Return of the Outlaw

by C. M. Curtis

  He opened a can of beans and ate them cold out of the can, complemented by some stale tortillas he carried in his saddlebags. He lay on the cot for a while, thinking, until he finally drifted off to sleep.

  When Fogarty learned of the disappearance of the horses, he immediately carried the information to Stewart. The two exchanged a dark, meaningful look, both thinking the same unwelcome thought: Jeff Havens was back. Neither man spoke, but after Fogarty had left the room, Stewart sat behind his desk and poured himself a drink. Maybe with Lopez dead, Havens would be easier to catch. He wanted Jeff Havens dead. He wanted that more than he had ever wanted anything in his life.

  Jeff had left the corral and pasture gates open, and the horses he had not driven off had made their own independent escapes. It took hours to round them up. The delay made Fogarty restive, and by the time he and the four men he picked to take with him rode away from the ranch, he had grown even more sullen and uncommunicative than normal.

  The trail of a herd of horses is not hard to follow, and they made good time until they reached the place where Jeff had scattered the animals. The horses had gone in every direction. Before long, however, they picked out the tracks of Jeff’s pony—deeper because of the weight of its rider.

  There was nothing about the situation that Fogarty liked. Jeff Havens had been the bane of his existence since the first night he had laid eyes on the man. Now he was back. It still angered the gunman when he thought of how easy it would have been to kill Havens when he was in Beeman’s jail. Sometimes Stewart was too careful. They should have taken care of Havens while they had him. Instead, he had been allowed to escape, and now he was back and giving them trouble.

  The day was already growing hot, though it was still early. There was no breeze, and Fogarty had begun to sweat. The trail Jeff had left was clear and distinct and Fogarty recalled the words of Morris Tate in the mountains after they had discovered the bodies of Hatcherson and Sundust: “If they leave a clear trail, it’s because they want us to follow. When they don’t want us to follow any more, there won’t be any more trail.”

  I wonder where we’re being led to this time, thought Fogarty, bitterly.

  It wasn’t long before they found out. Jeff’s trail led straight through the desert and into the small valley that sheltered the cabin the T.S. riders now used as a line shack. Fogarty remembered the place well. Havens must have spent the night in the cabin. Could it possibly be he was still there? Perhaps he hadn’t expected them to be able to pick his horse’s tracks out of the rest, and thought himself to be safe? Instead of following the trail into the little valley, Fogarty dismounted and climbed the hill, keeping low, and finally, lay flat on his belly at the top as he peered over the crest. An eager smile creased his face when he saw smoke curling up from the chimney of the shack. He hurried back down the hill and gave instructions to the men. Slipping his carbine out of the saddle boot, he ran back up the hill while the other riders hurried down the trail and around the base of the hill into the valley. The plan was for them to flush Havens out of the shack—which had no rear door or window—so Fogarty could pick him off with the rifle.

  Fogarty waited on the far side of the hill until he saw the riders pour into the valley, then slipped over the top to get into a better position. As he did so, he glanced down at the ground and froze. For a moment he stared at the dirt at his feet then he swore and kicked the dirt in rage. From where he stood he could plainly see the boot prints of a man who had walked up the hill and had lain on his stomach at the very spot where he now stood, then retraced his steps back down the hill. Fogarty realized that he and his men had been watched; probably for miles. Havens, by now, was long gone.

  Fogarty heard shouts and looked down at the shack. His men had it surrounded, but nothing was happening. His jaw clenched in anger, he descended the hill and mounted his horse. With a jerk of his head he signaled for the others to follow. As he rode around the back of the shack and into the ravine beyond, he saw the tracks of Jeff Havens’ horse, following the same route he had followed a year ago into the mountains. Eerily, a thought occurred to Fogarty, and he looked up.

  His eyes sought the mouth of the canyon and found it, and there was Jeff Havens, sitting on his horse, motionless, watching them; mocking them with his mere presence.

