by C. M. Curtis
Deering signified his understanding with an ingratiating smile and an animated nodding of his head—too animated he quickly realized. He grew sober. “I understand completely Tom, and as far as security is concerned let me assure you, you have nothing to fear. Your money will be as safe in this bank as it is in any eastern bank. You know, this area is growing fast. Now is the time when a man needs to make investments. There are fortunes to be made here. I’ve been here almost five years. I know the people, and I know the area, and if I can toot my own horn, I’m certain I can guide you in making some very profitable investments.”
Stewart slapped the desk with the palm of his hand. “That’s what I wanted to hear. I knew you were my man. I’ll contact my lawyers. Meanwhile, keep your eyes open for some sharp opportunities.”
“I’ll do that, Tom.”
There was another vigorous handshake, and Stewart turned to leave, then stopped and turned back.
“A thought just struck me Willard, this business of ranching is new to me and it’s turning out to be quite a full time job, though I must say I enjoy it.”
“I’m sure it’s very rewarding work,” said Deering with profound insincerity.
“If we were to form some sort of partnership,” continued Stewart, “that is, if you have the time . . . you may not be interested in doing anything of this sort, but if you were, I could put up the money and you could find the investments and manage them. We could split the profits.”
Again Deering failed to conceal his pleasure. “I’m sure we could arrange something that could be mutually beneficial. When do you anticipate we . . .”
“I’m afraid it won’t be for a few months. I may need to go back personally to make the arrangements, but first I have to get this ranch running smoothly enough that I can feel easy about leaving it.”
“Of course. Just let me know. Meanwhile I’ll be on the lookout for any sharp opportunities.”
As Stewart left the bank he was immensely pleased. Things were coming together just as he had planned. He was a man skilled in graft: it was his stock in trade, and he had long ago served his apprenticeship and become a master. The many people he had left in ruin could bear testimony to that. He understood that human beings were controlled by their emotions and every person had his or her ruling passion which, like the bridle on a horse, could be used to lead the person. Once the bridle was in place and the pressure of the bit was felt in the mouth, one need only apply the spurs to achieve complete domination.
Willard Deering’s ruling passion was greed. Stewart now knew this, though he was confident no one else in town did. Even Deering himself had probably never faced this fact about himself. Stewart doubted the man had any idea of the things he was capable of doing to satisfy that greed. The fact that Stewart felt sure he knew Deering better than the man knew himself provided him with no little pleasure. One more little ploy and he would own the banker.
Next would come the sheriff. Stewart knew Lloyd Jennings would be more difficult to manipulate, but he too would have his weakness, and that weakness would have to be gotten to through his youthful inexperience. It would be a challenge, but Stewart didn’t mind because like most people who excel in their chosen field, he enjoyed his work. He would begin his investigation of Sheriff Jennings tomorrow.
No one seemed to mind that the train was twenty minutes late pulling into the station. The iron road had only recently been completed and was still a novelty, and it provided a form of transportation so far superior to any other that most people on the train would not have complained if it had arrived hours late.
One man remained seated, waiting patiently for those with luggage and boxes and children to disembark. Presently he stood, retrieved his bag from beneath the seat and moved down the aisle. An army colonel, who had boarded at the last stop, noticed the man for the first time, and out of life-long habit born of occupational necessity, made a quick mental appraisal of him. Finding nothing that was not to his liking, he gave the man a brief nod—a non-military salute—as he stepped by. The colonel noticed also that the man walked with a limp, and he wondered why.
Out in the open air, Jeff Havens limbered up his knee as he surveyed the town, finding it very different from the last time he had seen it seven years before. It was easily four times as large and displayed the appearance and bustle of prosperity. He realized these things were good, but was unaccountably saddened by them. He moved up the street, looking around as he walked. He was observing the town, not the faces, not the people. There would be no one here to meet him, but unlike the last time he had come home, he was not expecting anyone. As he approached Ollie Shepard’s livery stable, Jeff was pleased to find that it remained relatively unchanged from the way it had looked as far back as he could remember. Only the sign was different. Instead of “Ollie’s Livery” it now read, “Shepard’s Livery.”
“Looks like the old man’s putting on airs,” he thought. Smiling, he quickened his step. It would be good to see the old timer again.
But Ollie wasn’t there. Seated on a chair, his feet propped on an overturned feed bucket, was a young boy, seventeen or eighteen years old, Jeff guessed, idly toying with an empty tobacco tin. He looked up and waited for Jeff to speak. Jeff, feeling an unreasonable twinge of resentment toward this greasy-haired kid, decided to make him speak first.
The kid waited long enough to make his own point and said, “Yeah?”
“I’m looking for Ollie. I need a horse.”
“0llie ain’t here,” said the kid disinterestedly, looking back down at the tobacco tin.
“Still need a horse,” Jeff said evenly.
“What kind of horse you want?”
“What do you mean?”
The kid spoke with an edge of irritation to his voice. “I mean, how much do you want to pay? We got good horses, and we got nags. The good ones cost more.”
“I’ll bet you’re good for business,” Jeff said. “Give me one of the good ones. Give me the best you’ve got.”
