Return of the Outlaw

by C. M. Curtis

  “What for?” asked Fogarty

  “I’m going to do what we should have done in the beginning. We handled this all wrong.”

  By the time Stewart arrived in town, the night was in full swing. The town had made its daily shift from daytime, when its sober citizens left their homes and filled the streets and businesses with the activity of their comings and goings, to the night, when God-fearing people were in their houses, eating their suppers, smoking their pipes, doing their lessons and conversing. Now the town belonged to the miners, the soldiers, the railroad men, the cowboys, and the drifters.

  And it was on them that Stewart had come to call tonight.

  Anne was watching from an upstairs window when Fogarty and the other men arrived. She was not pleased to see Fogarty return; it had been so pleasant to have him gone. But in a greater sense she was relieved. She could tell by the gunman’s bearing and by his face that he had been unsuccessful. She observed this even before she saw that there were no horses with bodies tied across the saddles. Jeff and Amado must still be safe. She said a silent prayer of thanks. From the window she observed the short interchange between Stewart and Fogarty and watched as her husband mounted up and rode toward town. She wished he had said something to her; she would have preferred to go with him. There was always an uneasy feeling in the house when Stewart was gone and Fogarty was around. And why did Fogarty have to stay in the house? Why couldn’t he bunk with the rest of the men? She had never understood her husband’s relationship with this man, and it bothered her a great deal.

  She recalled a time when she was a little girl, when some men had caught a wolf in a trap and brought him to town tied to the bed of a wagon. Anne was in town that day with her father. She recalled how she felt sorry for the wolf, stolen from its habitat, tied up and made an object of amusement. She stood alone, watching the animal while her father was conversing with some men. She wanted to touch it; to stroke it and comfort it and set it free. Then it turned its eyes on her. Eyes that were gray like the clouds and cold like the mountains in winter, and she was terribly afraid and glad the wolf was tied up. She hoped they would never release it, afraid it would come to her home, and remembering her as one of its captors, take its revenge. She was six years old at the time, and for weeks afterward was bothered with nightmares about the wolf. Eventually she had lost her fear of the animal, but she never forgot the eyes and the way they looked at her.

  Fogarty looked at her the same way: with wolf eyes; eyes that mocked her and threatened her and promised to do her harm someday. And though she had never told Stewart, Fogarty’s presence in this house was one of the reasons she spent so much time away. It was bad enough having Fogarty around when her husband was present but on the occasions when Stewart was gone from the ranch, she found the gunman’s presence unbearable.

  Fortunately she had been able to avoid being alone with the man. Maria, the Mexican housekeeper and cook and her daughter, Lupe, were always there, but Anne still felt unprotected, and when Stewart was away, she usually stayed in her room until he returned.

  As she watched him ride away now, she considered changing her clothes and following him, but she realized he was traveling too fast; she would probably be unable to overtake him. Moreover, she knew he would resent her coming along uninvited. He was very secretive about his business and Anne made it a point never to pry.

  She heard a sound coming from the hall and opened the door a crack to peer out. Fogarty was standing a few feet away, looking directly at her bedroom door with his sneering wolf eyes. She quickly closed the door and shot the bolt, and she heard his soft, mocking laugh and the sounds of his boots as he walked away. The fact that he had made no such sounds while approaching her door sent a chill through her.

  At times like this Anne realized how truly alone she was. She and Tom were not close; they were not really even friends. Before their marriage, she had believed they would become close, but there was something about him that made it impossible for her to love him. She could not define that something, could not even articulate it in her mind, but it put her in mind of her mother.

  During their brief courtship, Tom had been kind, considerate, and likeable. He had seemed to be a good man, and she had firmly believed, or perhaps had merely convinced herself he and she would be good for each other and would have a good life together. She was sure their relationship would progress as they came to know each other better, but now . . .

