Return of the Outlaw

by C. M. Curtis

  Jennings laughed scornfully, “We’re not only riding around for his entertainment; we’re feeding him too.”

  “We’re feeding him well,” observed Mason. “He took enough provisions for two men.”

  Fogarty was livid; he kicked the fire, scattering coals. Clenching and unclenching his jaw muscles, he spent a few minutes writing with pencil and paper he had produced from a saddlebag. He folded the paper and handed it to one of his riders. “Take this to Stewart,” he said. “We’ll meet back here in two days, at noon.”

  The following afternoon, after another day and a half of fruitless searching, the posse cut a fresh trail, followed it painstakingly for four hours and lost it. Fogarty had stopped paying attention to the multiple plumes of smoke that rose up from scattered points. Most of them, he knew, would be decoy fires. Moreover, their locations and the distance between them told him he was dealing with more than one man. Lopez must be here, too.

  Fogarty knew it would be fruitless to chase back and forth through the canyons, attempting to investigate each fire, but it infuriated him to know the man he was hunting could now make campfires, without concern about giving away his position. And the food he was cooking over those fires was food stolen from the very posse that was hunting him.

  Stewart’s man was at the rendezvous at the appointed time and with him, as per Fogarty’s written request, were four more T. S. riders. Moreover, though Fogarty had not requested it, Stewart himself had come along. They rode a short distance away from the group in order to converse privately.

  “What’s going on, Rand?” Stewart asked. “You’re making us look bad. This is bigger news in town than the Golden Spike.”

  “There’s two of ‘em,” said Fogarty. “It’s got to be Havens and Lopez, and they’re good. But I have a plan. It’ll take three groups of four men each. We’ll ride together until we cut a trail, then we’ll split up. One group will follow the trail, one group will swing around to the left, and the other will swing around to the right. We’ll try to box them in.”

  “All right,” said Stewart, “but do it fast. This Havens is starting to be a hero in town. Some of your men have been telling the boys who pack the supplies up to you everything that’s going on. There’s talk in town that maybe Havens didn’t kill Julio Arroyo, and maybe the fight out at the ranch was a fair one. Ollie Shepard is talkin’ that one up all over town. People like to back the underdog, Rand. You’ve got to finish this and finish it fast before the whole town turns against us.”

  “We’ll find them,” Fogarty vowed. “We’re not coming out of these hills until we do.”

  “Don’t be too long about it,” advised Stewart. “We’ve got other business, you know. Let Jennings go back to town; he’s losing popularity, and now that he’s on our side I don’t want that to happen.”

  Stewart did not return to town, but instead rode directly back to the ranch. As he approached the house, he was hailed by two men who were camped on the side of the trail. One of them was an Indian, the other a burly, shaggy-haired white man dressed in filthy buckskins.

  The latter hailed Stewart. “Are you Mr. Stewart?” he inquired through rotted, tobacco stained teeth.

  “Yes.”

  “Hear you’re lookin’ for a man or two.”

  I have all the men I need,” said Stewart coldly, and spurred his horse forward.

  “My name is Tobe Hatcherson,” the big man shouted at Stewart’s back. “This here Injun is my pardner, Jimmy Sundust. We’re man hunters. If you’re lookin’ for somebody, we can find ‘em for you.”

  Stewart reined in abruptly. He had heard of these two men. He turned around and rode back.

  “You want ‘em found?” continued Hatcherson, “We’ll find ‘em. And bring ‘em back. Alive sometimes, most times dead. Generally the people we work for don’t care which.”

  Hiring outside help was an idea that had not previously occurred to Stewart, but it was starting to appeal to him now. Seeing the pensive look on the face of his potential client, Hatcherson added, “You don’t pay us ‘till we ketch ‘em. We don’t ketch ‘em, you don’t pay us.”

  “How much?”

  “Depends. You care if we bring ‘em back dead?”

  “I’d prefer it.”

  “Three hundred dollars a head.”

  Stewart whistled and shook his head. “That’s completely out of reason. That’s as much as a lot of men around here make in a year.”

