May There Be a Road (Ss) (2001) (9 page)

The man glanced up at him out of shrewd old eyes. "Gracias, seor," he said softly. He took the makings and rolled a cigarette, then returned the tobacco and papers to the Kid, who was about to strike a match. "No, seor," he whispered, "behind the wall. It is not safe."

The Cactus Kid scowled. "What isn't safe?" he asked. "I don't understand."

"You have not been told? The man has many friends; they might decide it is safer to kill you now. The seor," he added, "has a reputation."

"Who do you think I am?" the Kid asked.

"Ah?" The peon looked at him wisely.

"Who am I to know such a thing? It is enough that you are here. Enough that you will be here tomorrow."

The Kid studied it over while he smoked, taking his time. The oblique angle seemed best.

"Who," he said, "was the beautiful seorita in the dining room?"

"What?" The old peon was incredulous. "You do not know? But that is she, seor! The Seorita Marguerita Ibanez." With that the old peon drifted off into the street and the Kid turned and walked back to the inn and climbed to his room. He opened the door and stepped inside, closing it carefully after him.

Then he struck a match and lighted the candle.

"Seor?" It was a feminine voice, but he turned sharply around, cursing himself mentally for being so careless.

He was wearing but one gun, in position for a right-hand draw, and the candle was in that hand.

Then he stared. Before him, a vision of loveliness, was the seorita from the dining room.

"I have come to tell you," she said hastily, "that you must not do this thing. You must go, go at once! Get your horse, slip out of the compound tonight, and ride! Ride like the wind for the border, for you will not be safe until you cross it."

The Cactus Kid chuckled suddenly. Puzzled as he was, he found himself enjoying it. And the girl was so beautiful. He put the candle down and motioned for her to be seated. "We've some talking to do," he said.

"Some explanations are in order."

"Explanations?" She was plainly puzzled at the word. "I know of nothing to explain. I cannot stay, already my uncle will have missed me. But I had to warn you. I had not expected anyone so--so young! An older man--no, it cannot be. You must go!

I will not have you killed because of me."

"Look, ma'am," he said politely, "there's something about this I don't understand. I think you've got the wrong man. You seem to believe I am somebody I am not."

"Oh!" She was impatient. "Do not be a fool se fior It is all very well to conceal yourself, but you have no concealment. Everyone knows who you are."

He chuckled again and sat down on the bed.

"Everyone but me," he said, "but whatever it is, it does not matter. No matter what happens I shall always be able to remember that I was visited once by the most beautiful girl in Mexico!"

"It is not time for gallantry," she protested.

"You must go. You will be killed. Even now it may be too late!" "What's this all about?" he protested. "Tell me!"

"Oh, don't be a fool!" She was at the door now and there was no mistaking her sincerity. Her face was unusually pale, her eyes enormous in the dim light from the candle. "If you kill him, they will kill you. If you do not kill himmthen he will kill you."

Turning quickly, she was gone.

"Well of all the fool..." He stopped speaking. What was happening, he could not guess, but somehow he was right in the middle of a lot of trouble, and trouble of which he knew nothing. Now the Cactus Kid was no stranger to trouble, nor to gunplay, but to go it blind and in somebody else's country, that was a fool's play. The girl was right. The only way was to get out. If he stayed he was trapped; to kill or be killed in a fight of which he understood nothing.

He hesitated, and then he looked suddenly toward his saddlebags and rifle. There was a back stairs--it would be simple to get to the stable .. . and he could be off and away. It wasn't as if he was running. It simply wasn't his fight. He had stumbled on a lot of trouble, and... There was no moon and the trail was only a thin white streak. He walked his horse until he was a mile away from the town, and then he lifted into a canter. He glanced back just once. The senorita had been very lovely, and very frightened.

He frowned, remembering the man in the shadows.

For he had not escaped without being seen. There had been a man standing near the wall, but who he had been, the Kid had no idea. There had been no challenge, and the Cactus Kid had ridden away without trouble.

