Valley Of the Sun (Ss) (1995)

by L'amour, Louis

  A voice called out, then another. The horses came into the basin, and he heard a question in Spanish, then a laughing response. Then a light was struck, and a fire blazed up. In the glow of the fire applied to sticks gathered earlier, he could see the four brothers, and Bess O'ationeal.

  She was standing with her back to him, her wrists tied, and Juan gripped her arm. Lobo stared at her greedily, and then Juan asked a question. Leading the girl, they turned toward the anthill and the Cactus Kid.

  Bess cried out when she saw him. "ally! When they told me you were here, I thought they lied. They said you were hurt--t you--Then when I was outside talking to them, I suddenly realized something was wrong, but when I tried to leave and go back inside to get someone else, they grabbed me, tied me, and brought me to this place.".

  "Keep your nerve, honey," the Cactus Kid said grimly. "This isn't over!".

  Juan laughed and, leaning down, struck him across the mouth. "Pig!" he snarled. "I should kill you now. I should cut you to little pieces, only the ants will do it better. And if you die, you would not hear what happens to the senorita . It is better you hear!".

  He straightened up, and they trooped back to the fire. The frightened, despairing look in the girl's eyes gave him added incentive. He scraped and scratched at the rawhide, staring hard toward the fire.

  The brothers were in no hurry. They had the girl. They had him. He was helpless, and no one suspected them. Moreover, they were in a place where no one came. They could afford to take their time.

  Suddenly he braced himself again and strained his muscles. He felt a sudden weakness in his bonds, and then his straining fingers found a loose end. He had cut through the rawhide!.

  Working with his swollen, clumsy fingers, he got the loose end looser, then managed to shake some of the other loops from his wrists. In a matter of minutes, his hands were free. He lay still then, panting and getting his wind, then he lifted his hands to the halter on his head and neck. A few minutes' work and that was freed, then the thongs that bound his wrists and ankles.

  He was outside the glow of the fire, which was at least a hundred yards away. He chafed his swollen wrists and rubbed his hands together. Then he got several pieces of rawhide and stuck them into his pockets. One piece, about eighteen inches long, he kept.

  The Cactus Kid got slowly to his feet, stretching himself, trying to get life into his muscles. In the vast, empty stillness of the black canyon the tiny fire glowed, and flamed red, and above it the soft voices, muted by distance and the enormity of the space around them, sounded almost like whispers.

  Tiptoeing to the edge of the stream, he felt for the rock he wanted, two inches long and evenly balanced in weight. Taking the eighteen-inch rawhide, he knotted one end of it securely about the stone. Then he tried it in his hand.

  Fading back into the shadows then, his boots still lying where Lobo had dropped them when they were jerked from his feet, the Kid melted into the almost solid blackness and began to cross the space between himself and the fire.

  He didn't like killing, and he didn't like what he was going to have to do, yet he was not the one to underrate the fighting ability of the brothers Fernandez. They were cruel, vindictive men, lawless and given to murder. He knew what they would do to the girl, he knew the horror in which she would live for a few days or a few weeks, then murder. They dared not leave her alive, possibly to get back to Aragon.

  To think that only a few miles away now, the dance was in progress! Only a few miles away old Buck Sorenson was calling dances and his sons were sawing their fiddles. There was help there, but it was too far. What was to be done, he must do himself.

  Miguel knelt above the fire. He was cooking. Juan sat near the girl, and kept a hand on her. From time to time he made remarks to her in his sneering, irritating voice. Lobo sat across the fire, his eyes never leaving the girl's slim body or her face.

  In the darkness, the Cactus Kid watched. His guns were there, he could see them lying on a blanket. They were too far away. There was no chance to get them.

  He waited. It was a deadly, trying waiting. Minutes seemed like hours. Then Miguel straightened. "Pedro!" he snapped impatiently.

  The Fernandez who dozed on the sand looked up.

  "Get me some water from the spring, you lazy. one!".

  Pedro started to complain, then Juan looked up.

  "Get it!" he snapped.

  Grudgingly, Pedro picked up a canteen and. started off into the darkness. The Cactus Kid came to his feet, moving like a ghost in his socked feet, moving after Pedro.