  “It’s hard and dangerous work,” said Hatcherson.

  “I’ll pay you a hundred a head,” countered Stewart.

  “Two hundred.”

  “Alright,” agreed Stewart, “Two hundred. But when you bring them back, make sure they can be identified. Don’t shoot them in the face, or scalp them or anything like that. I won’t pay for a body unless I can tell who it is. You’ll be working with my foreman, Rand Fogarty. He’s up there now with a posse. I’ll tell you how to find them.”

  Hatcherson raised a hand, palm out, and smiled. “We’ll find ‘em, Mr. Stewart.”

  When Stewart stepped through the door of the house, he was surprised to see Anne. She had been out of town visiting with Alice and her husband, and was not due back for two weeks. Stewart was not pleased—she had picked a bad time to come back, but he didn’t show his displeasure. “Darling, you’re home,” he said in a cheery voice.

  He approached her, and as he did, she turned a cheek for him to kiss. “Just a kiss on the cheek?” he asked, “I was hoping you’d miss me more than that.”

  Anne smiled and ignored his comment. “Who were those men you were talking to?”

  “Oh, just two drifters looking for a job. I sent them on their way. I didn’t expect you back so soon, Darling.”

  “Tom, I came back early because I heard about some of the things that have been happening here.”

  Stewart’s face grew somber and he shook his head. “Yes, dear, it’s been awful. I was hoping you wouldn’t hear about it; I knew it would be distressing to you.”

  “Is it true your men are hunting Jeff Havens and Amado Lopez?”

  Stewart nodded his head, “Yes,” he said soberly, “it’s true, and it has been just as upsetting to me as it is to you. Anne, I know you considered them to be friends of yours, but I don’t believe they were the men you thought they were. Either that, or they have changed since you knew them.”

  “Tom, surely you don’t believe they were the ones who did those terrible things?”

  “I wish,” he said, furrowing his brow, “I could say there was some doubt. I would give anything if it could be someone else. Not for me, Anne, but for you. It’s so sad when people turn out not to be what you thought they were. But your friend Jeff Havens killed poor old Julio Arroyo and then mutilated his body.”

  “I can’t believe that,” protested Anne. “I don’t believe he would do such a thing.”

  “But unfortunately he did, Anne. Fogarty . . .”

  She interrupted, “I wouldn’t believe a word Fogarty said.”

  “You didn’t let me finish,” said Stewart, growing impatient, “I was about to say Fogarty and I both saw him.”

  Stewart had never laid eyes on Jeff Havens in his life, but he knew Anne had no way of knowing that.

  She was stunned. “I can’t believe it was him. It simply must be a mistake.”

  Suddenly Stewart wanted to slap her. He was sick of Jeff Havens, sick of this memory she couldn’t release, and he was sick of waiting for her to act like a wife. It was no longer enough to have her near, to have her in the house. In the beginning he had been certain that, given time, things would be different, but nothing had changed. She was kind to him and always pleasant, and though she did not approve of Rand Fogarty and some of the other men he employed, she did not often mention it. She refrained from meddling in his business affairs. But she was not a wife; not by Stewart’s definition, which would have included, among other terms, dog-like devotion and blind loyalty.

  His anger at the situation did
not arise from a need to be loved, but rather from a need to control all those around him. And Stewart knew he could only control Anne through her love. He wanted to see her afraid and insecure and terrified of losing him.

  Stewart had vowed to kill Jeff Havens, but he knew he must also kill the memory of the man. It was not enough for Anne to simply believe Jeff had changed and become a different type of person; she must believe he had never been that person to begin with; that she had been deceived and lied to. Only then would she let go.

  “You know, Anne, maybe Jeff Havens was never really who you thought he was. You were very young, you could have been deceived.”

  She shook her head, “I knew him too well, Tom.”

