Return of the Outlaw (25 page)

Handing him the bundle she was carrying, which he now saw was a hat and a rolled up coat, she said, “there
’s a sack of food in here for you, and I found this hat and coat. You may need them. They belonged to Todd.

He thanked her for her kindness,
then fell silent, not knowing what else to say to this woman he had grown to admire and would probably never see again.

Catherine
said, “I have a note here for Sheriff Beeman. If you should run into him, I would appreciate it if you would give it to him.”  She handed Jeff a piece of paper, which had been neatly folded several times.

“I
’ll do that,” he said.

She held h
is gaze as they shook hands, and she smiled again and said, “Good luck.” She turned and walked back to the house.

As Jeff watched her go inside, Jim Marcellin c
ame around the corner and crossed the yard to where Cliff was just completing the chore of harnessing the horses. Marcellin spoke a few words to Cliff in a low voice then turned around and walked away without having acknowledged Jeff in any way.

During the ride to town, Jeff attempted once to engage Cliff in conversation
, but was rebuffed by a rude silence. After that, neither man spoke during the remainder of the ride.

When they arrived in
town Cliff pulled up in front of the general store. Jeff jumped down and said, “Thanks for the ride Cliff, can’t tell you how much I enjoyed the conversation.”

For the first time in their brief acquaintance, Cliff looked Jeff in the eye. “Your best bet, mister, would be to spread some country between you and here.”

“Thanks for the advice. It’ll be mighty hard to say good-bye to such friendly folks, but I might just do that.”

As he walked up
the main street of the town, with no real destination in mind, Jeff admitted to himself there was nothing he would like better at the moment than to ride away from this place. But he had no horse, no pack animal, no saddle, and no money with which to purchase provisions. The first thing he needed was a job.

This
was a town which, in many ways resembled Jeff’s own home town at an earlier time before the railroad had arrived. It was busy enough but it lacked the wide open atmosphere and the constant in-and-out flow of new faces the railroad brought to a town. He saw it in the mistrust of strangers that showed in the eyes and on the faces of the people he passed on the street.

He walked the full length of the main street, always alert for any sign of Fogarty, and halted on the north edge of town, having learned much in a short time. It was apparent by the nature of the businesses and by the types of people and conveyances that were to be seen
, that this was a one-industry town. Apparently there were some mines somewhere nearby but cattle ranching ruled here, and this town would grow or die, according to the success of the ranches hereabouts.

He paused in front of a small, neat house, with a cleanly whitewashed picket fence, and rested
momentarily; remembering when he had had a home to live in, and considering that maybe he had wandered enough for one life-time.

Returning to the heart of town, he noticed some activity in front a building whose false front announced in faded paint
: SHARPS MERCANTILE & GENERAL STORE - JACOB SHARP PROP. In front of this establishment stood two unhitched wagons, one of which was loaded while the other was in the process of being loaded by a man with a long brownish-gray beard. He limped with each step and cursed as he shuttled back and forth between the interior of the building and the wagon, carrying sacks of flour which he was loading onto the wagon.

Jeff walked over to the wagon and rested his forearms on the sideboard. “Need a hand?”

The man turned to face him briefly. The right side of his head and face had been dusted with flour from the sacks he had carried on his shoulder, giving him an appearance of advanced age when seen from that side.

“Nope.”
He climbed into the wagon bed and began stacking the last few sacks he had laid on the tailgate, still swearing at frequent intervals at some person or thing, which to Jeff’s eyes was not in evidence. Climbing down from the wagon he went back into the store, whereupon Jeff climbed up onto the wagon bed and stood waiting.

The long-bearded man again emerged from the interior of the store, this time carrying a sack of beans. He swore a little more loudly upon seeing Jeff in the
wagon, and as he flopped the sack down onto the rough planks of the tailgate he said, “Told you I didn’t need any help.”

“Loading a wagon is always
easier with two men,” said Jeff. “Saves a lot of climbing up and down.”

“I can
’t pay you.”

“Ain
’t asking you to. A man needs to do some work every day; whether he gets paid or not’s another matter.”

The man gave Jeff a brief appraisal from beneath
bushy eyebrows. “Suit yourself.”