Steadily he rode north, slowing at times to walk. Remembering the trail on the way down, he recalled a village not far ahead, and he was preparing to run out and skirt around it when he heard a rider coming. He slowed and started to swing his horse, then the other horse whinnied.

The Cactus Kid shucked his six-gun. "Who is it?" he asked in Spanish.

"I ride to the inn with a message for Senorita Ibanez, have you been there?"

"You will find her," the Kid paused for a second, "but be careful, there is trouble."

The man sat on his horse, a dark shape against the stars.

"Much trouble, yes? You speak like an American, I think." "Yes, I am. Why?" "At my house there is a wounded man, an American. He tries to tell me things I do not understand." He rode closer and peered at the Kid from under a wide sombrero. "He is dying. It is better, perhaps, that you talk to him, rather than a gentle lady."

They rode swiftly, but the distance was short. It was an isolated cabin of adobe off the main trail and among some huge boulders. Swinging down from their horses, the Mexican led the way into the house.

The man on the pallet was finished, anyone could see that. He was a big man, and his hard-drawn face was pale under what had been the deep brown of his skin. Nearby on a chair was a pair of matching Colts and the man's bloody clothing. Yet he was conscious and he turned his head when the Kid came in.

"I'm... I'm a lousy coyote if it ain't.." ain't a Yank," he said hoarsely.

The Kid, with the usual rough frontier knowledge of treating wounds, bent over him. It required no expert skill to see these simple Mexican folk had done all that could be done. The amazing thing was that the man was alive at all. He had been shot at least six times.

"I'm Jim Chafee," he whispered. "I guess they got me this time."

The Cactus Kid stared at the dying man.

Chafee! General in at least two Mexican revolts, almost dictator in one Central American country, and a veteran soldier of fortune. Even in his dying hours, the man looked ten years younger than he must have been.

"Hey!" Realization broke over the Kid.

"I'll bet you're the guy they thought I was."

Bending over the wounded man he talked swiftly and Chafee nodded, amused despite his condition.

"He's bad," Chafee whispered. "I was dry-gulched... by her uncle and six gunmen."

"Her uncle?" The Kid was startled. "You mean.." what do you mean?"

The Mexican interposed. "Bad for him to talk," he objected.

Chafee waved the man aside. "I'm through," he said. "I only wish I could get even with those devils and get that girl out of there!" He looked at the Kid. "Who've you?" "They call me the Cactus Kid," he replied.

Chafee's eyes gleamed. "I've heard of you!

You're that hell-on-wheels gunfighter from up Nevada way." He sagged back on the pallet.

"Kid," he whispered, "go back there an' help that girl. But don't trust nobody."

The Cactus Kid stared down at the wounded man.

His face was relaxing slowly, yet his eyes were still bright .... "Knew her father," he whispered, "good man. That old devil.." the uncle, he killed him.." she don't know that."

While the Kid sat beside him, the dying man fumbled out the words of the story, but only a part of it, for he soon stopped talking and just lay there, breathing heavily.

Slowly, the Kid got to his feet. He had gone to his room at about nine o'clock. He had been riding north for almost three hours.." if he started now and rode fast, he could be back in half that time.

From his pocket he took a handful of silver pesos, more money than this peon would see in three months. "Take care of him," he told him, "keep him alive if you can, if not, see there is a priest. I will come by again, in a few weeks."

"He shall be my brother, se fior the Mexican said, "but take your money. No money is needed to buy care in the house of Juan Morales."

"Keep it," the Kid insisted. "It is my wish. Care for him. I'll be back."

With a leap he was in the saddle, and the horse was legging it south toward the town. As he rode, the Kid was suddenly happy again. "I never rode away from a fight before nor a girl that pretty!" he added.

