Return of the Outlaw (19 page)

D
uring the years he had worked the Rafter 8, Amado had hazed cattle out of every draw and pocket on the ranch. No one alive knew the terrain here like he did. After passing the house, he swung the gelding southeast and soon his eyes located the landmark he was seeking: a low, flat-topped knoll with almost vertical sides. Behind him he heard another shot and he could tell Mott was closing the distance.

Amado found the cattle trail and swung the gelding south around the far side of the knoll. Here, the trail dropped sharply into a narrow wash with high, steep sides. Anne saw the danger and tensed her muscles, preparing for a tumble. But Amado knew what he was doing, and at just the right moment he reined to the left and touched the spurs lightly to the gelding
’s flanks. The gelding left the trail, and a few yards later, the ground, and sailed like the mythical winged horse, over the edge of the wash. They landed with a jolt and Anne was almost unseated as they veered hard to the left to avoid crashing against the side of the bank. It had been the most superb display of horsemanship she had ever witnessed and Amado had performed it with the hindrance of having to balance himself on the rear of the saddle while she occupied the front.

At that moment Mott rounded the knoll
, and seeing Amado and Anne astride the gelding, flying down the wash bed, he spurred his horse straight ahead—a mistake Amado had hoped he would make. Suddenly, the trail dropped out from underneath him. The horse stumbled and its forelegs buckled. Its momentum carried its hind quarters into the air and over and it landed on its back. Mott slammed against the side of the wash and lay still. The horse rolled onto its side and attempted to rise. Stewart, following close behind, saw Mott’s horse go down and hauled on the reins, but he was too close and moving too fast. His horse landed on top of Mott’s struggling mount before the downed brute had a chance to rise to its feet. For a moment Stewart found himself atop a screaming mass of kicking, lurching horseflesh, then his horse extricated itself and Stewart—miraculously still in the saddle—spurred down the wash.

Amado and Anne had gained a few precious seconds, but Stewart was confident he could still overtake them; h
e had a good horse and knew Amado’s gelding, carrying double, would tire more quickly. Stewart spurred his mount without mercy, whipping it furiously with the reins and soon had the two fugitives in sight. He pulled his pistol, waiting to close the distance enough to permit an accurate shot, but he noticed his horse was beginning to falter. Cursing and spurring viciously he urged it onward, but the animal had developed a limp in its right fore-leg—no doubt a result of the jump into the wash—and try as it may to run faster, the limp was becoming increasingly pronounced and Stewart was falling behind.

Seeing his chance slip away, he aimed his revolver into the night, and hurling epithets of the foulest kind at Anne, he emptied the gun at the receding shado
w. It was an act of desperation. He knew that, under the circumstances, the chances of hitting his target were remote. When his gun was empty he sat in the saddle, incensed by his failure, listening to the rhythmic hoof beats of Amado’s gelding fade into inaudibility.

Stewart could not
know it, but he had not failed. By sheer luck, one of his bullets had found its mark. Anne felt the breath knocked out of her as she was thrown forward onto the gelding’s neck by the impact of the bullet striking her in the back. For the second time that night she almost slipped out of the saddle, but somehow she managed to hold on as the gelding’s steady, smooth gait carried her away from those who would do her harm. The pain gradually changed in character from dull to burning, and it felt like her back was on fire. Nausea swept over her and she feared she would lose consciousness, but she held on, and the gelding ran on and on in the darkness. Finally, confident they were no longer being pursued, Amado reined in and the gelding slowed to a walk and then stopped, lathered and blowing hard.

Anne sat hunched forward, clinging to consciousness as the world ar
ound her spun in dizzy circles. Her hair hung over her face, and her forehead almost touched the gelding’s mane.

With rough-skinned, but gentle fingers Amado probed her wound. “Does it hurt, Angelita?” he
whispered breathlessly.

“U
-huh,” came the dull reply.

She felt him leave the saddle and grunt as he slid t
o the ground. “Can you ride?” he queried, still whispering.

“Yes,” she replied, but she wasn
’t sure if it was true.

“Do you know how to get to Emelia Diaz
’ house?”

“I think so.” She turned her head toward him and it hurt. It
hurt to move, it hurt to talk, it hurt to breathe. “Come with me,” she pleaded, realizing now, that he intended to send her on alone.

Amado
’s voice was low. “No, I have to stay here. I’ll make sure no one follows you. You’ll be all right, Angelita. Can you find the trail to Emelia’s house?”

“Yes
.”

“Find the trail. Give the h
orse his head. He knows the way; he’ll take you there.”

She nodded and slid backward, fully into the saddle.

