Produced by Roger Frank and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
-----------------------------------------------------------------------
[Illustration: "Lennon elevated his rifle and sent a parting shot over
the heads of the fleeing riders"]
-----------------------------------------------------------------------
BLOOM OF CACTUS
By
ROBERT AMES BENNET
Frontispiece by
RALPH PALLEN COLEMAN
Garden City New York
DOUBLEDAY, PAGE & COMPANY
1920
-----------------------------------------------------------------------
Copyright, 1919, by Doubleday, Page & Company
All Rights Reserved, including that of translation into
foreign languages, including the Scandinavian
-----------------------------------------------------------------------
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I. Ambushed 3
II. Off Trail 13
III. The Gila Monster 24
IV. Pards in Peril 35
V. Dead Hole 47
VI. Her Folks 55
VII. Craft and Cruelty 62
VIII. Cactus Carmena 75
IX. The Man Who Was 85
X. The Setter of Traps 95
XI. Cross Currents 107
XII. A Bargain 117
XIII. The Blossoming 127
XIV. The Prowler 136
XV. Crooked Ways 145
XVI. The Drop 156
XVII. Death Play 168
XVIII. The Attack 180
XIX. Out of the Frying Pan-- 192
XX. Into the Fire 201
XXI. Treachery 211
XXII. The Sacrifice 222
XXIII. Out of the Past 234
XXIV. His Daughter's Father 245
-----------------------------------------------------------------------
BLOOM OF CACTUS
CHAPTER I
AMBUSHED
As Lennon drove his heavily packed burro over the round of the ridge
above the camp spring, all the desolate Arizona waste around him was
transformed by the splendour of dawn. Up out of mysterious velvety
blue-black valleys loomed the massive purple-walled fortresses and
cities of the mountain giants, guarded by titanic skyward towering
pyramids and turrets of exquisite rose pink.
The burro was not interested in scenery or light effects. He topped the
ridge and plodded slowly down the steep trail on the far side. Lennon
lingered to enjoy the glorious illusion of the view.
All too soon, as the glaring sun cleared the high plateau on the eastern
horizon, the ethereal colours of daybreak faded. The magic towers and
pyramids lowered and shrank in bulk until they became only bald rugged
peaks and buttes.
No less remorselessly the flood of hot white sunrays burned away the
shadow tapestry of the valleys. In place of the cool mysterious vales
there were left only scorched gulleys and dry washes sparsely set with
greasewood and sagebrush and cactus.
Yet the interest in Lennon's alert gray eyes increased rather than
lessened as he swung away down slope after his burro. The trail he was
following was very old. Above almost every arable valley bottom the
heights were crested with the stone ruins of ancient pueblos. Not
improbably, Coronado or others of the early Spanish explorers had ridden
this trail, west and north around the great bend, into the territory of
the Moquis and Navahos.
Within the memory of settlers not yet white-haired, more than one
war-party of renegade Apaches had sneaked along the ancient way in
search of victims. Every few yards of the bad lands offered perfect
lurking places for liers-in-wait along the trail.
Lennon glanced at the butt of his rifle in its sheath on the burro's
pack. He recalled the tales of the old prospector whose copper mine he
was seeking to rediscover. But his glance was only momentary. He knew
that twenty-seven years had passed since the last murderous Indian
outbreak in this land of desolation.
In those days a lone prospector would never have thought of tramping
this trail without his rifle ready in hand, and the hammer at half cock.
Lennon began to whistle a dance tune as he sauntered unconcernedly at
the heels of his slow-moving burro up a rise and along a badly broken
rocky slope.
They came down into a sandy wash that curved out of the mass of jagged
ridges on the north. When midway across the bottom of the arroyo Lennon
heard a sharp ping close above his ear--his sombrero whirled from his
head. Before the hat struck the sand the rocky sides of the wash
reverberated with the report of a rifle shot.
Lennon had never before been under fire, yet his reaction to the shot
was almost instantaneous. One jump brought him alongside the burro. He
crouched below the level of the pack and clutched the butt of his
sheathed rifle. Again the gulley walls reverberated. The burro dropped
dead, with a bullet through his head.