  The other men, following Fogarty’s gaze, spotted Jeff one by one, and angry oaths were passed among them. Dick Wright, one of the men who had been with Fogarty in the mountains the year before, spoke in a loud voice, “I ain’t goin’ back in there, Fogarty; just want to let you know that.”

  Fogarty turned an icy glare on Wright, who acted uncomfortable, but not so much as to keep him from further expressing his opinion. “He’ll just run us around in those canyons like he did before. There’s no point to it. I won’t do it again.”

  Fogarty held his gaze on Wright’s face for a long, tense moment. He glanced up at Jeff Havens again, and hauling viciously on the reins, turned his horse around and headed back to the ranch with a relieved group of men following him.

  On the ride home the gunman’s anger increased as he ruminated on the situation. He had not intended to follow Jeff Havens into the mountains—it was the last thing he wanted to do, but Wright’s mutinous attitude was intolerable and was demonstrative of the general lack of discipline he had observed among the men lately. It had all begun with his failure to capture Lopez and Havens in the mountains. Since then he had noticed a gradual decay in his authority, but had tried to ignore it, believing it was only temporary. The incident at the line shack, however, had forced him to face the situation. It was very simple. The men no longer feared him. As he rode, Fogarty decided what he would do about the problem, and he was grimly determined not to delay.

  It was late afternoon when they arrived back at the ranch headquarters. Fogarty waited a few minutes, allowing the men time to unsaddle their horses and to tramp into the bunk house. Then he followed. The sounds of boots shuffling on the gritty wooden floor and the gruff and boisterous tones of male voices quickly subsided as the men became aware of Fogarty’s unaccustomed presence here. The look on his face told them he had a purpose. He established his position at one end of the long room with his back to a table which the men used for playing poker and laid the full weight of his hard gaze on Dick Wright, immediately giving all present a good idea of what this was about. When the gunman spoke it was in a low voice, but the words came out as cold and hard as gun steel.

  “You talked pretty big to me back there, Wright.”

  Wright started to speak, his expression placatory, but Fogarty interrupted him.

  “It must mean you think you can take me.”

  “Why Fogarty, I never . . .”

  Again Fogarty interrupted, “Why don’t you try?”

  Small beads of sweat appeared on Wright’s forehead and upper lip. “Fogarty, there’s no need . . .”

  “A man ought to be able to back up his talk,” said Fogarty in the same low tone.

  Wright stood transfixed; torn between the need to be prepared to defend himself and the fear of making any movement that might induce Fogarty to draw. He made no further attempt to reason with Fogarty: it was clear to everyone in the room that whatever the gunman had decided to do before he entered the bunkhouse was what he would do. But whether he intended to kill Wright or merely humiliate the man was the excruciating question in Wright’s mind now.

  Fogarty spoke again and left no doubt. In a loud voice that shattered the silence of the room he said, “Wright, make your play.”

  Wright’s every muscle jerked involuntarily and his hand moved closer to his gun, but he still made no move.

  Fogarty had moved forward a few paces as he spoke, but now, having hurled his challenge, he began stepping backward, his hand hovering over his gun butt. Appearing to have forgotten the location of the table, he bumped into it. Acting startled, he twisted to his left as if to keep from losing his balance. Wright seized the opportunity and went for his gun.

&nb
sp; It was a trick. In a movement the eye could scarcely follow, Fogarty pulled his gun and fired. Wright stumbled backwards a few steps and fell heavily onto the floor. Fogarty had made his point.

  From the mouth of the canyon, Jeff watched the shrinking shapes of Fogarty and the other riders, following them with his eyes until they disappeared. The sight of Fogarty had stirred within him feelings he had long repressed, and they were more violent than any to which he had ever given expression.

  As he watched his enemies ride away, Jeff felt impatience stirring within him. He was tired of waiting. He needed action. Had he allowed the logical side of his nature to assert itself, it would have told him there was no way he could win this fight. It would have argued that he was outnumbered and disadvantaged in fifty ways. But he permitted no such thoughts to remain long in his mind. His enemies had started this fight, and he was determined to finish it. He would see it through to the bloody end, and the only thoughts to which he gave weight were of how that was to be accomplished. He only wished Amado could be here to fight alongside him.

