by C. M. Curtis
“I knew his grandfather, Meester John. Very good man, I sold him many things.”
Jennings related sketchily the incident at Tom Stewart’s ranch, and the one in the desert, describing in detail the old man who had found Jeff, and who had apparently been stealing horses from the T. S.
“You wouldn’t know who that would be, would you?”
“No, Meester Sheriff, but I weel try to help you. I weel ask many peoples.”
“Do that for me would you? I’ll check back in a couple of days.”
“Muy bien.”
Jennings endured another vigorous handshake and turned and walked around the building to where his horse was tied. He felt he had accomplished nothing. Even if Ortega had information, Jennings felt sure the Mexican would not supply it unless he thought he could profit by it. He wished he knew where else to go, or who else to talk to in this close-knit community. He spoke a little Spanish, but not enough to communicate adequately, or gain the confidence of these people.
It was late in the day, and he had done all he could do. He cared nothing about Tom Stewart’s man who had been killed by Jeff Havens, nor did he care anything about Jeff Havens. So unless some new information came to light, Jennings considered the case closed. If Tom Stewart wanted further investigation to be done, he could do it himself. After all, it had been his men who had lost the trail of the old Mexican in the first place. Right now the young sheriff had someplace to go.
The sun finally made its exit over the horizon, leaving the land in shadows and all the creatures in it grateful for another night’s respite from the searing heat.
Lloyd Jennings walked his horse along the sandy trail it knew well, and permitted it to halt of its own volition at a particularly secluded spot. All around were brushy shadows. One of them detached itself from the others and rushed forward as Jennings shot a last furtive glance behind him and leaped from the saddle in time for the shadow, which had assumed the lithe form of a young girl, to run into his arms.
Had anyone been observing, they may have concluded from the passion with which the pair embraced, that this was a reunion between two lovers long separated. But in reality it had been less than twenty-four hours since Lloyd Jennings had held in his arms the girl he loved.
“Oh Lloyd, I’ve missed you,” said the girl, a dark haired, slender beauty.
“I was afraid you wouldn’t be here,” he said.
Out of custom, they walked together to a low rock at the base of an embankment and sat down side by side. Jennings wrapped his arms around the girl while she laid her head on his chest. For a long time they remained so, occasionally kissing and speaking soft words.
“I was afraid you wouldn’t be here,” he repeated after a while.
Recognizing a message in this the girl said, “I come whenever I can. Sometimes I just can’t get away. It would be easier if we didn’t have to hide. There’s nothing wrong with . . .”
“I know,” he interrupted. “We’ve discussed it before, please just be patient; things won’t always be this way.”
“But why must they be this way now? When will they be different?”
Jennings didn’t answer.
“Are you sure you’re not ashamed of me, Lloyd?”
“Of course I’m not ashamed of you Joanne, I’ve told you that. It’s not me I’m thinking about.”
In the darkness Jennings could feel the girl’s body tighten and pull away from him. “Then why must you call me Joanne?” She asked sharply, “My name is Juana.”
He removed his arms from around her, and taking her by the shoulders, gently pushed her upright and held her there, facing him.
“Do we have to have this argument again? Why don’t you ever try to understand what I’m trying to do?”
“I do understand.”
“No you don’t. If you did, you would help me and support me.”
“By changing my name? Do you think I can pretend I am not who I am?” She stood up. “If you really loved me, it wouldn’t matter.”
“See?” he said. “I told you you didn’t understand. This has nothing to do with love. I’m the Sheriff. I was elected by the people because they respect me, and like it or not there are certain things I have to do to keep that respect.”
“Why?” she demanded. “What is so wonderful about being sheriff?”
“It’s honest work and I like it, and it beats crawling down into a hole in the ground every day and pounding at the rock and choking your guts out on the dust until you’ve got consumption.”
“There are other kinds of work.”
There was bitterness in his voice when he replied, “Like ranching? You need range land for that. I don’t have any land, thanks to old man Havens.”
