Return of the Outlaw (12 page)

Changing the subject, she said, “I heard about what happened to poor old Julio Arroyo. What a
terrible thing. Is it true Mr. William’s grandson did it?”

Jennings leaned away from her. “Yeah, I guess so.”

“Then he must be a terrible man to kill a sweet old man like Julio.” She wanted to ask what was being done about the murders, but now she didn’t dare.

Jennings was sitting bent forward, tracing patterns in the dirt with a stick. Turning to her he said, “Are we going to sit here all night talking about killings? Is that what you came out here for?”

Abruptly she stood up, “I came out here to be with the man I love, but he didn’t show up.” Dusting off the back of her dress, she moved across the clearing and blended into the shadows beyond, disappearing into the night.

“Jo
anne wait.”

T
here was no answer.

Jeff was inside Dan Fitzgerald
’s cabin when Fitzgerald, working outside, was alerted to the posse’s approach by the dust stirred up by the hoofs of its nine horses.

Emelia was in the cabin
, checking on her patient. She was more than pleased with his progress. Fitzgerald came in and said to Jeff, “Hope you’re strong enough to ride.”  Nothing more needed to be said.

Fitzgerald quickly saddled a horse and Jeff galloped away with Emelia
—who never rode—bouncing precariously behind and clinging so hard to him with her short arms, he thought she would re-injure his ribs.

Feeling it would be too dangerous to take Jeff to her own home, Emelia directed him to an abandoned shack which Amado had cleaned up and repaired, and where he sometimes spent nights.

Jeff liked the feeling of being back in the saddle, and though he was a little fatigued when they arrived at the shack, he felt his old strength coming back.

The shack was a small one room affair with a dirt floor; its only items of furniture a rude cot and two wooden crates which served as table and chair.

“You will be safe here,” said Emelia. “I’ll come tomorrow to bring food.”

“Thanks, Emelia. Be careful.”

“I’ll take the horse,” she offered, “so no one will know you’re here.”

As the afternoon wore on and twilight approached, Jeff lay on the cot thinking about his past, present
, and future. His life had been full, if not always happy. He had known hard times and good ones, enemies and friends. Before he was twenty he had seen things few men ever see, and though he was now only twenty-seven years old, he had already had enough experiences to last a lifetime. Here and there he had known women. Some of them he had cared for more than others, most of them he recalled with fondness, but he had only loved one, and the problem was he had never stopped loving her. It was always at times like this that he thought of Anne: when he was alone in the darkness or sitting beside a campfire, in that brief, quiet time of night when a man gets to relax.

In a sense
Anne was his most faithful friend; she was always there and could always be counted on. Others came and went, finding their way intermittently through the labyrinth of his memory to remind him of times spent and deeds done, of danger and laughter and the full range of human emotions, all buffered by time and melded together into a bittersweet brew of nostalgia. But Anne was always there, sometimes standing in the periphery of his mind and other times taking her place in the foreground. Sometimes she was the Anne he remembered before the war, the girl who had loved him; playful, smiling, ever affectionate. And sometimes she was the Anne he had last seen when he returned from the war, and he could see her face as he had seen it beneath the tree, the lacy pattern of moonlight moving silently across it as she spoke the words that had left his heart desolate.

A thousand times he had re-enacted that scene in his mind and had cursed himself for the way he had played it. Maybe things would have been different if he had handled it differently. Why had he merely accepted her words and ridden away? Why hadn
’t he fought for her love? Why hadn’t he said, “No, you are not going to marry Milt Carr, you’re supposed to marry me, we were meant to be together?” He wished he had grabbed her and shaken her and kissed her until she had been forced to feel the old feelings, until she had remembered her promises and kissed him back. 

He wondered about her now. Was she happy with her life? Did she ever think of him? He wasn
’t even sure he wanted to know. She had her life, and he was not a part of it. It was probably best just to hold on to the memories. Such were his thoughts as he lay in the darkness and gradually drifted to sleep.

Later that night he was awakened abruptly by the touch of cold steel on his forehead, and he knew it was a gun barrel.

In the dark, a soft voice commanded, “Don’t move.”  A match was struck, and in its brief flare Jeff saw a face that even in its present disguise he recognized instantly. The eyes grew large and the man stepped backwards shaking out the match.

