“Nothing doing. You’d run off and leave me high and dry.” He had untied her hands.
“Suit yourself,” she said.
“So, Kit’s bad medicine, is he? What about Jewell?”
She stiffened with surprise. “What do you know about him?”
“Not much. Not any more than I know about Breeden or Farbeson.”
A slight sound made him turn, but there was no chance to draw. The man holding the shotgun was Jewell and he was no more than fifteen feet away. At that distance he would tear the Kid apart. His eyes widened when he saw the Kid. “You, is it? I figured you’d still be lyin’ in the street. What you doin’ here?”
“Huntin’ you.” The Kid spoke quietly. “Huntin’ you an’ those louse-bound partners of yours. I want my money.”
The man laughed coarsely. “You’ll git something, but it ain’t gonna be what you’re lookin’ for!” he promised. Then: “Where’d you meet her?”
“Down the road a piece. Do you want to hand me over that money now or do I take it out of your hide?”
“My hide?” Jewell stared. “Who’s holdin’ this shotgun, anyway?” He did not move his eyes, but said, “Pick up his guns, Kirby. Go behind him.”
He felt the girl move up behind him and felt his guns leave his holsters. His eyes narrowed slightly as he saw the evident relief in Jewell’s eyes. Slowly, the shotgun lifted and he realized with a shock that the man was going to murder him.
“I wouldn’t if I were you.” Kirby Brock had the guns in her hands and was watching Jewell. “Bring up the horses and we’ll ride in. Bully will want to see this gent.”
Reluctantly, Jewell lowered the gun. When he led up the horses, the Cactus Kid was surprised to see that one of them was obviously the girl’s horse. It carried a side saddle and the stirrup was just right for her. The Kid was ordered to mount and they turned west.
It was late afternoon when they reached the houses and old stone corral at Burnt Camp. The smoke from several fires was rising, and the Kid saw a man come out and shade his eyes at them. They rode on into the camp and the Kid watched the big man coming toward them. He was almost twice the size of the Kid, towering several inches above six feet and weighing well over two hundred pounds. He had a thick black beard.
He looked at the Kid, then turned his eyes to the girl. The Cactus Kid frowned uncertainly, for the big man seemed almost frightened when he recognized her.
Other men came forward. Farbeson was one of them. He was almost as large as Bully Brock and he grinned when he saw the Cactus Kid. Breeden, who was standing nearby said, “What do you think, Farb? This kid came up here to git his money?”
The others all laughed and then the crowd parted for a slender, whiplash of a man with a narrow face and wide gash for a mouth. He came down the path and stood staring at Kirby with a slight smile. “Didn’t get far, did you?” he said. “I told you we were meant for each other.”
Breeden laughed and Farb joined in. The younger man made an inquiry about the Cactus Kid and was told the story of what had happened both in San Antonio and here. He listened, nodding slightly. “All right,” he said, “we’ll get this over with all at once.”
He turned on Brock. “Bully,” he said, “you’re through here. We’re taking over your ranch and all that goes with it. I”-he smiled unpleasantly-“will personally take over Kirby. We’re going to show this country what we can do.”
Brock stared back at him. “You’re a fool, Kit. The Rangers never bothered us here because this was my place and they knew me. You know they can get in here an’ they will, sure as you start anything.”
“The Rangers ain’t comin’ now that we got Kirby back. Sendin’ her was a dumb idea, Bully. You tipped your hand an’ now we won’t be needin’ you any longer.” Kit Branch turned his hand on a gun.
The Cactus Kid was still sitting his horse, as was Jewell. Now, suddenly, he slapped the spurs into the dun, and as the startled animal leaped, the Kid grabbed the shotgun from Jewell’s hands as the dun lunged by. Straight into the center of the crowd he went, low over the horse’s neck. Behind him a shot rang out, then another. The dun faltered, stumbled, and then fell all sprawled out. The Kid hit the ground rolling and came up with the shotgun at his shoulder. The first person he saw across the sights was Breeden. He squeezed the trigger and saw the big outlaw take the full charge in the stomach. The man gave a grunt and sat down hard and rolled over to his face.