“What about farming? There’s good farm land here—and water.”
“Joanne, I’m not a farmer, I will never be a farmer.”
“You will also never be my husband, I think.”
“That’s not true.” The heat was gone now from his voice. He spoke almost pleadingly. “I love you. I want you to be my wife.”
“Then why can’t we be married?”
“I’ve told you so many times,” he said in frustration. “It’s not time yet, I have some things to do still. A man needs to feel like he has a good future to offer his wife and his children. That takes preparation. I’m not talking about a long time, but I need you to be patient. I’m willing to make the sacrifices that are necessary for our future and I need to know you are too.”
She dropped her head and moved closer and they embraced again in the moonlight.
“I love you so much, Lloyd. If I have to wait, I’ll wait.”
“There’s more than just waiting,” he said. “If I’m going to make a life for us, you need to be ready to fit into that life.”
She sighed, “By changing my name?”
“You won’t be changing your name, your name will always be Juana; you’d just be allowing people to call you Joanne, what’s so hard about that? Anyway,” he said brightly, “I plan to change your last name. You’re not complaining about that are you?”
He saw the whiteness of her teeth as she smiled.
“Joanne Jennings,” he said, “that’s not such a bad name, is it ?”
She looked up at him, and he leaned down and kissed her for a long time and they held each other in the quiet of the desert night.
“Oh Lloyd, I love you, will it ever really happen?”
“Yes.”
Jennings experienced a brief, guilty sensation of doubt, but gave it no place, forcing it out of his mind.
“Yes,” he said again, more to himself than to her. “Because I love you, Joanne.”
Jeff was floating. He felt as though he were rising toward the surface of a deep pool of water. He knew what it was. He had experienced the same thing, many years before, and he didn’t want it. With the return of consciousness would come pain.
There was an anvil inside his head, an energetic blacksmith to go with it, and a roaring in his ears like rushing water. But the voice that had seemed so distant, was now nearer, more distinct. It had been a man’s voice; low growling sounds, unintelligible to him. Now a new sound was added: the softer, higher tones of a feminine voice.
Suddenly, something cool was on his forehead. The initial shock was unpleasant but soon he noted an abatement in the throbbing. He tried to rise, but a gentle hand applied pressure on his forehead and eased him back onto the pillow.
“Don’t move,” came the soft, accented voice. “No need to move. You are safe.”
He was now conscious of a raging thirst. The woman seemed to know this, and soon he heard a trickling of water. A hand slid under his head and gently raised it. He greedily drank his fill, spilling water down the sides of his face onto the pillow and he felt that coolness too when his head was laid back down. He let himself relax and go to sleep again.
Several times during the day he was awakened by thirst and was given water. Each time, he went back to sleep wi
thin seconds. That evening he awoke again, feeling more alert, and the memory of what had happened to him returned. Alarmed, he looked around. Where was he? Had he escaped? If so how? He raised his head from the pillow, testing, and was rewarded with a small wave of dizziness and nausea and more than a small amount of pain from his ribs.
“Ah, you have returned to the world, Señor,” said the woman’s voice. “You will be hungry now.”
“Yes,” admitted Jeff, turning his head, despite the pain, to face the owner of the voice. He saw before him a dark-skinned rotund woman with a smiling, crinkled face he instantly liked. She was very short and almost as wide as she was tall. He smiled weakly and her own smile broadened.
“Yes, you have a good smile,” she said. “I think it is good we saved you.”
Turning, she scurried across the room, and soon returned with a wooden cup, half-filled with a dark liquid.
“Drink this first, then food.”
It was warm and slightly bitter but it had a soothing effect on his stomach and throat.
The old woman retrieved the empty cup from him.
Feeling exhausted, he allowed his body to relax again on the bed while he listened to the sounds of her feet scuffing on the dirt floor as she moved about. There were other sounds too: coals being stirred by a stick, liquid being poured and stirred, and her soft humming.