  For the next couple of days Jeff hid out in the hills. On the third day, out of necessity, he rode to Emelia’s house for supplies. He gave her the last of the money he had with him, which was what he had been carrying when he was arrested by Alvah Beeman—an event that seemed to belong to the distant past. Jeff knew Emelia would continue to supply him with food, whether he could pay for it or not, but he also knew she could not afford to do so. He would have to think of something.

  On the ride back, he decided to risk a shortcut across T.S. land. A short time later he cut the trail of three riders pushing several head of cattle to the southwest—probably some of Stewart’s men. The tracks led across a large flat and open area, two miles across and twice as long. In the center of this area was a long strip of squarish, rocky hills, low but rugged, bisected in places by V-shaped ravines through which passed animal trails. Jeff had always thought the clump of hills resembled a barren island in the middle of a brown sea. He didn’t like riding out in open country, but he took a risk and cut across the flat at its narrowest point, then rode to the northernmost point of the hills cutting around to the other side. From there he turned south again, moving fast but trying not to raise too much dust, hoping to reach the southern end quickly enough to be able to observe the riders before they were too far away.

  Roughly thirty minutes later he stopped to rest his horse and to scan his back-trail. Behind him to the north he spotted a trace of dust in the air, which grew as he watched it move toward him. He frowned and stroked his chin. This was not a good situation. If he continued riding south there was a chance he would meet up with the first party of riders, and he would almost certainly be followed by the second party, which, if it continued on its present course, would inevitably cross his tracks. Since this group was coming from the north, he couldn’t go that way, but if he tried to cross the desert to the west they would spot him and cut him off. His only choice was to ride east through the hills, running the risk that when the second group cut his trail and gave chase, their dust would alert the first group that something was happening, and the whole bunch would be on his trail. He couldn’t hide out in these hills—they were too small, and in any direction he went he would have to cover a broad stretch of flat desert on which he would stand out like an ant on a white tablecloth. Unless he got very lucky, the best he could do would be to try to outrun them. He was angry with himself for allowing his curiosity to override his sense of caution and get him into this situation.

  He chose an easy trail through the hills, keeping his horse to a brisk walk and trying not to raise much dust. The hills were narrow here and he reached the opposite side in about ten minutes. Before leaving cover, he climbed to a high point from which he could see both sides, in order to assess his situation.

  What he saw surprised him. On the east side of the hills, just about to round the southern-most point, he saw the first group of riders. They were only a couple of hundred yards away and he could tell that these were not Stewart’s men. There were only three of them, and Jeff could tell by their appearance and the horses they rode that they were either some of the local Mexican farmers or residents of Mexican Town. The three head of cattle they were pushing were, no doubt, being stolen from the T.S. Their horses were nags, and only one of the riders had a saddle, the other two having only thin blankets between them and their horses’ backs. They were hugging the hills for cover and though they were acting cautious, they seemed to be unaware of their present danger. Stewart’s men would either shoot them down or hang them.

  One of the Mexicans appeared more alert than the other two—constantly scanning the horizon and nervously watching their back-trail. Jeff estimated his age at about fifteen. The other two were the same age or younger. He thought of trying to warn the boys, but knew it would do no good. If they had not already been detected by Stewart’s outlaws, they soon would be, and their feeble horses were no match for the sturdy cow ponies ridden by Stewart’s men. Though they hadn’t yet realized it, the three boys were in a very tight spot.

  Luke Stratton had been the first of Stewart’s three riders to spot the dust and had decided to investigate. The fact that Stewart was offering a substantial reward to the man or men who brought Jeff Havens in was a powerful incentive to these greed-driven men, and they spurred their horses into a run. When they crossed Jeff’s trail, Luke said to his companions, “I got me a funny feeling it’s him.”