The Kid lunged to his feet in a spatter of bullets and ran into the rocks. He made them, felt the tug at his shirt, and hit the ground sliding. Almost as soon as he hit it, he was up and ducking into a thick stand of greasewood. He froze in place.
Behind him were shouts and yells, so he moved on quietly, circling toward the corral.
The men had fanned out and were working toward him. Studying the terrain, he felt himself grow sick. No alternative awaited him. The basin was rockbound and to climb that wall would mean that he would be picked off before he had gone a dozen steps.
Nor could he remain where he was, for they were moving in.
The shotgun was a single-barreled gun, a breechloader. And he had no more shells.
The outlaws searching for him were not fooling. Obviously, they had decided to organize, take over Brock’s ranch and saloon as a hangout, and raid the country. Kirby Brock seemed to have slipped away for help but then had lost her horse. She had probably taken him for another outlaw.
Still clutching the shotgun, the Kid rolled behind some rocks and wormed his way right back toward the stone corral and the houses. Several times he had to lie still to allow men to pass within a few feet of him. When he reached a nest of rocks to one side of the corral, he peered out.
Three men remained in the yard with Brock and the girl. Bully Brock had blood running down his face where he had been struck with a gun barrel, and his hands were tied behind him. The girl’s hands were also tied, and Kit Branch stood nearby, with Farb and Jewell. The body of Breeden was nowhere to be seen.
Other men were scattered out, and from time to time he could hear shouts from them.
He had succeeded in getting back through their line, but they would be doubling back at any time and he must at all costs find a place to hole up. As he had crawled an idea had come to him. There might yet be a chance to use the shotgun.
Beyond the stone corral, back from the scattered area of campfires and shelters, was an ancient stone wall that appeared to be the face of a dugout. Obviously unused, it was the place most likely to be overlooked in any search for him. Using the corral as shelter, the Kid worked his way along the far side, then ducked into the open door of the dugout.
It was about twenty feet long and the roof sagged dangerously. The remains of some crude bunks and a few pieces of broken bench were mingled with the litter on the floor. Working his way back into the dugout, the Cactus Kid found it was L-shaped, and around the bend of the L the roof was intact except at the very back, where a hole about three feet across opened into a pile of brush, boulders and cacti.
Crouching in the half-dark of the dugout, the Kid opened the breech of the shotgun.
There had been no chance to dispense with the brass shell, for he had been moving too fast and had nothing to replace it, anyway. Now he got out his pocketknife and went to work. Taking several bullets from his cartridge belt, he opened them and extracted the powder. Outside, the search continued, but in the dugout sweat poured down the Kid’s body as he worked. Several times he stopped to wipe his hands dry and then went on with his work. He cut several of the pistol bullets into three pieces and with a rock pounded off the rough edges of the lead and shaped the pieces into fairly round slugs. With utmost care he pried a primer out of one of the shells and fit it into the back of the shotgun cartridge. It was a bit loose but seemed like it would stay centered. He now had a heavy charge of powder and twelve slugs; using some bits of paper from an old letter in his pocket as wadding, he soon had a charge for his shotgun. When it was reloaded he felt much
better. If they got him now, he was at least taking one man with him. At close range his contrived shotgun shell would tear a man wide open.
As he waited, his eyes accustomed to the dim light, he looked around the interior of the ruined dugout. The floor was a litter of old paper, sacks, bits of rawhide, old clothes, and odds and ends of broken bottles. Suddenly he had an unaccountable fit of depression. Unaccountable for him, for the Cactus Kid was wont to look upon life as his particular bailiwick, and he had spent most of his time trying to find the bright side of every situation.
This, he decided, was the limit of something or other. That he, the Cactus Kid, whose cheerful grin and ready sense of humor had carried him through the worst of times, should be hiding here in a ruined dugout in the last hours of a hot Texas day was absolutely unacceptable. The Cactus Kid made up his mind. Come what may, he was going out and he was going to leave his mark on this outfit-but good.
Dusk came at last and the fires were built up and soon he could smell coffee. With nothing to eat since daybreak, that added to the Kid’s disgust. In all this time he had not dared look out, yet now, with the darkness bringing deep shadows around the dugout, he moved to the back and thrust his head and shoulders through the hole.
