by C. M. Curtis
Finally Stewart broke the silence. “I love this country. I don’t care if it is a desert.” He turned to look Jennings in the eyes, for better effect. “It’s the people I appreciate the most. Westerners are the salt of the earth. This is a place for a man to put down roots and raise a family. Everywhere you look, there’s growth: new houses being built, new land being broken for farming, businesses moving in. Soon this will be a large and prosperous community and there won’t be a square foot of land in fifty miles that’s not owned by somebody. This is the time and place for a man to build his future.”
The food arrived on steaming plates at the same time Fogarty returned. Stewart laughed at himself. “Well, enough of philosophizing, let’s eat.”
When they had finished eating, the waitress came to collect the plates.
“I’ll be covering this,” Stewart told her. Jennings protested, but Stewart was insistent, and took out his coin purse and paid for the meals. He passed around cigars, and after lighting his own, leaned back in his chair exhaling the smoke toward the ceiling.
“Well,” he said, “I guess we’d all better be about our business. My mother used to tell me, work won’t go away from being ignored.” He rose and shook hands with Jennings. “By the way, Lloyd,” he commented casually, “have you had a chance to do anything about that business we discussed?”
“I paid a call on old Julio,” said Jennings. “Told him to move off. He didn’t like it much.”
“So is he gone?”
“Don’t know. I’ll be checking on him again this afternoon.”
“What if he refuses to leave?”
Jennings wasn’t sure how to answer this question. He had not yet decided how to handle the eventuality of the old Mexican refusing to leave. He shrugged, unwilling to commit himself one way or another.
Although Stewart was displeased by this response he did not show it. “What about that other matter?”
“I’ve done some checking around. Haven’t found anything out yet.”
Stewart decided it was time to apply some pressure. “We buried a good man last week, Sheriff. He was a good friend and a faithful employee. Never harmed anyone. A man rode in, and for no good reason, shot him down. Now, I feel very strongly about this. That man needs to be brought to justice.” Here, Stewart assumed a self-righteous tone. “I hate to see this sort of thing happen. Criminals like Havens mock the law. They mock you, Sheriff. If he’s alive, he needs to be brought in, he needs to stand trial, and he needs to be hanged. If he’s dead, I want to see a body. A sheriff is supposed to protect people from killers and criminals, and no one around here will have a right to feel safe until the law does its job and finds Havens—alive or dead.” The words were spoken mildly, so as not to give offense, but with sufficient firmness to convey strong feelings.
A part of Jennings was affronted by the things Stewart had said, yet in an uncomfortable way, he found himself wanting to please the man and wishing he had approached the two assignments more aggressively from the beginning. He couldn’t think of anything to say that seemed appropriate to the situation so, after a moment’s pause he merely said, “I’ll see what I can do,” and turned and walked away.
Stewart was pleased.
Later that morning, when Jennings rode out of town, he was angry. Angry with himself, angry with Julio Arroyo, and angry with Jeff Havens and whoever it was who had found him in the desert. But as he crested the hill and saw the panorama of Two Mile Meadow spread out before him, he was angry most of all with his father.
Fred Jennings and John Havens had been good friends. The two were among the first settlers in the region. Havens knew Fred wanted Two Mile Meadow and planned to homestead it. He’d planned to do a lot of things thought Lloyd bitterly, but he never did anything but lie around drunk.
John Havens filed on the land first and told his friend he could have it any time he wanted it. All he had to do was to sober up and stay sober. Those in the community who were older and wiser than young Lloyd recognized what John Havens was trying to do for his friend. But Lloyd resented it and he lay at John William’s doorstep a substantial portion of the blame for all the want and humiliation he had endured as a youth. Now Stewart was offering to sell him Two Mile Meadow—to sell him something that should belong to him anyway. The misdirected resentment in him grew as he thought about it.