  Sometimes in the past she had wondered if the part of Tom that he let her see was real. Now after their quarrel, she felt she didn’t really know him at all. And she felt very much alone. Nor did the presence of the housekeeper and her daughter serve to lessen her sense of aloneness. The two women had worked for Stewart since before he married Anne, and from the time Anne had come to live in this house, they had always been polite and accommodating, but aloof and unresponsive to her attempts at friendship, never approaching her, never speaking unless spoken to. Anne suspected this behavior was based on orders from Stewart, and she had long ago ceased trying to befriend the only other women on the ranch.

  She felt very unfortunate in this respect. Most large western ranches were small communities, with wives and families of ranch hands living on the ranch. She did not understand why Stewart employed the kind of men he did: hard men, single men, who had come here alone and showed no inclinations of domesticity.

  Perhaps it was her loneliness that compelled her more and more often to seek the solace of the grove of cottonwoods. She felt comfort there, and a sense of ownership, as though the trees and the privacy belonged to her alone. It was a feeling she felt in no other place.

  She stood at the window for a long time, looking out at the jagged forms of the mountains, and considered her dilemma. There was no escaping the fact that sooner or later her mother and husband must know she was expecting a child, but until that time it would be her own precious secret. Once they knew about it, they would both try to use it somehow to control her. They were very much alike in that way, and she thought it ironic she had married someone so much like her mother. She had never intended to do that.

  Jeff gnawed the last traces of meat from a bone of the cottontail rabbit Amado had shot and cooked. “What’s your plan now?” he asked.

  It had been two days since the posse left the mountains, and the food Amado and Jeff had inherited from Hatcherson and Sundust was gone. Amado, who was also working on a final morsel of the tough little rodent, raised his head to meet Jeff’s gaze and Jeff saw in his eyes the indomitable will and stubborn determination that so characterized the man.

  “I’ll be staying around,” Amado said.

  Jeff threw away the bone, wiped his hands on his pants, and stood up. “You can’t stay, Amado. Just because they left the mountains doesn’t mean they won’t still shoot either one of us on sight. You can’t stick around these parts. Neither one of us can.”

  Amado shook his head. “You’re the one who can’t stay. My situation is better than it was before.”

  “How’s that?”

  “Before, they knew I was around. They were always watching for me. Now, they’ll expect me to leave. They won’t be watching. All I have to do is stay out of sight.”

  “How will you live?”

  “The same way I have since those ladrones stole the ranch.

  “You mean by stealing horses and cattle?”

  “It’s not stealing; Stewart and Fogarty are the thieves.”

  “Alright,” said Jeff, “I understand, but at least come with me. Let’s go somewhere and hide out until things cool down.” He knew as he spoke, it was useless; there would be no argument that could persuade Amado.

  Amado smiled an odd smile. There was a sadness in his eyes that Jeff had seen before. A deep cumulative sorrow built up over a lifetime of living; a composite of memories of loved ones long dead and dreams long buried; of grief and loss and of happy times, and of joys that, even themselves were now sources of sorrow because they were past. Suddenly, Je
ff realized he was wrong in asking Amado to leave. “I’m sorry old friend,” he said softly. “You’re right.”

  In that moment it occurred to him that Amado was always right. He had been the one infallible source of wisdom in Jeff’s life and for a moment Jeff thought of staying with him and toughing it out together, come what may. But the look in Amado’s eyes changed. He said, “I’ll stay, but you have to go. It’s different for me, I’m old. I’ve seen enough of life.”

  As he had many times before, Jeff wondered about Amado’s past, but he refrained from asking. Amado had never talked about his prior life either to John Havens or to Jeff, and Jeff had somehow understood from a young age that there were certain kinds of questions that were not to be asked.

  Amado continued. “You’ll have children and the Rafter 8 will be their home. It has to be that way or else your grandfather and I will have worked all those years for nothing. Go, but come back in a year, and we’ll decide together how to get the ranch back.

