by C. M. Curtis
“Judging from the look of you, I’d say someone took a strong disliking to you last night.” It was the first time Sharp had mentioned the fight since his initial jocular reaction on seeing Jeff, that morning
Jeff grimaced. “That was Al Tannatt.”
“Then watch your back from now on, because he’s pure snake. He’d bushwhack you as quick as a coyote would kill a spring lamb.”
Sharp paid Jeff for the day’s work and it was more than he had expected. He invited Jeff to supper, but Jeff declined, not feeling at all sociable. Two doors down from the hotel was a small building bearing a sign that read “Arnette’s Restaurant.” Jeff had heard the food was good there, but right now he was so hungry it didn’t matter if it was or not.
It was supper time and the restaurant was full. He walked past the front windows twice, surreptitiously checking out the patrons to see if one of them might be Fogarty. Fogarty wasn’t there.
Jeff walked in and hung his hat on a peg by the door. Finding a clear table where he could watch the door, he sat down and was soon attended by an attractive young woman wearing an apron. Her face was framed by locks of dark, somewhat disheveled hair, which she was constantly pushing away from her perspiring forehead. Her eyes were large and brown and a little too world-wise, but Jeff liked them, and he liked the way she smiled at him. She waited, watching his face while he read the menu board on the wall. He ordered his meal and she retreated to the kitchen.
When she brought his food she said, “You’re the one who licked Al Tannatt aren’t you?”
“We pretty much licked each other.”
“I didn’t think it could be done,” she said, ignoring his modest disclaimer in favor of the gossip that was now all over town. “No one’s ever done it before.”
Jeff quoted the words of an old cowboy adage. “Never a horse that couldn’t be rode, never a cowboy couldn’t be throwed.”
“Including you?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“By whom?”
“By Al Tannatt, on another day.”
“What’s your name?”
“Bob Webb.” He hated saying it; hated telling this lie to everyone he met.
“I’m Nancy. Nice to meet you, Mr. Webb.”
The food was good but it hurt to chew. His face and body were so badly bruised, it hurt to do just about anything, and he knew tomorrow would be worse; the second day always was.
When he finished eating he left the money for his meal, plus a tip, on the table and waved a thank you to Nancy, who was cleaning tables. She smiled sweetly and said, “Come back again.”
Leaving Arnette’s, Jeff passed a group of men on the boardwalk. One of them said, “Good fight last night.” The others mumbled agreement. He nodded, feeling a twinge of resentment. ”Too bad,” he thought, ”a man has to half-kill another man in order to be accepted.” He decided against going to the saloon. Tonight his body needed rest. He tramped over to the livery stable and paid the owner, Ben Houk, in advance, to let him spend a night in the loft. He climbed up and fell directly to sleep.
Chapter 13
Winter came too soon, as it does in the high country, and laid its whiteness across the land. There was a small sawmill outside of town whose owner had become too ill to run it and had placed it up for sale. Jake Sharp bought it and hired Jeff to run it, with two other men to help him. The equipment and premises were in disrepair and it was slow going at first, but by spring, business looked promising. Jeff lived in a shack on the premises, which he had cleaned up and repaired. It was small, but warm and comfortable. One day a week he still drove a wagon to the mines with Sharp.
Jeff and Amado had agreed to reunite in a year. In a few months it would be time. Jeff wasn’t sure how they were going to do it, but he wanted his name cleared; he wanted that even more than he wanted the ranch.
He had watched for Fogarty all winter, but had seen no trace of the gunman. And though he tried not to think of Anne, he often did, and worried about her. The familiar sense of longing he felt each time he thought of her was something he had grown to accept over the years as a part of his life that would never change.
Spring came and turned the flats first to mud and then to green, growing grass. The cattle began to shed their ragged winter coats and to fatten up. There were less of them than there had been at this time last year, and still no one knew who was doing the rustling or how they were doing it. Tensions in the valley grew daily and people became increasingly willing to blame someone else without any real facts on which to base their accusations.