Presently she returned to his side with a clay bowl, which contained a warm broth—mostly liquid, but with small bits of green leaves floating and a few pieces of different vegetables at the bottom. It was delicious, and as he swallowed it he felt it begin to suffuse his body with new strength. After eating he rested for about an hour, half asleep, half conscious, then the door opened and someone with a deep masculine voice—this one with no Spanish accent—entered the room. “How is he?”
“He’s been awake and he has eaten,” said the woman.
“Good.”
Jeff felt strong enough and alert enough now to venture sitting up, and he was growing increasingly curious about where he was and who these people were. He raised himself up, finding the pain in his head to be tolerable and the dizziness much improved. Only the ribs reminded him caution in movement was still in order. There was no part of his body that was not sore, but he had the overall sense he was healing. He sat there and rubbed his eyes and bristly face, realizing it had been days since his last shave.
“Mister, you look a sight,” said the man standing in front of him.
Jeff took his hand away from his eyes and looked up. His voice was hoarse and weak. “You ain’t so lovely yourself, Dan.”
The man called Dan frowned and leaned forward, scrutinizing Jeff’s face. “Who are you?”
“I’m Jeff Havens, Dan. If you don’t remember an old friend any better than this, next time I’ll go to somebody else’s place to sleep.”
A look of enormous pleasure came over Dan Fitzgerald’s wrinkled features and he thrust out his hand and grasped Jeff’s in a handshake rough enough to draw a groan from Jeff and a scowl from the woman. Dan motioned to her. “This is Emelia Diaz. Best doctor I ever knew, though she never went to school a day in her life.”
The woman smiled and stepped closer to clasp Jeff’s hand gently.
“I’m obliged to you,” Jeff said.
Emelia Diaz beamed with pleasure.
“We didn’t know it was you,” said Dan. “You’ve been here three days and we didn’t even know who you were.”
“Three days?” said Jeff in disbelief. He shook his head, trying to take it in. “How did I get here?”
“Amado found you out in the desert.”
“Amado?” This was the biggest surprise yet.
“Yep,” said Dan, chuckling. “That old vaquero thinks of you as his own son, and he didn’t know you either. You were a sight.”
Jeff recalled the incident at the ranch and was anxious to have his questions answered.
“Where is Amado now?”
Dan glanced at Emelia and back to Jeff. “Well, since it’s you, I guess I can tell you. He’s gone south to sell a herd of horses.”
“What’s happened to the ranch?”
“It’s a long story,” said Fitzgerald.
“I want to hear it. I rode in there and they tried to kill me.” Briefly, Jeff related to Emelia and Fitzgerald the events which had occurred the night he had ridden out to the Rafter 8. When he was finished, Fitzgerald shook his head. “You’re lucky to be alive. There are some things you need to know about what’s been going on around here.”
Beginning to feel tired again, Jeff lowered himself back down onto the bed.
As if this were a cue, Emelia stood up and said, “No more talk until you drink something.” For a few minutes she heated and stirred and mixed, then returned to Jeff with a large clay mug filled with an amber sweet-tasting liquid. He drank it and it left him light headed but he felt it immediately begin sending strength to the distant parts of his body. Emelia sat down again. Fitzgerald was patiently packing tobacco into an old pipe but Jeff knew he would talk when he was ready. Presently, the pipe was lit and the room began to fill with the aromatic smoke. Emelia scowled her disapproval, shifting her glance between her patient and the clouds of smoke issuing from the vicinity of Fitzgerald’s face, but she said nothing.
“The cattle business,” began Fitzgerald, “was never much good until they built the railroad. Fact is before that, your grandfather and Amado were the only ones around here who ever made any money to speak of raisin’ cattle, and they didn’t make much till the tracks were laid. After the war, when the soldiers came back and set to fightin’ Indians instead of rebels there was some money to be made sellin’ horses to the army, but cows didn’t get profitable till later. Then, of a sudden they were real profitable. People started roundin’ up range cows that had been wild for years. Then it appears all this useless desert has turned into valuable grazin’ land. Everybody starts drivin’ cattle here and drivin’ cattle there, and fightin’ over water, and fightin’ over grazin’ rights.
