Produced by Roger Frank and the Online DistributedProofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net
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"Lennon elevated his rifle and sent a parting shot overthe heads of the fleeing riders"]
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BLOOM OF CACTUS
ByROBERT AMES BENNET
Frontispiece byRALPH PALLEN COLEMAN
Garden City New YorkDOUBLEDAY, PAGE & COMPANY1920
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Copyright, 1919, by Doubleday, Page & CompanyAll Rights Reserved, including that of translation intoforeign languages, including the Scandinavian
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CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I. Ambushed 3II. Off Trail 13III. The Gila Monster 24IV. Pards in Peril 35V. Dead Hole 47VI. Her Folks 55VII. Craft and Cruelty 62VIII. Cactus Carmena 75IX. The Man Who Was 85X. The Setter of Traps 95XI. Cross Currents 107XII. A Bargain 117XIII. The Blossoming 127XIV. The Prowler 136XV. Crooked Ways 145XVI. The Drop 156XVII. Death Play 168XVIII. The Attack 180XIX. Out of the Frying Pan-- 192XX. Into the Fire 201XXI. Treachery 211XXII. The Sacrifice 222XXIII. Out of the Past 234XXIV. His Daughter's Father 245
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BLOOM OF CACTUS
CHAPTER I
AMBUSHED
As Lennon drove his heavily packed burro over the round of the ridgeabove the camp spring, all the desolate Arizona waste around him wastransformed by the splendour of dawn. Up out of mysterious velvetyblue-black valleys loomed the massive purple-walled fortresses andcities of the mountain giants, guarded by titanic skyward toweringpyramids and turrets of exquisite rose pink.
The burro was not interested in scenery or light effects. He topped theridge and plodded slowly down the steep trail on the far side. Lennonlingered to enjoy the glorious illusion of the view.
All too soon, as the glaring sun cleared the high plateau on the easternhorizon, the ethereal colours of daybreak faded. The magic towers andpyramids lowered and shrank in bulk until they became only bald ruggedpeaks and buttes.
No less remorselessly the flood of hot white sunrays burned away theshadow tapestry of the valleys. In place of the cool mysterious valesthere were left only scorched gulleys and dry washes sparsely set withgreasewood and sagebrush and cactus.
Yet the interest in Lennon's alert gray eyes increased rather thanlessened as he swung away down slope after his burro. The trail he wasfollowing was very old. Above almost every arable valley bottom theheights were crested with the stone ruins of ancient pueblos. Notimprobably, Coronado or others of the early Spanish explorers had riddenthis trail, west and north around the great bend, into the territory ofthe Moquis and Navahos.
Within the memory of settlers not yet white-haired, more than onewar-party of renegade Apaches had sneaked along the ancient way insearch of victims. Every few yards of the bad lands offered perfectlurking places for liers-in-wait along the trail.
Lennon glanced at the butt of his rifle in its sheath on the burro'spack. He recalled the tales of the old prospector whose copper mine hewas seeking to rediscover. But his glance was only momentary. He knewthat twenty-seven years had passed since the last murderous Indianoutbreak in this land of desolation.
In those days a lone prospector would never have thought of trampingthis trail without his rifle ready in hand, and the hammer at half cock.Lennon began to whistle a dance tune as he sauntered unconcernedly atthe heels of his slow-moving burro up a rise and along a badly brokenrocky slope.
They came down into a sandy wash that curved out of the mass of jaggedridges on the north. When midway across the bottom of the arroyo Lennonheard a sharp ping close above his ear--his sombrero whirled from hishead. Before the hat struck the sand the rocky sides of the washreverberated with the report of a rifle shot.
Lennon had never before been under fire, yet his reaction to the shotwas almost instantaneous. One jump brought him alongside the burro. Hecrouched below the level of the pack and clutched the butt of hissheathed rifle. Again the gulley walls reverberated. The burro droppeddead, with a bullet through his head.
As the beast fell, Lennon hit the sand almost at the same moment, hisrifle gripped in his right hand. Flattened out behind the inert body ofthe burro, he peered around the end of the pack. A bullet thwacked inthe sand close at his right. He thought he could see a haze ofsemi-smokeless powder vapour above a jagged crag up-slope where the washtwisted in a sharp bend. He fired four shots in quick succession atpromising notches in the crag.
Immediately after his fourth shot an arm and rifle were thrust up abovethe rock in a convulsive gesture, then suddenly disappeared. No morebullets came pinging down the arroyo.
Lennon gathered himself together and bounded on across the bottom of thewash to where the trail ran up a small side gully. From the gully hestarted to creep with cautious slowness up the left bank of the arroyo,under cover of the rocks and jutting points.
Now crawling, now springing from rock to rock, he worked his way half upto the crag, yet failed to catch a single glimpse of the lier-in-wait orto draw another shot. His conviction that he had killed the lurkerbecame so firm that he stood erect to cover the remaining distance at arush.
From down across the arroyo came a sharp clatter of hoofs. He whirled,with his rifle at his shoulder. Over the barrel he saw a scraggy ponyloping down into the wash along the trail of the burro. The pony's riderwas armed with a rifle. Lennon took quick aim--only to drop the muzzleof his weapon. The rider had flung up a gauntleted hand, palm outward. Amusical feminine hail rang aslant the arroyo:
"_Wa-hoo!_ Friend! Don't shoot!"
Lennon had already perceived that the rider was a woman. He jumped clearof the bank and sprinted down the rocky, sandy bed of the wash.
"Get off!" he shouted. "Hide behind your horse--quick! Danger."
