Return of the Outlaw (48 page)

“He shot Pa,” she said in a quavering voice, “and he took my Lucy.”

Jeff looked
into her eyes. “Levi, is he dead?”

“No, but he
’s bad hurt. I don’t know if he’ll . . . oh, my baby, my sweet Lucy, he took her. I would’ve gone after him but he took the horses. I guess if he hadn’t I’d gone after them and left Pa to die.” A choking sob escaped her throat.

“Where
’s Fred?”

“Huntin
’.  Been gone since yesterday.”

“When will he be back?”

“We don’t never know that. Jeffie, the man had a baby with him; cute little yeller haired thing.”

“I know
.”

“That
’s why he took Lucy,” said Edna, “to take care of the baby for him. She was cryin’ a lot. He took grub too, lots of it, and milk.”

“How long ago?”

“Maybe three quarters of an hour.”

“How many horses did he take?”

“Three.”

“Tak
e care of Levi,” Jeff said. He wheeled, bounded down the steps of the porch and leaped into the saddle. He had no other words for her; no time for them.

He raced out to the main trail where he switched horses. He jerked the saddle and bridle off the o
ne he had been riding and rode away, leaving the animal standing in the middle of the trail; the saddle and bridle lying on the ground. This was it: The final stretch. There would be no more changing horses. No more resting. He would push hard now and overtake Fogarty before nightfall. He must.

He kept the horse at a pace that would not wear it out too soon, but was fast enough to eat up the miles. He stopped
only to allow it to drink at the infrequent water holes. Two hours from the Ruggles’ farm it started to rain; a hard rain that soaked his clothing. At first it was refreshing, but as it continued it turned cold. Then, the initial anger of the storm abated and the rain settled into a steady drizzle that kept man and beast miserably wet. The rain was accompanied by a wind that cut through Jeff’s wet clothes and deepened the chill already upon him. Fatigue dragged at him, making him wish he could stop and find a dry spot to rest, just for half an hour, maybe even ten minutes. But he knew he couldn’t. It took great effort to keep his eyes open and focused.

Abruptly, his mind came alert. The tracks he was following veered off the main trail and up a steep grade. Suspecting an amb
ush, Jeff dived off his horse, but no shot came. He stopped moving and listened. He heard the sounds of Fogarty’s horses, moving up the grade, pushing to the top of what appeared to be a broad mesa, which overlooked a long stretch of the trail. If Jeff had arrived a few minutes later, when Fogarty was already on top, he would have been an easy target. He pulled his horse off the trail and around to the opposite side of a large, out-jutting boulder, where it wouldn’t be seen. He looped the reins around a tree branch and pulled his saddle carbine from the scabbard. Moving quickly, keeping to the base of the mesa, he made his way around to the ascending trail Fogarty had taken.

He found a gully off to one side of the trail, which offered some
concealment, and followed it up. When he reached the top he removed his hat and peered over the rim. There was nothing there. He carefully scanned the top of the mesa, and satisfied that Fogarty was not there, he pulled himself over the rim and located the tracks of Fogarty’s horses again. He followed them across the flat top of the mesa to the opposite rim, then crouching behind a bush, he observed what lay below.

It was a large, tree-studded basin with sharply sloping sides and a
wide, flat shelf that filled half of the basin. The level shelf was a good place to camp: there was plenty of graze for the animals and it was off the main trail. The far rim of the basin, at the back of the shelf, was formed by a mountain which towered above both basin and mesa. Jeff could see that from almost any point on this side of the mountain a man could watch the mesa, the basin, and even the trail below. The trail which led from the mesa, where Jeff now found himself, to the basin was shrouded in trees most of the way down. In view of the fact that Fogarty and his captives were not to be seen, Jeff concluded they were in the trees, making their way down.

Scanning the top of the mesa, he spotted a hillock which, owing to size and location, would provide the perfect vantage point
from which to observe the basin as well as providing better concealment than the bush he was presently using for cover. He moved cautiously across toward the boulder, crossing as he did, the fresh tracks of Fogarty’s horses. A few yards down the trail, he spotted something that caught his attention—something that shouldn’t be there.

