by C. M. Curtis
He lay on his side until this passed and then he attempted to stand. His first effort brought more nausea and dizziness, but instead of lying down, he held himself in an upright position, kneeling on the dirt floor. After a while he felt better and was able to pull himself to his feet. He leaned for a moment against the wall of the shed, summoning all his strength, pulling in deep breaths of air to clear his clouded brain. Presently, he was able to take a few steps and he found the walking helped his equilibrium. He stood for a moment, taking stock of his injuries—and they were many. He knew he must have a concussion and maybe some cracked ribs. And there would be no way to count the bruises. His face, while not untouched, had not taken the worst of the beating. His attackers had mostly gone for the body, attempting to inflict internal damage. But Jeff’s body was hardened from a life of hard work and riding. He had strong abdominal muscles, which had protected his organs, and hard bones, which had withstood the punishment. He knew he was badly hurt, but overall he counted himself lucky. He was alive, he was conscious, and he was on his feet. If a man had that much, he had a chance.
He needed an implement for digging, and the only thing in the shed was the nail keg. If he could break it apart he could use one of the staves. He tried kicking the barrel, but his strength was not sufficient to do any damage. He picked it up and lifted it as high as the low ceiling of the shed permitted and let it fall. The effort and the pain were too much, and when his vision cleared again he found himself on hands and knees. But the keg was damaged. It took another ten minutes but he managed to work free one of the staves.
He chose a corner of the shed where the dirt was not packed and began digging. The work was slow and painful and he had to fight with all the strength he possessed, against nausea and the overwhelming desire to lie down and rest. Fortunately the dirt in the corner was loose, never having been packed down by the boots of those who had used the shed, and Jeff made good progress. The dirt outside was more solid but was still damp from a recent rain, and soon he had made a shallow tunnel under the shed’s wall.
Breathing heavily and beginning to suffer from thirst, he lay on his back, and at the expense of exquisite pain from his damaged ribs he squirmed through the hole and was finally outside. He lay on his back for a few moments, looking up at the stars and noting that the moon was too bright for safety. Well, there were things he could change and things he couldn’t. He had no jurisdiction over the moon. He sent a small prayer up to the one who did, and with great effort, hoisted himself to his feet.
There were sounds coming from the direction of the house. He peered around a corner of the shed and saw Healy coming toward him a hundred feet away. He needed a weapon. The tools from the shed had been stacked against the front wall of the structure and he reached around carefully and felt the wooden handle of a shovel. He slid it toward him and around the corner, praying Healy wouldn’t notice.
Healy drew his pistol as he pulled the long nail from the hasp that secured the door of the shed. He had just opened the door when there was a sound behind him and he wheeled. Jeff swung the shovel with all his strength, heedless of the pain it caused him. It struck Healy full in the face, knocking him back into the shed. Jeff followed him in and thrust the shovel handle into the man’s belly, at the same time stomping his boot on the hand that held the gun. These last acts were unnecessary. Healy was unconscious. His broken nose gushed blood, and if he was breathing Jeff could see no evidence of it. Nor did he care. There was no time for such concerns. He bent down to pick up Healy’s gun and the world began to whirl around him. He dropped to his knees, groping for the gun, unwilling to waste even the small amount of time it took for his vision to clear and his equilibrium to return. He holstered the pistol, and once again forced himself to his feet. Nausea washed over him like a current, and his expensive town dinner came out onto the ground. The vomiting caused so much pain in his ribs he could not suppress a groan, but afterwards he felt a little better from having emptied his stomach.
Jeff folded Healy’s legs up so that his entire body was inside the shed and closed the door, replacing the nail in the hasp. Now he needed a horse.
The old mare he had ridden from town was standing at the hitching rail in front of the house. She was not a good pick but she was still saddled. There were better horses in the corral and pasture, but he would have to catch one of them. Moreover, he was in no condition to ride bareback, and even if he could afford the time to saddle another horse, he had serious doubts about his ability to do so in his present condition. Soon his attackers would wonder what had delayed Healy and would come to investigate. There was no other option; he would have to ride the old mare.
