Lying close, the Kid waited. What he wanted was a chance at those guns. Once the guns were in his hands, all would be well. Was he the Cactus Kid for nothing?
Lobo walked off into the darkness. Suddenly there was a startled yell from him.
“Juan!” Lobo screamed. “Come quickly!
Pedro is dead!”
Juan Fernandez sprang to his feet and lunged toward Lobo’s shouting voice. Miguel started up, his face ashen, and the Kid sprang, quickly, silently. Again the rawhide thong swung out, and again a man was jerked from his feet, but this time the Kid had no desire to kill.
“It is the spirits!” Lobo shouted. “The gringo told me they would be angry!”
Juan’s shout broke in. “The Keed? He has done this! He has gotten away!”
The Cactus Kid heard them rushing toward the anthill where he had been tied, but he dropped the unconscious Miguel and sprang for the guns. He came up with the gun belt swinging in his hands and, with a quick movement, caught it and buckled the guns on. Then he sprang across the fire to the girl and dragged her into the darkness.
While she sobbed with relief he tore at the knots with frenzied, eager fingers.
“Where are the horses?” he said. “Get to them quickly! Get two and turn the others free. Then wait for me where the trail begins.”
The girl asked no more questions, but slipped off into the darkness.
There was not a sound from the brothers. Miguel, his face blue, lay on the ground near the fire. He was not dead.
The Kid glided from behind the fire and, staring into the darkness, began to probe for the brothers Fernandez. Both were armed, as Pedro had not been. Both men were deadly with six-guns, and in any kind of a shoot-out they would be hard men to handle. Keeping his eyes away from the fire, he moved into the shadows, hoping to get near the horses, but out of line with the girl.
There was no sign from her. Then he heard a horse stamp and blow. He waited. Then he heard a footfall, so soft he scarce could hear. He whirled, gun in hand, and in the darkness he saw the looming figure of Lobo, just the faint outline of his figure in the light from the fire.
Their guns came up at the same instant, and both blasted fire. The Kid felt a quick stab at his side, not of pain, but rather a jolt as though someone had jerked him violently. Then he fired again, and saw the big figure of Lobo wilting, saw the gun dribble from his fingers, and at the same instant there was a scream from near the horses.
Turning in his tracks, he charged toward the scream and came up running. There was a wild scuffling in the dark, then a muttered curse and the sound of a blow. He saw them, and holstering his gun, the Kid lunged close and caught Juan with one hand at his shirt collar and one at his belt.
With a tremendous jerk, he ripped the Mexican free and shoved him violently away. With a cry, Juan turned like a cat in midair and hit the ground in a sitting position. He must have drawn as he fell, for suddenly his gun belched fire and then the Kid fired.
Juan Fernandez rolled over and the Kid dropped to the ground. They lay there, only a few feet apart, each waiting for a move from the other. Somewhere off to the right the girl was also lying still.
Back at the fire Miguel might be coming to.
What was to be done must be done now.
He could hear the horses moving, so evidently Bess had reached them safely again after he had pulled Juan away from her. All was quiet, and then he thought he detected a movement off to the right.
Picking up a small pebble, he tossed it into the water. It drew no fire, no reaction. Getting carefully to his feet, he tried to penetrate the darkness ahead of him. Circling, he headed toward where he believed Juan to be. Yet when he reached the spot, the outlaw was no longer there!
Glancing back toward the fire, he saw that Miguel, too, was gone.
Gun in hand, he started working toward the entrance to the trail where he had warned Bess to meet him.
The whereabouts of the brothers disturbed him. Their hatred over his responsibility, small as it had been, in the death of Ace, would be nothing at all now that he had escaped them, killed Pedro, and taken Bess O’ationeal from them. Above all, once the two left this valley, the brothers Fernandez would know only too well their day around Aragon was over.
A movement near him, and he froze into a crouch, his gun lifted. Then he saw a dark shadow, and just as he lifted the gun and turned it toward the figure there came to his nostrils a faint, scarcely tangible breath of perfume!
A moment only he waited, then he took a chance. “Bess!” he hissed.
In a moment she was beside him. Her lips against his ear, she breathed softly. “Miguel is at the trail entrance! We cannot get away!”
“The horses?”
“I’ve yours and mine in the cutback under the
shelf. Near that image!”
Taking her hand, he began to move on careful feet toward the place she mentioned. It was dark there, in the overhang of the cliff. He drew her to him and slipped his left arm around her waist. Freed from his bonds, with Bess O’ationeal beside him, and his guns on his slim hips, the Cactus Kid was once more himself. Grimly, he waited.
Morning would come, andwith it—well, the brothers Fernandez could run, or they could die, as they wished.
Dawn came, as dawns will, slipping in a gray mystery of beginning light along the far wall of the narrow canyon, then growing into light. The gray turned softer and lay down along the gravel bench. The ants, unaware of what they had missed, began to bestir themselves, and the Kid, seated against the wall with the head of Bess O’ationeal on his shoulder, watched the light and was thankful.
No living thing beyond the ants appeared on the bench. He arose, and awakening the girl, they swung into the saddle and, walking their horses, started cautiously for the trail. When they rounded the cluster of boulders that concealed it from them, there was no one in sight. “Looks like they’ve gone!” he said.
“Not yet.”
Juan Fernandez, sided by the younger Miguel,
stepped from the boulders at their side. Juan’s eyes were hot with hatred, and the gun in his hand spoke clearly of what was to come.
“We are going to kill you, se@nor.”
“Looks like it,” the Kid said calmly. “Can
I smoke first?”
Juan shrugged. “Why not? If your tobacco and papers are in your breast pocket?”
Very carefully, the Cactus Kid reached for them and built a cigarette.
“Too bad,” he said, “a few more minutes and we’d have been in the clear.” He put the cigarette in his mouth, then struck the match on the saddle. Holding it in his fingers, he grinned at Juan. “No offense,” he said, “but I should have killed you last night. Still, they’ll get you, the bunch at Aragon. They’ll figure this out.” The match was burning slowly. Too slowly.
“Somebody must have seen you kidnap Bess.”
“Nobody saw us,” Juan said, with satisfaction. “If you are going to smoke, you better light that cigarette.”
“Nevertheless,” the Kid protested, “I think—“ Then the flame of the match burned down to his fingers, and at the twinge of pain, he yelled “Ouch,” and jerked back his hand, dropping the match.
Only his hand never stopped moving. He palmed his gun, and his gun bellowed with that of Juan Fernandez. The bullet of Juan cut a furrow across the saddle fork in front of him, but his own bullet slammed Juan in the chest and he staggered and fell to the sand even as the Cactus Kid’s gun spoke another time.
Miguel let go his gun and grabbed at his side with an expression of shocked surprise in his eyes. He fell from the saddle and sprawled on his face in the sun. Juan tried to rise, then fell back.
Two hours and some twelve miles farther away toward the ranch where Bess lived with her uncle, the Cactus Kid tilted his sombrero back on his head and looked at Bess. Her eyes were bright and shining with promises. “You were very brave!” she said.
The Kid lifted a deprecating shoulder. “Not very,” he said. “It wasn’t that, but luck.” Then, recalling in the flush of his success the ancient arrowhead, he added, “It was luck, and the Yaqui gods. They were with me, with us.”