No Trouble for the Cactus Kid Read online

  No Trouble For The Cactus Kid Louis L’amour *

  The People Who Built The West , Like Those Of Whom I Write, Were Survivors. They Had To Be.

  Books could be filled with anecdotes of men, wome n and children who survived under seemingly impossibl e conditions — survived attacks by enemies, by wild animals , by terrible storms, and hunger, thirst and cold. One o f these was Mrs. Paige.

  In this space I do not have the room to tell all tha t happened to her and her family. Her father and many o f her relatives were killed by Indians. Those the Indian s missed at one time, they caught up with later.

  Attacked on the trail, Mrs. Paige was struck repeatedl y on the head, stabbed and then thrown over a cliff. Sh e hung briefly in a tree, and then fel l the rest of the way.

  The Indians approached the rim and threw a number o f boulder at her, some of which sneered direct hits. Believing her dead, the Indians rode away. Sometime later , when she returned to consciousness, the young woma n began to crawl. Despite the loss of blood and the wound s she had suffered, she crawled several miles, managin g occasionally to stagger a few steps.

  It was southern Arizona, the heat was around 110 degrees , but she crawled on until she had to take shelter unde r some low-growing brush. In all, during the next few days , she traveled most of sixteen miles before she was discovered and taken to a nearby town. She had lost almost hal f her normal weight, her eyes were deeply sunken in he r skull, her face burned almost black and the skin shrun k tight against her skull. Yet she survived for many years.

  *

  Even the coyotes who prowled along the banks of the Ri p Salado knew the Cactus Kid was in love. What else woul d cause him to sing to the moon so that even the coyote s were jealous’?

  The Cactus Kid was in love, and he was on his way t o Aragon to buy his girl some calico, enough red and whit e calico to make a dress.

  It was seventy miles to Aragon, and the dance was o n Friday. This being Monday, he figured he had plenty o f time.

  Red and white calico for a girl with midnight in he r hair and lovelight in her eyes. Although, reflected th e Cactus Kid, there were times when that lovelight flickere d into anger, as he had cause to know. She had made u p her mind that he was the only man for her, and h e agreed and was pleased at the knowledge, yet her ange r could be uncomfortable, and the Cactus Kid liked hi s comfort.

  The paint pony switched his tail agreeably as he cantered down the trail, the Kid lolling in the saddle. Only a little ride to Aragon, then back with the calico. It woul d take Bonita only a little while to make a dress, a dress tha t would be like a dream once she put it on.

  Love, the Cactus Kid decided, was a good thing fo r him. Until he rode up to Coyote Springs and met Bonita , he had been homeless as a poker chip and ornery as a maverick mule.

  Now look at him! He was riding for Bosque Bill Ryan’s Four Staff outfit, and hadn’t had a drink in two months!

  Drinking, however, had never been one of his pet vices.

  By and large he had one vice, a knack for getting int o trouble. Not that he went looking for trouble; it wa s simply that it had a way of happening where he was.

  The Cactus Kid was five feet nine in his socks, an d weighed an even one hundred and forty pounds. His hai r was sandy and his eyes were green, and while not a larg e man it was generally agreed by the survivors that he coul d hit like a man fifty pounds heavier. His fighting skill ha d been acquired by diligent application of the art.

  On this ride he anticipated no trouble. Aragon was a peaceful town. Had it been Trechado, now, or even Dee r Creek… but they were far away and long ago, an d neither town had heard the rattling of his spurs since h e met Bonita… nor would they.

  It was spring. The sun was bright and just pleasantl y warm. The birds were out, and even the rabbits seeme d rather to wait and watch than run. His plan was to sto p the night at Red Bluff Stage Station. Scotty Ellis, hi s friend, was majordomo at the station now, caring for th e horses and changing teams when the stages arrived. It ha d been a month since he had visited with Scotty, and the ol d man was always pleased to have visitors.

  The Cactus Kid was happy with the morning and please d with his life. He was happy that Bosque Bill had let hi m have a week off to do as he pleased, work being slack a t the moment. Next month it would be going full blast, an d every hand working sixteen hours a day or more.

