by C. M. Curtis
“Well, we did rough him up pretty good,” said Fogarty.
“After he spends the night with rigor mortis, and rocks piled on his face, who will be able to tell?” In the morning I want you to go dig up his body and bring it back here. I’ll get up early and go get Jennings and bring him out so he can do his investigation.”
“Why do that?” asked Fogarty. “Why not just leave Havens out there?” Nobody will know the difference. The old greaser didn’t know who he was burying, and he’ll be too scared to talk anyway. We’ll bury Healy somewhere in the desert and forget it ever happened.”
Stewart spoke emphatically, “No, that’s not the right way. We don’t know who the old greaser will talk to. You should’ve killed him.”
Fogarty was indignant. “You told me to be careful about shooting people. That’s why I didn’t shoot Havens. We were going to take him and hang him. Set it up to look like he was caught rustling.”
“I know what I told you,” said Stewart, “and we do have to be careful not to make enemies or create suspicion, at least until we get things set up here the way I want them, but shooting an old greaser out in the desert in the middle of the night . . . who would have known?”
Fogarty swore softly but remained otherwise silent. He enjoyed killing and was angry at having missed an opportunity to do it.
As if reading his thoughts, Stewart said, “Don’t worry Fogarty, I didn’t hire you to herd cows. Things are happening fast—faster than I expected. There’s land here and I’ll have it. I swear I’ll have it all and it will take some killing to get it.”
Stewart rode out at first light, and it was still a fresh and early morning that found him and Sheriff Jennings riding on the trail back toward the T. S., predator and prey side by side: Stewart the aggressor, the schemer whose hands were soiled and whose heart was tainted; Lloyd Jennings, young, innocent of human blood and grief, untrusting, yet unsuspecting.
The two men were conversing on the subject of land, though it was not a conversation, but a trap; pre-planned and rehearsed, laid on the foundation of the information Stewart had acquired the previous evening. He believed he had found the vulnerable spot in Jennings’ wall of intractability. “Sheriff,” Stewart was saying, “aside from this nasty business with Jeff Havens last night, there’s another matter I’ve been meaning to talk with you about.”
Jennings turned to face him. Stewart continued, “I’m new out here, as you know, and it’s my custom, and I believe one of the secrets of my success in business, to consult with people who possess wisdom and experience in certain matters—usually professionals, like yourself.”
That Jennings still did not fully trust Stewart, was conveyed by the wariness in his glance. “How can I help you, Mr. Stewart?”
“I own a piece of land I’m not using. That’s not to say I have no use for it, but I feel it would be more profitable, because of its location, for me to lease the land to someone else, maybe even sell it. I’m probably barking up the wrong tree here, but someone mentioned to me the other day, that you might be interested in this piece of land.”
Jennings turned toward Stewart, an odd look on his face, but said nothing.
“It’s probably not true,” continued Stewart. “I don’t know what use you would have for this property, unless you are planning to raise some cattle.”
Jennings looked away, and said blandly, “What property are you talking about?”
“Two Mile Meadow.”
For a while they rode in silence and Jennings, stone-faced, looked straight ahead. But Stewart was aware of the dilemma in the man’s mind and was fully prepared for what came next.
Presently Jennings turned and said, “What about old Julio?”
“What about him? He’s an old man and he’s been squatting on that land illegally for years. I hate to sound harsh, but he’ll have to go.”
There was a trace of disappointment in Jennings’ voice as he spoke, “I don’t think I could do that: make the old man move off so I could move on to the land. He’s pretty attached to that piece of ground.”
Here was the hook, and Stewart knew it. Jennings wanted Two Mile Meadow. He wanted it badly, but knew he could never enjoy it if he had to feel guilty about evicting the old Mexican who lived there.