“How long you going to need it?”
“I’ll have it back tomorrow.”
“That’ll be three dollars.”
“Fine,” said Jeff without feeling.
The kid dragged himself to his feet and stood in front of Jeff. He was a big kid, and cocky. He said, “You pay in advance.”
“I never have before.”
“You pay in advance.” The kid repeated.
Jeff stared at him blandly for a moment, reached into his pocket and withdrew the money. The kid took the money, turned, and without further comment, swaggered down the broad runway between the two rows of stables, snatching a bridle from a peg as he walked past.
Jeff was glad to get out of town into the desert where things were as he remembered them. The horse the kid had selected for him, an old sorrel mare, was definitely not one of Ollie’s best; Jeff had known this instantly, but it didn’t matter. He had other things on his mind. This was home and he was renewing his life-long acquaintance with the land.
A mile and a half out of town the trail topped a rocky hill and afforded the traveler a spectacular view, a goodly portion of which was embraced by the Rafter 8 Ranch, his home. Directly behind him, but on much lower ground was the town with its small, crosshatched core of streets and alleys and its ragged fringes. Behind the town abutted the mountains. At this moment, with the sun slanting behind them, the mountains appeared black, but Jeff knew in the bright and direct light of midday they were multi-hued.
Looking off to the right, he saw the lazy, dust-enshrouded form of the small Mexican village known as Mexican Town by the whites, and as San Vicente by those who lived there. Nearby was the river, which in any less arid locality would be called a creek. This was a gathering place for the women of the Mexican village, where they engaged in their daily rituals of water-carrying, gossiping, and washing clothes on the rocks along the bank.
Jeff smiled as he surveyed this familiar view and knew he was finally home again. From this vantage point he co
uld see part of the Rafter 8. Also, not far distant, was the old grove of cottonwood trees, which in his mind still symbolized his love for Anne. He could see the Hammond farm, now whitewashed and shaded by trees. As he looked at it, a green rectangle on the brown desert, he felt like a weaker man than he was and he wished he could turn around again and ride away.
It had been nearly five weeks since Jeff had received the letter from Ollie Shepard informing him of his grandfather’s death and of Amado’s request that he return to help straighten out the legal matters. The letter had taken more than six months to catch up with him.
Though Jeff was saddened by his grandfather’s death, he did not feel guilty for having stayed away so long. Theirs had never been a relationship that was burdened by sentiment. Though John Havens was always kind to him, Jeff had understood from an early age that his grandfather had never really accepted the role that was thrust upon him. He took the orphaned boy in and housed him, fed him and clothed him, and he never mistreated him, but he insisted Jeff call him by his first name, and seldom concerned himself with the boy’s education or upbringing. Jeff was wise enough now to realize it had been better that way. John Havens had not resented him as he undoubtedly would have had he been forced to do more than he was willing to do.
Fortunately for Jeff, Amado had been there and had voluntarily stepped into the role of father. It was Amado who set the limits beyond which Jeff was not to go, and who meted out fair punishment when Jeff exceeded those limits. It was Amado who praised him for his accomplishments and all the little steps of growth he took as he grew into a man. Amado taught him and wisely counseled him. If Jeff felt any guilt for having stayed away so long it was because of Amado.
The mare had her head down grazing, and Jeff realized he had sat too long in this spot with his melancholy thoughts. He chided himself. He was a man now; he would not act like a boy. This was home, and he had missed it. He would enjoy being back he told himself. He would not let ghosts and memories clutter his mind. He realized he was hungry, and the thought of a tender beefsteak came into his mind. He decided to go back to town and get a meal, rather than taking his chances on leftovers in the cookshack when he got to the ranch.
By the time he was on the trail again the desert night was illuminated by a large yellow moon. The mare had no difficulty keeping to the trail, and Jeff allowed her to follow it at her own pace as he moved in the saddle to the rhythm of her rough gait. He avoided looking at the Hammond farm as he passed it, and likewise resisted the call of the grove of cottonwood trees, knowing there was only pain for him there.
The sounds of riders behind him interrupted his nostalgia, and he wondered who they might be. They were probably Rafter 8 hands, he reasoned—this trail led to the Rafter 8 and ended there—but Jeff had learned to be cautious so he stopped and pulled off the trail into some tall brush where, holding the mare’s head, he waited to see who passed.
There were four riders in the group, and by their talk and their state of inebriation, Jeff knew they had spent an evening in town. They passed, not noticing him, but leaving him curious. He had seen their faces well in the moonlight, and though he did not recognize any of them, he knew their kind by their conversation and their brand of humor. Cowboys were rough and reckless types, but as a rule there were some things they held in respect and would not profane. These men were of an ilk Jeff knew well. He had seen them in every town he had entered. Hard men, possessing no scruples, holding nothing in reverence, who polluted, by their mere presence, every town they rode through and every building they set foot in. They were men of the gun, and it bothered Jeff that they were riding in the direction of the Rafter 8. He did not believe his grandfather or Amado would hire men like these, so what was their business on this trail?
