The Battle At Three-Cross

Finally the professor led the way from the old trail up a gradually ascending slope. He wound in and out among clumps of paloverde. There were no more of the big cacti to be seen now, though an occasional growth of prickly pear or cholla pushed up through the brush. In time they commenced to see stunted pine trees and scrub oak and pinon. Quail whirred out of the brush, and startled jack rabbits scurried frantically for shelter. Rocks the size of an ordinary house bulked huge in every direction. Here and there scarred watercourses, made by the rainy seasons’ runoff, cut deep ravines and gulleys. The trees grew taller too.

The riders pulled to a halt to rest their ponies. Lance said, “I’ve got to admit a mite of shade goes right good after the heat down on the level. But if it’s cacti you’re looking for, Professor, I’d figure there’s too much shade up here to furnish much success——”

Jones broke in impatiently, “Don’t know where people—get ridiculous idea—cacti need full sun. Only about fifteen per cent—various species—do without some shade.” He dismounted from his horse. “Wait here. I’ll cast about a bit and see—anything to be learned. If I want you—give a hail, what?”

Lance dismounted and helped Katherine down from the saddle. They found a smooth slab of rock to sit on. The professor moved slowly away, closely scrutinizing the earth in all directions. A trowel hung in a scabbard at his belt. Under one arm he carried a notebook, under the other a small roll of burlap sacking.

Katherine smiled. “Two bits to a dollar we don’t get back to dinner in time.”

Lance laughed. “The old bloodhound’s on the scent. He won’t quit until he finds something. Then we’ll have to listen to more big words.”

“He’s a dear, though,” Katherine said.

“He’s regular. But sure batty on the subject of cacti.” Lance rolled a cigarette. Blue smoke spiraled up to be lost among the branches of trees overhead. His eyes were still on the professor wending his way slowly through the brush. Finally Jones disappeared around a shelf of protruding rock.

Lance’s eyes darted continually here and there. He still had that feeling that someone was watching him from cover. Twice he arose and moved around. There was nothing unusual to be seen. He came back to the rock where Katherine waited. She commented on his uneasiness. He laughed that off and sat down again. His cigarette burned down. Finally he ground it under his toe. He was finding it difficult to make conversation, though more and more these days he found enjoyment in the girl’s company.

“Lance,” Katherine said suddenly. “You are uneasy about something. I can tell from your manner. To tell the truth, I’ve felt sort of queer today…. Oh, I don’t know. As if—as if someone were watching me all the time. Every time I glance around I half expect to see a pair of eyes peering from the brush—but there never are. I’ve had that feeling of someone following along at the side of our trail watching every move we make.”

“Maybe we’re not living right or something.” Lance laughed. “I wonder if lemon drops would help us. My gosh! You should have seen the stock Oscar laid in. He won’t run short. By the way, do you remember what sort of town Muletero is?”

Katherine shrugged her trim shoulders. “Not much of a town,” she admitted. “Just a typical Mexican settlement—a handful of shops and houses built of adobe. It’s less than five miles from the Three-Cross. We’ll be able to buy a few supplies there. But I think you’ll like the Three-Cross. Part of it is in the state of Chihuahua, you know. It’s good grazing country, Father claimed——”

Lance said suddenly, “What’s that?”

They both listened. Again came a startled, high-pitched cry. It seemed to come from some distance off.

“It’s Uncle Uly!” Katherine cried. “Something’s wrong!”

They leaped to their feet and dashed off in the direction from which the call had come. Prickly bushes caught at Katherine’s shirt. Luckily the denim overalls she had insisted on wearing didn’t impede her progress. Lance ran ahead to break trail. Once they raised their voices to call again. This time there was no answer. They plunged on.

Suddenly Lance and Katherine emerged into a small clearing. Lance saw the professor first. The man was crawling about on hands and knees closely studying the earth in all directions.

“What’s wrong?” Lance yelled. “Rattler?”

Jones didn’t even raise his head.

“Uncle Uly,” Katherine exclaimed sharply, “why don’t you answer us? Are you hurt? Quick! What’s the matter?”