Two sacks later, noticing
the man’s limp was becoming more pronounced and his cursing more heartfelt, Jeff climbed down and said, “Take a spell in the wagon, I’ll carry the sacks.”

Saying nothing, the man climbed up into the wagon. “Looks like you
’ve got a touch of a limp yourself,” he said as Jeff laid the next sack down. “You got the gout?”

“
Bad knee.”

“Well, I
’ve got the gout and there ain’t nothin’ more miserable than that. Rather have ten bad knees than one gouty toe.”

Jeff tried to picture a man with ten knees. He said,
“They do say it can make a man ornery.”

The man shot Jeff a glance
with eyes that held a glint of something, “Wouldn’t know about that.”

When the wagons were
loaded Jeff said, “Thanks for the exercise.” He picked up his jacket and started across the street.

“Hold
‘er there stranger,” the man called after him.

Jeff stopped and turned around.

“You ought to be paid.”

“That wasn
’t the deal,” responded Jeff.

The man walked over to Jeff and held out some coins
. “Take it. A man works for me, he gets paid.” Then he added, “Name’s Jake Sharp.”

Jeff accepted the money and than
ked Sharp for it. “I’m Bob Webb, pleasure meeting you, Mr. Sharp.” It was getting easier each time, for Jeff to tell the lie of his assumed name, and it worried him. He didn’t like to lie, and he didn’t want to acquire the habit.

“Can you drive a team?” asked Sharp.

Jeff nodded.

“If you
’re still interested in working, now that there’s pay in it, be here at five in the morning. I’ll bring lunch. You’ll be back by supper time. I’ll only need you for a day.”

“See you at five.” Jeff crossed the street, angling down toward the Red Stallion
saloon, and his eyes searched the row of horses standing three legged at the hitching rail. Fogarty’s was not among them. Still, Jeff was alert, as he had been since arriving here. It was doubtful Fogarty would recognize him as he appeared now, bearded and shaggy and lean from his trek over the mountains, but he was taking no chances.

Fogarty
’s presence here left a big question in Jeff’s mind. He knew the gunman could not possibly have been trailing him—Jeff had arrived in the valley on foot and Fogarty on horseback. Fogarty must have started north at a much later time when Jeff’s trail would have already been wiped out by the rains. There could be no reason Fogarty would expect him to be in this place, so what brought the man here?  Fogarty had arrived in town with one horse and no pack animals—not even a saddle pack—so he must be staying somewhere other than in town.

Jeff paused at the
bat-winged doors of the saloon and casually examined the interior, seeing no one he recognized. He rubbed a hand across his tough unkempt beard, which had been allowed to grow unmolested since the day the posse had chased him into the mountains weeks ago. Turning, he strode resolutely back across the street to Jake Sharp’s store and went inside. Sharp was sweeping the floor where the pile of flour sacks had left their dust. He glanced up, and his face assumed a mock frown. He spoke gruffly, but humor shone through his eyes. “Now what?  Do you want to sweep for nothing too?”

“Do you trea
t all your customers this way?” Jeff asked good-naturedly.

“Customer?
Well this should work real good: I pay you for working, you come and spend the money at my store. What’ll it be?”

“Soap and a razor.”

Sharp reached under the counter and pulled out a cake of soap, which he handed to Jeff. “Save your money on the razor,” he said fingering his own long beard. “A man don’t need to shave so often he needs to buy a razor of his own. I’ve got one in back you can borrow. One razor ought to be enough for a whole town-full of men.”

He dis
appeared into the back room, whence soon came the sound of a razor receiving a vigorous stropping. He returned and handed the razor to Jeff. “Must be a girl,” he said with a wink. “I shaved once for Liza too, before we were hitched. After she saw what my face was like, she decided it was better to keep it covered with fur.” He leaned forward and gave Jeff’s face a hard scrutiny, “Hard to tell, but looks like it might be different with you.”

“Next time you see me,
you’ll know.”

