Return of the Outlaw (37 page)

“Ugh,” said Catherine making a face of disgust which Dolores quickly imitated, though she had never met Tom Stewart.

“What do you have in mind?” Beeman asked.

“Probabl
y the same thing you do, Alvah. As long as the rustlers don’t know we’ve discovered their canyon, we have the advantage over them. Jeff Havens described a little valley on the other side of the mountain, where the rustlers have built a corral and some lean-tos.”

“The valley is
there,” said Beeman, and it’s a good place for an ambush if that’s what you’re thinking.”

“Exactly.
That would be the place where they camp and where they change the brands. Once they set up camp and start rustling cattle, they’re bound to be there for a week or more. We can send two men down there to hide out and watch for them. When they show up, one of the men can stay and keep track of them, while the other could hustle back up here to let us know the rustlers have arrived. Then we could take a group of men down and surround them.”

Beeman said, “If I come along
, Jim, there’ll be no hanging. We’ll take prisoners, take them to town, lock them up and they’ll stand trial. I want that understood right from the beginning.”

“
Then you’re not invited, Alvah. We can’t pansy around with these rustlers. We have to hit them and hit them hard. Any one of them who doesn’t surrender will be shot. Any one who does surrender will be hanged. It’s the law of the range. Besides, Emil Tannatt’s got a right to be in on this and you can guess how he’ll feel about it.”

Beeman frowned, “
Then I shouldn’t even be here listening to you, Jim. Whatever you do, don’t tell me when, where or how. I’m completely out of it. And that goes for afterwards too.”

“I
’m sorry, Alvah, that’s the way it has to be.”

No one said anything for a moment
, then, sounding defensive, Marcellin spoke, “Do you realize how much money we ranchers are losing every month? Some of us, maybe all of us, will surely go belly up.”

Beeman held up a hand, palm forward, as a sign for Marcellin to stop. “No more talk
, Jim. Like I said; I don’t want to hear about it, and this conversation never happened.” He stood up, “If you don’t mind I’ll grab a little shut-eye in your bunk-house before I head back to town.”

“Sure
,” said Marcellin softly, looking down at his hands on the table.

Beeman went to the bunk house and slept like a dead man for two hours. He awoke feeling drugged, and though it had been less than three hours since he had eaten, he was hungry again. He sat on the side of the bunk and pulled on his boots. “Feel like Methuselah
,” he muttered to himself.

He went to the corra
l and saddled his horse, then walked across to the kitchen, where he found Catherine engaged in conversation with Cracker, who had just ridden in from the range.

He entered the kitchen and exchanged greetings with Cracker. “Well I see you
’re back among the living, Alvah,” said Catherine.

Beeman smiled weakly and nodded.

“Are you hungry again?” she asked.

“I could use a bite, but I think I
’d better pass; I need to be getting back to town.”

“I
’ll fix you something you can eat on the way.”

“Thanks. There
’s one other thing,” said Beeman, beginning to act uncomfortable. “I need to borrow some ammunition for my rifle.”

Cracker
’s gaze dropped to Beeman’s waist, taking note of the fact that he wore no gun belt, and there was a twinkle in his eye as he asked, “Got enough pistol ammunition?”

Catherine
turned away to hide her smile. Beeman pointedly ignored the question.

Cracker went out and soon returned with a box of cartridges,
then left again, grinning.

Beeman waited in the kitchen as Catherine laid thick slabs of roast beef on slices of fresh bread baked earlier that day. These she placed in a cloth sack
, along with a large slice of apple pie, some fruit, and a wrapped mason jar full of hot coffee.

Thanking Catherine, Beeman said good-by
e and mounted his horse. As he was leaving the yard he was joined by Cracker and Eli, riding one on either side of him.

“Eli, we
’re doin’ it wrong,” Said Cracker, speaking as though Beeman were not there.

Beeman gritted his teeth, steeling himself for what he knew was to come.

Cracker continued, “This life of labor and drudgery is gettin’ us nowhere.”

