Return of the Outlaw (41 page)

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 yellow 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.

“Eveni
ng,” 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 c
orner 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 m
ore rattlesnakes that afternoon than Jeff had believed they could in such a short time. Someday he would have to tell them about this.

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 sh
ort 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 h
ad 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 support 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.

So much had changed in her life, she thought, and in such a short time. S
he wondered where Jeff had gone and if he was still alive. And she wondered if he had ever really loved her. Then, as she had so many times in the past, she wondered if she had done the right thing the night Jeff had come home from the war. He had told her he loved her that night, but those were mere words. Why had he stopped writing? She dispelled these doubts that assailed her as she always had in the past, by telling herself it had been necessary to test Jeff. He had failed that test. She told him she was engaged to another man and saw no shock on his face, no pain in his eyes. He merely smiled and conversed and wished her well, and then he rode away forever. This was not the way a man endured the loss of the woman he loved. She wanted him to become angry, to grab her, to shake her, to forbid her to marry any other man; to kiss her and force her with his passionate will to kiss him back. But he did none of these things. She saw no passion in him. It would have taken so little for him to prove to her that he still loved her, and she would have defied her mother and broken off with Milt Carr. As it was, the change in Anne after Jeff’s return had been so pronounced that Milt had ended the engagement himself. Anne had been grateful, and Audrey furious.

Marsha
Walker greeted Anne at the door with her usual warm smile. She was a slender, frail-looking woman, thirty years Anne’s senior, yet possessed of a boundless energy. She looked past Anne, her eyes sweeping the road in both directions before she closed the door. “Any problems?” The question required no elaboration; they shared the same terrible fear.

“No,” replied Anne, “how
’s the baby?”

“Asleep, but she
’ll be hungry soon. By the way, I saw your mother today.”

“Oh,” said Anne, without interest, “how is she?”

“She seems very well.”

They moved toward the kitchen and Anne snatched an apron from a peg behin
d the door and began tying it on. “Did she ask about the baby?”

Mrs. Walker suddenly acted uncomfortable, “Well
I don’t recall . . . we talked about. . . ”

Anne
’s soft laugh interrupted her, “Marsha dear, it’s quite alright; it doesn’t hurt me anymore. I know my mother; I know she didn’t ask about the baby and I know she didn’t ask about me. She talked about herself, about things she has done, is doing, and plans to do, and made herself look quite wonderful. Am I wrong?”

Mrs. Walker smiled in resignation, “No dear, you
’re not. I apologize for bringing it up.”

“You shouldn
’t. It actually helps me, though I don’t think I could explain why. Was my father with her?”

“Yes, but we didn
’t speak; he was on his way to the blacksmith shop. He’s a good man, your father.”

Anne smiled at the thought of her father. She loved him, and though he had never said so, she knew he loved her. It wasn
’t much, but somehow it was enough. Anne asked for nothing more from him.

Everett Hammond was a strange man
—one who seemed to possess no depth of feeling, good or bad. She doubted he had the capacity to hate anyone except under extreme circumstances. On the other hand, his capacity for love seemed no greater. He hovered perpetually somewhere in the middle, making no enemies, and making friends only by virtue of constancy and steadiness; by merely being there, pleasant and unwavering, year after year. And so it was that he was a source of strength for Anne, not because she knew she could go to him for assistance or moral support, but merely because he was always the same: smiling, non-critical and expecting nothing more of her than that she not criticize him or ask too much of him. Anne knew she could move to the other side of the world and not be greatly missed by her father, yet when she visited him or encountered him in town, his smile was genuine, and he was glad to see her. She was satisfied with that.

Mrs. Walker was talking again
. “I saw that horrible Rand Fogarty too. I was going to warn you, but I watched him for a while and he left town. Anne, dear, what will you do—what will we do if . . .?”

Anne interrupted, unpre
pared to answer the question. “Tom has left us alone so far.”

“So far,” said Mrs. Walker, “but it
’s so hard, always wondering and worrying.”

Anne turned from what she was doing and faced her friend, placing her hands gently on the older woman
’s shoulders. “Oh Marsha dear, I should leave; I shouldn’t stay here and put you and Ted through this.”

A horrified look came to Mrs. Walker
’s face, “Oh, Anne, no, I don’t mean it that way, you don’t understand. It’s not because you’re here, it’s because we care about you and Sarah. If you were somewhere else we would worry even more. Please say you understand that.”

Anne pulled the older woman
to her and they embraced. “You’re like a mother to me,” she said, “you always will be, and when Sarah can talk, she’ll call you Grandma, and Ted will be Granddad.”

Mrs. Walker pulled back and looked into Anne
’s eyes, her own eyes brimming with tears. “You must understand Anne, if you ever need to leave, I mean for yourself; if you ever remarry. . .”

At this, Anne shook her head strenuously.

“Don’t say no, dear,” said Mrs. Walker reprovingly. “It can happen. Things change. Feelings change. You’re very young, and as I said, if you ever should feel the need to go, you must not feel obligated to stay. But you must never, ever feel obligated to leave. This is your home as long as either Ted or I am alive.” Then she added with significance, “And beyond.” Ted and I have discussed it. We both feel the same way.”

Anne smiled and said, “I hope
I will never have to leave here. There’s so little peace in the world; when people find it they should be allowed to keep it.”

The tw
o women began working on supper, and as she moved about the comfortable, familiar kitchen, Anne compared Mrs. Walker with her mother. She knew it was a foolish thing to do, and she tried to avoid it, but at certain times the compulsion was irresistible.

Audrey Hammond blamed Anne for the break-up with Tom Stewart and had not forgiven her for it. Audrey had believed, though Stewart had merely hinted at it, that Ever
ett Hammond would be given Two Mile Meadow, and that Stewart would undoubtedly sweeten the gift with a small herd of breeding stock to enable Everett to get a solid start in the ranching business. In reality Tom Stewart was not a man to entertain thoughts of such a generous nature, but Audrey now blamed Anne completely for the family’s continued lack of status in the community.

Anne stopped what she was doing and thought of what her life would have been like if Marsha Walker had been her mother. And
then, inevitably, she thought of Jeff and of how life could have been if he had been her husband and the father of her child.

There was a small noise from the other room. Mrs. Walker touched h
er hand, “The baby’s awake dear; I’ll stir the gravy.”

Tom Stewart
dismounted in front of the bank and tied his horse. He turned to the two men who had accompanied him. “You can wait for me in the saloon, but stay sober; I won’t be long.”

Because they had sent so many men north, Fogarty was short-handed and Stewart knew the two men were needed at the ranch, but with Jeff Havens back and on the prowl, he felt it was unsafe for him to go riding alone.

There were only a handful of customers in the bank
, and Stewart walked over and stood in front of the door which opened to the inner offices, not speaking. An equally silent teller acknowledged this mute demand by unlocking the door, allowing Stewart in, then turning his back and walking away.

Stewart
’s mouth molded itself into a smile as he tapped on Willard Deering’s partially open door. At Deering’s bland “Yes?” Stewart pushed the door open and stepped inside, wearing his smile.

Deering did not stand up but motioned for Stewart to take a sea
t. “Hello, Tom,” he said without feeling. This reception was indicative of the general decline in Stewart’s popularity. Stewart was not unaware of his demotion in status; it was, in fact, one of the reasons for his visit to the bank today. He was playing his last card in the game with the banker—playing it while he still could.