  He waited, while the hulking Mexican held the canteen in the spring to fill it, and then as he straightened, the Kid moved in behind him, holding a loop of the rawhide in his left hand and gripping the stone in his fingers.

  He threw the stone suddenly, and its weight swung the rawhide around the Mexican's neck. He had swung the stone from the right and witha quick, backhanded motion, and as it came around Pedro's neck the Kid caught it with his right. Then he jerked hard with both hands, cutting off the startled yell that started to rise in the man's throat, and gripping the rawhide hard, the Kid jerked his knee up into the small of Pedro's back and turned his knuckles hard against the back of Pedro's neck.

  It was sudden, adroit, complete. For an instant the Kid held the man, then lowered him to the ground. Perhaps he was dead. Perh--there was no question now. Withdrawing the thong, the Kid searched him in vain for a gun, then slid away into darkness, and once more got close to the camp. He sighed regretfully. Pedro had been unarmed.

  "Where is that fool, Pedro?" Miguel demanded impatiently. Then he yelled, "Pedro! Where are you?".

  There was no answer.

  The echo of Miguel's voice died, andfora. minute the three brothers stared at each other.

  Lobo got to his feet, staring into the darkness. There was no sound out there but the falling water in the spring, and the rustle from the stream.

  Lobo Fernandez shifted uneasily, staring around into the darkness. "I'll go see where is he," he said, finally.

  Lying close, the Kid waited. What he wanted was a chance at those guns. Once the guns were in his hands, all would be well. Was he the Cactus Kid for nothing?.

  Lobo walked off into the darkness. Suddenly there was a startled yell from him.

  "Juan!" Lobo screamed. "Come quickly!.

  Pedro is dead!".

  Juan Fernandez sprang to his feet and lunged toward Lobo's shouting voice. Miguel started up, his face ashen, and the Kid sprang, quickly, silently. Again the rawhide thong swung out, and again a man was jerked from his feet, but this time the Kid had no desire to kill.

  "It is the spirits!" Lobo shouted. "The gringo told me they would be angry!".

  Juan's shout broke in. "The Keed? He has done this! He has gotten away!".

  The Cactus Kid heard them rushing toward the anthill where he had been tied, but he dropped the unconscious Miguel and sprang for the guns. He came up with the gun belt swinging in his hands and, with a quick movement, caught it and buckled the guns on. Then he sprang across the fire to the girl and dragged her into the darkness.

  While she sobbed with relief he tore at the knots with frenzied, eager fingers.

  "Where are the horses?" he said. "Get to them quickly! Get two and turn the others free. Then wait for me where the trail begins.".

  The girl asked no more questions, but slipped off into the darkness.

  There was not a sound from the brothers. Miguel, his face blue, lay on the ground near the fire. He was not dead.

  The Kid glided from behind the fire and, staring into the darkness, began to probe for the brothers Fernandez. Both were armed, as Pedro had not been. Both men were deadly with six-guns, and in any kind of a shoot-out they would be hard men to handle. Keeping his eyes away from the fire, he moved into the shadows, hoping to get near the horses, but out of line with the girl.

  There was no sign from her. Then he heard a horse stamp and blow. He waited. Then he heard a footfall, so soft he
scarce could hear. He whirled, gun in hand, and in the darkness he saw the looming figure of Lobo, just the faint outline of his figure in the light from the fire.

  Their guns came up at the same instant, and both blasted fire. The Kid felt a quick stab at his side, not of pain, but rather a jolt as though someone had jerked him violently. Then he fired again, and saw the big figure of Lobo wilting, saw the gun dribble from his fingers, and at the same instant there was a scream from near the horses.

  Turning in his tracks, he charged toward the scream and came up running. There was a wild scuffling in the dark, then a muttered curse and the sound of a blow. He saw them, and holstering his gun, the Kid lunged close and caught Juan with one hand at his shirt collar and one at his belt.

  With a tremendous jerk, he ripped the Mexican free and shoved him violently away. With a cry, Juan turned like a cat in midair and hit the ground in a sitting position. He must have drawn as he fell, for suddenly his gun belched fire and then the Kid fired.