Concentrating his gaze on the shanty in the distance, at first he was relieved to see no movement. Then he saw the stooped form of Julio Arroyo emerge to toss a pan of water into the yard and disappear back into the shack. Jennings cursed the insolence of this old Mexican for disobeying him, the representative of the law, and for placing him in this situation. It had been a week. Why couldn’t the stupid old man just move out like he was told? He spurred his horse hard, venting his anger on the brute. The big animal lunged forward, taking the slope in several bounds and leveling off at a hard run.
Hearing the approaching hoof beats, Julio poked his head out of the doorway and immediately pulled it back inside like a desert tortoise.
From the top of a distant hill, Tom Stewart watched through field glasses as Jennings raced his horse across the meadow. Handing the glasses to Fogarty he said, “Take a look at this. Tell me what you think.”
Fogarty watched for a moment and returned the glasses.
“Why is he driving his horse like that?” asked Stewart.
Fogarty shrugged. “Search me.”
Stewart was merely observing Jennings out of curiosity, but he was about to witness an event that in his wildest imaginings he would not have expected.
Jennings’ anger was focused on Julio Arroyo now, and he intended to remove him from the premises if he had to personally hitch the old mute’s donkey to its cart, load him and all his possessions on it and drive it to Mexican Town.
He reined in hard about twenty feet away from the door of the shack. “Julio,” he shouted. “Old man, come out here; you’re leaving right now. Pack your gear.”
From out of the darkened interior of the shack the old man charged, holding above his head a rusted saber, a tarnished relic of a long ago war, the legacy of some forgotten ancestor. His mouth formed a mute scream as he swung the saber and charged across the space between the house and the spot where the surprised Jennings sat on his horse.
There was little time for Jennings to think. He merely reacted, and in his angry state he reacted in an angry way. Pulling his gun, he fired point-blank. The bullet struck the old man in the chest.
Staggering backward, Julio wore an expression of complete surprise. He fell on his back and lay flat. He gasped a few rasping breaths and the rasping ceased.
From the instant the bullet struck the old man, Jennings regretted pulling the trigger. His anger was gone now and his insides were clutched by fear and remorse. Jumping from his horse, he rushed to Julio’s side.
“Julio, Julio, open your eyes, talk to me. You’ll be all right. I’ll get the doctor, Julio, please, please.” But even as he spoke, he knew the old mute was already dead. Though he had never killed a human being before, Jennings had always felt he was prepared for it; but this was different. He knew this had been unnecessary. He had killed a harmless old man. He could have easily spurred the horse out of the way. He could have evaded the old man and dealt with the situation in a different way. There had been no need to kill. He knelt over the body for a time, his head bowed under the burden of his remorse.
The sound of hoof beats came to his ears and a jolt of fear shot through him. How could he explain this? What would people think of a sheriff who would do such a thing? He stood up and turned to face whoever was coming, trying to think of what to do.
There were two riders, their horses cantering across the meadow, rapidly closing the distance. There was no time to move the body, no time to hide the awful deed. Soon everyone in the community would know what he had done. He could imagine the outrage.
As the two riders drew near, he recognized them as Stewart and Fogarty. He tried to th
ink of something to tell them, some way to justify himself, but he could not force his mind to function. He had no way of knowing Stewart had witnessed the entire event through his field glasses.
As they approached the house Stewart called out, “We heard a shot, Sheriff! Are you all right?” Drawing closer, he pretended to discover the body on the ground. Dismounting, he ran to the body and bent over it. He stood up slowly, turning to face Jennings. “Lloyd, what on earth happened? He’s dead.”
Jennings pinched his forehead between his thumb and fingers, then, realizing for the first time he still held his pistol in his hand, he holstered the weapon.
“Talk to me Lloyd,” said Stewart.
“I, I don’t know,” stammered Jennings. “He just came at me. I didn’t have time to think. I didn’t want to kill him. He just came at me with that sword.”
Stewart exchanged a glance with Fogarty.
“I know,” said Jennings, “I should have ridden away from him. I wasn’t thinking. It just happened.” He hung his head and said miserably, “Tom, I’m ruined.”
“No, Lloyd, we can’t let that happen. You’re too good a man. A man should be able to make a mistake without being destroyed by it. This could’ve happened to anyone.”