“You
’re right about that Cracker,” said Eli, “but what’re we gonna do about it?”

“Me, I
’ve decided to turn to a life of crime,” replied Cracker. “It’s easy work, the pay’s good, and best of all; it’s safe.”

Beeman stared ahead stonily.

“That’s true,” said Eli, “but it ain’t that way everywhere.”

“What do you mean?”

“I knew a man once who told me about a place that had a sheriff who carried guns.”

“Guns?” s
aid Cracker in mock perplexity. “What in the world for?” He paused, his expression changing to one of theatrical astonishment, “Do you mean . . . ?”

“That
’s right,” said Eli, “he put bullets in ‘em.”

“Well, I never
,” said Cracker, shaking his head. “That beats anything I ever heard tell of. He could hurt somebody that way. Why, if that idea ever catches on a man won’t be able to make a dishonest living anywhere.”

“Haw haw,” said Beeman, spurring his horse forward, leaving the two laughing cowboys behind.

He was not really angry. He realized, in a sense, this good natured badinage was a way of telling him they were his friends. He knew, as they did, this was nothing, compared to what he would receive from the disgruntled inhabitants of the valley when they found out he had allowed the prisoner to escape.

When Beeman was gone, Marcellin entered the kitchen where Catherine and Dolores were preparing supper. Pots were steaming on the stove and the back door was open to let in fresh air. The sun had just dropped behind the mountains and there was smoke coming from the cook shack where Willy was preparing supper for the hungry cowhands who would soon be riding in from their day
’s work.

Marcellin sat down at the table
and Catherine glanced over at him and looked away.

He sighed, “I know, mother, you don
’t even need to say it. You don’t approve.”

Catherine said nothing.

“These are men’s affairs,” he said defensively. “It has to be done this way.”

“What has to be done
what way?”  she asked archly. 

“You know . . .
hanging.”

She turned and faced him
. “I don’t care how many rustlers you hang. You can run all over the world, hanging people here and hanging people there if you want. Make yourself a gallows on wheels if it makes you happy. But the way you’ve been treating your friends lately makes me glad I’m just your mother.”  She swung away from him and picked up a pan, slamming it down on the stove.

Marcellin was at a loss. Seeing he
r so adamant made him worry that she may be right, but he didn’t know what she was talking about.

“What did I do to my friends now?” he asked, in complete exasperation.

Catherine turned again. “There’s an election coming up. People around here are fed up with this rustling problem and Alvah Beeman just let one of the rustlers escape, although you and I know Jeff Havens is not really a rustler. What do you think Alvah’s chances are of being re-elected now? If he were to take part in rounding up the outlaws down at the rustler’s pass and bringing them back to stand trial he would be a hero. But he’s not invited.”  She slammed the pan down again and left the room.

Marcellin sat there for a moment, stung. Dolores turned from her cooking to shoot him a disapproving glance. Presently he leaned forward
, and swearing softly, slapped the table with the palm of his hand. He stood up and limped out the door as Dolores slammed a pan down on the stove.

Eli and Cracker were just r
iding in from harassing Beeman. “Loan me your horse, Eli,” said Marcellin, handing his crutch to his son. “I’ll be right back.”

From her window Catherine watched as her son rode out of the yard after Beeman. She smiled.

Tom Stewart was angry and worried. When Beeman and Jeff had eluded the lynch mob, Stewart had believed the sheriff would simply hide out until the members of the mob had cooled off and decided to go home. But now Beeman was back and the story was all over town. Stewart had attempted vainly to disguise his anger from the person who told him, but back in the hotel room he made no such attempt. Flying into a rage, he fumed, “That fool. That idiotic fool! If we had known what he was planning, we could’ve used the pass to get ahead of them and set up an ambush.

“So what
’s the plan now?” Fogarty asked, “Go back?”