Stewart secretly detested all self-righteous, so-called moral people. He saw them as being so bound up by their own fear of guilt that they were unable to move. He knew that he was, himself, a selfish individual. He had long ago accepted that fact and in doing so had freed himself of any need to acquit himself of the charge by performing insincere, guilt-motivated acts of altruism. Moreover, he had learned how to assist others in rationalizing their actions and desires, which freed them in turn, to be controlled and manipulated by him.
“Sheriff,” he said. “Any way I go; whether I keep the land or lease it out or sell it, the old man has to go. Don’t think I’m totally heartless. I feel the same as you do. I couldn’t stand to see him turned out of his shack without any place to go, but he has friends in Mexican Town and I would be willing to pay to have an adobe built for him over there. He’s too old to take care of himself, and it’s dangerous for him to be living alone. He needs to be near other people so they can look out for him. Oh, I’m sure he’s not going to like it and he’ll kick up a ruckus, but he has to go. It’s best for all concerned.” He paused for a long, portentous moment. “I’m asking you, as sheriff, to evict him.”
Stewart read on Jennings’ face, that he had finally broken through the man’s reserve. Jennings’ moral dilemma was ended here. Now it became a simple matter of doing his job. Evicting the old man would be accomplished merely as a performance of his duties as sheriff, and he would not have to feel guilty about it.
“You really want me to do that?” Jennings asked blandly.
“It has to be done. And like I said Sheriff, I’ll see to it the old man has a place to go.”
“Next time you’re in town come over to the office and sign the papers.”
“Fine,” said Stewart suppressing a smile. “After the old man moves out you and I can talk terms, and frankly, Sheriff, I’m willing to let you set your own.” Then he added in a tone of significance, “Something that’ll go easy on you.”
Jennings fixed Stewart with a cold stare. “If I decide I want the land, I’ll pay the going price. As long as I’m Sheriff, I’ll be beholden to no man, Mr. Stewart.”
“I admire that,” said Stewart. “I’d feel the same way in your position.” He realized he had tried to push Jennings too fast. But, being too practiced to show disappointment, he acted cheerful, if less communicative, during the remainder of the ride to the T. S., where he endured his second disappointment in as many hours.
Fogarty pulled him aside, leaving Jennings standing by his horse. Stewart had never seen Fogarty display emotion, but he could tell when the gunman was angry by the set of his square jaw and the cold burning fury in his eyes. Those eyes that had the power to turn a brave man’s blood cold and a courageous heart to jelly, were blazing now with a savage, killer rage, the intensity of which only an assassin could achieve. His voice, as always, was low, but the words came out hard and slapped the air. “Havens is gone.”
“You mean someone unburied him?” asked Stewart, incredulous.
“He never was buried. The old man tricked us. He just made a pile of rocks.”
“Then Havens wasn’t dead,” said Stewart suppressing a rising anxiety. “Where did the tracks lead?”
“I gotta hand it to the old greaser,” said Fogarty. “He knows how to hide a trail. He led us through the marsh and down the river, then up into the hills across some rocky ground that wouldn’t hold a print, and we lost him.”
Stewart turned and walked to where Jennings stood, the heat of anger rising to his face; “Sheriff I want Jeff Havens found. He rode in here last night, and for no good reason whatsoever, killed one of my men.” Stewart then related to Jennings a distorted version of what Fogarty had told him.
> “I’ll need to see the body,” said Jennings, “and talk to the witnesses. Then I’ll ride down to Mexican Town and nose around a little; see what I can find out about this old greaser.”
After an impassive Jennings had listened to Fogarty’s own twisted version of what had occurred the previous night, he put on his hat, nodded curtly and stepped out the door. Stewart followed him outside and said, “Sheriff Jennings, your attitude seems a little too casual. This was a cold-blooded killing. A man who’ll do this once will do it again. I’d like to see you put together a posse and go after him in earnest.”