  “You certainly have a lot of confidence in a young girl’s ability to judge people. Obviously you were wrong. He came here and gunned down one of my men in a childish fit of rage just because he wanted more money for the ranch, and I wasn’t here to give it to him. That’s not the act of a man who is killing for the first time. He must enjoy it, because what possible reason could he have for killing old Julio. And then to mutilate the old man and hack pieces of his face and body off while he was still alive, and . . .”

  “Stop, Tom. Please!” She walked over to a settee and sat down. Leaning her head back she tried to organize her thoughts. “All I’m saying is it hasn’t been proven beyond a doubt it really was Jeff Havens.”

  Stewart’s anger was beginning to push aside his self-control. He thrust a finger at his chest. “I saw him. I recognized him. It was Jeff Havens. I saw his face as clearly as I’m seeing yours right now. He’s scum, Anne, and he’s a murderer. He wasn’t what you thought he was and maybe if you could accept that fact, you could leave behind your childish fantasies about him and learn to love the man you’re married to.”

  “That’s not fair, Tom, I never lied to you. I tried to talk you out of marrying me, and I told you all the reasons why you shouldn’t. I told you I would always be fond of Jeff. And you agreed we would never speak of him. I love you too, and I think I treat you well enough, but I know Jeff Havens far better than you do and if no one else will defend him, I will. I would do the same for you.”

  Stewart’s response was a cold stare. He turned to leave the room, but Anne wasn’t finished. “Tom, I was honest with you from the beginning. Never once did I deceive you about my feelings. You arranged this marriage with my mother—don’t think I was not aware of that—so obviously it was not based entirely on love to begin with. Maybe I haven’t been the kind of wife you expected me to be, but I’ve been the kind of wife you asked me to be, and the kind I agreed to be. You’re a businessman, Tom, and everything is business to you. It seems to me you always try to get more than you’ve bargained for. Well maybe you made a bad bargain this time, so I’m willing to release you from the contract. If you want me to go, I’ll go. But if I stay, don’t ask more of me than you contracted for.”

  “All right, Anne,” said Stewart, his anger still evident in his voice. “Maybe love isn’t something you can make happen by simply wishing it, but how about trust? I just told you some things and you refuse to believe them. You have no idea how I hate being called a liar.”

  “I didn’t say you were a liar, Tom; I just said there was some mistake. That sort of thing can happen. Maybe you didn’t get a close enough look at the man who killed Julio. He was a man running away from a crime. How can you be completely sure of who it was? It must have been someone who looks like Jeff. That’s all I’m saying.”

  This attempt to placate Stewart only made him angrier and he finally let go of his feelings. “I’ll tell you what I’ll do for you Anne,” he said, with unveiled hostility. “When my men hunt that killer down, I’ll have them bring his body here and you can identify it personally so we can all be completely sure. And maybe you can cry over him and give him a last kiss.”

  Anne was surprised at the depth of the rage in Stewart’s voice. He had never spoken to her in this manner before, and what she saw in his eyes shocked her. For the first time she admitted to herself she was afraid of him. But she immediately resolved not to let him know it. She had known women who had become afraid of their husbands and had never been able to stop feeling intimidated. She had long ago promised herself she would never live that way. She squared her shoulders and faced him, her large brown eyes looking directly into his, and when she spoke there was a hard, determined quality in her voice. “I may not be the wife you hoped I would be, but I have never treated you with disrespect. I will not be treated that way either. Remember, I was not destitute when you met me. I was doing well and supporting myself. I don’t deny you have been good to me, and I have not had to work, but I could go back to supporting myself if I had to, and I would do so rather than be mistreated simply because I disagreed with you and made you feel jealous.”

  Stewart knew he was on the verge of losing control completely, so he chose to end the discussion. Abruptly he wheeled and stalked away, leaving her alone in the room.

  Anne slept in the spare bedroom that night, and in the silent darkness she began to doubt herself. Had she done the right thing, or had she behaved like her domineering mother? It wasn’t the same was it? As she analyzed it, she didn’t think so. Her mother was a selfish woman who manipulated others for her own purposes. But Anne had no desire to control Tom; she simply refused to be intimidated. In her life she had had little control over those things which bring happiness and sorrow, and though she no longer expected life to bring her blissful joy—she had seen none of that since Jeff went off to the war—there were some things she could control. Living free of fear and intimidation was one of them. As long as she could control that aspect of her life she would, and when she no longer could, she would no longer wish to be alive.