Behind the buildings that li
ned the east side of Main Street was an embankment.  Between the buildings and the embankment was a trash-strewn stretch of level ground which was, in most places, about a hundred feet wide and was bisected by a small creek. Here Jeff washed up and shaved. He donned the coat and hat Catherine Marcellin had given him. He wanted to be presentable if he was going to look for a job. He needed some new clothes, but that would have to wait. Returning to the Red Stallion, he loitered there, alone at a table, waiting for the evening crowd to come in. There were a number of other saloons on this main street, and these he had observed on his initial walk through town, but the Red Stallion was clearly the favored haunt of the cattlemen. No doubt there would be ranchers and cowhands here from whom he could glean information regarding the availability of work.

The saloon was still relatively emp
ty when Eli Marcellin walked in, sporting a large purple bruise on the left side of his face. He glanced at Jeff without interest and his head automatically turned away, then swung back sharply. He stared for a moment, an odd look on his face, was about to say something, but didn’t. His expression turned hostile and he wheeled abruptly and walked to the bar.

It took a
moment for Jeff to remember he was wearing a hat and coat which had belonged to Eli’s dead brother. Eli must have been shocked to see the man who he had hoped to see hanged, and who had knocked him unconscious, wearing his brother’s clothes. Eli purchased a bottle and took it to an empty table by the wall where he sat and drank with his head bowed, looking up occasionally to glare at Jeff.

A man arrived with rolled up sleeves and a green visor cap, and pr
oceeded to set up to deal Faro. It wasn’t long before the saloon was filled and its former tranquility was replaced by the boisterous sounds and activities of the miners and cowboys and a few men of miscellaneous occupations, who brought with them the odors of their bodies and of their labors and an insatiable thirst for fun, companionship, and drink.

Jeff circulated through the room, speaking openly to those who could be readily identified as men of the range. He soon learned that jobs in their field had grown scarce. Non
e of the ranchers were hiring. Most had been hard-hit by the rustlers, and had been forced to let some of their hands go. Twice, Jeff caught Eli Marcellin staring at him, but neither time did the young man hold his gaze.

Jeff was standing at the bar in the shoulder-to-shoulder crowd there, nursing a drink, when there was a commotion at the front door of the saloon. Three men had entered the bar-room. One of them, a
big man, walked over to the bar, and employing his shoulders and an unnecessary amount of force, wedged his way through the line of men standing there to purchase a bottle and three glasses.

“A bully,” thought Jeff. He overheard someone saying the name “Al Tannatt.”

Tannatt and his friends crossed the room and sat down at the table where Eli Marcellin had spent the entire evening working on getting drunk.

Jeff
automatically scanned the room as he had done countless times already and turned back to his drink and his thoughts, always with his eye on the mirror in front of him, lest Fogarty or some other enemy should approach him unobserved. In this manner he saw Al Tannatt’s big head moving through the crowd again, jostling anyone who got in his way. As he drew near, there was a look on his face that caused a warning to sound in Jeff’s wary mind. Unobtrusively he slid his right hand down to his side close to his pistol.

Tannatt wedged him
self between Jeff and the man on his left, shoving hard against Jeff’s shoulder. Jeff turned to face the big man, who was two inches taller than him and heavier by a good thirty pounds, but Tannatt ignored him. When Jeff turned back to his drink, Tannatt gave a little derisive laugh. He called for a beer, and when he reached for it, he brought his elbow back, intentionally spilling Jeff’s drink. Pretending to notice Jeff for the first time, he said, “You got something to say to me?

“Nope
,” replied Jeff. The whole scenario was clear to Jeff: Eli Marcellin had pointed him out to Tannatt as the rustler who didn’t get hanged. This fact alone would give the bully enough of an excuse to pick a fight. Moreover, Jeff understood his appearance left much to be desired. Tannatt would view him as a man of no great account; just a down at the heels saddle tramp: easy prey.

What Tannatt wanted was obvious.
But Jeff was not looking for a fight. He wanted a job and he wanted to locate Fogarty. These were the things that took precedence over all others in his mind. Under the circumstances, he could think of only two ways to avoid a fight, and one of them involved turning and walking away—a choice which, in more civilized parts of the world might be viable, but not here. Here it would be viewed as cowardice, and a coward was fair game to anyone who wished to take him on. The West was a place where people were only loosely bound by laws, and survival required strength and courage and the respect of one’s fellows.