Return of the Outlaw (18 page)

Calmly he stood up and walked over to where she sat. There was nothing in
his eyes to indicate his intentions, and illogically, she thought for a moment he meant to ask her to stay. But without warning, he raised his hand and struck her on the side of the head, knocking her off the bed. She fell onto her back, momentarily dazed. When her head cleared she attempted to rise but Stewart put his foot on her chest—forcing the breath out of her—and held her down. “Let me tell you the way things are going to be from now on: You will not leave this ranch, except occasionally, and only when I’m with you. You will go nowhere without the protection,” he smiled as he said the word, “of Mr. Fogarty. If you try to get away I’ll kill you. And if I ever catch you again listening in on private conversations I’ll kill you.”

He walked out of the room leaving her on the floor, st
ill dazed and gasping to recover her breath. He went to his office and entered, closing the door behind him. Fogarty was there. 

Still angry, Stewart walked to the desk and sat down. Opening a drawer he withdrew a bottle and a glass and poured himself a drink which he downed in one gulp.

Fogarty eyed him speculatively, “Would you really kill her?”

Stewart raised his eyebrows
. “So you were listening.”

Ignoring the que
stion, Fogarty repeated his own. “Would you really kill her?”

Stewart poured and downed another drink. Turning a direct gaze on Fogarty he said, “No, Rand, I wouldn
’t kill my wife. That’s the sort of thing I pay you to do.”

Fogarty smiled. 

Anne waited a few minutes after Stewart left the room before going to the door and checking the hallway. It was empty. Her mind was still fuzzy and her head was starting to ache, but her thinking was not so hampered as to blur her perception of the situation she was in. She closed the door, shot the bolt and crossed the room to the bed. She needed to lie down for a few minutes to clear her spinning head, and she needed to make a plan.

She was no fool
. She expected guards to be posted and considered waiting a few days or even longer before attempting her escape. But she knew Fogarty would never trust her. The guards would always be there, and she couldn’t bear the thought of spending another night in this house; this prison. Moreover, the longer she delayed, the more risk there would be of Stewart realizing she was expecting a baby. She could not allow that to happen. Once he knew, any hope of escape would be gone.

She w
aited until well after midnight and dressed herself in a divided skirt, a long-sleeved blouse and a scarf, all dark in color. She cut pieces from a blanket and tied them around her riding boots so they would make no sounds on the wooden floor. From the darkness of the room she looked out the window until she spotted Fogarty’s man. He was in a position from which he could watch the rear entrance to the house and Anne’s bedroom window, while at the same time having a good view of the horse corral. The front entrance was out of the question. To get there she would have to walk past the open door of the room where Fogarty slept.

She crept down the hal
lway and down the stairs. From there she turned toward the rear of the house. In the kitchen she stole a handful of sugar cubes and stashed them in the pocket of her skirt. The door of the room where Maria and Lupita slept was open, as was the window on the opposite side of the room. Anne stood at the doorway for a moment, listening to the soft chorus of snoring made by the two sleeping women. Slowly, she crossed the room, testing each floorboard for sound before placing her full weight upon it.

There was
a low table beneath the window and it supported numerous possessions of the room’s two occupants. These items Anne carefully removed and placed on the floor beside the table. She sat on the table, holding her breath, and swung her legs around and over the window sill until her feet were outside. Sliding across the table so she was sitting on the window ledge, she slid over the edge as slowly as she could and dropped to the soft dirt outside. She experienced a feeling of lightness now, a sense of oppression falling away, and she vowed never to set foot in that house again.

She made her way to the barn in the dim light of the moon and stars and slipped inside its murky darkness, feeling around with her hands and carefully pushing her feet out in front of her before each step, so as not to trip or
kick anything over. In this manner she located the pegs where the bridles were hung. She would have to ride bareback—to attempt to saddle a horse would take too long and create too much noise.

There was one corner of the corral, opposite the gate, which was kept in shadows by the high profile of the barn. She slipped through the rails of the fence at th
is point. Several horses nearby shied away and trotted to the opposite end of the corral with an if-you-want-to-ride-me-you’ll-have-to-catch-me attitude. She reached into the pocket of her skirt and withdrew a handful of sugar cubes and began rubbing them together between her hands. One horse, her own, trotted over and accepted the sugar cubes. Anne slipped the bit into his mouth and the headstall over his ears. Fearing the activity of the horses would arouse the suspicion of Fogarty’s guard, she hung back in the shadows, holding the reins, hoping that if the guard had noticed anything out of the ordinary, his suspicions would be allayed when, after a reasonable interval, nothing else happened.

It didn
’t work. The man was cautious, and presently, he appeared at the opposite side of the corral. Anne shrank deeper into the shadows, scarcely daring to breathe, praying he wouldn’t see her. But the night was not dark enough. The sound of his voice cut through her like a knife.

“Going somewhere tonight, Mrs. Stewart? I don
’t think you’re supposed to be doing that. Why don’t you just come on over here and I’ll walk you back to the house.”

Anne thought bitterly
. ”He thinks I can just walk back into the house and go to bed. He doesn’t know they’ll kill me now.”

“Let me go,” she implored
. “You don’t know what they’ll do to me.”

“Sorry ma
’am. I do know what they’ll do to me.”

Anne recogni
zed him now; his name was Virgil. He was one of the older hands; strong and as tough as boot leather, but with his more agile days behind him. She was sure she could outrun him; it was the only chance she had left.