Some people pointed fingers at the small ranchers because they were losing proportionately less cattle than either of the big ranches. Others believed it was either the Double T or the Circle M and the guilty rancher was claiming cattle losses in order to hide his guilt.
There had been no further face to face confrontations between Jeff and Al Tannatt, though whenever Jeff did see the man in town, he was greeted with menacing looks from the younger Tannatt and his friends.
Occasionally in town Jeff saw people he knew from the Circle M. They, with the exception of Reef or Catherine Marcellin, whom he only saw twice, greeted him with coldness or not at all. But both times he encountered Catherine she treated him with the same warmth she had shown him on the night of their conversation in her kitchen, stopping to talk and inquire about his life. No further mention was made of her dream, and Jeff felt her interest in him was genuine.
Alex Parrish and Joe Hakes crawled on their bellies the last few yards up the side of the hill and peered over the crest. They were Double T riders and had been sent down to this remote corner of the ranch to clean out a water hole and check on the stock. It was all routine and needed to be done every spring, but this time they had cut the trail of several riders who were pushing twenty to thirty head of cattle off Double T land. The trail was fresh, and Alex and Joe followed it. It led them into country they had never been in before: the wild, unmapped brakes of the mountains that formed the eastern and southern boundaries of the valley. Now, after hours of cautiously trailing the men and the herd, they were getting their first look at the rustlers. The two cowboys were perplexed. Why would the rustlers come here? True, it was a good place to hide but you don’t make any money by hiding a herd; you have to get the herd to where it can be sold and this part of the valley was boxed in by impassible mountains.
As the two men watched the goings on in the small basin below, looks of astonishment spread across their faces.
Alex turned to Joe “Did you see that?”
Joe nodded. “So that’s it.”
“Let’s get back and tell the boss.”
Hurriedly they slid back down the hill and made their way to where they had left their horses. Alex was in the lead, moving down the center of an eight-foot deep wash with vertical sides. When they arrived at the mouth of the wash, Alex stopped abruptly, and Joe, close behind, bumped into him.
“What . . . ?”Joe began. The horses were gone.
Alex knew instantly they had been discovered; he stood frozen for a moment, unable to decide what to do next.
Suddenly a voice punctured the stillness, coming from the rim of the wash above them. “We ain’t all that stupid, and we don’t like to be followed. Slip your guns out and let ‘em fall.”
They did as they were told and Rand Fogarty stepped into view on top of the wash bank, looking down at them through the sights of a Winchester carbine.
The group of Double T riders numbering eight altogether, including Emil and Al Tannatt, rode up to the Circle M headquarters. They reined their horses in at the porch but did not bother to dismount. Jim Marcellin, who had already been apprised of their approach, stood on the front porch. He wore a pistol, but kept it holstered. The evening sun, low in the west, cast no direct light on Emil’s face, and the shadows accentuated the hostile lines Marcellin saw on the Elder Tannatt’s countenance.
“Evenin’, Emil,” said Marcellin, with no trace of friendliness in his voice. �
�What can I do for you? I can see this isn’t a social call.”
“I hear your boys have been hangin’ rustlers,” said Tannatt.
“We hung a couple,” responded Marcellin. “I don’t see as that’s any concern of yours.” As he spoke Marcellin divided his attention between the elder Tannatt and his son, who was next to him. He knew, in the vengeful, unpredictable Al Tannatt lay the greater danger.
“A couple of my best riders turned up missing several days ago,” Tannatt said. “I sent some of the boys out to hunt for them. They found them down south on your land, decoratin’ a cottonwood tree.”
“And you think we hung them,” said Marcellin. “Did it occur to you that maybe somebody hung them on my land to make it look like it was the Circle M that did it?”
Emil Tannatt’s eyes flashed, “Don’t treat me like a fool, Marcellin. I’m not a man to start flingin’ lead unless I’m sure of my reasons. If I was sure your men did it, we would’ve rode in here shooting instead of sitting here like we are right now, giving you the chance to explain.”
