Return of the Outlaw

by C. M. Curtis

  Surprise showed in Luke’s eyes and he pointed to the cattle that had now spread out and were placidly grazing, oblivious to the drama taking place nearby. “There’s the evidence. We caught ‘em red-handed.”

  “They weren’t rustling,” repeated Jeff. “Those are my cattle and I’m giving them to these boys. You can’t steal what’s been given to you.”

  Luke smiled in comprehension and nodded his head, “So you still think you own the TS?”

  “Not the TS,” Jeff corrected. “The Rafter 8, and yes, I do own it. I never sold it to anyone, and I never gave it to anyone. It’s still mine and I’m going to take it back.”

  “Well now, that’ll be a piece of work,” offered Luke. “I wish you luck. I really mean that, and speaking just for myself, I’d like to say that when you do I’d . . .”

  Jeff smiled indulgently and interrupted, knowing all this talk was Luke’s way of distracting him and stalling long enough for his friend to show up and shoot Jeff in the back.

  “He’s not coming,” Jeff said.

  “What?”

  “Ike. He won’t be joining us.”

  A black anger spread across Luke’s features and his eyes narrowed as he scanned the terrain behind Jeff.

  Jeff spoke again, and there was a strong warning in his voice, “Now drop those pistols!”

  A signal of some sort passed between the two outlaws and they both went for their guns.

  Jeff’s gun boomed twice and in an instant both men were on the ground, Luke’s right arm shattered and Lester dead with a bullet in his chest.

  “You shouldn’t have done that,” said Jeff angrily. He half slid, half walked down the steep slope. Standing over Luke, with his pistol still in his hand he asked, “How bad are you hurt?”

  Luke eyes were not focused. He reached over with his good hand and clutched his shattered arm, as if realizing for the first time what had happened. After a moment he spoke, “Arm’s broke, I think.”

  Jeff looked at the arm, tore a piece of cloth from the shirt of the dead man and bandaged the wound tightly. It was bleeding profusely, but the bandage stopped most of the flow.

  “You’ll have to ride,” said Jeff matter-of-factly.

  Luke nodded.

  Jeff said, “I’ll be honest with you: I don’t care if you live or die. If you die now I won’t have to kill you later on. The smart thing would be to finish you off, but I don’t want to teach these boys any bad habits, so I’m going to let you ride out of here. You know which trail Ike took?”

  Luke nodded again.

  “You’ll find him on that trail, tied up. Tell him if I see him again on my land I’ll kill him. Same goes for you. You got it?”

  Luke nodded once more, pain and shock starting to glaze his eyes. Jeff helped him on to his horse.

  As the injured outlaw rode away, Jeff shouted after him, “Tell Fogarty to send someone back for this body, I’m not going to waste my sweat burying it.”

  Luke grunted, whether in pain or acknowledgment Jeff was unsure.

  He turned to the three Mexican boys who were looking at him, wide-eyed.

  “Did you boys know Amado Lopez?”

  The three nodded in unison. Juan said, “He was my padrino.”

  Jeff smiled inwardly; Amado had been godfather to half of the babies born in San Vicente. “Amado would’ve been ashamed of you today,” he said. “You did a stupid thing and you almost got killed for it.” He might have told them that rustlers generally worked at night, but he didn’t want to give them any ideas. Instead he said, “You’re not smart enough to be rustling beef from Fogarty’s men.” He watched the three young faces for a moment. For their own good, he wanted to make sure the message was clear.

  “Now, I want you to ride just as fast as those horses will go. Get across the river, then head back down to San Vicente. Stay on the main road; no one will be able to track you that way. Now go!”

  Two of the boys moved quickly to their horses, but Juan Morela did not. Jeff read a certain stubborn belligerence on the boy’s face that made him want to smile. The boy walked over to the body on the ground and began rummaging the pockets. He found cigarette makings, a folding knife, and a leather pouch full of coins. These items he stuffed into his own pockets.