“Slip your feet into the stirrups, Angelita, so you won’t fall off.”

Anne did as she was told.
Amado slapped the gelding lightly on the rump and watched as they moved away from him. Anne would be all right. Emelia would take care of her.

He pulled his pistol and
lowered himself to the ground. Leaning back against a boulder, he waited.

For a moment he ref
lected back over his life. He glanced in the direction Anne had gone, but could no longer see horse or rider. He had wanted so much for her to marry Jeff. He wondered, as he had many times before, what had happened to separate those two who had been so right for each other and so much in love. Their children would have called him grandpa and they would have been his family; his joy in his old age. But he had come to understand long ago that life seldom brings what one hopes for. He had learned to accept what came. ”It’s all right,” he thought. ”I’m old.” He sat and waited and no one came. And still he waited.

Dawn came and still Amado sat there, and it was just after daybreak when Emelia and the others found him. She knelt down beside him and laid her head on his chest and wept.
Anne’s wound had bled little, telling Emelia that the large quantities of blood she had found on the saddle and down the side of the horse must be Amado’s. The bullet had passed through his body, and flattened, and with most if its energy spent, it had struck Anne in the back. Deflected by a rib, it had traveled a short distance under the skin, creating a wound that was painful but not serious.

Presently, Emelia stopped crying and was helped to her feet. They wrapped Amado
’s body in a blanket she had brought for that purpose.

In the Spanish language the name Amado means beloved and Amado was that. Today there would be mourning in San
Vicente.

Ted Walker strode briskly down t
he boardwalk of Main Street. He had a lot on his mind—not an unusual condition for a man who is mayor of a busy, growing town, but the matters which were presently causing him to furrow his brow and chew his lower lip in anger were matters that extended beyond the scope of the mayoral office. He crossed the street and tramped past the bank, preoccupied and paying little attention to the comings and goings of the people on the street and boardwalks.

As he passed the open doorway of the bank, Tom Stewart, s
tanding just inside, hailed him, “Mayor.”

Recognizing the voice, Walker froze in his tracks
and slowly turned to face Stewart, an expression of bitter hatred on his face.

“We need to talk,” said Stewart.

“No, we don’t,” said Walker coldly, starting to move away.

“It would be better for Anne if you
’d talk to me,” said Stewart. He wore an arrogant smile—his way of showing Walker how little he cared what the man thought of him.

Walker turned to face him fully now, “What kind of threat is that Stewart?”

Ignoring the question, Stewart said, “If you care about Anne you’d better listen to what I have to say.”

Walker considered this for a moment
then asked with the same coldness, “Where?”

“How about the
sheriff’s office?”

“That
’s a coincidence, Stewart; I was just on my way there.”

Stewart smiled the self-satisfied smile of a man who knows something he isn
’t telling and gestured for Walker to go first.

“I
’ll follow you,” said Walker. “I won’t turn my back on any kind of a snake who’ll shoot a woman in the back.”

Stewart
’s smile remained intact as he stepped past Walker and walked toward Lloyd Jennings’ office.

Jennings was at his desk, idly smoking a cigar. Looking at him, Walker
was reminded how much the man had changed in the past few weeks. Everyone had noticed it but no one had an explanation for it.

“Say your piece,” Walker said to Stewart
. “Then I have business with the sheriff.”

Stewart sat down in a chair next to the desk, casually stretching his legs in front of him, crossing them at the ankles. “
It has come to my attention that my wife is staying at your home.”

Walker was visibly stunned by this pronouncement
. “How did you find that out?”

“D
oesn’t matter how I found it out.”

“You
’re right, it doesn’t matter,” said Walker hotly. “Because if you think she’s coming back . . . “

Stewart interrupted
. “No, I don’t think she’s coming back, because I won’t take her back; I have no use for an unfaithful wife.”

“You
’re a filthy liar, Stewart. I ought to kill you for saying that.”

Stewart, having lost none of his composure
, turned to look at Jennings, who had thus far displayed no interest in what was occurring.

Now, realizing
something was expected of him, Jennings said in a bland voice, “There’ll be no violence, Ted.”

“Do you know what this is about
, Lloyd?” demanded Walker. “Do you even care?”

Nothing changed on Jennings
’ face. “Why don’t you tell me, Ted,” he said without emotion.

“That
’s what I came here for, Lloyd. Your friend Stewart here shot his wife.”  Here he paused as if expecting to see some manifestation of surprise or shock from Jennings, but nothing happened. Jennings sat in his chair, leaning forward, resting his elbows on the desk, looking at the cigar he was turning in his fingers.

Walker continued
. “Stewart tried to make her a prisoner on the ranch. When she tried to leave, he went after her and shot her in the back as she was riding away.”