“No,” said Stewart, “we can
’t go back yet. I’ve got too many of these ranchers on the verge of selling out. I think I can even land Tannatt; he’s one of the two big fish. Once I own the Double T, nobody will be able to hold out for long, including Marcellin. He won’t be so cocky when he leaves this valley pulling his mother in a handcart. Go get the horses; we’ve got a lot to do and we’ve got to get it done fast.”

From his point of concealment on a craggy, brush-covered hillside, Jeff watched as Beeman lowered the pack,
then the gun belt, and pistol to the ground. It was a gesture he had not expected, but one that brought him a great sense of relief. It was a long ride that was ahead of him, and he had not relished the thought of making it unarmed and without food.

He watched the receding shapes of Beeman and his horse grow small in the distance. It was time to be on his way. His life had a well-defined purpose now, and he would not turn aside from that pur
pose until it was accomplished—or he was dead.

A cover of low, verdigris clouds had moved in from the north, blanketing the sky, their ponderous, pregnant bellies portending a downpour. As the
storm moved southward down the valley toward him, it carried with it the rich smell of damp earth, making him grateful for his freedom. He mounted his horse and rode to the spot where Beeman had left the gun and the pack. Reviewing the contents of the latter, he found Beeman’s slicker and guiltily put it on. It was going to be a long, wet ride home for the sheriff. He tied the pack on his horse and buckled on the gun belt. He checked the loads in the pistol, and drew and holstered it a few times, familiarizing himself with its weight and balance. Pleased, he swung into the saddle. It was time to go home.

J
eff was grateful for the rain; it checked the dust which might otherwise have signaled his passage, and he had no wish to encounter anyone else on this trail. When he thought about it, it was almost humorous how many enemies he had made without trying. The chances of him meeting someone who was friendly to him, coming from any direction on this trail, were remote. To the north were Tom Stewart, Rand Fogarty, and several hundred angry citizens. To the south were Stewart’s outlaws and the law, and in between there was always the possibility of encountering hostile Indians. All told, it added up to a significant number of people who were ill-disposed toward him. It would behoove him to maintain constant vigilance. 

He rode to the pass again and through the mountain,
taking the trail the outlaws had clearly used to push the cattle southward, undoubtedly ending up at the ranch that was now known as the T.S. —the ranch Stewart had stolen from him. The trail led through a wild and broken section of country that most travelers would avoid. It was an outlaw trail and Jeff suspected the traveler who had the misfortune of encountering the rustlers on this trail would probably never reach his destination.

By day he traveled with extreme caution, constantly scanning the trail ahead and behind, hoping to see anyone coming his way before th
ey saw him. By night he made cold camps, not wanting to alert a potential enemy of his whereabouts with the light of a campfire or the smell of smoke. He ate his food cold and washed it down with water. 

When he was still a day
and a half from his grandfather’s ranch, he arrived at a place he recognized: a small farm; an emerald dot amid the dry hills and rocks. He had come here with his grandfather many years ago as a boy. He debated whether to continue down the trail or ride over to the farm house a few hundred yards off the trail. In the end, his hunger for a hot meal and human companionship won out.

He approached the house with caution. This had once been the home of friends
, but he had learned never to assume things remained as they once were. As he neared the little house he became more wary. He saw no signs of human life except for a lazy stream of smoke that slid out of the chimney and meandered toward the flawless blue sky. The house was made of stone and had no windows except for narrow, rectangular rifle embrasures high up in each wall. It was a small fortress, built to protect its occupants against marauding Indians or any other manner of enemy.

Jeff walked the horse to within a
hundred yards of the house and stopped, reluctant to go any farther without knowing who was inside. Without a rifle he felt unprotected. He was grateful for the pistol Beeman had given him, but it would be of little use against attackers armed with rifles. He pondered his situation for a moment, unsure what do.

His grandfather had known the people who had built this place, a family named Ru
ggles: Strange people who had chosen to make their life in this isolated spot. But what if they didn’t live here anymore? He studied the area around the house, his eyes searching for any clue regarding its inhabitants.

