Free May There Be a Road (Ss) (2001) by Louis L'amour Page B

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