Return of the Outlaw

by C. M. Curtis

Jeff had planned on cleaning up after leaving the mercantile and going over to Arnette’s for a meal, but after the incident with Sharp he didn’t feel like talking to anyone, so he decided to stop in the saloon for a drink. He knew at this hour the establishment would be relatively empty, and he should be able to sit in a corner without being bothered. He was tying his horse at the hitching rail when a voice came from behind him. “Jeff Havens?”

  The sound of his real name sent shock waves reverberating through him like a thunderclap. He recognized the voice and turned around slowly. It was Sheriff Beeman. Standing beside him, gun in hand, was a man Jeff had never seen before. The man said to Beeman, “That’s your man, Sheriff, that’s Jeff Havens.”

  “You sure about this, Mr. Stewart?”

  “Look at the picture on the poster, Sheriff; it’s him.”

  “Is it true, Webb, are you Jeff Havens?” asked Beeman. He held a wrinkled wanted poster in his hand, supplied, Jeff rightly guessed, by Tom Stewart. Beeman was shifting his gaze back and forth between the poster and Jeff’s face.

  “It’s me, Alvah.”

  Beeman slowly refolded the poster and handed it to Stewart. Jeff saw reluctance on the Sheriff’s face as he pulled his gun.

  “You’d better get his gun, Sheriff,” said Stewart, “this man is wanted for murder, cattle rustling, and horse theft.”

  Already, a crowd of onlookers had gathered. “Pull your gun out slow,” said Beeman, “and hand it over.”

  Jeff did as he was told. As they walked to the jail, it seemed to him the whole town had turned out, as if no one had anything better to do than to watch him in his hour of humiliation. After locking him in a cell, Beeman stood looking at him for a moment. Jeff saw sincere regret in his eyes. Neither of them spoke.

  Beeman turned to Stewart, “Are you sure he did all those things, I know him personally. He never seemed like a killer to me.”

  “Let me ask you something, Sheriff, have you had any cattle rustling around here lately?”

  Beeman nodded.

  “Anybody turn up missing, or have any men been killed under mysterious circumstances?”

  “Yes.”

  “Any missing horses?”

  “Yes, that too,” said Beeman, remembering Jeff himself had brought in the missing horses.

  “Sheriff,” said Stewart, “guard that man carefully, because everywhere he goes those things happen.” He slapped Beeman on the shoulder fraternally. “Sheriff Beeman, the people of this community are very fortunate to have a man like you as their sheriff, and I’m sure they’ll be grateful when they find out who you’ve just arrested.” He turned to look at Jeff, who was glaring out through the bars with hatred.

  “Well, I guess this cleans up the Havens Gang,” Stewart said.

  “The Havens Gang?”

  “Yes,” said Stewart still looking at Jeff, mocking him with his eyes, “Havens here and the two other outlaws that rode with him: a killer by the name of Fitzgerald, and a Mexican outlaw named Lopez. They raised a lot of hell down around my part of the country for a while. Havens here ran out on his two pals when things got hot. Lopez was shot to death while he was kidnapping a woman. Fitzgerald got caught in the act of changing brands on rustled cattle and was hanged. I tell you sheriff, it was a hornet’s nest for a while and a lot of folks will breathe a lot easier when Jeff Havens is finally at the end of a rope.”

  Jeff was stunned by what he had just heard. He prayed it wasn’t true, but inside he knew it was. There was too much gloating in Stewart’s smile as he watched for Jeff’s reaction. It must be true. Old Dan was dead and Amado too. Amado; the man who had been like a father to him. It seemed impossible that he could be dead.

  Stewart was watching Jeff, clearly savoring this moment of triumph for which he had waited so long and which had come so unexpectedly. Suddenly the force of Jeff’s rage was more than he could control. He sprang to his feet and hurled himself at the bars, fully expecting them to fall under the weight of his fury. But they held, and his impotence made him angrier. Rage darkened his face. “You lying, murdering scum,” he screamed, “I’ll get out of here and I will take everything from you, the way you did me: the ranch, the cattle, the horses. I’ll kill your friends—Rand Fogarty will be the first. I’ll take Anne from you too. I’ll tell her the truth about you. I’ll tell everyone the truth about you and then I’ll kill you, I promise you I’ll find a way to do it.”