Anger darkened Marcellin’s face and tightened his lips. “Hear me, Tannatt. I have nothing to explain nor do any of my men. We’ve hung two rustlers and that was Gordon Stone and Billy Dell. They were rustling Circle M beef on Circle M range and that’s none of your concern.”
Tannatt sat atop his horse, glaring down at Marcellin for a tense moment. Finally he jerked the reins around and led his group out of the yard at a gallop. As the dust of the riders was clearing, Circle M men began appearing from their various places of concealment around the yard. Marcellin knew if the Tannatt’s had tried anything, they and their men would have been cut to pieces. Emil Tannatt must have known it too.
Marcellin turned back to the house to find Catherine standing there. “There’s just no dealing with a man like that,” he said.
“Maybe you could have handled it differently.”
“What you’re saying, Mother, is you would have handled it better.”
“Emil Tannatt is a stubborn man,” she said. “You don’t fight stubbornness with stubbornness; it’s like two rams butting heads. One of them doesn’t just stop and decide to be reasonable; they go at it until one is down.”
“I need some coffee,” Marcellin said, as he brushed past her into the house.
It was early summer when Fogarty turned up again. Jeff was bringing a load of lumber into town for one of the local merchants when he saw three horses bearing the T.S. brand, tied to the hitching rail in front of Jake Sharp’s establishment. One of them wore a saddle, the others were pack animals. Jeff pulled his hat low on his face and drove the wagon on down to where it was to be unloaded.
He slipped across the street, up the back alley and through the rear door of Sharp’s Mercantile. Hiding in the shadows, he moved to a point in the back room from where he could see through an open doorway into the front. There he saw Fogarty purchasing supplies. Jeff watched as Fogarty carried his purchases out and loaded them into the empty packs on the pack horses, and afterwards mounted up and rode south, out of town.
Jeff walked into the front of the store, surprising Sharp, who gave him an inquisitive look.
“Jake, I have to take a day off; it’s important.”
Sharp gave Jeff a studied look and Jeff was relieved when he replied without asking any questions. “All right, you’ve never asked for time off before so go ahead.”
Jeff hurried over to the livery to rent a horse. As yet he had not purchased one of his own, having decided to save all of the money he could in order to equip himself for his rendezvous with Amado at the end of the summer.
Ben Houk was there, mucking out stalls, moving slowly.
“I need a good horse, Ben.”
“Sure, where you goin”?
“For a ride.”
Ben understood and asked no more questions. He selected a horse and saddled it for Jeff.
“Got any saddlebags?” asked Jeff.
Ben nodded and brought some saddlebags and tied them on. Jeff thanked him.
“I’ll be back in a day, Ben.”
“See you when you get here.”
He rode down the street to the saloon, quickly dismounted and tied the horse. He went in and walked over to the bar. Charley Lovell greeted him amiably, and Jeff said, “Give me a bottle of whiskey, Charley.”
Charley set a bottle of whiskey on the counter and Jeff paid for it, but didn’t pick it up. Instead, he went over to the free lunch counter and gathered up as many sandwiches as he could hold in his two hands. Nodding at Charley he said, “Thanks” and left the establishment, leaving the bottle of whiskey on the bar.
He placed the sandwiches in the saddlebags, wishing he had something to wrap them in, then strode two doors down to the gun shop, where he purchased a box of shells for his 44. He could have gotten them at Sharp’s, but he didn’t want to arouse Jake’s curiosity any more than he already had. His final stop was at the wagon he had driven into town, where he retrieved his canteen and a carbine he kept under the seat, mounted the rented horse, and rode out of town in the direction Fogarty had taken. The gunman had a fifteen-minute head-start, which was fine with Jeff. He had decided that rather than trying to keep Fogarty in view, he would allow him to get some distance ahead. He did not want the man to become aware he was being followed.
He knew Fogarty was smart, and there was still the risk the gunman would stop and watch his back-trail, but that was a risk Jeff would have to take. He felt sure that Fogarty had no reason to expect to be followed, and so would not be overly cautious.