“You,” he said. He struck another match and quickly lighted the kerosene lamp, which hung on the wall.

Jeff grinned, enjoying the moment. “You going to shoot me, Amado?”

Amado said, “J
ust checking to see if you were one of Stewart’s men.”

Jeff s
aid, “I hear you’ve been stealing horses from them.”

“They
’re our horses, why shouldn’t I take them?”

“Is that why you
’re dressed that way?”

Amado
looked down at himself and grinned, “They don’t recognize me this way. I’m just another Mexican farmer.”

He
went out and took care of his horse. When he returned they talked about the ranch, and Stewart and Fogarty. Amado rehearsed to Jeff all that had transpired since he had left, most of which Jeff had already learned from Dan Fitzgerald. After a while they fell silent, and for a long time neither of them spoke.

Presently
Amado asked, “Where have you been for so many years?”

Jeff leaned back against the wall. He shrugged
. “I’ve been all over, Amado. Moved around a lot. Did some ranching, a little mining, worked here and there. The last couple of years I’ve been up in Oregon. I started out logging then I bought a small sawmill. When I got your letter I sold the sawmill to a friend. He’s going to send me some money every month.

“Oregon
is far. Did you ever plan to come back here?”

“Sooner or later, I guess. This is my home.” These questions re
awakened the sense of guilt Jeff had been carrying these past seven years. It had not been fair to Amado for him to leave and stay away for so long.

They fell silent again.
This time Jeff broke the silence. “How is Anne?”

“She
’s married.”

“I know.
Milt Carr.”

A
mado turned to face him. “You don’t know? She didn’t marry Milt. After you left, they broke up.”

“Why?” asked Jeff.

“I don’t know, probably because she didn’t love him.”

“
Then . . . who did she marry?”

Amado
’s face was unreadable as always, but his voice became very quiet when he replied; “She married Tom Stewart.”

Jeff awoke early that morning to find Amado already gone. He smiled, shaking his head in amazement. The old man hadn
’t changed, and he certainly hadn’t lost his ability to move around without making a sound. This talent Jeff had always attributed to the fact the old Mexican was half Yaqui Indian. Jeff was a light sleeper and was possessed of keen senses born of a life on the frontier, yet Amado had slipped in during the night without being detected and slipped away sometime in the early morning in the same fashion.

Jeff got up and started moving around, stretching and testing his muscles and joints, pleased at how well he was feeli
ng. There was a slight noise as the door slid open. Amado moved soundlessly in and said, “Breakfast is coming.”

Jeff smiled. Emelia must be on the way.

Soon, Emelia stepped through the door, carrying a cloth-covered basket. The cloth was removed to reveal several steaming clay bowls containing beans, hot corn tortillas and scrambled eggs mixed with a green chili sauce.

Jeff
’s stomach began to growl as he smelled the food.

Amado said, “Old woman, we are cattlemen, not goats. We need meat.”

She scowled at him and said, “You will eat what I bring you or I will dump it on your head.” 

Amado glanced at Jeff
. “You eat first, I’ll keep watch.” He left the room, closing the door behind him.

Under the watchful eye of Emelia, Jeff wolfed down the food and was just wiping his mouth, when Amado burst through the door.

“They’re coming,” was all he said.” He grabbed the remainder of the tortillas, which were wrapped in cloth and handed them to Jeff. “You might need these. Let’s go.”

The three ran down the ravine at the rear of the shack. When they had rounded the first turn, Amado said, “Follow the ravine
. My horse is around the next bend. I saddled him earlier. Ride him south until you reach a trail that leads east. You know the one. Follow the trail; it will take you into the mountains. Do as I would do”

Jeff smiled. In this manner
Amado had taught him many things: “Do as I would do.”

“Go,” urged
Amado, “the horse is a good one. He belonged to your grandfather.”

There was no time to waste. Jeff
turned and ran down the ravine.

Choosing his way carefully, Amado led Emelia up through a gap in the side of the ravine and into a small cluster of boulders. From there they watched Jeff, mounted on Amado
’s horse, make the ascent to higher ground as the posse streamed over the hill, across the meadow and down the ravine in pursuit, passing within a stone’s throw of the place where Amado and Emelia were concealed.