  Jeff’s fury was an impressive thing, and Stewart took a step backward, not completely trusting the steel bars. Suddenly, this small town jail didn’t seem secure enough, and Stewart knew he could never breathe easy as long as Jeff Havens was alive. Jeff Havens was the one living man who still had the power to damage him. At that moment Stewart arrived at a decision. Havens would never stand trial. He would die in this town and he would die soon. Turning to Beeman he said, “As you can see, the man’s an insane killer. Guard him well, Sheriff.”

  Beeman slowly turned a stony countenance toward Stewart. “There’s not a thing about this situation that I like, Stewart, but Havens is wanted and I’m the law here, so my duty is clear. But there’s nothing written anywhere that says I have to stand here and listen to you tell me how to guard a prisoner.”

  For a brief instant Beeman saw something in Stewart’s eyes that seemed to surge up from some inner depth and then recede back inside; thrust back by strength of will. Beeman realized at that moment that Tom Stewart could be a very dangerous man.

  Stewart smiled. “I apologize, Sheriff. Could we talk outside?”

  They stepped out onto the boardwalk and Stewart said, “You must forgive my concern, Sheriff Beeman, but undoubtedly Havens has friends who will try to break him out. He never works alone. I suggest we make arrangements immediately to get him back as soon as possible, where he can stand trial. Because if he stays here, I predict there will be trouble.”

  Beeman was in favor of this idea; he didn’t like the situation and the thought of getting it off his hands appealed to him. “Suits me fine, Stewart, I’ll take care of it.”

  From the sheriff’s office, Stewart went directly to the telegraph office and sent a telegram to Lloyd Jennings informing him Jeff Havens had been captured and instructing him to proceed north immediately with several of Stewart’s own men. It was not however, Tom Stewart’s intention for Jeff Havens to ever stand trial. He, Stewart, and his crew of outlaws had lost a great deal of popularity in the last year or so, and he doubted a local jury would convict Havens on the testimonies of himself and Fogarty. Moreover, it would take Beeman some time to make the arrangements for Jeff to be transported, and during that time Havens could do a lot of talking. His outburst in the jail had already been more than enough.

  Stewart felt he had planned too long and worked too hard to take any risks at this point. Everything he wanted was too nearly in his grasp. He intended to see that Jeff Havens didn’t remain alive long enough to cause any more problems.

  He went back to the hotel, where he found Fogarty sitting in the lobby, smoking a cigar and reading a newspaper. Fogarty had returned the previous day from taking supplies to the men at the pass, who had then started on the trail back to Stewart’s ranch, pushing a herd of rustled cattle.

  Checking to make sure there was no one within earshot, Stewart sat down next to Fogarty and said, “We’ve got Havens.”

  Fogarty set the newspaper down and turned quickly to face Stewart, “Where?”

  “He’s in jail right now. I spotted him—recognized him from the wanted poster. I went and found the sheriff. He knows Havens pretty well, but he knows him under the name of Webb. He’s been working at the sawmill here. Beeman is going to make arrangements for Havens to be sent back, but we can’t wait that long. Havens has already started making accusations and threats and if he throws suspicion on us, he won’t have to be able to back it up. If people in this valley don’t trust us, I won’t be able to do what I need to do here.”

  “So we kill him,” said Fogarty.

  �
��No, it can’t be us; we can’t even be suspected of it. I’ve thought of another way.” He looked around the room again to make sure no one was close enough to hear what was being said. Fogarty leaned closer.

  Jeff sat in his cell, his mood alternating between fury, grief, and despair. With the loss of Amado he felt he had lost the last of his family. Moreover, he would now lose the new friends he had made here in the valley. In the dark silence of his cell, he thought of Anne. Many times he had wished he could stop loving her, but tonight he did not wish that. He found comfort in his memories of her. He wondered if she still loved Tom Stewart and he wondered what kind of life they had together. He had a desperate need to speak with her; to tell her the truth about her husband, even if she hated him for it. He knew her too well to believe she would prefer to remain in ignorance. He vowed somehow to escape, not to save himself, but to save Anne—and to avenge Amado.