Jeff could judge Fogarty’s speed by the kind of trail his horses left. A horse leaves a different type of track for different gaits and an experienced tracker can distinguish between them. Fogarty was moving at a moderate pace, not hurried, but he wanted to get to where he was going. And Jeff wanted to know where that was, and what Tom Stewart’s hired gun was doing there.
The trail led directly south from town onto Circle M land, but after crossing Sunset Ridge it turned southeast, and several hours later, cut across the northeast corner of the Double T. Shortly after entering Double T land, the trail led over a rise along a low hill.
Before reaching the crest, Jeff left his horse tethered to a bush and crept to the top of the hill. Lying on his stomach in the tall grass, he surveyed the unfamiliar country in front of him. Immediately he was glad he had taken this precaution because Fogarty was a mere three hundred yards away.
As Jeff watched, hidden by the grass, the gunman stopped and turned in the saddle and for the space of a full five minutes sat motionless, looking back as if he had felt Jeff’s eyes upon him. Presently, he turned and continued southeast. Jeff decided to give him plenty of time to increase the distance between them. He lay there and waited for about twenty minutes, long after Fogarty had been lost from view behind a rugged bluff. Jeff was about to return to his horse when a sound caught his attention.
A group of riders came into view, coming from the Double T. There were five of them, headed directly toward the Circle M. Jeff experienced a feeling of alarm. These men were in a hurry, riding with purpose. What was it? He recognized Al Tannatt’s big gray gelding leading the cloud of dust, and realized with a jolt what was happening. These men were riding for vengeance, headed straight for the Circle M headquarters.
Jeff knew, as he knew these men did too, that most of the Circle M hands would be out on the range today. There would only be a handful of people at the ranch house, and fewer men. Five armed men with the element of surprise on their side would have all the advantage—and Al Tannatt was capable of anything.
Jeff spurred his horse down the hill, knowing there was no way he could beat the riders to the Circle M headquarters; they had too much of a lead. Nor was there a shortcut he could take; the five riders were taking the most direct route, and no matter what he did they would arrive minutes before he did. He spurred his horse, pushing it into a run. He would have to pace the animal; it could not run all-out the full
distance. He would get there as soon as he could; there was no way to do any better. It was a helpless feeling.
Eli Marcellin shuffled into the Red Stallion, his blurry eyes grateful for the relief from the bright sun outside. He stepped over to the bar, leaned on it as though he had just finished a hard day’s work and ordered his morning beer. Taking a long draught, he wiped his mouth on the back of his hand and turned to see what kind of companionship was available at this time of day, only to find he was alone with Charley Lovell, the saloon keeper.
“You seen Al today?” murmured Eli.
“Nope.”
Eli finished his beer and ordered another one. He was half way through it when the sounds of running boots were heard on the boardwalk. Henry Wallen burst through the bat-wings and stopped just inside, breathing heavily. There was urgency in the way he scanned the room and in his voice when he spoke. “You seen the sheriff, Charley?”
“No, ain’t he in his office?”
“No.”
Wallen turned back toward the street.
“What’s wrong?” asked Charlie.
“Al Tannatt and a bunch of the Double T boys are headed over to Marcellin’s,” Wallen said over his shoulder. Then he noticed Eli for the first time. “They’re actin’ real ugly, Eli; better help me find the sheriff.”
Eli stood frozen at the bar, his beer half-way to his mouth.
Wallen was already out the door when Eli sprang after him. “I need your horse, Henry, mine’s at the stable. No time to saddle up.”
“Sure, go ahead.”
Wallen’s horse was tied across the street in front of the sheriff’s office. Eli ran to it, leaped into the saddle and turned toward the Circle M. The animal was a farm horse; big, slow, and unaccustomed to long rides at any speed, much less a sustained run. It soon began slacking the pace. Eli urged the horse on furiously, kicking it in the flanks with spurless boots and whipping it with the reins, praying aloud all the while.