  Juan Fernandez rolled over and the Kid dropped to the ground. They lay there, only a few feet apart, each waiting for a move from the other. Somewhere off to the right the girl was also lying still.

  Back at the fire Miguel might be coming to.

  What was to be done must be done now.

  He could hear the horses moving, so evidently Bess had reached them safely again after he had pulled Juan away from her. All was quiet, and then he thought he detected a movement off to the right.

  Picking up a small pebble, he tossed it into the water. It drew no fire, no reaction. Getting carefully to his feet, he tried to penetrate the darkness ahead of him. Circling, he headed toward where he believed Juan to be. Yet when he reached the spot, the outlaw was no longer there!.

  Glancing back toward the fire, he saw that Miguel, too, was gone.

  Gun in hand, he started working toward the entrance to the trail where he had warned Bess to meet him.

  The whereabouts of the brothers disturbed him. Their hatred over his responsibility, small as it had been, in the death of Ace, would be nothing at all now that he had escaped them, killed Pedro, and taken Bess O'ationeal from them. Above all, once the two left this valley, the brothers Fernandez would know only too well their day around Aragon was over.

  A movement near him, and he froze into a crouch, his gun lifted. Then he saw a dark shadow, and just as he lifted the gun and turned it toward the figure there came to his nostrils a faint, scarcely tangible breath of perfume!.

  A moment only he waited, then he took a chance. "Bess!" he hissed.

  In a moment she was beside him. Her lips against his ear, she breathed softly. "Miguel is at the trail entrance! We cannot get away!".

  "The horses?".

  "I've yours and mine in the cutback under the. shelf. Near that image!".

  Taking her hand, he began to move on careful feet toward the place she mentioned. It was dark there, in the overhang of the cliff. He drew her to him and slipped his left arm around her waist. Freed from his bonds, with Bess O'ationeal beside him, and his guns on his slim hips, the Cactus Kid was once more himself. Grimly, he waited.

  Morning would come, and with it--well, the brothers Fernandez could run, or they could die, as they wished.

  Dawn came, as dawns will, slipping in a gray mystery of beginning light along the far wall of the narrow canyon, then growing into light. The gray turned softer and lay down along the gravel bench. The ants, unaware of what they had missed, began to bestir themselves, and the Kid, seated against the wall with the head of Bess O'ationeal on his shoulder, watched the light and was thankful.

  No living thing beyond the ants appeared on the bench. He arose, and awakening the girl, they swung into the saddle and, walking their horses, started cautiously for the trail. When they rounded the cluster of boulders that concealed it from them, there was no one in sight. "Looks like they've gone!" he said.

  "Not yet.".

  Juan Fernandez, sided by the younger Miguel,. stepped from the boulders at their side. Juan's eyes were hot with hatred, and the gun in his hand spoke clearly of what was to come.

  "We are going to kill you, senor .".

  "Looks like it," the Kid said calmly. "Can.

  I smoke first?".

  Juan shrugged. "Why not? If your tobacco and papers are in your breast pocket?".

  Very carefully, the Cactus Kid reached for them and built a cigarette.

  "Too bad," he said, "a few more minutes and we'd have been in the clear." He put the cigarette in his mouth, then struck the match on the saddle. Holding it in his fingers, he grinned at Juan. "No offense," he said, "but I should have killed you last night. Still, they'll get you, the bunch at Aragon. They'll figure this out." The match was burning slowly. Too slowly.

  "Somebody must have seen you kidnap Bess.".

  "Nobody saw us," Juan said, with satisfaction. "If you are going to smoke, you better light that cigarette.".

  "Nevertheless," the Kid protested, "I think--" Then the flame of the match burned down to his fingers, and at the twinge of pain, he yelled "Ouch," and jerked back his hand, dropping the match.

  Only his hand never stopped moving. He palmed his gun, and his gun bellowed with that of Juan Fernandez. The bullet of Juan cut a furrow across the saddle fork in front of him, but his own bullet slammed Juan in the chest and he staggered and fell to the sand even as the Cactus Kid's gun spoke another time.