When both Jeff and the posse were out of sight in the
hills, Emelia turned to Amado; “Will he be all right?”

Amado nodded.

They remained where they were for a time, silently watching the hills, seeing only an occasional hint of dust in the air that told of the drama unfolding therein.

P
resently, Amado turned to the woman, his face sober. “I’ll help you home old woman. You’re too fat.”

She smiled as though she had received a compliment, and the pair started down the trail.

“By the way,” added Amado, “how is the man I left you to take care of?  Have you killed him yet, with your remedies and potions?”

“The man you brought me was Se
ñor Jeff.”

Emelia had seldom seen Amado
’s face register any emotion other than laughter.  She was pleased now by his failure to conceal his surprise. This was good, she thought. Now she would know what to expect someday when she told him he was going to marry her.

“Yes, you old fool,” she said.
“You didn’t even know whose life you were saving.”

“Of course I did, old woman.”

Emelia snorted and stumbled over a small rock in the trail. Nothing happened, so she stumbled again. This time Amado extended his arm as far around her waist as it would reach and held her tightly as he walked beside her.

“You
’ll fall and break all your bones,” he said. “You’re too fat.”

Beneath her dark complexion Emelia blushed demurely.

The Mountain Range was vast, though from the desert it did not look so. The face of its front was a mere facade to the extensive labyrinth of peaks and canyons beyond. Few men knew these mountains better than Jeff. In his youth he, Amado, and sometimes John Havens had hunted and camped here often, and though he had not set foot here for many years, Jeff had not forgotten the trails and canyons and cloven hills of his youth. This gave him a decided advantage over the posse. Moreover, he believed he had never ridden a finer animal than the horse Amado had loaned him. By noon he was confident he had left the posse behind.

Fogarty knew it too, but he felt certain Jeff would not
leave the area. The gunman was by nature a hunter, and he had an uncanny ability to sense what was in the mind of his prey. He felt now that Jeff was not a man who considered himself a mere fugitive to whom escape would be a simple matter of getting as far away as possible. Jeff Havens was a man with a mission—a man who had been wronged. Fogarty knew very well Stewart had used falsified papers and forged signatures to take possession of the Rafter 8 without paying a cent. It was because of this that Stewart considered Amado Lopez and Jeff Havens such a threat. But it was these very injustices, Fogarty knew, that would make the two men tenacious and determined enemies. Stewart employed Fogarty for just this type of work. And Fogarty was good at it; he could be every bit as dogged and tenacious as the men he hunted, and usually more so.

When it became evident to the
other members of the posse they had lost Jeff’s trail, it was generally assumed that they would turn back and return to town, but Fogarty’s plan was different. “We’re staying in the mountains,” he stated calmly.

“Why?” argued
Lloyd Jennings. “We’ve lost him.”

“That
’s why. We’ll stay in here until we find him again. When we go back to town, he’ll go with us—hanging over a saddle.”

Quickly and concisely Fogarty
gave his instructions. Two of the men were to return to town for supplies, which they would bring back on pack animals to the spot where the group was now assembled. While the two were in town, instructions were to be sent to Stewart to arrange for supplies to be brought to this point every three days. In this manner the men would have a steady source of provisions without having to ride back and forth to town. No matter where the posse was, someone could be sent to this rendezvous point to pick up the supplies.

Morris Tate, a man who owned
a small shop in town where he repaired and sold guns, voiced an objection to this plan. Speaking directly to Jennings in hopes that proper authority could prevail, he said, “Lloyd, I came out to do my civic duty. Old Julio was nothing to me, but I hate to see any man gunned down for no reason, so I was willing to ride with you for a day, maybe two, but I wasn’t figurin’ on homesteading these mountains.”

Jack Mason, the only other member of the group besides Jennings and Tate who was not in Tom Stewart
’s employ, voiced his agreement with Tate’s opinion. “I ain’t stayin’ either, Lloyd, I got better things to do” 

Jennings started to speak, but Fogarty interrupted him. Hauling viciously on the bridle
reins, he wheeled his horse and circled the group to position himself in front of Tate.