  When the Circle M riders had found him in Gordon’s and Billy’s camp, he had accepted his fate and made no attempt to escape. But this time would be different, he promised himself. His anger, his grief, and his concern for Anne boiled inside him, colliding and conjoining, and giving him a sense of power, so that he felt as though the force of his will could bend the iron bars. He would escape. He was sure of it, and he would find Anne and tell her, and make her believe him. He would do what he had to do and no one had better get in his way.

  Jeff knew he must prepare himself and be ready for any opportunity that might arise. He would be guarded very carefully, and when the time came to make his move, he would have to think quickly. He sat in the darkness, trying to relax his mind, preparing himself for what was to come. He remembered Amado’s words, “Use your mind. Be smarter than they are. They are many and you are one. You can’t beat them with your strength—only with your brain.” He lay back on the sour smelling cot, took a few deep breaths, and began to think.

  Late that afternoon, Rand Fogarty sat at one of the corner tables in the Red Stallion, surveying the crowd. The establishment was already starting to get busy. The crowd was of the usual mixed variety: miners, cattlemen, local townspeople, and a few drifters who would be gone in a day or two. If anyone had been watching Fogarty, and no one was, they would probably have thought he was looking for someone. In a sense this was true; however he was not looking for a specific person, but a type of person, and he thought he had found his man.

  Mitch Packer was one of the bench ranchers who had already signed papers to sell his ranch to Stewart. He had ridden into town early that afternoon to get drunk and to tell anyone who would listen how unfair life had been to him. It didn’t really matter who he told; Mitch just wanted to talk. Mitch liked to talk, and when things went sour for him, as things generally did because of his indolence and his fondness for drink, he needed someone to blame.

  Fogarty observed that Mitch was not drunk yet, but his voice was growing louder with each passing minute. Now was the time to make his move, before Mitch became too inebriated.

  “Makes me mad enough to kill,” Mitch was saying, addressing himself to no one person in particular. “Man pushes himself from sun up to sun down year in and year out, works himself near to death, so’s a bunch of no good thieves can come in and steal it from him, and then some other thievin’ scum in fancy clothes comes in and offers him ten cents on the dollar and he has to take it, ‘cause he’s going to lose it anyway. A man just can’t get ahead. It ain’t fair, that’s all. You can make yourself old, you can work yourself into an early grave, but somehow, someone’s always going to come along and ruin it all for you.”

  “That’s the sorry truth,” said another, quieter voice.

  It was Fogarty, standing next to Mitch Packer’s table. “You’re so right, my friend,” he continued, “It always happens that way doesn’t it?”

  “I’ve never seen it any different,” responded Packer. “Seems to me you either have to be born rich and have it give to you, or steal it from somebody; and there’s those of us as just won’t do that.”

  “Seems like an honest man doesn’t stand a chance,” said Fogarty as he sat down.

  “You got that right.”

  “You married?” asked Fogarty.

  “Sure am.”

  “Kids?”

  “Nine of ‘em.”

  Fogarty shook his head. “Too bad. They’re the ones who really suffer; I’ve seen it time after time. A man works his guts out to build something for his family, and the thieves come in and steal it all. Children go hungry, have to move from place to place and grow up and inherit nothing. And what about the thieves?”

  “Why, they live high,” said Mitch. “Fat as hogs.”

  Fogarty leaned across the table and spoke softly. “You were right in what you said earlier, it’s time for the people of this valley to take some action and teach the rustlers they’re not going to sit and take it anymore.”

  Mitch had said no such thing, but it sounded good and he didn’t mind taking the credit for it.

  “Those rustlers are just laughing at you cattlemen,” continued Fogarty. “Take that fellow across the street in jail: Havens. He’s the leader of the rustlers and do you think he’s worried? Not a bit. He’s just sitting there laughing. He knows his pals will spring him, just like they always do. Either that or the law just won’t have enough evidence to convict him. Then he’ll go free and he’ll ruin some more lives.”