Jennings shook his head. “People won’t accept that; you know it, Tom. Maybe they won’t hang me for it, maybe they won’t even make me stand trial, but I’m ruined. My reputation in this place is wrecked. I’ll always be known as the sheriff who shot down a helpless old man.”
Stewart stepped forward and placed a hand on the younger man’s shoulder. “Lloyd, you’re not thinking clearly. It’s not fair that a man’s future should be destroyed by one mistake. We’re going to help you.”
“How? What can you do?”
“I want you to ride out of here. Go north, go south, go anywhere, but whatever you do, come up with a reason you’ve been there. Be gone two hours, then ride back into town.”
Jennings started to speak again, but Stewart interrupted, “Lloyd I want you to trust me. When a man gets into trouble, that’s when he has to trust his friends. You’re in no position right now to be asking questions.”
Jennings hesitated, glanced at the body lying on the ground and quickly made his decision. He reached down and gathered the reins of his horse and stepped into the saddle.
Looking down at Stewart he said, “Thanks Tom, I won’t forget this.” He turned the horse west and spurred out of the yard.
Jennings rode to the main road and headed south toward Mexican Town. He wanted it to appear he had ridden directly there from town so no one could place him in the vicinity of Two Mile Meadow that day. After traveling a short distance on the road, he saw Victor Ortega approaching in his wagon. Trying to act casual, despite the emotions he was still feeling, Jennings kept his horse at a walk and pretended to semi-doze in the saddle. His intention was to greet the Mexican politely with a nod and continue on past, but Ortega gestured him to stop. “Señor Yennings, I have news for you. You ask me, I help.” He patted his heavy chest proudly.
“What?” said Jennings.
“Jeff Havens, I found Jeff Havens, I think.”
Jennings was interested. He now wanted very much to find Jeff Havens as a way of repaying Stewart and of wiping away some of his indebtedness.
“Where is he?”
“Emelia Diaz, she is taking care of someone who was hurt. Havens, I think.”
“Where is her house?”
Not at her house,” said Ortega, “Dan Fitz . . . Fitz...,-” he struggled with the name.
“Dan Fitzgerald’s house? Jeff Havens is at Dan Fitzgerald’s house?”
“Yes, Señor Yennings, Emelia ees very sneaky, she tell nobody. Want nobody to know. Why you look for Havens? What he do?”
“He killed a man.”
“Steal horses?”
“No,” said Jennings, his interest piqued even more, “but somebody is stealing horses. Why, what do you know about that?”
Ortega hesitated before speaking. “Maybe Señor Stewart can buy saddles, or adobes, maybe ollas for kitchen.”
“I think I can talk to him about it,” offered Jennings, “and if you can provide information about who’s stealing his horses, I would expect he’d be very grateful. Mr. Stewart is a good man.”
“Nobody weel know who tol’ you?”
“I won’t tell anyone but Mr. Stewart. Who is it, Ortega?”
“Amado Lopez.”
“Lopez? I thought he had left the country.” Jennings’ brow furrowed pensively for a moment. He compressed his lips and nodded. “Lopez and Havens, they go back a long way.”
Ortega nodded and smiled with the smugness of a businessman who has just clinched another deal.
“Anything else?” asked Jennings.
“No, Señor, you talk to Stewart, tell him I give good prices.”
Jennings nodded. He wheeled his horse and headed back at a run.
When Stewart and Fogarty left Julio Arroyo’s shack, they had in tow Julio’s old burro with the blanket-wrapped body of its dead master draped over its back. Soon after reaching the main road and turning toward town, they were surprised to see Jennings emerge from a small thicket of trees on the roadside.
“Lloyd, you shouldn’t be here,” protested Stewart, “the plan was. . . ”
Jennings interrupted, “I know, but I have some information about Havens. He’s alive and I know where he is. Quickly he told them what he had learned from Ortega, not omitting Ortega’s request that Stewart purchase goods from him.