In his low icy voice he said,
“We all came out here to do a job and we’ll all stay until it’s finished.”

If the bluntness of the gunman
’s statement left anything unsaid, his eyes did not. Tate looked into those eyes and knew as certainly as the sun was in the sky Fogarty would, without hesitation, kill him or any other member of the group who tried to leave. Tate was not a coward nor was he a stranger to trouble, but he knew death when he looked it in the face, and given a choice, he would pass it by.

“I reckon we
’ll have it your way, Fogarty,” he muttered.

Fogarty shifted his attention to Mason. “Everybody here understand what I said?”

Scowling, Mason nodded.

The men ate a hasty lunch, and two of Stewart
’s men were sent back to town to carry out Fogarty’s instructions while the rest of the party lined out on a narrow trail along the side of a canyon and followed Fogarty into the bowels of the mountain range. The posse found no sign of Jeff Havens that day, and having brought no provisions for supper, they rolled into their bedrolls hungry that night. 

Ea
rly the next morning one of the T.S. men was sent to rendezvous with the two men who had gone for supplies, and by noon the famished searchers had eaten. Later that afternoon a small plume of smoke was seen spiraling up from a distant canyon, raising morale. It took the posse four hours to arrive at the source of the smoke, but there was nothing there but a burned out fire and the boot prints of the man who had come, built the fire and left.

“It
’s a decoy,” said Jennings. “We spent all afternoon getting here and it’s a decoy.”

The man who had built the fire had made no effort to hide his trail when he rod
e out of the canyon. There was no need. They tracked him as far as they could, but night comes early in the deep canyons, and soon it was too dark for tracking. Fogarty knew the rider would be swallowed up by the mountains in the night and would be, by morning, safely ensconced in one of the hundreds of canyons just like this one. They made camp where darkness found them.

I
nitially it had been agreed the posse members would take turns cooking the meals, but one of them, Jack Mason, demonstrated exceptional abilities with campfire cuisine, and was appointed by Fogarty to be the permanent cook—a decision that was ratified unanimously by the rest of the group.

One morning, while preparing breakfast, Mason n
oticed some of the provisions were lower than he thought they should be. He had not previously seen the need to inventory the supplies that were carried in the bulky packs on the two pack animals, so he could not be sure, but he now took an inventory, mentally noting quantities.

Shortly after sunrise,
Fogarty and Jennings climbed the sloping side of the canyon and took a look around. They saw two spires of smoke rising from different spots, far distant from each other. Fogarty cursed venomously. “Somebody’s playing games with us.”

Jennings did not comment. He seldom spoke these days, and his
depressed manner and subservience to Fogarty had not gone unnoticed by the other members of the group, though no one could offer a satisfactory explanation.

After breakfast the riders followed the trail they had been tracking the previous night, and as Fogarty had expected, it eventually led into an area of rocky ground where they lost it. Having no other leads to follow, they investigated the two fires, both of which turned out to be
decoys. This endeavor took until late afternoon. They made an early camp at the site of the second fire and spent the night there.

The next morning Mason took stock of the provisions. This time there was no mistaking the fact that some of their food was missing. He knew there was no reason for any member of the group to steal food, especially uncooked food, so he scouted around the area where the packs were laid
, and finding some boot tracks, followed them a short distance. The thief had come and gone by the same route. Mason followed the trail down the canyon to where a horse had been tied. The tracks on the ground told all. Returning to camp, he announced the news of his discovery.

Jennings laughed scornfully, “We
’re not only riding around for his entertainment; we’re feeding him too.”

“We
’re feeding him well,” observed Mason. “He took enough provisions for two men.”

Fogarty was livid; he kicked the fire, scattering coals. Clenching and unclenching his jaw muscles, he spent a few minutes writing with pencil and paper he had produced from a saddlebag. He folded the paper and handed it to one of his riders. “Take this to Stewart,” he said. “We
’ll meet back here in two days, at noon.”

The following afternoon, after another day and a half of fruitless searching,
the posse cut a fresh trail, followed it painstakingly for four hours and lost it. Fogarty had stopped paying attention to the multiple plumes of smoke that rose up from scattered points. Most of them, he knew, would be decoy fires. Moreover, their locations and the distance between them told him he was dealing with more than one man. Lopez must be here, too.