As he passed it he reached down and picked it up. He immediately recognized it, and with that recognition, came the sharp realization that he was in danger. It was
a rudely carved wooden squirrel: the one he had made for Lucy Ruggles. A hole had been bored in its head, and it had been strung on a leather thong so it could be worn around the neck. The strong leather thong was not broken, so Jeff knew it had not fallen accidentally, which meant Lucy knew Jeff was following. And if Lucy knew, Fogarty did too.

These thoughts passed through Jeff
’s mind in the split instant following recognition of the carved squirrel. He shot a quick glance down into the basin. Fogarty and the girls should be on the shelf by now, out of the trees. They weren’t.

Fogarty had tricked him. He was trapped on this
flat mesa with no place to go. The only available concealment was the hillock which Jeff had not yet reached, and he knew that if he took cover there he would be trapped. His only hope was that Fogarty had not yet gotten into position or that he was too far away to hit a running target.

He
spun around and headed back toward the far eastern edge of the mesa, bending low and dodging as he ran. The southern edge would have been closer, but he also would have been running directly away from Fogarty, presenting a target that was easier to hit. This way he was constantly moving along Fogarty’s perspective which would make an accurate hit far more difficult.

A bullet spanged on a flat rock in front of him
, and its echoing report quickly followed, giving Jeff a rough idea of the range from which the shot had been fired—too close for comfort, but far enough away that if he kept moving even an expert marksman would have a difficult time hitting him. Fogarty was firing fast now; the bullets were whiffing past Jeff very close. One of them burned the back of his right leg, and then he was over the edge.

Now
, he wondered, what would Fogarty expect him to do? What he wanted to do was to work his way around to the right and come up over the low mountain behind Fogarty and catch him by surprise. This was probably just what Fogarty expected him to do. If this was the case, Fogarty was no longer interested in the mesa, but would now be working his way to the top of the mountain in order to pick Jeff off as he climbed up. Jeff doubted the gunman would expect him to attempt to cross the mesa when he had just escaped being shot there.

The logic was simple, but how accurate it was Jeff did not know. He would soon find out. He clambered back up to
the edge of the mesa, and in a crouching run, crossed again to the opposite side. This time no shots came. Hurling himself over the far edge, he quickly slipped into the trees.

Fogarty waited for over an hour
, and still there was no sign of Jeff Havens. From where he sat he commanded a view of the basin, two sides of the mountain that rimmed it, and even large stretches of the trail below. Where else could Havens have gone? It had been too long. He decided to return to the horses and move them to a safer spot. He cursed Stewart for the hundredth time for making him a babysitter. He had not waited for Stewart at the forks as agreed. He had intended to, but decided at the last minute that it was too dangerous. Stewart would have to meet him at the pass, and he had better have the woman with him or he could say good-bye to his kid.

Moving down the hill toward camp, Fogarty picked up the small deer trail he had followed up and let it lead him back down. When he ha
d the camp in sight, he saw everything was as he had left it. The horses were bunched close together, the girl, her face tear-streaked, was still tied up, holding the baby, rocking her. Things had been easier for Fogarty since he had taken the girl. She had been able to keep the brat fed and quiet. This kidnapping of children was a dangerous thing, Fogarty knew, but the farm where the girl lived was an isolated place, and he had taken their horses. It would be days before the old woman got the word out. By then there would be no trail to follow. As for the woman; he had only left her alive because he feared the girl would fall apart and be of no use to him at all if he killed her mother.

He passed a thick tree and heard a rustling of leaves behind him. Before he could turn around a powerful arm encircled his neck, and a gun barrel was thrust violently into his ribs. The
voice in his ear said, “Fight me, Fogarty, because I’d love to kill you.”

Fogarty swore a vile oath, and Jeff sensed no fear in the man, only hatred. “Drop your rifle,” Jeff ordered.

Fogarty dropped the carbine.

“Put your hands up.”

Again Fogarty did as he was told.