At least now he had a gun. Holding it in his hand he approached the mare, walking on unsteady legs. His first two attempts to lift himself into the saddle were unsuccessful. The second was nearly disastrous, the exertion almost causing him to pass out. But finally he made it and sat there for a long moment, his head bowed, fighting to stay conscious and erect. He knew he had no time for this, but neither could he afford to faint and fall out of the saddle. He swung the mare’s head around and spurred her forward.
He would not take the trail; that would make it too easy for Fogarty and his men to follow, and his pursuers, being of sound body, would be able to ride hard and soon overtake him. Instead, he would head out into the desert where he knew every rabbit trail, hill and gully. They would be forced to track him, and even on a bright night like this one, tracking would slow them down.
He walked the mare out of the yard, knowing that if he ran her, the hoof beats would alert his enemies. He kept the pistol in his hand and watched the ranch buildings over his shoulder. As he passed under the shadow of a tree he saw the door of the house open and the broad figure of Fogarty emerge and walk toward the shed. Jeff faced forward now and quickened the mare’s pace. Soon he would be out of earshot of the house but he knew he couldn’t cling to the saddle or to consciousness if he tried to push the mare too fast.
Fogarty opened the door of the shed, standing to one side with his gun drawn—he was a cautious man. Healy was lying where Jeff had left him. Fogarty swore and aimed a vicious kick at the recumbent man’s ribs. Healy opened his eyes and blinked, awake but still not aware. The blood from his broken nose was drying on his face and the flesh around his eyes was swollen and dark. Fogarty swore and kicked again. Healy flailed his arms and tried to rise up, shaking his head. “What?”
Fogarty reached over and pulled the door shut to deaden sound. There was no light inside the small shed. Healy repeated, “What?” Then his bewilderment turned to terror when he heard the sound of the pistol being cocked.
The mare’s choppy gait had heightened Jeff’s nausea, and twice he had leaned out and vomited. He was finding it increasingly difficult to keep his mind focused. He had no clear plan as to where he was going or what he would do when he got there. For now, he simply wanted to escape the men who would by this time be in pursuit.
He desperately needed to know what had happened. How had that bunch of riff raff and outlaws come to be in possession of the ranch? And where was Amado? Jeff realized that it had been the worst kind of luck that Ollie Shepard hadn’t been at the livery stable when he arrived. Ollie would have warned him and he would not have ridden into that den of snakes.
The mare kept trying to turn back toward town, to her own stable, a common tendency of rented horses, but Jeff wanted to make it to the river. Once there, he could use any number of the tricks Amado had taught him to confuse the men who were following. Another wave of nausea came on and he felt himself spinning. His brain told him he was leaning to the left but it was a lie. He leaned to the right in compensation, and fell out of the saddle onto the rocky ground.
He had no way of reckoning how much time passed before he awoke, but however much it was, it was more than he could spare. His first awareness was of two mutually incompatible sensations: nausea and extreme thirst. Then, he remembered the peril he was in. He was surprised to find
the mare had not left him. It took several tries before he was able to stand, but he managed it at last by steadying himself against the mare. Getting into the saddle was another test of his strength of will but he managed that too. He touched his heels to the mare’s flanks and she started forward at a walk. The weakness and dizziness were getting worse and he knew if he fell again he would never be able to make it back into the saddle.
If he could get to the river he could release the mare and let her find her way back to town. Hopefully this would deceive his pursuers. Meanwhile, he could hide in the thick brush growing along the riverbank.
It was a plan that would never come to fruition. There was a tree branch overhanging the trail—easy enough to see and to duck under—but Jeff had his eyes closed, fighting back the nausea and dizziness that threatened to overwhelm him. The branch caught him full in the face and he found himself once again lying in the dirt. This time he remained conscious, though barely so. Lacking both the strength and the balance to stand on his feet, he knew it was useless to try to get back into the saddle. The mare swung around and came back to investigate. “Good girl,” Jeff whispered, “go home.” Earlier he had knotted the bridle reins so they would not trip her if she were left to go on without him. Now, that time had come.