Jones reluctantly gained his feet. “Hurt?” he queried vaguely, seemingly unable to comprehend. His thin features were ashen; his hands trembled with excitement. His knees quaked as he approached. “Katherine—Lance,” he stated solemnly, “this is the greatest day of my life. Look!” He led them to a spot a few yards away.

Lance looked. Katherine looked. The professor looked—with something of mingled awe and adoration in his gaze. There, at their feet, grew a globular-shaped cactus with many slightly waved ribs, each rib lined with black spines. It was about the size of a small orange, deep green, and from either side rose two deep blue, funnel-shaped flowers with yellow centers. Yellow, Lance thought, like Katherine’s hair.

Katherine gasped suddenly and went off into paroxysms of laughter. “D-do you mean to s-say this is what you g-g-got us so excited about? We thought you were hurt.” She dropped weakly to the earth, still laughing. Lance grinned with sudden relief.

“I’m admitting those flowers are plumb pretty,” he said, “but do you think it’s something to get worked up about?”

“Worked up?” Jones sounded indignant. “Can’t you realize I’ve found a new, unknown genus? An Echinopsis north of the Andes! I predict—entire cactus world—worked up! Y’understand it’s a marvelous discovery. Think of it—an Echinopsis—here in Mexico! And with blue flowers. Why—why, it’s unheard of!”

“All right,” Lance said genially. “It’s unheard of. But why?”

Jones looked his exasperation. “In the first place”—trying to conceal his impatience—“the Echinopsis family does not grow in this continent. None has ever been discovered north of South America. And—what is more important”—Jones’s voice dropped to an awestruck whisper—“did you ever in all your life see, or even hear of, a cactus with a blue bloom?”

“I reckon I didn’t,” Lance admitted.

“Now you know.” Jones breathed a long, happy sigh. He dropped onto his knees to inspect the plant at closer range. Almost Lance expected him to bow down and give worship. After a few minutes he commenced making notes in a shaking hand, regarding the type soil in which the cactus had been discovered, amount of sun, shade and so on. He produced a small steel scale and made mea surements. Lance could hear him muttering to himself as he made notes: “Ribs—fourteen. Areoles—seat of buds. Spines—black. Flowers—blue. Pistil—cream. Stamens— yellow——” He looked up suddenly. “Katherine, my dear. These flowers—like your eyes. I think I shall name this cactus—in honor—you and your father. Echinopsis gregoriana. How’s that?”

“It sounds very grand, Uncle Uly,” Katherine said soberly.

Jones colored self-consciously. “The name—Ulysses Zarathustra Jones—will take its place—among great— world cacti authorities.” He paused, then: “I fear this specimen—only one of its kind—hereabouts. Already searched for more. No luck. Katherine—Lance—look about like good folks—see if you can find—further specimens—er— Echinopsis gregoriana.”

Lance and Katherine moved away, scanning the earth in all directions, but without success in finding more specimens of the desired plant. The professor continued muttering to himself and making notes and mea surements. Katherine whispered to Lance: “Finding that plant means the realization of an old ambition to Uncle Uly. He’s always wanted to discover a hitherto unknown genus.”

At length they returned to the professor. He had finished his notes and was engaged in digging a small trench about the plant. He had already packed loose grass about the blooms. A solid clump of earth remained about the base of the plant. “Mustn’t disturb roots.” He smiled at Lance. “Employ every care—this specimen. Must take earth.” He tore into narrow strips the burlap he had brought and covered the balled earth about the plant’s roots. Producing a few lengths of hemp twine from his pocket, he proceeded to tie the burlap firmly in place. Now the plant was ready to be lifted from its resting place. Jones smiled happily.

“Extreme care—necessary in handling,” he said. “If I should stumble and drop this—break earth from roots ——” An expression of pain at the very thought of such calamity crossed the professor’s face. “Lance—a favor, please. Can’t risk handling this—like ordinary cacti. Like a good fellow—bring up my horse. I think this may—fit snugly into one of my saddlebags. More secure, what? No risk at all.”