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.
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’?”
“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.