  They rode all morning, following canyon bottoms and game trails, and by late afternoon they had arrived at the forks of a more heavily traveled trail which could either lead them due west out of the mountains, or southeast back into the bowels of the labyrinth from which they had just come. Both trails showed signs of recent travel, a fact that worried Jeff.

  Amado dismounted and squatted down to study the trail, reading the stories printed there like most men read a newspaper. Presently, he stood and remounted. He said nothing, but Jeff could read trail sign too.

  They rode the westward trail for another twenty minutes until Amado abruptly reined in and began sniffing the air. Then Jeff smelled it too—the pungent odor of campfire.

  The sun was displaying its final glow over the ragged mountain horizon and the light was fast fading when Harve Buell finished his supper. He stood up and spat a long stream of tobacco juice into the glowing coals of the camp fire, incurring dark looks from his four companions. He walked over to a small dry stream bed and scrubbed his tin plate clean with the fine sand. In country like this it was best not to waste water. Tilting his head upward, his eyes swept the tops of the rugged hills around him, and selecting a low one in the foreground, he started toward it.

  “Be back in a while, boys,” he said. “I’m goin’ to climb a mountain and take a squint around before it’s too dark.”

  Ten minutes later, with his companions out of sight behind the low bluff at the base of which they had set up their camp, Harve walked past a large boulder and found a pistol barrel in his face.

  “Don’t make a sound,” came the soft-voiced command.

  Harve didn’t need to be told this was Amado Lopez, the man whose magnified exploits were now legendary in the region. He looked into the dark eyes and was sure he was dead. “Don’t kill me, Lopez, please.”

  “Then don’t make any more noise.”

  Harve closed his jaw, clicking his teeth in a show of compliance.

  “Walk backward,” ordered Amado.

  Harve complied again, moving back a few paces.

  “Keep going.”

  Harve walked backward until he struck something sharp and spiny, his taut nerves made him jump and almost cry out, but he forced his jaw shut again.

  “Stand there,” Amado instructed as he slipped a coil of rope off of his shoulder.

  Harve wasn’t sure, but the rope looked a lot like one that belonged to Pete Wagner, one of the men back at camp.

  He felt his arms being tied to his sides, then the rope was looped around his body, and Amado moved backwards away from him, playing out the rope as he went. Harve didn’t dare look around but he heard the sounds of Amado’s boots moving away and he felt the gentle tugs on the rope as Amado played it out. There was a swift jerk and Harve was hauled off his feet, landing in the middle of a giant patch of prickly pear cactus. No longer able to control himself, he began screaming and thrashing about, but with his arms tied to his sides he was unable to extricate himself.

  Back at camp, Harve’s four companions had just finished picketing the horses and were spreading their blankets on the ground when the first shriek reached their ears. Grabbing their rifles, they rushed out of camp and ran in the direction Harve had gone, guided by the sounds of his unremitting screams. They slowed down as they drew near, growing more cautious. None of them wanted to rush into a trap and meet with the same awful fate—whatever it may be—that had overtaken poor Harve.

  They scouted the area, and when they felt secure enough to approach Harve’s position, and were able to see his predicament, they began laughing so hard that for a few moments they were unable to give any assistance to their unfortunate companion. Presently, however, Harve was removed from his bed of cactus.

  “Quit yellin’,” said Joey Tilford. “You ain’t hurt that bad.”

  Harve was furious now. “Why don’t you try wallowin’ in that stuff and see if you don’t yell.”

  While he was untying the rope, Pete Wagner exclaimed in surprise, “Hey this is my rope, Harve, how’d you get tied up with my rope?”

  For a few seconds, uneasy glances were exchanged, and almost in unison, the four men bolted in the direction of the camp, leaving Harve to finish untying himself and begin the long process of extracting cactus needles from his body.

  A few minutes later, when the men arrived back at camp, their worst fears were confirmed. Everything was gone but the fire. It was now completely dark and the moon wasn’t out yet, so the chances of tracking the thief tonight were slim. And though they tried for several hours, their efforts met with failure.