Stewart was smiling now, shaking his head
. “Is that what she told you?”

Walker turned hate-filled eyes on Stewart
. “I’m not surprised you have a different story, it’s not like a man like you to own up to the truth, but I’ll tell you something Stewart, your reputation around here is  . . .”

Stewart interrupted, “My r
eputation is not the issue here; it’s Anne’s reputation you should be concerned about.”

“I suppose you
’re going to tell me what you mean by that.”

“Yes
, I am. I’ll tell you, and if you force me to, I’ll tell the whole town. I wasn’t the one who shot Anne; it was one of my hands, a man named Frank Mott. Like I said before, Anne was not a faithful wife. It seems she had jilted Mott for one of the other hands, and Mott threatened to kill her. She was afraid of him, but naturally she couldn’t come to me for protection, so she tried to leave. Mott followed her, and during the chase he shot at her. Apparently the bullet that hit her didn’t knock her off her horse so he continued the chase, but unfortunately—or fortunately, however you want to look at it, his horse stumbled and threw him. Mott’s neck was broken. He was dead when we found him. The horse had to be shot. I assumed Anne had made a clean getaway until last night when I learned she had been shot and was staying with you.”

“Who told you that?” demanded Walker for the second time.

“It doesn’t matter, Walker, the point is this. Anne’s reputation is important to me, but under the circumstances, not as important as my own. I would prefer the story didn’t get out, but if it does and people are being told I shot Anne, I’ll have to tell the truth. And I have quite a number of witnesses to corroborate my story. It seems everyone on the ranch knew what was going on except me. Anne, on the other hand, has no one to back up her story.”

“Anne was born
and raised around here, Stewart. You’re a newcomer. People know her too well to believe that sort of trash about her.”

“Maybe they will and ma
ybe they won’t, but do you really want to put her through it? Either way her reputation will be stained forever. Win or lose, she’ll be the subject of gossip for the rest of her life. No decent man will ever have her.”

Walker glared at Stewart
. “You play a filthy game, Stewart.”

“I take the hand that
’s dealt me, and I play it the best I can.”

“All right, Stewart; you win but stay away from Anne.”

Stewart shrugged. “I have no use for Anne.”

“What about her things?”

“I’ll send a man into town with them tomorrow.”

After Walker left, Jennings said, “Anything you want to tell me about this?”

“There’s nothing about this that involves you,” Stewart replied coldly.

Jennings shrugged and pulled a bottle of whiskey out of a drawer and poured himself a drink, pointedly not offering one to Stewart. “You
’re a good liar, Tom; I remember how you used to fool me.”

“I did you a big favor
, Lloyd. I hope you’re not forgetting that.”

“You ruined me.”

“You ruined yourself when you shot that old man.”

“That was an honest mist
ake. The last honest thing I ever did.” He drank the whiskey and grimaced as it seared his throat. He looked into the mouth of the bottle as if there were something to be seen there. “You shot your wife didn’t you Tom?”

“Don
’t ask questions, Lloyd; the whole thing is settled. Don’t go stirring it up again.”

“Well,
then give me an official statement so I can at least say I’ve done an investigation,” said Jennings, irritation edging his voice.

Stewart
’s smile was a mixture of condescension and disdain, and when he spoke, his voice was soft, as if he were speaking to a child. “Well, Lloyd, you already know most of it: Mott shot her in the back. She must not have been hurt too badly because she rode down to some woman’s house, Emelia something.”

“Diaz,” provided Jennings. “Emelia Diaz. Why would she go there?”

“You got me. Anyway, she stayed at the old woman’s house until she felt better, then she went over to stay with the Walker’s. She got there late last night. That’s why Ted was so anxious to talk to you this morning.”

Jennings took another pull from the bottle. “How did you find out where she went
and where she is now?

“I won
’t say.”

“It doesn
’t matter; it had to be Victor Ortega.”

Stewart didn
’t bother to confirm or deny this statement.

“You know, Stewart,
I went to school with Anne. I’ve known her most of my life.  There never was a more honorable woman. She’s the kind of woman who would die before she would do what you’ve accused her of. I think Walker’s right. I don’t think anyone would believe you.”

Ste
wart stood up. “Sure they would; a lot of them would anyway. People believe what they want to believe, and there are always those who want to believe the worst about others. Makes them feel better about themselves—and it makes for more interesting gossip. “Besides,” he said, moving toward the door, “you never know about a person. A few weeks ago, who would have thought you would gun down a helpless old man.”

He left Jennings to deal with his personal agony the way he dealt with everything else:
alone.