  “Hold it,” said Jeff. He had seen soldiers stealing from the bodies of dead enemies, but he had never participated. The young man turned around to face him and Jeff held out his hand. Juan shrugged his shoulders in resignation, pulled the articles out of his pockets and placed them in Jeff’s hand.

  Jeff put the knife and the tobacco and papers back on the body. Opening the pouch he counted out a few coins and handed them to the boy. “You can take these; I know your family probably needs them.” He closed up the pouch and handed it also to the boy. This, I want you to give to Emelia Diaz—but not today. Don’t go near her house today.”

  “What about the steers?” asked Juan. “You said you were giving them to us.”

  “I am,” said Jeff. “You can have them, but not now. Try to take them now and they’ll get you killed. When I get the ranch back, I’ll give you some cows, but you come to me and ask for them, do you hear? If I catch you rustling my stock, I’ll do to you what those two men were going to do.”

  The young man nodded, and Jeff saw respect in his eyes. Juan turned and walked to his horse. Abruptly he stopped and turned again, “What about these guns,” he said, indicating the rifles and pistols lying on the ground. “Can we take them?”

  “What’s your name?” Jeff asked.

  “Juan Morela.”

  “Why do you want a gun, Juan?”

  “To defend my family.”

  “Let your father do that.”

  “I don’t have a father.”

  “Have you ever shot a gun?”

  “Amado let me shoot his, once.”

  “Juan, when I get my ranch back and you come to get your cows I’ll teach you how to shoot. Then I’ll give you a gun.”

  Juan nodded and mounted his horse and the three boys turned toward the river.

  Jeff hiked to where he had left his horse, climbed into the saddle and sat there for a moment, stroking his chin as he thought something through. His head began slowly nodding and he gazed off at the diminishing figures of the three boys. He could use those boys, he realized, and he spurred after them.

  That night, shortly after dark, Jeff rode as close to the ranch house as he dared, dismounted and tied his horse to a tree. Hanging awkwardly off one side of the saddle was a large, clay olla, courtesy of Emelia Diaz. The big pot had been made for carrying water and was wide in the middle with a narrow base, a narrower neck and a flared mouth. It had a leather strap for a handle, and there was a crude wooden stopper jammed in the mouth. Jeff untied the olla from the saddle and gingerly slung it over his shoulder as he began making his way toward the house. He moved cautiously to avoid making any noise, and it took him nearly ten minutes to make what under normal circumstances would have been a one-minute walk.

  Supper was over and most of Stewart’s men were in the bunkhouse, but there were a couple still outside, smoking and talking. Jeff found a place in the shadows and waited patiently for them to go inside. The night was still warm from the heat of the day, but a small breeze cooled the sweat on his face and gave him a sense of calm. The soft lowing of nearby cattle, the susurrus of the breeze through the desert trees, and the familiar ranch smells, pulled his mood into nostalgia, and he wished he could go back to the happy days of his life when he and Anne and Amado had ridden this desert together, and he had believed he would never know sorrow.

  Presently the two men went inside. There was less noise from the bunkhouse now, and Jeff knew some of the men were getting ready to go to bed. He stood up, carefully lifted the olla and moved closer to the bunkhouse. As he approached, he could hear the sounds of low voices and of cards being shuffled, and he could tell there was a game going on. He rounded the corner of the structure and stood for a moment just outside the y
ellow rectangle of light that spilled out through the open doorway, every sense alert. Presently, he climbed the two steps to the small porch, pulled his pistol from the holster and stepped inside, setting the olla down behind him on the top step.

  Some of the men were sitting or lying on beds; most of them had removed their boots. Only the card players remained fully dressed, but none of them were wearing guns. The back door of the bunkhouse was open to let the cool night air circulate through the one big rectangular room, but no one was near it. For a moment there was a silence as the minds of these men registered his presence.

  “Evening,” Jeff said conversationally. I’m Jeff Havens.”