  The Cactus Kid didn’t mind work. He was, as Bosqu e Bill said, a “hand.” He could ride anything that wore hai r and used his eighty-foot California riata with masterl y skill. He enjoyed doing things he did well, and he ha d found few things he couldn’t do well.

  The saw-toothed ridge of the Tularosa mountains combe d the sky for clouds, and Spot, the sorrel and white paint , bobbed his head and cocked an ear at the Cactus Kid’s singing. The miles fell easily behind and the Kid let th e paint make his own pace.

  They dropped into a deep canyon following a windin g trail. At the bottom the two-foot wide Agua Fria babble d along over the gravel. The Kid dropped from the saddl e and let Spot take his own time in drinking. Then h e lowered himself to his chest and drank. He was just getting up when the creek spat sand in his face, and th e report of a rifle echoed down the canyon walls.

  The Cactus Kid hit his feet running, and dove to shelte r behind a boulder just as a bullet knocked chips from it.

  Spot, in his three years of carrying the Kid, had becom e accustomed to the sounds of battle and rifle shots, and i n two quick bounds was himself among the rocks and tree s and out of sight.

  The Kid had hit the dirt behind his boulder with hi s Colt in his Est. His hat off, he peered from alongside th e rock to see who and why. A glance was enough to tell hi m his Colt wasn’t going to be much help, so rolling over, h e got into the rocks and scrambled back to the paint.

  Holstering the Colt, he slid his Winchester from its scabbard. Then he waited.

  His position wasn’t bad. It could be no more than a n hour’s ride to Red Bluff Station, and he had until Friday t o return with the material. Well, until Thursday, anyway.

  How long did it take to make a dress y No more shots were fired, but he waited. At first he wa s calm, then irritated. After all, if the dry-gulcher wanted a fight why didn’t he get on with it?

  No shots, no sounds. The Cactus Kid removed his ha t again and eased it around the boulder on a stick. Nothin g happened.

  The Cactus Kid, rifle ready, stepped from behind hi s rocks. There was no shot, nothing but the chuckling of th e stream over the gravel. Disgusted, he swung into th e saddle and turned his horse upstream. In a few minute s he glimpsed a boot heel.

  Rifle ready, he circled warily. It was not until he dre w up beside him that he saw the man was dead. He wa s lying flat on his face and had been shot at least twic e through the head and twice through the body. Kneelin g beside him, the Cactus Kid studied the situation.

  One shot, which wounded the dead man, had bee n fired some time before. The wounded man had crawle d here, seeking shelter. He had been followed and shot a t least twice more while lying on the ground.

  Whoever had done the killing had intended it to be jus t that, a kil1ing. This was not merely a robbery.

  The dead man’s pockets were turned inside out, and a n empty wallet lay on the ground. Empty of money, that is.

  There were several papers in the wallet, a couple of fade d letters and a deed. A sweat stain ran diagonally across th e papers.

  Pocketing them, the Cactus Kid looked around thoughtfully. Seeing some bloodstains, he followed the track lef t by the wounded man back to the main trail. Here th e story became simple.

  The man had been riding along the trail toward th e canyon when shot. He had fa
llen from his horse into th e dust, had gotten to his feet, and had fired at his killer.

  Two empty cartridge cases lay on the ground.

  Evidently the wounded man had ejected the two empt y shells and reloaded, and then had been hit again and ha d tried to crawl to a hiding plaza or a better place fro m which to fight.

  Scouting around and checking obvious ambush sites , the Kid found where the killer had waited, smoking a dozen or more cigarettes. There were marks in the dus t where a saddle had rested.

  A saddle, and no horse? Scouting still more, he foun d the horse. It was a rangy buckskin, and from the looks of i t the horse had been literally run to death. Its hair wa s streaked with dried sweat and foam.

  “Whoever he was,” the Kid said aloud, “he was goin’ s omeplace in a hurry, or gettin’ away from something. He killed his horse, then holed up here until a rider cam e along, dry-gulched him, robbed the body, and rode off o n his horse.”

  Returning, the Kid rolled the dead man’s body over a small sand-bank, then caved the sand over him and adde d rocks and brush.

  Whoever had fired at him had been the killer, and h e could not be far ahead. The hour was now getting close t o sunset, and if the Kid wanted to join Scotty Ellis at suppe r he had best hurry.

