had killed him instantly, but the trouble was only just begun.

  “You must not stay here,” Marguerita told him quickly. “It is not safe. You must return to your own country.”

  “What about you?” he asked. “How will you deal with your uncle?”

  “My uncle?” She turned on him quickly. “What do you mean?”

  “Your uncle is one of them, Marguerita. He is trying to get your estate for himself, to divide it with DeCarte and someone else.”

  Her face paled. “Oh, no! You don’t mean that! You can’t!”

  Yet even as she spoke he could see the dawning of belief in her eyes. She turned on him. “Where did you get that idea? Who would suggest it?”

  “Chafee told me it was he who killed your father. He said it was your uncle who had him ambushed.”

  She stood very still, and then suddenly she sat down on the chair near the table. “What am I to do? He was the only one…there is no one, nobody to help me.”

  “Why not me?” The Cactus Kid sat down on the bed and began to build a cigarette. “Marguerita,” he said quietly, “I’m in this up to my ears. Even for my own safety, I would be better off staying here and licking it than trying to beat them to the border. Go on, we don’t want you to get caught here…I’ll see you at dinner.”

  * * *

  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. “Par-doneme,” 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 course. 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 Sandoval, 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.

  MAKING IT THE HARD WAY

  * * *

  UNDER THE WHITE glare of the lights, the two fighters circled each other warily. Finn Downey’s eyes were savagely intent as he stalked his prey. Twice Gammy Delgardo’s stabbing left struck Downey’s head, but Finn continued to move, his fists cocked.