Jennings rubbed his chin. “Mr. Stewart, a posse is made up of volunteers; usually it takes folks who are mad and want to see somebody hung bad enough to leave their work and do some hard riding to catch him. A lot of people around here seem to think what you’ve got working for you is a bunch of gun slicks. Your men aren’t very popular in town. They ride in, get drunk, pick fights, sometimes insult women. To be honest Mr. Stewart, I doubt if anyone will be too upset to hear one of them got shot. On the other hand, Jeff Havens has lived around here most of his life, though he’s been gone for a few years. He and his grandfather were well liked. It’s true a lot of folks lost respect for him when he jilted Anne Hammond without even so much as a letter good-bye, and people don’t think too highly of the fact that he sold the ranch out from under Amado Lopez before old man Havens’ body was even cold, but I reckon that’s his business and I don’t think it’s enough to make people want to join a posse and hunt him down.”
Stewart had listened impassively, standing with his arms folded on his chest. But now he spoke: “War can do bad things to men. I’ve seen it before: they learn how to kill and pretty soon they start enjoying it. Your Jeff Havens is a killer and now he’s shot a man in cold blood. I’m trusting you to do your job, Lloyd.” It was the first time Stewart had used the sheriff’s first name and it was done intentionally.
Jennings’ reply was cool; “I always do my job, Mr. Stewart.”
Later, after Jennings had left, Fogarty said, “I thought you said he was going to be with us.”
Stewart smiled. “Rand, you need to go fishing more often. Some fish just have to be played longer than others.”
It was not a long ride from town to Two Mile Meadow, but it was long enough for Jennings to think several times of turning around, going back to town, and letting Tom Stewart do his own dirty work. Stewart was an Easterner, and maybe he didn’t know that in the West people were expected to take care of their own problems and the law was expected to look the other way. Even though Jennings was a lawman he saw no dissonance in this philosophy. He would have never even started on this errand had it involved any piece of land other than Two Mile Meadow, but Two Mile Meadow had a special meaning to him. It was the most coveted piece of land on the range, and in his mind it rightfully belonged to him. He believed he would be in possession of it now, had it not been for the fact his father had been a no-good drunk. The old, familiar feelings of frustration and shame came upon him, and he almost looked around like he had always done as a boy when he walked down the street, feeling sure people were following him with their eyes, watching him covertly and condemning him for his father’s sins. Out of this had grown the shyness of the boy and the reticence of the man.
He topped a small rise and could see Julio Arroyo’s shanty in the afternoon light. He regarded it for a moment with disdain. What a pitiful thing it was in comparison to what he would have built here. It was such a waste for one old man with a few chickens and goats to occupy the best piece of graze within miles. He felt a sharp, unreasoning hatred for this old man who had been so unappreciative, and had for so long occupied this land to which he had no legitimate claim. Why old John Havens and Amado Lopez had allowed Julio to stay all these years, he had never understood. It was probably, he considered, because the Rafter 8 was so large it was easy for them to ignore a squatter or two. But he, Jennings, had no land at all, and the unfairness of it embittered him a little more each time he thought of it.
He spurred his mount down the easy slope and crossed the grassy meadow to Julio Arroyo’s shack. As he drew up in front of the ramshackle dwelling, the old man emerged, bowing through the low doorway, and afterward straightening only a little to regain his habitual stooped posture. He ambled forward a few paces and stopped, looking at Jennings with suspicious eyes. He spoke no greeting, for he was a mute, nor did he offer any other gesture of acknowledgment or welcome. Like most people of his race living north of the border he distrusted the “gringo” law and had found little justice in it for him and his kind. Moreover, he was aware that, for some reason obscure to him, Jennings disliked him. So, he stood in front of his home, guardian of ducks, and chickens, and goats; bent and waiting as the Sheriff drew up a few yards away and sat on his tall horse.
Looking down at the old man, Jennings was dismayed to feel anger begin to be displaced by feelings of charity. Deep inside, he knew he had no reason to hate this man, and under other circumstances he would have allowed himself to feel compassion. But today he had a job to do, and knowing that compassion fosters guilt, he forced it away and recalled his anger. This was not his choice, he reasoned, he was the law, he had to do his job whether there was benefit to him in it or not. Old Julio just happened to be squatting on Two Mile Meadow. Had it been any other part of Tom Stewart’s land or anyone else’s land, Jennings’ job would still be the same. He was not to blame for this. Besides, who had asked this old man to come and squat here in the first place?
