Read Online No Trouble for the Cactus Kid by Louis L'amour - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Louis L'amour
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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.
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.
Severa l 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
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.
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.
Severa l 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
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