  A short distance down the trail they came to the point where Jeff had cut through the hills, and Luke motioned with his thumb in the direction Jeff had gone. “Ike, you follow him, I’m bettin’ he’ll head south after he gets through the hills: it’s the closest cover. If me and Lester cut around the mountain, we might be able to head him off.”

  Without comment, Ike immediately did as he was told, nor did Luke and Lester waste any time, and soon they had rounded the south end of the hills, where they stopped their horses and began watching the sky for the dust that would betray the position of their quarry. They were immediately rewarded, but then Luke scowled, “Too much dust for one rider.”

  “Maybe he’s doin’ a little rustlin,” offered Lester.

  Luke shook his head. “Too smart to do it in daylight.”

  “It can’t be any of the TS riders; we’re the only ones down here today. Let’s wait.” They turned their horses into a short ravine and watched as the betraying dust approached.

  Juan Morela shifted nervously in the saddle, not sure what to do. A while ago he had seen a hint of dust in the air off to the northwest, and just a few minutes ago he was almost positive he had seen some more to the southwest. The breeze was from the east, so he couldn’t judge the direction of travel of whatever or whoever had stirred up the dust and he told himself it was probably just a cow that had been spooked by something. Whichever was the case, he would be glad when they had these steers across the river and well away from the TS. Juan didn’t consider himself and his friends to be rustlers—this was not stealing. They had a right to these steers, he thought angrily. Their lands had been taken from them by Stewart and his men, and now their families had to survive somehow.

  Abruptly these thoughts left him as two men stepped out from behind a boulder; both of them pointing rifles. Juan’s stomach lurched as he realized he and his companions were as good as dead.

  Luke Stratton stayed in front of the boys while Lester circled around to their left, boxing them in against the steep hillside. Luke held his rifle directly on Juan Morela and said with a wicked smile, “Where ya headed, Mex?” Receiving no reply, he repeated the question in poorly spoken Spanish.

  Juan said, “We speak English.”

  Despite the dread that clutched at him, Juan maintained an outward calm and managed to imbue his words with the disdain he felt for these hired killers of Tom Stewart’s.

  “Well then,” Luke retorted, “I suppose you know what the word ‘rustler’ means.

  Juan could feel th
e fear emanating from his two companions. The three had been friends all their lives and he was more concerned for their safety than his own.

  Receiving no reply to his question, Luke spoke again, “Do you greaser boys know what we do to rustlers?”

  “We’re not rustlers,” said Juan, speaking softly because he didn’t trust his voice.

  The corners of Luke’s lips curled into an ugly smile as he detected a quaver of fear in the voice. “Get down and stand over against that rock.”

  The three boys dismounted, walked over to the boulder and turned their backs to it, facing their captors. Juan heard a sniffle from one of his friends. He had to do something, but the looks on the faces of the two white men told him he and his friends could expect no mercy.

  Then a voice came from out of the rocks about thirty feet away, “Drop your guns and do it now.” The two would-be executioners hesitated, unwilling to obey someone who couldn’t be seen. The voice spoke again, “I said drop your guns and if you make one move I don’t like, you’re dead.”

  Luke and Lester exchanged a glance and lowered their rifles to the ground.

  “That you, Havens?” shouted Luke in the direction of Jeff’s voice.

  Jeff stood up slowly, holding a rifle in the crook of his left arm, his pistol in his right hand. He leaned the rifle against a rock and said, “Pistols too, and don’t try anything; I’d be tickled to kill either one of you.”

  Luke muttered something to his companion, and Jeff thought he caught part of it; something about Ike.

  Luke smiled up at Jeff and said, “Well, Havens, it’s a real fine day anyhow, even if we don’t get to kill these little greasers.”

  Jeff made no comment, and Luke continued in the same conversational tone, “You know these boys was rustlin’. We can’t have that on this ranch, I’m sure you . . .”

  “They weren’t rustling,” Jeff said levelly.