“I’m here on official business,” Jennings said stiffly. “Do you understand me?”
He had never had any dealings with Julio and wasn’t sure how much English the old man understood, or for that matter, how much the old man understood about anything. After all, his brain couldn’t be too right: he couldn’t even talk.
Julio’s eyes narrowed and he nodded.
Jennings continued, “You know I’m the Law.” He pointed helpfully to the star on his vest.
The old man nodded again.
Again Jennings did silent battle with the better side of himself and again he won by calling upon the deep reserves of anger he carried inside. “This isn’t your land. The man who owns it wants you to move off.”
The old man straightened his spine a few degrees; his eyes widened and his mouth opened as if to speak. He began shaking his head with purposeful urgency.
“You’ve got no business being out here alone,” Jennings advised him, “You’re old. Go live with your people. Take your ducks and your goats with you. I’m giving you five days.”
The opaque eyes grew moist, pleading, and the shaking of the head became more animated. Julio stepped toward Jennings reaching a hand out in a gesture of supplication.
Unwillingly Jennings caught a momentary understanding of how desperately at this moment, the old mute felt the need to be able to speak, to state his case with more than that with which nature had equipped him in order to avert this tragedy in his life.
“Five days,” snapped Jennings, finding it harder now to force harshness into his voice. He reined his horse around, and spurred across the meadow.
It was late afternoon when Jennings turned his mount onto the single dusty street of Mexican Town, or San Vicente, as it was known to its inhabitants. He and the horse were sweaty and dusty. The town consisted of a few adobe buildings laid out in no recognizable pattern. There were few people to be seen, but he knew they were around, either indoors or out working somewhere. Many of the people who were a part of this community lived on outlying farms.
Jennings stopped in front of Victor Ortega’s establishment, and finding no hitching rack, knotted the reins around a low branch on a small tree nearby. Testing the front door and finding it unlocked he stepped inside. It took a moment for his eyes to accustom themselves to the gloom of the interior of the building. When they did, he found himself inside a large room, indescribably cluttered with items lying on the floor, hanging from the ceiling, and
piled on shelves. A young girl and a young boy stood at different parts of the room, looking at him through large brown eyes. He recognized them as two of Ortega’s children who sometimes rode in their father’s wagon when he came to town.
“I’m looking for your father.”
“Here,” said the boy, and motioning Jennings to follow, he threaded a path that led him through the room, skirting or stepping over things lying on the floor, ducking beneath objects hanging from the ceiling and finally exiting through the rear door of the building.
There was a fat dark-skinned man stacking adobes in the back of a small wagon to which a mule was hitched. The man was homely with thick lips, protruding eyes, and a wide nose that sat flat on his face.
Jennings had never trusted Ortega, but he knew he was the man to go to for information regarding anything that went on around San Vicente. Ortega was the “alcalde” or mayor of the town and was well respected. Moreover he was a successful business man, and that success was based largely on his dealings with the white residents and merchants of the area, a fact that brought him even more respect from his people.
This morning the wagon was being loaded with adobes. Yesterday it had been two saddles, miscellaneous items of pottery, and some straw brooms, all products of the artisans of San Vicente. Seeing Jennings emerge from the rear of the building, Ortega turned and strode toward him, smiling effusively and extending his hand.
“My frien’ Sheriff Yennings, how are you today?”
Jennings disliked the energetic way Ortega grabbed his hand and shook it. He viewed Ortega as a typical businessman, like Willard Deering, who was only friendly or kind if he believed he might profit from it.
“My frien’ Sheriff,” repeated Ortega. “What I can do for you?”
“I’m looking for Jeff Havens. Do you know anything about him?”