  The sun was over the horizon when he loped his hors e down to the Bed Bluff’ Station. Scotty came to the doo r shading his eyes against the last glare of sunlight.

  “Kid! Sakes alive, Kid! I ain’t seen you in a coon’s age!

  Some cowhand from over at the Four Star told me yo u was fixin’ to get yourself hitched up.”

  “Got it in mind, Scotty. A man can’t run maverick all hi s life.” He led his horse to the corral and stripped the gea r from his back, glancing around as he did so. No strang e horses in the corral, no recent tracks except for the stage , a few hours back.

  He followed Scotty into the station, listening with onl y half his attention to the old man’s talk. It was the chatte r of a man much alone, trying to get it all said in minutes.

  As he dished up supper the Kid asked, Any rider s come through this afternoon’?”

  “Riders?’ Yep, two, three of them went by. One bi g feller headin’ toward Coyote Springs, and a couple mor e pointin’ toward Aragon.”

  “Two’ Riding together?”

  “Nope. They wasn’t together. A big feller on a bloo d bay come through, and a few minutes later another feller , almost as big, ridin’ a grulla mustang. Neither of the m stopped. Folks are gettin’ so they don’t even stop to pas s the time o’ day!”

  Two men? He had seen only one, but if they arrive d at about the same time then the other rider must hav e been within the sound of the rifle when the killer ha d fired at the Kid.

  At daybreak he rolled out of his blankets, fed and watere d his horse, then washed and dried his hands and face at th e washbowl outside the door.

  “Scotty,” he asked, over his second cup of coffee, “di d you get a good look at either of those riders””

  “Wal, don’t recollect I did. Both big fellers. Feller o n the bay hoss had him one of those ol’ Mother Hubbar d saddles.”

  Riding out for Aragon, the Kid reflected that none of i t was his business. The thing to do was report what he’d found to the sheriff or his deputy in Aragon, then buy hi s calico and head for home.

  He smiled at himself. A few weeks back, before he me t Bonita, he would have been so sore at that gent who fire d at him that he’d not have quit until he found him. Now h e was older and wiser.

  Aragon was a one-street town with a row of false-fronte d buildings on one side, on the other a series of corrals. Th e buildings consisted of a general store, two saloons, a jai l with the deputy sheriff’s office in front, a boarded up Lan d Office and two stores.

  As he rode along the street his eyes took in the horses a t the hitching rail. One of them was a blood bay with a Hubbard saddle, the other a grulla. The horse with th e Mother Hubbard saddle had a Henry rifle in the boot.

  The grulla’s saddle scabbard carried an old Volcanic.

  The deputy was not in his office. A cowhand sitting o n the top rail of the corral called over that the deputy ha d ridden over to Horse Mesa. The Cactus Kid walked bac k along the street and entered the busiest saloon. One drin k and he would be on his way. Picking up the calico woul d require but a few minutes.

  Several men were loitering at the bar. One was a lean , wiry man with bowed legs, and a dry, saturnine expression. He glanced at the Cactus Kid and then looked away.

  There was another man, standing near him but obviousl y not with him, who was a large, bulky man with bulgin g blue eyes which stared at the Kid like a couple of aime d rifles.

  Of course, even the Cactus Kid would have admitte d that he was something to look at when n o t in his workin g clothes. He was, he cheerfully confessed, a dude. Hi s sombrero was pure white, with a colored horsehair band.

  His shirt was forest green, and over it he wore a beautifully tanned buckskin vest heavily ornamented with India n work in beads and porcupine quills. His crossed gun belt s were of russet leather, the belt and holsters studded wit h silver. His trousers were of homespun, but striped, and hi s boots were highly polished, a rare thing on the frontier.

  The larger of the two men eyed him disdainfully, the n looked away. The Kid was used to that, for those who di d not know him always assumed he was a tenderfoot, a mistake that had led to more than one bit of the troubl e that seemed to await him at every corner.

  The larger of the two men had several notches carved i d his gun b utt.

  The Kid ordered his drink, but he decided he did no t like the man with the bulging eyes. He had never like d anybody who carved notches in their gun butts, anyway.