But the mare didn’t move. She stood over him, patiently awaiting his next decision, and he realized she must have been a good horse in her day; maybe one of Ollie’s best. She would be fine. She would find her way back to her stable and he would try to crawl as far off the trail as he could, and hope for the best. Not much of a plan, but it was all he had left.
The problem was, the mare wouldn’t leave. Jeff’s mental clarity was diminishing with each passing second and he simply did not have the strength to make her go. If she stayed by him she would draw his pursuers to him. He tried to think of a plan, but his mind refused to focus. In the end, he lay on his back and closed his eyes and let go.
Chapter 4
The old man trod lightly and kept to the shadows. He knew he was on Rafter 8 land and it was a dangerous place for him to be. He stopped often to scan the moonlight-bathed desert and then moved on followed by a horse, which he led by a rope hackamore. On a darker night he would have ridden, but in this bright moonlight a mounted man would make a tall profile. He was within a hundred yards of the river, which at this point marked the western border of the Rafter 8 Ranch, or the T. S., as it was now called. When he had crossed the river he would ride.
Dressed in the garb of the local Mexican farmers, the old man did not have the appearance of a horse thief, but the horse he led wore the T. S. brand and had, several hours before, been removed from the horse corral behind the ranch house itself—a dangerous thing to do on a bright night like this.
He was following a trail on the dark side of a low hill when he heard a sound coming from beyond a bend in the trail. It was not one of the normal sounds of the desert night. ”Probably a cow,” he thought.
The horse he was leading was a crack cow pony and the old man dropped the hackamore rope knowing the animal would not move from that spot. Soundlessly he slipped around the curve in the trail where he located the source of the sounds. At first, all he saw was a saddled horse, head down, grazing on the side of the trail, but as he drew nearer he realized there was a man lying in the trail.
The old man pulled a pistol from his belt and spent a full three minutes observing every detail, near or distant, available to his senses. A coyote sent its ululating cry into the still night and was answered from afar; a soft breeze lightly rustled the thorny branches of the desert trees, and the plangent lowing of cattle came to him from a distance, but no other sounds reached his ears. Now and then a small nocturnal rodent scurried across his view, but aside from these the old man saw nothing that moved and nothing that resembled human life.
He moved across to where the horse was standing and knelt down to examine the man. The features were swollen and smeared with blood, the clothes were torn and disheveled but there were no bullet wounds. The man appeared to have been badly beaten, but where and by whom? And how did he get here on this trail that came from the Rafter 8? Maybe this man was an outlaw too. But if that was the case, why was he riding a horse wearing Ollie Shepard’s brand?
The old man squatted beside the injured man for a moment, considering what to do. Abruptly, he sensed the desert sounds were changing. Ever alert to the sound and feel of his surroundings he now felt a prickling of danger. Moving with cautious speed, he climbed to the top of the hill behind him, crawling the last few feet and easing himself over the crown to the other side. There, he turned around, and flattened against the hill, scanned the desert. Immediately he caught sight of movement in the distance, to the north—the direction of the Rafter 8 headquarters. As he slid back down the hill he began working out a plan in his mind. He was, despite his age, a strong man but not strong enough to lift the unconscious man onto a horse. And even if he could, it would take too much time to secure the man to the saddle and then go back for his own stolen horse. No, he would have to do it another way and he would have to do it fast.
Rand Fogarty did not find it difficult to follow Jeff’s trail in the bright light of the moon. Jeff had intended to avoid established trails but in his clouded mental state he had not noticed that the mare had found a trail and stuck to it.