There was still no movement other than the smoke from the chimney. He thought of turning around and heading on down the trail, but his stomach reminded him it was lunch time, and he r
ecalled Mrs. Ruggles’ cooking. He had never eaten better. She had served fresh venison steaks with hot biscuits, beans, and a variety of garden vegetables. He remembered with relish one of the most memorable elements of the meal: an unfamiliar, green, leafy vegetable which Mrs. Ruggles had served in both cooked and uncooked form.

Sure could use some of that right now, he thou
ght, and his stomach growled its assent.

“Hello, the house,” he called. He rode a little closer.
Instantly there was movement to the right and to the left, as a man on either side of him raised up from places of concealment where Jeff was sure not even an Indian could hide. Each man had a rifle, each rifle was aimed at Jeff. Then, from behind him, came a voice, “Hello yourself, stranger.” Jeff started to turn around.

“Don
’t move,” commanded the voice, “or we’ll fill you so full of holes you’ll throw a pokey dot shadder.” Jeff recognized the husky voice of Edna Ruggles. “Put your right hand way up high,” she commanded, “and with your left hand, slide that pistol out of its holster.

He did as he was instructed and placed the pistol in the out-stretched hand of Mrs. Ruggles, who was now standing beside his horse, the barrel of her rifle poking him uncomfortably in the ribs.

“You probably don’t remember me,” he said. “I’ve been here before.”

“Shush,” she said, “get down off your horse and let me have a squint at your face.”

Neither of the two men had moved or spoken. They stood immobile, their rifles held to their shoulders.

Jeff dismounted slowly
and Edna Ruggles, keeping the rifle barrel to his ribs, drew her face close to his, looking directly into his eyes. After a moment she pulled back and took a few steps backward. She pointed the rifle barrel at some green plants growing alongside the trail a few paces from where Jeff stood.

“Pick me a mess of that weed
,” she commanded.

Jeff hesitated at this unusual command, fearing a trick. But knowing he had no choice, he bent and pulled a
handfull of the weed which he held out to the woman.

Her face broke into a wide, gap-toothed grin. “If that
’s all the greens you want, then you sure ain’t as hungry as you was the last time you et here. Pa, Fred, this here’s Jeffie, you remember Jeffie.”

The two men lowered their rifles and hurried to wher
e Jeff and Edna Ruggles stood, giving Jeff a gleeful welcome. Warm handshakes and rough slaps on shoulders were exchanged.

“You
’ve changed some since you were here last,” said Levi Ruggles through a gray, untrimmed beard.”

“I
’m surprised you remember me,” Jeff stated. “I was ten years old.”

“We don
’t get many visitors out here,” said Mrs. Ruggles, “so we remember ‘em all, ‘specially if they favor my cookin’ the way you did. You favor your grandpa, you know.”

To Jeff’s
eyes, Edna Ruggles had changed little over the years. Not that she looked young, but neither had she looked young to him when he was a boy. She was a big woman, six feet tall and built like a man; one of those women who seem to possess no trace of femininity. Her voice was husky and she talked rough and wore a man’s hat and shoes with her plain, home-spun dress. Her arms were thick and muscular, her shoulders broad and her hips narrow, and she was constantly moving and talking; wherever Edna Ruggles went, there was action.

Levi Ruggles was the antithesis of his wife:
small and slender, slow moving, slow talking and seemingly imperturbable. Sometimes, people who were merely acquainted with the Ruggles said Levi allowed Edna to ”rule the roost.” The few people who knew them well did not say that.

Jeff recalled th
ey had only one child—a boy named Fred, who was several years younger than he. Once, in childish innocence, Jeff had asked Edna why she had not had more children. She had replied with a mischievous wink at her son. “After the way Freddie turned out, we didn’t dare risk it again.” Then she had grown more serious. “That’s somethin’ the good Lord decides, Jeffie. Maybe some day.”

It had been years since Jeff had thought of the Ruggles, but he felt the revival of a deep friendship stirring inside him, inspir
ed by the welcome he was receiving. In recent times he had grown to appreciate what a rare thing true friendship was, and now he understood as well, that it remains unaffected by the passage of time. He bent down and picked another large handful of the dark green leaves.