  It was a tinhorn’s trick.

  The Kid looked at Joe Chance, the bartender, who wa s obviously uneasy, and had been so ever since the Ki d walked into the saloon.

  The Kid had promised Bonita not to get into trouble , but nonetheless what he had found had been a coldbloode d ruthless murder and one of the two men had done it. Bot h had been riding, as was obvious from the trail dust the y carried, and, from the attitudes of the others in the room , both were strangers.

  “Chance,” he said, “what would you think of a man wh o dry-gulched a passing rider, then walked up and shot int o him a couple of times to make sure he was dead, then too k his horse?”

  Joe Chance knew the Cactus Kid. The mirror he no w had behind the bar had caused the Kid to cough up thre e months wages to pay for it, and it had only been in plac e about sixty days.

  Chance shifted his eyes warily and reached for a glass t o polish. “Why, I’d think the man was a dirty murderer wh o deserved hangin’!”

  After a pause, his own curiosity getting the best of him , he asked, “Who done such a thing?”

  “Why, I don’t rightly know at this minute, but I got a n idea we’ll find out. He came over the trail just ahead o f me. He robbed the man he murdered, and he’s in town right now!”

  The bow-legged man lifted his eyes to meet those of th e Kid. There was something mocking and dangerous in thos e eyes. The Kid knew he was looking into the eyes of a ma n who both could and would shoot. “I just rode in,” th e man said calmly.

  “So did I.” The big man put his glass down hard on th e bar. Are you aimin that talk at us?

  “No,” the Kid said mildly, “only at one of you. Only , the other man must have heard those shots, and I’m wondering why he didn’t do anything.”

  “What did you do?” the bow-legged man asked.

  “Nothing. The killer caught sight of me and tried to cu t me down, too. Hadn’t been for that I’d have ridden righ t on by and I’d never have seen the dead man.

  “The man who was killed,” he added, “went by th e name of Wayne Parsons. He was from Silver City.”

  “Never heard of him..” The biggest of the two me n obviously shifted his gun. “I come from Tombstone.” Hi s eyes rested on the Cactus Kid, and t
heir expression wa s anything but pleasant. “They call me the Black Bantam.”

  -Never heard of you,” he lied. Bantam was a notoriou s outlaw who had been riding, it was said, with Curly Bill.

  “There’s plenty of people who has,” Bantam said, “an d if I was you, young feller, and I didn’t want to get all the m party clothes bloody, I’d go herd my cows and leave m y betters alone.”

  “I didn’t come to town huntin’ sheep,” the Cactus Ki d said calmly, “or I’d dig my hands in your wool. Nor did I c ome for cows. I came to get some calico for my girl’s dress, which doesn’t leave me much time to curry you r wool, Bantam.

  “All I’ve got to say is that one of you is riding a dea d man’s horse and carryin’ stolen money.”

  Bantam’s fury was obvious. He was facing the bar, bu t he turned slowly to face the Kid. Men backed off t o corners of the room, and the bartender took a tentativ e step toward them, then changed his mind and backed off.

  “Now, see here — !” he started to say, when —

  “Hold it, Bantam!”

  All heads turned at the interruption. It was the bow-legged rider. “Nobody’s asked me who I am, and I’m no t plannin’ to explain. If you need a handle for me just cal l me Texas.

  “But Bantam it seems to me this is between us. He say s one of us is guilty, so why don’t we settle this between us?

  Just you and me?” Texas smiled. “Besides, I don’t thin k you’d like takin’ a whippin’ from that youngster.”

  “Whuppin? Why, I’d — !”

  “No, you wouldn’t, Bantam. I’ve known all about yo u for a long time, and you never did hunt trouble wit h anybody who’d have a chance. This dude youngster her e is the Cactus Kid.

  “Now it seems to me it is between us, so why don’t w e just empty our pockets on the table here so everybody ca n see what we’re carrying.

  “The Kid is handy at readin’ sign, so maybe he will se e something that will tell him which one of us is the killer.”

  He moved closer, his eyes dancing with a taunting amusement. “How about it, Kid’?”

  The Kid’s eyes shifted from one to the other, the on e taunting and challenging, the other stubborn and angry.