  Miguel let go his gun and grabbed at his side with an expression of shocked surprise in his eyes. He fell from the saddle and sprawled on his face in the sun. Juan tried to rise, then fell back.

  Two hours and some twelve miles farther away toward the ranch where Bess lived with her uncle, the Cactus Kid tilted his sombrero back on his head and looked at Bess. Her eyes were bright and shining with promises. "You were very brave!" she said.

  The Kid lifted a deprecating shoulder. "Not very," he said. "It wasn't that, but luck." Then, recalling in the flush of his success the ancient arrowhead, he added, "It was luck, and the Yaqui gods. They were with me, with us.".

  "Give them all the credit you want!" she insisted. "I think you're wonderful!".

  The Cactus Kid smiled benevolently and brushed his fingernails lightly against the front of his shirt, then glanced at them.

  "Of course," he said, "you may be right. Who am I to argue with a lady?".

  *.

  Valley of the Sun.

  Sprawled on his face beside the cholla, the man was not dead. The gun that lay near his hand had not been fired. He lay now as he had fallen six hours earlier when the two bullets struck him. But the dark stain on the back of his sun-faded shirt was from blood that had caked hard, dried in the blasting sun.

  Above him, like the tower of a feudal castle, was the soaring height of Rattlesnake Butte. It loomed like a sentinel above the sun-tortured waste of the valley.

  Near the wounded man's hand a tiny lizard stopped. Its heart throbbed noticeably through the skin as it stared in mingled amazement and alarm at the sprawled figure of the man. It sensed the warning of danger in the stale smell of sweat and blood.

  Under the baking heat of the sun, the man's back muscles stirred. The lizard darted away, losing itself in a tiny maze of rocks and ruined mesquite. But the muscles of the wounded man, having stirred themselves, relaxed once more and he lay still. Yet the tiny movement, slight as it had been, seemed to start the life processes functioning again. Little by little, as water finds its way through rocks, consciousness began to trickle back into his brain.

  His eyes were open a long time before he became aware of his position. At first, he merely lay there, his mind a complete blank, until finally the incongruity of his stillness filtered into his mind and stirred him to wonder as to the cause.

  Then memory broke the dam caused by bullet shock and flooded him suddenly.

  He knew then that he had been shot. Understanding the manner of men who fired upon him, he knew also that they had left him for dead. He was immediately aware of the
advantage this gave him.

  Mentally, he explored his body. He was wounded, but where and how he did not know. From the dull throb in his skull he suspected at least one bullet must have hit him in the head. There was, he discovered, a stiffs low down on his left side.

  He could remain here no longer. He must first get out of the sun. Then he must take stock of his position and decide what was to be done. Being a desert man, he was acutely aware of the danger of lying in the sun and having all the water drawn from his body. There was a greater danger from heat and thirst than from men determined to kill him.

  Brett Larane got his hands under him and very carefully pushed himself up. He flexed his knees with great caution. His arms and legs functioned normally, which was a good sign. To be helpless now would mean sure death.

  When he was on his knees he lifted a hand to the scalp wound in his head. It was just that, no more nor less. No doubt there had been a mild concussion also. The wound in his lower left side was worse, and from the caked condition of his shirt and pants, he knew he must have lost a great deal of blood.

  Bleeding, he knew, would make a man thirsty, and this was an added danger.

  He retrieved his gun and returned it to his holster. The shot that struck him down had come utterly without warning. The drawing of the gun had been one of those purely instinctive actions, natural to a man who is much dependent upon a weapon. It had been due to conditioning rather than intelligence.

  Shakily, he got to his feet and glanced around for his horse, but it was nowhere in sight.

  They had taken his outfit, then. He was a man afoot in the desert, miles from possible aid, a man who had lost his saddle. In this country, that alone was tantamount to a death sentence.

  There was shade under the overhang of the butte and he moved toward it, walking carefully. Once there, he lowered himself gingerly to a sitting position. He was afraid of opening the wound and starting the bleeding again. Weakness flooded him, and he sat there, gasping and half-sick with fear. Nausea swept over him and came up in his throat.