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Authors: Louis L'amour
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No Trouble For The Cactus Kid
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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
*
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
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