She spun around, ducked un
der the top rail of the corral—slipping easily through to the other side—and ran out into the desert. Behind her Virgil shouted for her to stop, and she heard the loud report as he fired his pistol. He shouted again and fired two more shots. Each time she heard the explosions, the muscles in her back tensed involuntarily, expecting to feel the impact of the bullet. But Virgil wasn’t aiming at her; he didn’t dare. His orders did not extend to killing the boss’ wife. He ran clumsily after her, age and his awkward riding boots impairing him.

Everyone on the ranch was awake
now and behind her Anne could hear the sounds of men shouting and running. Above it all rose the stentorian voice of Tom Stewart, calling out orders. Through most of it she was unable to make out what he was saying but she heard one thing clearly, and he repeated it twice. “Dead or alive!” Even from this distance she could hear the rage in his voice.

She knew
her situation was hopeless; she could only hope to elude them until daylight. Never had she felt so alone and so betrayed. She clung tightly to the shadowy shelter of trees and boulders, and when forced to cross open spaces, she moved fast and stayed low, sometimes even crawling on hands and knees. 

Within minutes Stewart had every man on the ranch mounted and searching for her. They spread out, combing the area systematically, passing several times within a few
yards of where she was hiding. Once, had she so desired, she could have reached out and touched one of the men on the leg as he passed. She was grateful for her dark clothing.

She began
making her way toward a wash she remembered, hoping to take advantage of its cover and direction to move faster and get farther away from the area where they would expect her to be. Twenty minutes later, crouched in the scanty protection of a low boulder, she rested, breathing hard from fear and exertion. Scanning the desert around her, she listened to the sounds of the searchers. They seemed to be moving toward her.

Between her and the wash was an open area about forty yards wide, which she would have to cross, and
while doing so would be completely exposed. Her heart pounded as she gathered her courage. She leaped out from the shelter of the rock and started running. Half way across, she saw movement on the far side of the wash. She caught a glimpse of a man on horseback just as he disappeared behind a low hill.  Had he seen her? She would soon know. She cleared the edge of the wash and dropped into its welcoming hollow, exhausted and breathless. There was no time to rest; she could hear the sounds of men and horses drawing nearer by the second.

She knew
it would only be a matter of time until they spotted her. Even if by some incredible stroke of fortune she evaded capture tonight, it would be next to impossible to do so in the daylight when she would be exposed and they could follow her trail. She pushed on, though her lungs were burning and her legs were beginning to tire.

Rounding a bend in the course of the wash she slowed to a walk in order to better observe the
terrain and listen for sounds. A shadow on the opposite side, about twenty yards away, started moving toward her: a horse and rider. There was no place to run now; no way to escape. She stood frozen, waiting. There was something vaguely familiar about the rider, but in the darkness she couldn’t tell who it was. He rode toward her at a walk, not hurrying, then he spoke, and his voice was soft and comforting and welcome. “Angelita.”

Only one person had ever called her
that. She ran to him and he swung down from the saddle. She threw herself into his arms and clung to him and was no longer alone. 

Amado
said softly, “Let’s go Angelita, the desert is full of snakes tonight.”

He helped her
into the saddle and climbed up behind her in order to shield her body with his own. He urged the horse up the side of the ravine and over the rim in the direction from which she had just come.

“Why are we going this way?” Anne whispered.

“They’re all around us,” he whispered back. “The only safe place to go is where they’ve already looked for you.”

She realized he was right. Most people, when searching for something or someone, won
’t look twice in the same place.

Amado kept the horse at a walk, and though Anne was in front of him and could not see his face, she knew his senses were alert to every sound, smell
, and movement.  Several times they stopped and waited while riders passed. Sometimes the riders were alone, sometimes in groups of two or three, conversing in low voices. The closer they got to the house the less frequently and distinctly did the sounds of the searchers reach their ears. 

Stewart had refrained from joining the search himself, considering it impolitic to do so. Whenever possible he avoided i
nvolvement in any situation which had potential for scandal. He paid other men to do his dirty work, and he was certain they would not need his assistance tonight in capturing his wife. She was one woman, alone and afoot in the desert. With so many men searching for her it could only be a matter of time before she was caught and brought back to him. She would not escape again: he had already planned her death. Fogarty would do it. Fogarty would enjoy it. It would be made to look like another unspeakable crime perpetrated by Jeff Havens. After that, every man in the territory would join the hunt for Havens. There would be no place the man could hide.

Stewart had given Fogarty instructions to keep him informed of the prog
ress of the hunt. Twice, the gunman had sent messengers back to the house in compliance with those instructions, though there had been nothing to report. The second messenger, a rider named Mott, was now returning to Fogarty with fresh orders from Stewart.

Amado saw
Mott riding to the left and veered off to the right. Mott, catching the movement, spurred his horse faster in that direction. Amado knew that now was the time for speed. He touched the spurs to the gelding’s flanks and the big animal surged forward, picking up speed with each powerful lunge. Behind them, Mott fired two shots from his pistol, but darkness and the movement of his horse made accuracy impossible.

As they passed a clump of small trees and brush, Amado reined sharply to the left and the gelding wheeled around the trees like the fine cutting horse he was. He carried Amado and Anne past the ranch house like he had wings.

Anne saw Stewart standing on the porch and she saw him bolt for a horse that was tied to the hitching rail. Because of the distance, she didn’t get a clear view of his face, but in her mind she clearly pictured the expression it wore.

Mott was still behind them
, and though Anne knew the gelding was a better horse, it was also carrying double. These same thoughts were in Amado’s mind and he knew he would have to use his knowledge of the terrain as much as the speed and stamina of his mount.