The rider brought her pony to an abrupt halt below the dead burro anddropped out of her saddle on the far side. Only her old cowboy sombrero,the bottom of her khaki divided-skirt and her high laced boots werevisible to Lennon.
With a startled snort, the ewe-necked pony plunged and backed around,clear of his motionless mistress. Lennon's first glance showed him thatshe was young and more than pretty. He was already leaping over the deadburro and brought up close before the girl to shield her with his body.
"Down!" he cried. "Down, before he fires!"
The dark eyes of the girl met his anxious look with a cool, level gaze.Her cheeks were ruddy with rich colour under their deep coat of tan. Thecorners of her rather large, but shapely mouth quirked in an amused halfsmile.
"Don't tell me you're not a tenderfoot," she rallied, in a softlyvibrant, contralto voice. "I heard shots, so came a-running. Yourattacker must have vamosed, else you'd have collected lead on thejump."
"That's so," agreed Lennon. "Only I really think I nailed the beggar.Yet you must take no chances. Get under cover while I make sure."
"You've already done that--standing here ten seconds without drawing ashot. When a mountain lion misses his game first crack, he sometimes isso shamed
he clears out. Same way with a broncho Apache."
"Apache? But I thought all Indians were now on reservations."
The girl dropped the reins of her skittish, snorting pony and picked upLennon's new sombrero. Through the middle of the high peak was a neatlydrilled bullet hole.
"Poor shot--for an Apache," she said. "Good, though, for ventilation."
The dry humour of this brought a twinkle into the Easterner's gray eyes.He took the hat from her outstretched gloved hand, but paused with ithalf raised to his close-cropped head.
"If you'll permit me ... my name is Lennon--Jack Lennon--miningengineer."
"Engineer is all right, but can you shoot?" queried the girl.
"I have had pretty good luck with running deer. This is my first man."
"All right, Mr. Lennon. I'm going up to look for signs. Come along ifyou want to."
"No, you must stay here. I insist----"
But the girl was already swinging away up the bed of the arroyo, herspurs jingling on the stones. Lennon started to block the way butchanged his mind when he perceived her amused smile. Instead of tryingto stop her, he attempted to take the lead. The girl quickened her pace.
He had lowered more than one record in his college track meets; but thegirl was accustomed to rough ground, and he was not. She was still sideby side with him when he dashed up around the bend in the arroyo.
Both held their rifles ready to fire as they rushed the rear ledges ofthe jagged crag. From the upper side the slopes around were all open toview. Lennon came to a panting halt and stared about in frank surprise.He had fully expected to see the limp form of a dead Apache lying on therocks.
The girl sprang past him into a niche of the crag and bent to pick up acartridge shell.
"A thirty-two," she said. "Same calibre as my rifle.... And look at thistrack--Apache-made moccasin. Easy to tell the print from that of a Pimaor Moqui."
To Lennon the track was only a small narrow blur.
"I was right," added the girl. "No trace of blood. You scored a cleanmiss and the bird has flown. All safe around here now, but may bedangerous on the trail ahead. Happens I know that a bunch of bronchosare loose over this way. They're looking for trouble."
"Bronchos? You mean wild horses--mustangs?"
"No--Apaches. Renegades are called bronchos. What do you figure on doingnow, with your burro dead? Out prospecting, I noticed by your outfit.What were you heading up this way for, anyhow? The agents don't wantprospectors on the Moqui or Navaho reservations."
"But I didn't intend to cross the boundary," explained Lennon. "Aboutseventy miles on around this trail bend, I was to strike in eastward toa three-towered mountain. Old friend of mine discovered a big coppervein there in the early 'Nineties. A party of Indians ran him out of thecountry and so maimed him that he never could return."
"Why, that must be Cripple Sim and his----" The girl checked herself andtightened her lips. "Well, what you going to do about it? Hike back tothe railroad?"
"Certainly--to get another burro. We might return together for mutualprotection, unless you'd rather trust to your pony's heels."
The girl looked him up and down with sharp appraisal.
There was no hint of timidity in his smile.
"Don't figure there's any joke about a bunch of bronchos," she said."They like to kill just for pure devilment, and when they can make itwithout risk, their choice of game is a white man."
"Or woman," put in Lennon, no longer smiling.
"Choicer still. But a man will do. How about that hole in your hat?Hadn't you better catch the first train East, and keep going?"
Lennon flushed, rallied himself, and smiled.
"I didn't come to Arizona for my health. I might say it was on business,but I've no objection to a bit of sport on the side."
The dark eyes of the girl flashed with a look of almost fierceintensity.
"I'll call your bluff," she challenged. "We'll see if you'refour-flushing. Dead Hole--Dad's ranch--is only a few miles southeast ofTriple Butte, the mountain you're headed for. I know the short cutacross the Basin. Want to come along?"
"The Indians," protested Lennon. "No, do not misunderstand me, please.It is all right for a man to take chances. But a girl like you----"
"Like me? Well, the kind of girl I am is this--I'm going home. I've nomind to back up. Good-bye, Mr. Jack Lennon."
He was beside her again before she had reached the bed of the arroyo.
"I have a compass," he said. "Perhaps I'll get to your ranch even ifyour pony outruns me. Only trouble, I can't lug both tools and food."
The girl stopped short to draw off her glove and offer him her strongwhite hand.
"I'm Carmena Farley. I don't like rattlers, coyotes, or quitters."
"I may prove to be a quitter, Miss Farley, but I'd like at least to beentered for the game."
The dark-eyed daughter of Arizona looked at him searchingly.
"You will be risking the highest of all stakes--your life," she warned.
Lennon smiled. "Oh, no; not the highest. There are other things moreprecious."
"Maybe," she assented. "But not everybody would agree with you."