“This is good,” said Stewart. “Alright, Lloyd we’ll head into town now. You ride in about twenty minutes after we do. That’ll give us time to do what needs to be done.”
“What’s that?”
“Don’t worry about it. Like I said, you’ve got to trust me. Did anyone else see you besides Ortega?”
“No, just him and he won’t talk because he doesn’t want anyone to know the information came from him.”
“Good, then we’ll see you in town.” Stewart was vastly pleased. This was turning out to be a very good day.
The sight of a body draped over a saddle is always guaranteed to attract attention and this case was no exception. By the time Jennings rode casually into town, a sizable crowd had already gathered in front of the High Point, where the body was laid out on the boardwalk.
Jennings dismounted at the fringe of the crowd, and handing the reins to one of the men standing there, began shouldering his way through the bristling assembly. The outrage he could hear and feel in the group exacerbated his own sense of guilt and he prayed it wouldn’t show on his face.
“What’s going on here?” he asked, trying to sound calm and authoritative.
Several men voiced approval of the fact the sheriff had now arrived, but it was Stewart who spoke to Jennings directly.
“It’s old Julio, Sheriff. He’s been murdered.”
Jennings now stood over the covered body and Stewart pulled back the blanket to unveil a grisly sight for which the Sheriff was unprepared. The body had been horribly mutilated—almost to the point of being unrecognizable.
Stewart was pleased at the genuine look of shock on Jennings face. No one present would ever suspect Jennings of this crime.
Jennings turned away, white-faced, and asked weakly, “What happened?”
Stewart replaced the blanket. “We were riding down by Two Mile Meadow and heard a shot over toward old Julio’s place. We rode over to investigate and we saw Julio on the ground and a man bending over him. At first we thought the man was trying to help him, but as we got closer, we saw what was really happening. What you saw under this blanket was done while Julio was still alive. The poor old mute couldn’t even scream.
Stewart paused for effect, listening as the angry rumble of the voices around him crescendoed. He continued, “When the killer saw us he jumped on his horse and took off, but we recognized him. It was Jeff Havens.”
At this point the crowd voiced its ou
trage at such a pitch that speaking became pointless. Stewart held up his hands in a silencing gesture. “Please, please.”
Gradually the noise subsided and he resumed, “There’s something else, Sheriff. I learned today the man who has been stealing T. S. horses is Amado Lopez, and what’s more, I’ve learned Lopez and Havens are hiding out over at Dan Fitzgerald’s place. I suspect Fitzgerald’s hands are not clean either. It’s a rat’s nest of murderers and thieves and we’re counting on you to clean it up.”
With a single voice of rage, the crowd roared its assent. Jennings felt frighteningly out of control, like he was being dragged by a team of horses. And he didn’t like the direction they were taking him.
Fogarty had watched the range of emotions that had crossed Jennings’ face with contemptuous amusement. It had been interesting to see how Stewart had drawn Jennings into the trap and closed it securely behind him. He had to hand it to Stewart; the man was good at what he did. Fogarty experienced a malicious pleasure as he saw the realization of what had happened to him dawn on the young sheriff. Yet, so effectively was he caught, he could not even voice a complaint. The only avenue open to him was to act on Stewart’s every suggestion and give the appearance that he agreed with each one.
The small form of Ollie Shepherd had knifed its way through the crowd and now stood over the body on the ground. The voices of the men grew silent, eager to hear Ollie pronounce his opinion. The old mountain man was well respected in the community, and when he spoke, men usually listened. He knelt and pulled back the blanket and gazed at the mutilated face of Julio Arroyo. There was no shock or revulsion to be seen on Shepard’s face. He had seen too much death in his time, and though he was no longer proud of it, he had, more than once in the heat of battle, scalped and mutilated victims of his own.
For a moment he knelt in silence by the body, then he turned to Stewart. “You say this was done while he was still alive?”
“That’s right,” Stewart said. I don’t know how anybody could do that to another human being. We’re getting up a posse,” he added—though Jennings had not yet mentioned anything of the sort. “Are you with us, Ollie?”