As they approac
hed the house, Jeff noticed the front door was now open. This surprised him, for he had thought the Ruggles family all present and accounted for. He wondered who this other person would turn out to be.

“Lucy, come on out and meet a special guest,” shouted Edna.

A small, white hand appeared on the edge of the door, and with a timidity born of a life of isolation, a long-haired, slender young girl slowly emerged from the dark interior of the house. Jeff estimated her age to be fourteen or fifteen.

“This is Lucy, o
ur gift from God,” said a beaming Edna Ruggles, stroking the girl’s shining yellow hair. “Now speak the truth, in all your roamin’ days, have you ever seen a prettier girl?”

“No, I honestly haven
’t,” said Jeff. And he meant it.

Lucy blushed and clutched her mother
’s arm, leaning against the big woman, magnifying by this proximity the absolute lack of resemblance between the two.

“Takes after h
er father’s side,” said Edna. “All the women in his family are pretty. I think she favors her Aunt Carlotta most.”

Levi pointed to a small square of ground in front o
f the house. In it were flowers planted in short, neat rows. “Lucy planted them,” he declared proudly.

“We never had flowers before; w
eren’t no time for it,” explained Edna. “But I’ll admit I never was much of a hand for tendin’ flowers. Take them greens from Jeffie, honey,” she instructed Lucy. “We women had best get busy cookin’. We’ve company to feed.”

Lunch was served on a long plank table under a tree in the yard. Levi read a passage from the Bible and said grace. For the first time i
n days, Jeff relaxed a little, sharing with his hosts the job of maintaining vigilance. The site they had chosen for their farm commanded a good view of the surrounding area and by force of long-standing habit, their eyes constantly swept the terrain.

Jeff leaned his elbows on the rough-hewn table and enjoyed the cooking, which was quite as good as he remembered. Halfway through the meal,
with the sharpest edge of his appetite blunted, he began noticing the attentive service he was receiving from Lucy. The girl was watching him and seemed to anticipate his every need. When he reached for his second helping of biscuits, she quickly slid the butter over to him. His coffee cup was only half empty when she was at this side, holding the towel-wrapped handle of the bulky coffee pot to refill it.

The rest of the family had long since finished eating when Jeff at last pushed back his plate and smiled at Edna. Noting the expectancy on her face he said, “Only one other time in my life have I eaten food this good, and that was at this same table.”

Edna Ruggles attempted vainly to hide her immense satisfaction. “Oh, it was just something me and Lucy throwed together at the last minute.”

Lucy was at his side again, carrying a large rhubarb pie. She sat it down and sliced it into four small wedges and one giant piece
, which she slid onto Jeff’s plate. Jeff started to protest this inequitable distribution of the dessert, but a quick wink and a nod from Edna stopped him. He thanked Lucy, and while the other members of the family were being served their small portions, he began savoring the pie which, as a culinary effort, was in nowise inferior to the meal he had just finished.

Lucy watched intently
as Jeff ate and refilled his coffee cup two more times. Finally, after a heroic effort, Jeff finished his pie, leaned back in the chair and patted his stomach. “That was the best piece of pie I ever ate.”

“Lucy made that pie,” s
aid Edna.

“Is that so Lucy?” he asked.

Lucy dropped her eyes and nodded her head.

“Well, that
’s just amazing,” said Jeff “Up till now, Mrs. Ruggles, I thought there was nobody else in the world who could cook as good as you, but it looks like you’ve met your match.” Edna beamed, and Lucy blushed.

When the meal was over
they remained at the table, and for a time no one spoke as they savored the contentment of full stomachs and peaceful surroundings, each with his or her own private thoughts. The soothing sounds of the animals in the corrals and stables, the clucking and scratching of the chickens in the yard, the soft humming and buzzing sounds of insects and the mild susurrus of the breeze in the tree above them all contributed to the tranquility, but did not intrude consciously on Jeff’s thoughts.