The trail led the four outlaws through an area broken by shallow washes and low, gentle hills, which opened onto a broad flat area dotted with creosote bush, mesquite, and cactus. Fogarty saw the movement first and his gun leaped into his hand like a living thing. The other men followed suit, each producing a weapon, and the party moved toward the point at the far end of this flat and open area where they saw the old Mexican piling up rocks. As they drew near, the old man seemed to become aware of their presence and acted startled. He straightened, dropped the rock he was holding and stood watching them expectantly as they approached.
Standing to one side, tied to a tree, was the mare Fogarty recognized as the one Jeff Havens had been riding. The pile of rocks was obviously a grave.
Fogarty looked down at the old man in superior disdain. “What are you doing on the T S.?”
The old man looked perplexed and held up his hands in a gesture of non-comprehension. “No entiendo,” he said.
Fogarty looked at the other three men. “Any of you speak Mexican?”
“George does,” said one of the men. Fogarty’s gaze settled on George.
“I speak it some,” George said and spurred his horse closer to where the old Mexican stood. He said, “Que haces aqui?”
The old man’s words poured forth in his native tongue. He gestured frequently to the pile of stones and to the mare.
Presently, George held up his hand and the old man ceased talking and stood watching them, his hands behind his back like a prisoner awaiting a verdict.
George turned to Fogarty, “Says he heard a man moaning from across the river, came over and saw the horse. The man was already dead when he got here, so he buried him. Says he figured on taking the horse back to town tomorrow.” George gave a derisive chuckle, “I’ll believe that part the week after next Sunday.”
Fogarty asked, “Why didn’t he take the body to town?”
“These people don’t trust the white man’s law. Probably afraid he’d get blamed for it.”
Fogarty re-holstered his pistol. “Tell the old greaser if I ever see him on T. S. range again I’ll kill him. Get the horse and let’s go.”
As the four men rode away the old Mexican stood watching. His hands were still behind his back, and in his right hand he gripped the handle of the pistol tucked under his belt. He had known he stood no chance against the four of them but he would have killed at least two of them before he died, and to his way of thinking, that would not have been a bad bargain so long as one of the two was Rand Fogarty. He stood there for a long time, watching until the outlaws were out of sight. Then, in well-practiced English, he said, “Yes, Fogarty, you will s
ee me again.”
It was late when Tom Stewart returned to the ranch. He had been in town all afternoon socializing and pretending to be taking care of numerous important items of business. Ever zealous in his campaign to ingratiate himself with important members of the community, he had spent the last few hours of the evening playing cards with several of them. During the game he had steered the conversation to a discussion about Lloyd Jennings, hoping to glean a morsel or two of information about the lawman. To his great satisfaction, Stewart had learned something he believed may be the key to controlling the taciturn young sheriff, so the master of the T. S., formerly the Rafter 8, was in exceptionally good humor when he arrived back at the ranch. Nor was his mood dampened when Fogarty told him Jeff Havens was dead. Havens had been a nagging, loose end Stewart had worried about since, using forged documents and a false story, he had taken possession of the Rafter 8 and evicted Amado Lopez and all the hands, replacing them with his own outlaw crew. Now, like an unexpected gift, Havens had placed himself in their hands and was out of the picture. Even the news that Havens had killed Bob Healy was not upsetting to Stewart. In fact, he felt it placed him in a better position legally should anyone make any allegations of foul play in Havens’ death.
“Here’s how we’ll play it,” Stewart said to Fogarty. “I was in town, and Havens came out here drunk. He said he gambled away the money I paid him for the ranch, and he wanted more. Healy politely tried to explain to him that I wasn’t here and no one else had any authority to give him money. In a drunken rage Havens pulled his gun and shot Healy. By the way, Healy was unarmed. Then Havens rode out of here like a bat out of hell, and drunk as he was, he must have fallen off his horse. The old greaser found him and buried him and then you came along. “And the best thing about it all,” said Stewart, with a smile, “is that he wasn’t shot. It’ll be pretty hard for anyone to doubt us on this one.”