He found himself looking out through a curtain of brush over the whole area of the hideout. To his left was the stone corral, part of it almost in front of him, and in the corral were the horses. Beyond it, on the slope and almost facing him, was the main house. There was an old stable, open-faced and now used by some of the outlaws, and there were four fires going. In all, he surmised there must be sixteen to twenty men at the hideout.
Slipping out of the hole, he crawled down to the corral wall. Flipping a loop over a horse’s neck, he drew the animal to the wall and saddled it. A second horse snorted and leaped when the rope touched it and one of the men at the fires got up. “Somethin’ botherin’ the horses,” he said.
“Aw! They’re just fightin’!”
The outlaw stood looking toward the corral, but as all was quiet he soon subsided and returned to his seat.
Swiftly, the Kid saddled the second horse and another. Then he tied the three horses and circled the corral.
Lying flat on his stomach, he looked past the corner at the group of outlaws. If he only had his guns! The one shot in his shotgun meant little; he could only take one man, two at best, and then they would have him.
Suddenly the girl and her uncle were led from the house and brought down to the nearest fire. With them was Kit Branch and Farbeson. Jewell was at the fire and he got up as they approached, grinning at Bully Brock. “Does me good to see this!” He sneered.
“You been struttin’ high-an’-mighty for a long time!”
Brock straightened his shoulders. “Branch, give Kirby a horse an’ let her go. She’s done nothin’ to you. Let her go back home to San Antone.”
“Not a chance! We’ve got her an’ we’ll keep her. We’ll keep you, too, Brock, as long as you behave. We’ve got an idea that maybe you can keep the Rangers off us.”
“Don’t be a fool!” Brock retorted. “The only reason the Rangers stayed away was because nobody from around here did anything but rustle a few head of cows once in a while.
They knew I was mostly honest and they didn’t want to come all the way out here for a few young fellers who they could never prove had done anything. You start somethin’ an’ they’ll be down on you like a flock of wolves.”
Branch smiled. “You expect me to believe that, Bully? You know folks. Come daylight we’ll round up that kid. He won’t get far without water or knowin’ the country.”
A big man sat with his back to the Kid and not over twenty yards away. The Kid could see the pistol in his belt. If he was going to start something, it would have to be soon. The horses might be discovered if he waited, and the sheer surprise might help, also; the girl and her uncle were close at hand now, but after they had eaten, they would probably be returned to the house.
They had just come to the fire. It would be twenty minutes, thirty at most, before they would be returned to the house. There was a chance. He drew back suddenly, straightened to his feet, and turned.
He stumbled straight into the very same outlaw who had been bothered by the horses acting up. The Kid’s sudden rise from the ground had been a complete surprise and now he gaped foolishly at the Kid. Then his surprise faded and he began to grin.
“Got you!” he said hoarsely. “I got you!”
“You got me?” The Kid jerked the shotgun. “What do you think this is?”
“You had one shell.” The man was grinning, enjoying himself. “You killed Breeden with it… uuhhh!”
The Cactus Kid acted suddenly. He was gripping the shotgun with both hands and he simply jammed the end of the barrel in the man’s solar plexus with wicked force.
The outlaw grunted and hit the dirt on his knees. Instantly, the Kid smashed him on the back of the skull with the butt of the shotgun, then stripped the man’s gun from his holster. Swinging the extra cartridge belt over his shoulder, the Kid quickly rounded the back corner of the corral toward the haystack. Dropping to his knees, he struck a match, then another and another.
Grabbing a pitchfork as the flames leaped up, he forked two quick bunches of flaming hay high into the greasewood surrounding the camp. Then he went over the corral rails with a leap, grabbed the bridle reins of the three horses, and swung into the saddle.
“Fire!
The hay’s afire!” Other voices took up the call and men charged toward the stack.
The fire scattered in the greasewood, caught, and the resinous wood and leaves burst into a crackle of flame. Crouching low in the saddle, his shotgun ready, the Kid rode for the corral gate and kicked the latch open. The balanced gate swung and instantly he was through.