It seemed he had been in bed no more than a few minutes when he was called. Yet actually he had crawled into bed at two o'clock and had all of four hours' sleep behind him. He dressed swiftly and went down the stairs. The Mexicans in the kitchen looked at him wide-eyed, and one huge woman poured him a brimming bowl of coffee, which he drank while eating a tortilla and beans. He was saddling up when the two men from the dinner table appeared.

"Ah, you are still here," one said. "Did you sleep well?" "Oh, very well!" the Kid replied glibly. He turned to them grinning. "Now just who are you?"

"I am Pedro Sandoval! This man is Enrique Fernandez. We rode with the old general, and you must have heard of us. Surely, Senor Chafee ?"

They mounted up and rode around the inn and started out the road. Nothing was said for almost a mile, and he was puzzled. Both Sandoval and Fernandez seemed unusually quiet, yet he did not dare ask any questions.

Without warning the two men beside him swung their horses into the woods and he turned with them. On the edge of a clearing, they swung down. On the far side were several men, and now one of them came hurrying toward them.

"You are late!" he said impatiently. "We have been waiting. Senor De Carte is most angry."

"It was unavoidable," Fernandez replied shortly. "Senor Chafee slept late."

"Slept?" The man stared at the Kid in astonishment. "That soundly?"

"Why not?" The Kid shrugged, and then glanced across the clearing. A big man on the far side had taken off his coat and was now selecting a pistol from a box.

The Cactus Kid stopped in his tracks.." it was ridiculous.., it couldn't be!

But it was. Fernandez was beside him. "Your jacket, se fior he said. "You will remove it?"

The Kid slipped out of the jacket, then asked, "By the way, you know in the States we don't do this quite the same way. Would you mind telling me the rules?"

Fernandez bowed. "I am sorry. I thought this had been done. You will face each other at a distance of twenty paces. At the word, you will lift your pistols and fire. If neither scores a hit, you will advance one step closer and fire a second time."

Fernandez's eyes searched the Kid's anxiously. "I... hope you will win, se fior This is all very strange. Somehow you do not seem.." if I did not know I would think.." you will pardon me, of course, but..."

"You don't think I'm Jim Chafee?" The Kid chuckled. "You're right, amigo, I'm not."

Before the startled man's words could come, the Kid said quickly, "Chafee was ambushed. He is either dead by now, or dying. I am taking his place, and you may be sure I'll shoot as straight.

"Now tell me: Who am I shooting, and what for?" Fernandez stared. He gulped, and then suddenly, he laughed. "This is most unbelievable!

Preposterous! And yet.." amusing.

"This man is Colonel Arnold De Carte He is one of certain deadly enemies of General Francisco Ibanez, the father of Marguerita. In fact, he is believed to be their leader and one of those in a plot to dispossess the senorita of her estates.

"He challenged Ibanez and was to have fought him today but Ibanez was slain by assassins. Now you tell me that Jim Chafee, who took up the fight, has also been slain, or badly wounded, at least."

The Cactus Kid looked at the pistol in his hand. It would have to serve, but he would have preferred his own Smith and Wesson .44. De Carte was advancing to position, but now he stopped, staring at the Cactus Kid.

The Frenchman turned abruptly. "What farce is this? This is not Sefor Chafee... it is a child!"

As the others turned, the Kid stepped forward, interrupting the excited babble of their voices.

"What's the matter, De Carte Afraid? Or do you prefer to shoot your men down from ambush, as General Ibanez and Chafee have been shot?"

De Carte face turned dark with angry blood. "You accuse me of that?" he roared. "By the "Control yourself, se for Fernandez said sternly.

"The duel is arranged. If you wish to retire from the field, say so. This gentleman is taking the place of Sefor Chafee."

De Carte stared at the Kid angrily, yet as he looked, his expression changed. The Cactus Kid stood five feet eight in his socks, and weighed one hundred and fifty pounds. His hair waved back from his brow and his face looked soft. He was deceptively boyish looking, a fact that had cost more than one man dearly. The Kid could almost see the thought in De Carte mind.