No Trouble for the Cactus Kid

*

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.
H
e 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 fallen 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. H
e 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 H
ubbar 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.