  As she lay on her back staring into the darkness, she felt a tiny flutter of movement in her womb, and unbidden thoughts of Jeff Havens flew into her mind. She knew he was not a killer, and she longed for him, and she felt pity and a sudden, unwelcome revulsion for Tom Stewart, the father of her unborn child.

  It was while the posse-members were eating breakfast that Tobe Hatcherson and Jimmy Sundust rode into camp. The men had been hearing the sounds of the two approaching riders for some time in the echoing confines of the canyon, and were watching and waiting, their weapons close at hand.

  Hatcherson, his horse looking too small to carry his bulk, rode up to the fire and inhaled a deep breath of air redolent with the smell of bacon. A smile of ecstasy spread across his grimy, bewhiskered face. “Smells like we come at the right time.”

  “Light and set,” said Jack Mason, in observance of the western code that you never turn a hungry man away from your camp.

  “Give ‘em coffee,” Fogarty said to Mason. Then, to Hatcherson, “Have some coffee, use the fire to do your cooking. We only have enough food for ourselves.”

  Hatcherson’s smile remained on his face, but its character underwent a subtle change. “You must be Fogarty.” He almost made it sound like an insult. He eased himself off his horse, bent down, careful to make no sudden movements, and with a huge, calloused hand, removed a cactus thorn from the side of his boot. Standing erect again he produced the note Stewart had written advising Fogarty of the change in plans, and instructing him to cooperate with the man hunters. He handed the note to Fogarty and with a pointed glance at the pan of bacon, he said, “Mr. Stewart sent us.”

  Fogarty unfolded the sweat-stained paper and read it. Afterwards he turned a cold appraising gaze on Hatcherson.

  “The name is Tobe Hatcherson. That there’s my pardner, Jimmy Sundust,” the big man said, nodding sideways toward the Indian who had hung back on the edge of camp.

  Sundust sat in the saddle, gazing off at nothing, seemingly uninterested in what was taking place. But Fogarty noted the spot the Indian had chosen would be a good place to be if shooting broke out. All eyes were on Fogarty now, but the dark eyes of the gunman revealed nothing.

  “You’ve probably heard of us,�
�� offered Hatcherson.

  With a slight nod of his head, Fogarty acknowledged he had. “How did you find us?”

  Hatcherson chuckled. “Sundust could smell bacon frying any place between here and the Gulf of Mexico.” Growing serious almost to the point of being theatrical, he added, “He can smell out a man too—likes to hunt at night like a cougar.”

  Fogarty had indeed heard of Hatcherson and Sundust. Their exploits were legendary, and it was said that if they were after a man, he might as well find a crack in the earth and slide down to hell because he was already dead. It was told around campfires that one man whom they were pursuing, on seeing capture was imminent, had turned his gun on himself, probably because of the two man-hunters’ known proclivity for torturing their victims before killing them.

  Fogarty pondered the situation. The fact that Stewart in his note had stated he was placing Hatcherson and friend in charge, meant nothing to him. He would disobey Stewart’s orders if he so chose, and it wouldn’t be the first time he’d done so. He did not fear his employer, nor did he feel any loyalty toward him. His reasons for remaining with Stewart were strictly mercenary—the pay was good and he foresaw even greater profit in the future. But he and the men with him had been in these mountains for a week, riding in circles. Fogarty was sick of it, and morale among the men was low. If Hatcherson and the Indian could bring this hunt to a speedy close, it would be fine with him. Nodding toward the sizzling pan on the fire, he said to Mason, “Throw in some more bacon.”

  From the top of the ridge which formed the opposite canyon wall, Jeff and Amado lay prone in the dirt, their hats on the ground beside them as they peered over the crest and watched the scene taking place on the far side of the wide canyon below.