Jeff released his choke
hold and pulled Fogarty’s pistol from the holster, dropping it on the ground. He would retrieve the weapons later—after the gunman was tied up. “Walk in front of me,” he said, “but don’t go fast.”

Just before the clearing, there was a spot where a low tree branch overhung the trail. As Fogarty ducked under it, he abruptly stood up, catching th
e branch with his right hand, shoving it up and away from him. The branch caught Jeff’s gun hand, carrying hand and pistol upward. Involuntarily Jeff squeezed the trigger, sending a bullet angling up to the sky. Fogarty pivoted now and caught Jeff’s right wrist in his own left hand, and with his other fist, he landed a punishing blow to Jeff’s left cheekbone, rocking his head back with a jolt. Off balance now, Jeff took a step backward, but Fogarty was unable to charge him because the tree branch was still between them. The gunman, still clutching Jeff’s wrist, made a try for the gun with his free hand, but Jeff, having recovered his balance, took advantage of the fact Fogarty’s arms were both upraised and moved in quickly, landing two hard punches to the gunman’s abdomen with his left hand. Involuntary Fogarty bent forward and dropped his free arm and Jeff felt a slight lessening of the grip on his wrist.

With Fogarty still slightly bent forward, Jeff brought his left fist up in an uppercut which caught the gunman on the point of the chin and knocked him backwards, but Fogarty still stubbornly refused to relinquish his grip on Jeff
’s gun arm. He pulled Jeff toward him as he went back, pulling Jeff off balance. Jeff caught himself on the branch and threw another punch at Fogarty’s face, but Fogarty hooked his right arm over Jeff’s left and deflected the blow. As Jeff pulled his free arm back, Fogarty slid his right arm down and caught Jeff’s left wrist in the same vice-like grip, in which he so stubbornly held the other. Here, Jeff had the advantage because Fogarty was on the low side of the trail. Jeff raised his leg, with the knee bent, and shoved straight out, catching Fogarty dead center with a booted foot. The gunman grunted as his lungs forcibly expelled their breath, and his grip on Jeff’s gun arm was finally broken. Now as he clung to Jeff’s left arm the force of the kick wheeled him around and he was sideways to Jeff. Jeff swung the pistol in an arc and struck Fogarty square in the forehead, opening up the flesh and knocking him down.

Jeff re-cocked the revolver and sto
od spread-legged in the trail, breathing deeply from exertion. He pointed the gun at Fogarty’s head, and Fogarty looked up at him, “So kill me,” the gunman said, between breaths.

“I will next time.” Jeff had no intention of letting Fogarty know how badly he wanted to
take him back alive. Fogarty knew Jeff had not killed Julio Arroyo, and he knew how Stewart had come into possession of the Rafter 8; and Jeff intended to make him talk. He wanted his name cleared; he wanted to ride freely and to live on his land and to rebuild the ranch his grandfather and Amado had built.

They walked down into the clearing, and Jeff was careful to
keep Fogarty well ahead of him. Lucy and the baby were both crying. Jeff wanted to comfort them but Fogarty would have to be tied up first.

There was a movem
ent at the edge of the clearing, and without taking his attention off of Fogarty, Jeff glanced quickly over and saw Fred Ruggles sitting atop his horse, his rifle to his shoulder. Behind him Jeff heard Lucy’s gasp of relief and joy. Fred dismounted and strode across the clearing, lanky and straight, carrying his rifle as if it were a part of his body. He went directly to Lucy and untied her and held her close. The sobbing girl clung tightly to her brother for a long time. Presently, Fred stepped back, tried to say something to her and couldn’t. After a moment he was able to speak, “You alright, little sister?”

“I
’m fine; how’s Pa?”

“Pa
’s alive and the good Lord’ll see to it he makes it. Ma’s prayin’ a lot for him. She said he asked for his Bible, and that’s a good sign.”

Luc
y broke down and sobbed, “Papa, Papa.” Presently, she turned her attentions to Sarah who had stopped crying and was observing the proceedings with wide blue eyes. Jeff thought Anne’s baby looked very much like Anne.