A man saw him coming and the Kid yelled, “Get the horses! Save ‘em!” With a shrill whoop he rode down on the fire where Bully Brock stood beside the girl. Her hands were free, but his were still bound and they had been making the girl feed him, fearing what he might attempt if he wasn’t restrained.
Men were racing toward the flames, and the Kid’s call made them realize the danger of the horses without noticing who it was that yelled. Racing up to the fire, the Kid called to Kirby. “Hit the saddle! Hit the saddle! Let’s go!”
After one startled instant of hesitation Brock raced for the nearest horse and, without even waiting to have his hands untied, jumped for the saddle and got a foot in the stirrup. With his left hand, the Kid pulled the big man into the saddle while Kirby swung up. Behind them there were yells and he could hear Kit Branch shouting angrily.
Turning in the saddle, the Cactus Kid saw a big man take three running steps and stop, whipping a Winchester to his shoulder. The Kid pulled the trigger on his shotgun and the gun boomed and slammed his shoulder. The big man staggered and the Kid wheeled, jumping his horse away as he threw the shotgun into the face of another man. And then they were off and running.
Behind them men raced wildly about, grabbing at the thrashing horses, the whole scene lighted by the whipping flames. The breeze was stiff and the flames had leaped across the greasewood until the whole hillside was a roaring flame. Kirby was leading the way due west and the three rode desperately, crouching low in their saddles to escape the hail of bullets.
Weaving among the boulders, Bully led west, then south, then doubled back to the north. At a stop to let the horses breathe, the Kid leaned over and cut Brock’s hands free of the top loop of rope, and Brock did the rest himself. Slowing down, the Cactus Kid looked around and could see the loom of Solitario Peak off to the north and a little east. Kirby was riding west, following some vague sort of trail, weaving through some rough country. Dropping into Fresno Canyon, they turned north and kept a good pace until the peak of Solitario was behind them to the east. Then she led them out, going northeast. They stopped briefly at a tinaja; nearby was the dark outline of what had once been a frame of a mine scaffold and pro
spector’s shack, now partially collapsed.
Bully chafed his wrists and grinned at the Cactus Kid. “You sure are hellfire when you cut loose, mister! We’d better hightail it northwest. Maybe we can make a settlement before they catch up to us. I’d at least like to have a gun!”
“You ride on.” The Cactus Kid shoved his hat back on his head and began to build a smoke. “I’m going back.”
“Back?” Kirby cried. “Are you crazy? You want to go back there and get shot?”
“No, ma’am, I sure don’t. On the other hand, those hombres took seven hundred dollars of money off me. I want it.”
“Why are you so interested in getting-!” Kirby was breathless. The moon was rising and he could see her face in the light.
“Here, now!” Brock said mildly. “Let him alone. If he wants to go back, he wants to go back and that’s his affair. Although,” he added, “I do think it a foolish thing.”
“Nevertheless,” the Kid insisted stubbornly, “I am going back.” He turned his horse.
“You two ride on. I’ve got business to attend to!”
Kirby stared at him, her anger fading. “Don’t go back!” she pleaded. “They’ll kill you! They will! I know they will!”
Brock held up his hand. “You won’t have to go back,” he said gravely. “I can hear ‘em coming.”
“How far off?” The Kid strained his ears to listen.
“Down the canyon. It could be a mile or more.”
“Hit the saddle, then,” the Kid said quietly. “I’ll wait for ‘em. I’ve got a Colt and plenty of ammunition. I’ll stand ‘em off.”
“We’ll wait,” Kirby said. “Maybe we can get hold of some guns once the fighting starts.”
“Then get out of the way,” the Kid agreed, “… back near that mine. I’m going to wait right here by the tinaja for them.”
It was well after midnight, but how late he was not sure. The Kid waited, occasionally drying his palms on his jeans. The riders were taking their time, evidently searching the rocks as they came along. Probably they were not sure which way the Brocks had gone with the Kid. When at last he heard them close by, there was a faint gray in the east. The outlaws-and he decided there were at least four of them-drew up in the blackness near the cliffs.
Monument Rock (Ss) (1998) Page 3