“Well, your Grandfather and Amado had a head start on the whole thing. They had already been ranchin’ for years; like I said, not very profitably, but they did sell a few head here and there to miners and settlers for beef. Amado even made a drive once to California. Sold a herd over there in the gold fields, though he didn’t make much on it—losses were too high on the way; cows droppin’ on the trail, Indians drivin’ them off and such. Anyhow, when it got good it got real good. Old John and Amado already had breedin’ stock and a pretty good herd, just runnin’ in the desert, not costin’ them anything. John had filed claim on the land too—land nobody else had been interested in before, and a lot of it. Either he was real smart or just lucky, I never did figure out which. Anyhow, shortly after he died, a slick talker named Tom Stewart shows up with a paper claimin’ you sold the ranch to him and he tells Amado to get off.”
“I’m surprised Amado didn’t kill him,” said Jeff.
Fitzgerald chuckled, “He would have, but Stewart’s too smart to ride out there alone. He had gun-slicks backin’ him right from the start. He fired every hand on the ranch and replaced ‘em with his own men—and they’re a rotten bunch.”
“Yeah, I met some of ‘em,” said Jeff dryly. He added, “Dan, I didn’t sell the ranch.”
“We never believed you had but there was no way to prove it. We didn’t even know where you were. Like I said, Stewart’s smart. My guess is the man’s a professional thief. Been doing it all his life. He knows the thievin’ business like Amado knows the cattle business. Men like him are hard to go up against because they plan ahead for everything.”
“So, what’s Amado been doing since all this happened?”
Fitzgerald grinned, “He’s been stealin’ their horses.”
“Why?” asked Jeff.
“Matter of principle I guess. Figures he’s got more right to them horses than Stewart does. Besides, a man’s gotta live.”
“Stewart will kill him if he catc
hes him.”
“That’s true but there’s another business Amado knows as well as the cattle business: the not gettin’ caught business. He’s as tricky as an Indian.”
Jeff grinned. “He is an Indian. When will he be back?”
“Soon. Tomorrow, maybe the day after. How about you? Now the ranch is gone there’s nothing to hold you here. Reckon you’ll be headin’ off again, eh?”
Jeff looked at Fitzgerald and in the clear blue eyes the older man saw an honest strength that pleased him.
“Not likely,” said Jeff.
Fitzgerald smiled. “Hoped you’d say that.”
Chapter 5
A week after the incident at the T. S., Tom Stewart rode into town, accompanied by Fogarty. He had several items of business to take care of, but his main interest was finding out what Jennings had accomplished in regards to locating Jeff Havens and evicting Julio Arroyo. Stewart timed his arrival in town to coincide with the hour when Jennings customarily went to the hotel for breakfast. Had Jennings known how closely Stewart had studied him and how well his habits were known to the man, he would have been quite uncomfortable and more than a little suspicious. Stewart and Fogarty were already seated at a table near the door when Jennings entered the hotel. Stewart, acting surprised, stood up and extended his hand.
“Sheriff,” he said, “good morning, it’s good to see you. Would you care to have breakfast with us? We’d be pleased to have you share our table.”
Jennings, never completely at ease around people, gave an awkward nod and sat down opposite Stewart. Fogarty, who had remained seated, looked up but said nothing while Jennings ignored him.
“Beautiful day isn’t it?” said Stewart.
“Nice one,” agreed Jennings. “Be hot later on though.”
A heavy-set woman with a greasy apron arrived to take their orders. Stewart made a few attempts to engage Jennings in conversation but with only moderate success. Fogarty left the table and went to the lobby to procure a newspaper, and for a minute there was silence as Jennings pushed a crumb around on the tablecloth with his finger. Stewart smoked and gazed out the window.