He followed but not too closely. When he crested the last hill and had the ranch headquarters in sight, he halted the mare and watched to see what the riders would do. It was pleasant to sit there and gaze upon his home again for the first time in seven years.
By moonlight the ranch appeared vastly different from the last time he had seen it. The main house, which had been small, had been extended on one side, and a second story had been added. All around it were outbuildings that had not been there when he had last ridden away. There was a newness about it that bespoke hard work and progress and it was pleasing to Jeff. Amado and John had done well. They had built something. What he didn’t understand was why they had seen the need to expand the house.
The four riders dismounted in front of the tack shed and unsaddled their horses. This accomplished, the horses were led to the pasture where they were turned loose. So, they really were Rafter hands. The idea bothered Jeff. The thing to do now was to find out what was going on.
He rode straight up to the house—a move he would soon regret. Two men were sitting on the front porch in barrel chairs, leaning back against the wall, their boots resting on the porch rail. Jeff did not like the look of these men either. They regarded him with obvious distrust for a moment then the one nearest him stood up. He was a short man, thick-boned with a straight, thin-lipped mouth like a knife gash across his face. The skin on his face was pale and smooth, almost like a woman’s except for the dark shadow of whiskers around his jaw. He wore a gun low on his hip and moved like a cat, keeping his right hand close to his pistol butt.
“Want something?” he asked in unfriendly tones.
“Maybe,” replied Jeff. “I’ll let you know if I do. Where’s Amado?”
“Who”?
“Amado Lopez, the man who runs this ranch.”
The pale-faced man gave a humorless laugh. “I could tell you who runs this ranch and it ain’t no greaser. Now, who are you?”
“I’m the owner of this ranch.”
The pale-faced man laughed again and started to say something, but was cut off by the man in the barrel chair behind him. Speaking in a low voice not intended for Jeff’s ears he said, “Healy, better get Fogarty.”
Healy turned and went through the open front door, closing it behind him. The other man, an unclean looking, heavy-set man with a fat cigar in his mouth, eyed Jeff through his smoke with unconcealed dislike.
Jeff considered dismounting and going in, but decided against it. Something was wrong here, and it gave him a bad feeling.
Healy returned, accompanied by a broad, barrel chested man with a tied down gun—it seemed everyone on this ranch wore a gun. This man had a brutish looking face which terminated in a square, clean shaven jaw. One corner of his mouth tilted up in a sneer. Everything about the man told Jeff he was in trouble. He saw clearly now that it had been a mistake to ride in without checking things out first.
Healy, smirking, gestured theatrically toward Jeff. “Mr. Fogarty, meet the owner of this ranch.” The heavy-set man in the chair gave a raspy laugh. He was still sitting, but now had his feet on the porch. There was not so much as a twitch of a muscle on the face of the man called Fogarty.
Jeff kept his hand close to the butt of his pistol, not knowing what to expect next. These men were all gunmen, he could tell. He didn’t stand a chance against the three of them.
Healy was edging around to Jeff’s right side. Jeff knew his only chance of getting out of this predicament alive was to avoid gunplay. He shot a quick glance at Healy and said, “Stay in front of me,” then jerked his eyes back to Fogarty.
Fogarty spoke, his voice soft, but as cold as a tomb. “Your name would be Havens.”
“That’s right.”
Fogarty shot a glance past Jeff, to the opposite side of the yard, and instantly Jeff knew there was someone there. There was the click of a pistol being cocked, and he realized he had waited too long. Whatever chance he had had was gone. He relaxed his body and put his hands together on the saddle horn, cursing himself inwardly for a fool. He had thought he was coming home, and he had taken far too much for granted.
Fogarty laughed, and it was an unpleasant sound. The man on the porch stood up, grinning, and tossed his cigar into t
he yard. Healy stepped closer and lifted Jeff’s pistol out of the holster.
“Get down,” said Fogarty, pointing his pistol at Jeff’s face.
Jeff obeyed. He heard footsteps behind him and tensed himself. Something hit him hard in the back of the head, and then the four men beat him without mercy.
Chapter 3
He lay on the dirt floor of the tool shed where they had dragged him. He had feigned unconsciousness, and it had not been far from the truth. In fact, after they deposited him in the shed he had to fight to keep from drifting off. But he knew if he did, he wouldn’t wake up for a long time, and that would be fatal. In the brief discussion the men had had after they stopped kicking him, believing him to be unconscious, Fogarty had made it clear they would kill Jeff after someone named Stewart returned. Fogarty also stated that in his opinion, Jeff would not come around before then. Perhaps that was the reason why they had not left anyone to guard the tool shed, a fact Jeff ascertained by peering through the cracks between the plank walls.
He knew the shed well. He and Amado had built it. It was solidly constructed and he would not be able to break through the walls. But it had a dirt floor, and if he could find the right implement he might dig his way out. His captors had taken the precaution of removing the tools from the shed before locking him in, but there was a keg of nails in one corner they had not bothered with. When Jeff was satisfied there was no one around, he crawled over to the keg. It had no lid and was three quarters empty. When he tipped it over the exertion brought him a wave of nausea and his vision went dark.