  It had only been a few hours since Ike and a half-dead Luke Stratton had returned and told the story of what had happened in the desert that morning, and there was not a man in the bunkhouse who didn’t possess a healthy respect for Jeff and the six-gun he now held in his hand. Every eye in the room was on him, and if he hadn’t already known these men wanted him dead, he would have easily deduced that fact now from the dark and hostile way in which they regarded him.

  “I just came to bring you boys a message,” he said with import, “This ranch doesn’t belong to Stewart. He stole it and I’m taking it back. Starting now, any man I catch on my range will be treated as a trespasser and a rustler. This is the only warning you’ll get; after this it’ll be a bullet.

  One of the card players, a thin, bearded, dirty-looking man with missing front teeth, said sneeringly, “You goin’ to take us all on by yourself, are you Havens?”

  There were disdainful chuckles to be heard from several parts of the room.

  “Not by myself,” said Jeff.

  “Who you got helping you?” the thin man asked in the same tone.

  Jeff replied matter-of-factly, “Amado Lopez; it’s his fight too.”

  The smile disappeared from the thin man’s face. From another part of the room a man spoke, “Lopez is dead.”

  That’s right,” the thin man agreed, “he was killed last year.”

  Jeff smiled, “Was he?” He knew from Emilia that none of Stewart’s crowd had seen Amado’s body—it had been buried in secret. He asked, “Does Fogarty believe that too?”

  The thin man nodded.

  Jeff laughed out loud. “That’s the second time Fogarty’s fallen for that one. It was Amado that fooled him the first time too. If Amado wasn’t so choosy about the company he keeps, I’d invite him in here right now and you could shake hands with him. But if any of you are set on finding out if Amado Lopez is really alive, try stepping out that back door after I leave.”

  One of the men near the table said, “You’re lying.”

  “You’re right,” said Jeff. “I’m lying. Walk over to that back door and prove it.”

  The man glanced at the door then back at Jeff, but did not move. Jeff allowed the silence to stretch out for a moment as every man in the room formed his own conclusions about the things he had said, then all good humor left his face, and his voice became cold and hard. “I didn’t come here to bluff and I don’t play games. It seems Amado has taken a strong disliking to anyone who works for Tom Stewart. It was kind of the same way with Hatcherson and Sundust; you remember them.” Jeff’s use of the names of the dead man-hunters was calculated and he could read on some of the faces that it had its effect. No one in that room would slip out the back door and try to cut him off when he left. The fearsome, bigger-than-life legend of Amado Lopez was standing guard.

  “My advice to you boys is to finish your card game, go to bed, get up early tomorrow and get as far away from this range as you can before sundown. You can deliver the same message to Stewart and Fogarty. An insouciant smile came to Jeff’s face as he added, “Oh by the way, while you’re at it, tell them I’m dead.”

  Keeping his pistol trained on the men, he reached behind him with his left hand and picked up the olla by its leather handle. “I’ve arranged for a reunion with some of your relatives from the hills.” He swung the olla forward and released his grip. The olla lifted in a slow arc and dropped, smashing into a hundred clay pieces on the floor, and a dozen writhing, squirming, and very angry rattlesnakes began sliding off in all directions.

  As Jeff backed down the steps, he briefly saw a scene he knew he would never forget: a room full of men seeking high ground, climbing onto beds, chairs, even the table, filling the air with savage cursing.

  He rounded the corner of the bunkhouse at a run and headed off into the night. He knew it would be some time before he was followed. Soon, he heard muffled shots coming from the bunkhouse. Some of the men had apparently gotten to their guns without stepping on the floor. As he rode away, he chuckled and mumbled to himself, “Wish I could have stayed longer to watch that.”

  The three Mexican boys had taken to the task eagerly and had captured more rattlesnakes that afternoon than Jeff had believed they could in such a short time. Someday he would have to tell them about this.

  Chapter 20

  Anne stepped out of the doorway of the shop and looked up and down the street, scanning the faces and rubbing her neck and shoulders, which ached from long hours of sewing. Seeing no one she recognized as being connected with the T.S., she turned and locked the door, above which hung a small, attractively painted sign that read simply, ”Dressmaker”.