Fogarty knew it would be fruitless to chase back and forth through the canyons, attemp
ting to investigate each fire, but it infuriated him to know the man he was hunting could now make campfires, without concern about giving away his position. And the food he was cooking over those fires was food stolen from the very posse that was hunting him.

Stewart
’s man was at the rendezvous at the appointed time and with him, as per Fogarty’s written request, were four more T. S. riders. Moreover, though Fogarty had not requested it, Stewart himself had come along. They rode a short distance away from the group in order to converse privately.

“What
’s going on, Rand?” Stewart asked. “You’re making us look bad. This is bigger news in town than the Golden Spike.”

“There
’s two of ‘em,” said Fogarty. “It’s got to be Havens and Lopez, and they’re good.  But I have a plan. It’ll take three groups of four men each. We’ll ride together until we cut a trail, then we’ll split up. One group will follow the trail, one group will swing around to the left, and the other will swing around to the right. We’ll try to box them in.”

“All right,” said Stewart, “but do it fast
. This Havens is starting to be a hero in town. Some of your men have been telling the boys who pack the supplies up to you everything that’s going on. There’s talk in town that maybe Havens didn’t kill Julio Arroyo, and maybe the fight out at the ranch was a fair one. Ollie Shepard is talkin’ that one up all over town. People like to back the underdog, Rand. You’ve got to finish this and finish it fast before the whole town turns against us.”

“We
’ll find them,” Fogarty vowed. “We’re not coming out of these hills until we do.”

“Don
’t be too long about it,” advised Stewart. “We’ve got other business, you know. Let Jennings go back to town; he’s losing popularity, and now that he’s on our side I don’t want that to happen.”

Stewart did not return to town, but instead rode directly back to the ranch. As he approached the house, he was hailed by two men who were camped on the side of the trail. One of them was an Indian, the other a burly, shaggy-haired white man dressed in filthy buckskins.

The latter hailed Stewart. “Are you Mr. Stewart?” he inquired through rotted, tobacco stained teeth.

“Yes.”

“Hear you’re lookin’ for a man or two.”

I have all the men I need,” said Stewart coldly, and spurred his horse forward.

“My name is Tobe Hatcherson,” the big man shouted at Stewart’s back. “This here Injun is my pardner, Jimmy Sundust. We’re man hunters. If you’re lookin’ for somebody, we can find ‘em for you.”

Stewart reined in abruptly. He had heard of these two men. He turned around and rode back.

“You want ‘em found?” continued Hatcherson, “We’ll find ‘em. And bring ‘em back. Alive sometimes, most times dead. Generally the people we work for don’t care which.”

Hiring outside help was an idea that had not previously occurred to Stewart, but it was starting to appeal to him now. Seeing the pensive look on the face of his potent
ial client, Hatcherson added, “You don’t pay us ‘till we ketch ‘em. We don’t ketch ‘em, you don’t pay us.”

“How much?”

“Depends.
You care if we bring ‘em back dead?”

“I
’d prefer it.”

“Three hundred dollars a head.”

Stewart whistled and shook his head. “That’s completely out of reason. That’s as much as a lot of men around here make in a year.”

“It
’s hard and dangerous work,” said Hatcherson.

“I
’ll pay you a hundred a head,” countered Stewart.

“Two hundred.”

“Alright,” agreed Stewart, “Two hundred. But when you bring them back, make sure they can be identified. Don’t shoot them in the face, or scalp them or anything like that. I won’t pay for a body unless I can tell who it is. You’ll be working with my foreman, Rand Fogarty. He’s up there now with a posse. I’ll tell you how to find them.”

Hatcherson raised a hand, palm out, and smiled.  “We
’ll find ‘em, Mr. Stewart.”

When Stewart stepped through the door of the house, he was surprised to see Anne. She had been out of town visiting with Alice and her husband
, and was not due back for two weeks. Stewart was not pleased—she had picked a bad time to come back, but he didn’t show his displeasure. “Darling, you’re home,” he said in a cheery voice.

He approached her, and as he did, she turned a cheek for him to kiss.  “Just a kiss on the cheek?” he asked, “I was hoping you
’d miss me more than that.”