  Mitch slammed his glass down on the table and uttered a long, heart-felt stream of profanity. Fogarty stood up and said, “It’s a sorry situation. Too bad somebody doesn’t do something.” Shaking his head, he turned and walked toward the door, leaving Mitch behind him in brooding silence.

  But Fogarty knew the silence wouldn’t last long; Mitch was just trying to decide what to do. The seed had been planted in the fertile soil of Mitch Packer’s bitterness. It would germinate quickly and without further assistance. Fogarty moved on down the street to another saloon, where he bought a glass of whiskey, selected a corner table, and began studying the patrons of that establishment. Within ten minutes he had spotted another subject, and within ten more that unwitting soul found himself in the same state of agitation as Mitch Packer. At the same time, Tom Stewart was drifting back and forth between the two hotels and several saloons, doing the same thing.

  All evening the two men moved from establishment to establishment watching the fires they had set grow larger and fanning the flames; staying farther away from the forefront each time. By nine o’clock that night a very ugly mob was shaping up.

  The situation was not wholly unexpected by Sheriff Beeman. He knew the people of the valley needed someone on whom to vent their anger, but so far the rustlers had eluded capture or even detection. In fact, the only clue to their existence was the large number of missing cattle and people were growing increasingly angry and frustrated. Now, here he was—or so the townspeople were being told: right in their jail; the leader of the rustler band; the man who had destroyed lives and made children homeless. A man who had killed innocent women and children and had even murdered a minister and his wife, and raped their young daughter—the story grew with each telling, as did the fever pitch of outrage in the town.

  Beeman sent for his deputy, Orville Babcock, just before dark. Babcock acted nervous. “There’s no way we can hold off a mob.”

  “I want to move him,” said Beeman, “but I doubt they’ll do anything until after dark and it would be hard to get him away from here before then without being seen. Go to the livery stable, get his horse and three others ready. Ben will know what we’re up to, so keep him with you. Don’t let him out of your sight.”

  “Ben and Havens are good friends,” said Babcock. “I don’t think he’d tell anybody.”

  “They were good friends,” said Beeman. “There’s no way of knowing who is for him and who’s against him now. He may not have any friends left. When it gets dark, you and Ben take the horses to my place. Hide them out back in the trees. Load one of them with provisions for two
men for several days. Havens and I will run for it from here. Be ready for us.”

  There was a knock at the door. Beeman pulled his pistol and said, “Who’s there?”

  “Jake Sharp.”

  Beeman stepped to the door and opened it a crack. Jacob Sharp was standing outside, holding a shotgun.

  “What do you want, Jake?”

  “Can I come in?”

  “Hand me your gun.”

  Sharp passed the shotgun through the partially open door.

  “Pistol?” asked Beeman.

  Sharp pulled a pistol from his belt and handed that also to Beeman.

  Beeman opened the door wider and Sharp stepped quickly through. The door was closed and bolted behind him.

  “What can I do for you, Jake?”

  “I came to see if I could help. There’s some mighty mean talk going on around town. I’d hate to see them do what they’re talkin’ about doing. I seen it once before, in Kansas. Feller deserved it, it’s true, but it ain’t pretty. I’d hate to see it happen to a friend of mine.”

  Beeman eyed Jake suspiciously, “You sure he’s still a friend of yours? I heard you two had a falling out.”

  “A fallin’ out?” said Jake incredulously, “Well, I may have got a little steamed, and yelled some, but I do that now and again, you know my temper, Alvah. But I’ve worked side by side with that boy, and I know him better than anybody else in this town. I don’t believe a word they’re saying about him. Now you might as well let me help, because you’ll have a hard time gettin’ me to leave here till that mob clears up.”

  “All right, Jake, but don’t do anything I don’t tell you to do, understood?”

  “Sure, Alvah, I can take orders.”

  Beeman turned to Babcock, “Go now, Orville, but don’t act like you’re in a hurry.”

  Babcock started for the door, but Beeman stopped him, “Wait,” he said as he stepped quickly to the gun rack. Pulling a key from his pocket, he unlocked the padlock on the chain that held the guns in the rack. “Take this scatter gun with you.” He handed a shotgun to Babcock.