  She walked south down Main Street toward Ted and Marsha Walker’s house, where she was staying, carrying on her arm a small satchel containing a dress she was sewing for Mrs. Carrell. She would work on it after supper. She smiled, knowing Marsha Walker would protest this and tell her she was working too hard.

  The Walkers were a childless couple, long past the age of hoping for a miracle, and they treated Anne and the baby as their own daughter and grandchild. Mrs. Walker, whose husband was the Mayor, was a midwife and had attended Anne during her pregnancy and labor. Anne, not wanting to ever again live under the same roof as her mother, accepted the Walker’s invitation to come and stay with them. The two women had become close friends and Anne felt comfortable in the Walker’s home, and over protest, paid for her room and board so as not to feel she was imposing.

  Most of the time, Anne took the baby to work with her, placing her in a basket on the floor beside her. Her customers loved to admire Sarah and hold her when she was awake. Mrs. Walker took care of Sarah when Anne needed her to—and loved the job—and Anne knew the baby was in good hands during those times.

  It was not a short distance to the Walker home, which lay on the outskirts of town, and Anne walked at a brisk pace in order to arrive there before dark. Though Stewart, for the most part, had left her alone, she still regarded him as a threat to her child. She knew that when the man wanted something, he would employ whatever means necessary to get it. Often that means was Rand Fogarty.

  She had kept her pregnancy a secret as long as possible, but after her convalescence from her wound, the need to work had forced her to go out, and soon Stewart had learned he was to be a father. After Sarah was born he had sent word on several occasions that he wanted to see the child, but so far Anne had managed to forestall this event. She now knew Stewart for what he was, and was repulsed by the fact he was the father of her child and by the thought of him having any contact with the child. Nor did she expect protection from Lloyd Jennings: it was apparent that Stewart had some sort of hold on the young sheriff, a fact Anne found hard to understand. She had known Jennings most of her life, and would have expected him to be one of the last people who would allow himself to be controlled or manipulated. She couldn’t believe he was venal, so the power Stewart had over him must be something other than money. Whatever it was, it had had a noticeable, adverse effect on Jennings’ personality as well as his popularity as sheriff.

  Stewart himself was growing increasingly unpopular in the area, but he seemed not to care. Anne understood this. Popularity and community opinion were only important to the man insofar as he could exploit them. He had now gained sufficient power as to no longer need suppo
rt from anyone outside his own group. Through violence and terror he had added large tracts of land to what had already been the largest ranch in the area, and had filled that land with cattle. There were rumors, but no proof, that the cattle had been obtained by illegal means—probably purchased from rustlers. Anne had no doubt this was true. If not, why then did Stewart hire outlaws instead of honest cowboys? Furthermore, Stewart’s ranching methods were unorthodox to say the least. He sold large numbers of cattle to buyers from the east and replaced them with large herds of mature cattle—not calves, or breeding stock—which were driven in from elsewhere.

  Apparently Stewart’s methods were paying off, because the men he employed were obviously well paid. When they came to town they gambled and drank, and spent money far more freely than the average cowboy could afford to do. They were an unpleasant bunch, and dangerous, but she knew, from having lived on the ranch, that Fogarty exercised an iron control over them.

  People complained about the men from the T.S., but so far there had been no public outcry. Nor did Anne think there would be. Stewart was astute enough to know that, even if it became widely known that his operation was illegal, the local merchants would be reluctant to lose the trade of men who spent as freely as did those from the T.S. Moreover, Stewart had selected businesses owned by key citizens and had become their best customer. This was another tactic he used to strengthen his position. The merchants of the community would look the other way, providing they were making money and providing Stewart’s illegal activities did not affect them directly.

  It was for this same reason that Stewart had stolen land only from Mexicans. So far he had not crossed the river to encroach on lands owned by white farmers and ranchers. But Anne knew the time would come when he would do so.

  Walking up to the front door of the Walker home, Anne passed the small, neat flower garden which she daily tended and from which came the flowers she often took to lay on Amado’s grave.