  “What do we do now?” asked Harve, still with a trace of a whine in his voice.

  “We start walking back to town,” said Tilford, “and when we get there, I’m going to grab the first Mexican I see and kill him for pure pleasure.”

  “Me too,” said Harve bitterly, and spat the last of his tobacco into the dead fire.

  Amado reined in at the narrow pass, which was the last protected area before the trail exited the mountains, miles north of the point where Jeff had first entered with the posse on his heels. He began rummaging through the packs of provisions and gear, taking stock of what was there. It was obvious the five men had been planning to spend considerable time in the mountains—there were enough provisions for them to have stayed for at least two weeks.

  “I heard them talking,” said Amado.

  Jeff stopped what he was doing and turned to face his friend.

  “Stewart has offered a reward—two thousand dollars for each of us.”

  Jeff reflected on this for a moment. His own suspicions were confirmed. Already this trail bore the tracks of several parties and there were other trails as well. Two thousand dollars was a lot of money—more than most men in these parts earned in five years. Soon the mountains would be overrun with bounty hunters; amateur and professional. It was time to leave for a while. Now, more than ever, Jeff worried about Amado, but he understood the futility of trying to convince the man to come with him. Moreover, he understood why Amado needed to stay.

  “It’s best you go tonight,” said Amado interrupting Jeff’s thoughts.

  “How about you?”

  “I’ll pick up a few horses and head south. I’ll sell them and stay there for a month or so, by then the bounty hunters will have given up.”

  In the darkness the two men made the necessary preparations to go their separate ways. Jeff was outfitted with three horses, packs, and provisions.

  The packs were tied on and rechecked and it was time. Jeff felt a profound heaviness of heart and a deep reluctance to leave his friend. Somehow it seemed wrong for them to separate. They should stay together and stand together, as they had in the mountains. They should face the future together as they had faced Hatcherson and Sundust. It seemed wrong to ride away from danger, knowing Amado was riding into it, but there was no other course. Jeff knew he had to leave.

  They stood facing each other for a moment. Presently Jeff said, “Well, old friend, be
careful.”

  There was a look in Amado’s eyes that Jeff had never seen before; one that seemed to speak of things he was unable to say. Finally he did speak. “If my sons had lived, I would have wanted them to be like you.”

  This was the only time Amado would ever mention his past to Jeff. They stood facing each other for a moment, but neither one said anything else.

  If they had been able to see the future, they probably would have.

  Jeff followed the trail north to where it made an almost ninety degree bend, swinging west, taking him to a point that was a scant three miles north of town. Here he picked up the trail that led over the mountains to the west. He rode all night and by morning he and his three horses had reached the open desert on the other side.

  Here the trail forked, and from this point Jeff could head south, west, or north. His intention had been to travel west, but as he sat at the cross-roads he felt drawn to the northward trail. There was nothing he could think of that appealed to him in the north—winter would be coming soon and Jeff disliked snow and cold sunless weather, but he had learned to listen to his instincts and pay heed to the unnamed feelings he sometimes had. He had survived perilous times during the war and since by doing so. Besides, he reasoned: all things considered, what did it really matter which direction he went? A man never knew what was around the next bend in the trail, much less what awaited him at the end of a journey.

  Chapter 8

  Anne lay on the bed in the guest room—which she had begun to think of as her room. She had been there for hours, thinking. The sun had set and the room was dark, but she had not bothered to light a lamp. Stewart was in town again tonight. He was spending more and more time away from the ranch and things were not right between them. She realized now they never really had been. Until recently, she had convinced herself her life was satisfactory. Now she understood it was woefully deficient in the things most essential to happiness. The fact she was expecting a baby gave her additional reason to reassess her circumstances. She wanted her child to be happy—she didn’t want its childhood to be like hers had been, and she realized unhappily, that her life was following a pattern which had been established for her by her parents.