Bloom of Cactus | Page 3

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."
CHAPTER II
OFF TRAIL
By the time the two reached the dead burro again the somber mood of the girl had lightened.
"First thing is to sort over your pack," she said. "We'll cull out what's not needed."
The girths of the packsaddle were cut loose, and the animal was dragged clear of the pack. When Lennon's very creditable diamond-hitch had been thrown off, the girl overhauled the pack and made quick decisions.
"We'll leave most of the flour. You can stock up at the ranch with cornmeal. Same with your cooking outfit. Throw out all but one drill and all the giant powder--no, keep half a dozen sticks."
"But, Miss Farley, I can't begin to lug a quarter of----"
"Don't forget my pony," cut in Carmena.
"He can't carry you and all this truck of mine," remonstrated Lennon. "I'll not permit you to walk. You must have hurt your foot. I saw you limp."
"I'm not asking your permission, thanks."
As she unbuckled her spurs Lennon noticed that the girl's boots were not built with the usual cowboy high heels. They would be suitable for walking.
The pony had wandered some distance down the wash, cunningly twitching his trailing reins to one side, clear of his hoofs. While Lennon started to cache his packsaddle and the other discarded articles