As the beast fell, Lennon hit the sand almost at the same moment, his
rifle gripped in his right hand. Flattened out behind the inert body of
the burro, he peered around the end of the pack. A bullet thwacked in
the sand close at his right. He thought he could see a haze of
semi-smokeless powder vapour above a jagged crag up-slope where the wash
twisted in a sharp bend. He fired four shots in quick succession at
promising notches in the crag.
Immediately after his fourth shot an arm and rifle were thrust up above
the rock in a convulsive gesture, then suddenly disappeared. No more
bullets came pinging down the arroyo.
Lennon gathered himself together and bounded on across the bottom of the
wash to where the trail ran up a small side gully. From the gully he
started 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 up
to the crag, yet failed to catch a single glimpse of the lier-in-wait or
to draw another shot. His conviction that he had killed the lurker
became so firm that he stood erect to cover the remaining distance at a
rush.
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 pony
loping down into the wash along the trail of the burro. The pony's rider
was armed with a rifle. Lennon took quick aim--only to drop the muzzle
of his weapon. The rider had flung up a gauntleted hand, palm outward. A
musical feminine hail rang aslant the arroyo:
"_Wa-hoo!_ Friend! Don't shoot!"
Lennon had already perceived that the rider was a woman. He jumped clear
of 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 and
dropped 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 were
visible 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 that
she was young and more than pretty. He was already leaping over the dead
burro 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. The
corners of her rather large, but shapely mouth quirked in an amused half
smile.
"Don't tell me you're not a tenderfoot," she rallied, in a softly
vibrant, contralto voice. "I heard shots, so came a-running. Your
attacker must have vamosed, else you'd have collected lead on the
jump."
"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 a
shot. When a mountain lion misses his game first crack, he sometimes is
so 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 up
Lennon's new sombrero. Through the middle of the high peak was a neatly
drilled 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 it
half raised to his close-cropped head.
"If you'll permit me ... my name is Lennon--Jack Lennon--mining
engineer."
"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 if
you want to."
"No, you must stay here. I insist----"
But the girl was already swinging away up the bed of the arroyo, her
spurs jingling on the stones. Lennon started to block the way but
changed his mind when he perceived her amused smile. Instead of trying
to 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 the
girl was accustomed to rough ground, and he was not. She was still side
by 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 of
the jagged crag. From the upper side the slopes around were all open to
view. 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 the
rocks.
The girl sprang past him into a niche of the crag and bent to pick up a
cartridge shell.
"A thirty-two," she said. "Same calibre as my rifle.... And look at this
track--Apache-made moccasin. Easy to tell the print from that of a Pima
or Moqui."
To Lennon the track was only a small narrow blur.
"I was right," added the girl. "No trace of blood. You scored a clean
miss and the bird has flown. All safe around here now, but may be
dangerous on the trail ahead. Happens I know that a bunch of bronchos
are 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 doing
now, with your burro dead? Out prospecting, I noticed by your outfit.
What were you heading up this way for, anyhow? The agents don't want
prospectors on the Moqui or Navaho reservations."
"But I didn't intend to cross the boundary," explained Lennon. "About
seventy miles on around this trail bend, I was to strike in eastward to
a three-towered mountain. Old friend of mine discovered a big copper
vein there in the early 'Nineties. A party of Indians ran him out of the
country and so maimed him that he never could return."
"Why, that must be Cripple Sim and his----" The girl checked herself and
tightened her lips. "Well, what you going to do about it? Hike back to
the railroad?"
"Certainly--to get another burro. We might return together for mutual
protection, 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 it
without 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 fierce
intensity.
"I'll call your bluff," she challenged. "We'll see if you're
four-flushing. Dead Hole--Dad's ranch--is only a few miles southeast of
Triple Butte, the mountain you're headed for. I know the short cut
across 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 no
mind 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 if
your 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 strong
white 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 be
entered 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 more
precious."
"Maybe," she assented. "But not everybody would agree with you."