Return of the Outlaw

by C. M. Curtis

  “Let me go,” she implored. “You don’t know what they’ll do to me.”

  “Sorry ma’am. I do know what they’ll do to me.”

  Anne recognized him now; his name was Virgil. He was one of the older hands; strong and as tough as boot leather, but with his more agile days behind him. She was sure she could outrun him; it was the only chance she had left.

  She spun around, ducked under the top rail of the corral—slipping easily through to the other side—and ran out into the desert. Behind her Virgil shouted for her to stop, and she heard the loud report as he fired his pistol. He shouted again and fired two more shots. Each time she heard the explosions, the muscles in her back tensed involuntarily, expecting to feel the impact of the bullet. But Virgil wasn’t aiming at her; he didn’t dare. His orders did not extend to killing the boss’ wife. He ran clumsily after her, age and his awkward riding boots impairing him.

  Everyone on the ranch was awake now and behind her Anne could hear the sounds of men shouting and running. Above it all rose the stentorian voice of Tom Stewart, calling out orders. Through most of it she was unable to make out what he was saying but she heard one thing clearly, and he repeated it twice. “Dead or alive!” Even from this distance she could hear the rage in his voice.

  She knew her situation was hopeless; she could only hope to elude them until daylight. Never had she felt so alone and so betrayed. She clung tightly to the shadowy shelter of trees and boulders, and when forced to cross open spaces, she moved fast and stayed low, sometimes even crawling on hands and knees.

  Within minutes Stewart had every man on the ranch mounted and searching for her. They spread out, combing the area systematically, passing several times within a few yards of where she was hiding. Once, had she so desired, she could have reached out and touched one of the men on the leg as he passed. She was grateful for her dark clothing.

  She began making her way toward a wash she remembered, hoping to take advantage of its cover and direction to move faster and get farther away from the area where they would expect her to be. Twenty minutes later, crouched in the scanty protection of a low boulder, she rested, breathing hard from fear and exertion. Scanning the desert around her, she listened to the sounds of the searchers. They seemed to be moving toward her.

  Between her and the wash was an open area about forty yards wide, which she would have to cross, and while doing so would be completely exposed. Her heart pounded as she gathered her courage. She leaped out from the shelter of the rock and started running. Half way across, she saw movement on the far side of the wash. She caught a glimpse of a man on horseback just as he disappeared behind a low hill. Had he seen her? She would soon know. She cleared the edge of the wash and dropped into its welcoming hollow, exhausted and breathless. There was no time to rest; she could hear the sounds of men and horses drawing nearer by the second.

  She knew it would only be a matter of time until they spotted her. Even if by some incredible stroke of fortune she evaded capture tonight, it would be next to impossible to do so in the daylight when she would be exposed and they could follow her trail. She pushed on, though her lungs were burning and her legs were beginning to tire.

  Rounding a bend in the course of the wash she slowed to a walk in order to better observe the terrain and listen for sounds. A shadow on the opposite side, about twenty yards away, started moving toward her: a horse and rider. There was no place to run now; no way to escape. She stood frozen, waiting. There was something vaguely familiar about the rider, but in the darkness she couldn’t tell who it was. He rode toward her at a walk, not hurrying, then he spoke, and his voice was soft and comforting and welcome. “Angelita.”

  Only one person had ever called her that. She ran to him and he swung down from the saddle. She threw herself into his arms and clung to him and was no longer alone.

  Amado said softly, “Let’s go Angelita, the desert is full of snakes tonight.”

  He helped her into the saddle and climbed up behind her in order to shield her body with his own. He urged the horse up the side of the ravine and over the rim in the direction from which she had just come.

  “Why are we going this way?” Anne whispered.

  “They’re all around us,” he whispered back. “The only safe place to go is where they’ve already looked for you.”

  She realized he was right. Most people, when searching for something or someone, won’t look twice in the same place.

  Amado kept the horse at a walk, and though Anne was in front of him and could not see his face, she knew his senses were alert to every sound, smell, and movement. Several times they stopped and waited while riders passed. Sometimes the riders were alone, sometimes in groups of two or three, conversing in low voices. The closer they got to the house the less frequently and distinctly did the sounds of the searchers reach their ears.

  Stewart had refrained from joining the search himself, considering it impolitic to do so. Whenever possible he avoided involvement in any situation which had potential for scandal. He paid other men to do his dirty work, and he was certain they would not need his assistance tonight in capturing his wife. She was one woman, alone and afoot in the desert. With so many men searching for her it could only be a matter of time before she was caught and brought back to him. She would not escape again: he had already planned her death. Fogarty would do it. Fogarty would enjoy it. It would be made to look like another unspeakable crime perpetrated by Jeff Havens. After that, every man in the territory would join the hunt for Havens. There would be no place the man could hide.

  Stewart had given Fogarty instructions to keep him informed of the progress of the hunt. Twice, the gunman had sent messengers back to the house in compliance with those instructions, though there had been nothing to report. The second messenger, a rider named Mott, was now returning to Fogarty with fresh orders from Stewart.

  Amado saw Mott riding to the left and veered off to the right. Mott, catching the movement, spurred his horse faster in that direction. Amado knew that now was the time for speed. He touched the spurs to the gelding’s flanks and the big animal surged forward, picking up speed with each powerful lunge. Behind them, Mott fired two shots from his pistol, but darkness and the movement of his horse made accuracy impossible.

  As they passed a clump of small trees and brush, Amado reined sharply to the left and the gelding wheeled around the trees like the fine cutting horse he was. He carried Amado and Anne past the ranch house like he had wings.

  Anne saw Stewart standing on the porch and she saw him bolt for a horse that was tied to the hitching rail. Because of the distance, she didn’t get a clear view of his face, but in her mind she clearly pictured the expression it wore.

  Mott was still behind them, and though Anne knew the gelding was a better horse, it was also carrying double. These same thoughts were in Amado’s mind and he knew he would have to use his knowledge of the terrain as much as the speed and stamina of his mount.

  During the years he had worked the Rafter 8, Amado had hazed cattle out of every draw and pocket on the ranch. No one alive knew the terrain here like he did. After passing the house, he swung the gelding southeast and soon his eyes located the landmark he was seeking: a low, flat-topped knoll with almost vertical sides. Behind him he heard another shot and he could tell Mott was closing the distance.

  Amado found the cattle trail and swung the gelding south around the far side of the knoll. Here, the trail dropped sharply into a narrow wash with high, steep sides. Anne saw the danger and tensed her muscles, preparing for a tumble. But Amado knew what he was doing, and at just the right moment he reined to the left and touched the spurs lightly to the gelding’s flanks. The gelding left the trail, and a few yards later, the ground, and sailed like the mythical winged horse, over the edge of the wash. They landed with a jolt and Anne was almost unseated as they veered hard to the left to avoid crashing against the side of the bank. It had been the most superb display of horsemanship she had ever witnessed and Amado had
performed it with the hindrance of having to balance himself on the rear of the saddle while she occupied the front.

  At that moment Mott rounded the knoll, and seeing Amado and Anne astride the gelding, flying down the wash bed, he spurred his horse straight ahead—a mistake Amado had hoped he would make. Suddenly, the trail dropped out from underneath him. The horse stumbled and its forelegs buckled. Its momentum carried its hind quarters into the air and over and it landed on its back. Mott slammed against the side of the wash and lay still. The horse rolled onto its side and attempted to rise. Stewart, following close behind, saw Mott’s horse go down and hauled on the reins, but he was too close and moving too fast. His horse landed on top of Mott’s struggling mount before the downed brute had a chance to rise to its feet. For a moment Stewart found himself atop a screaming mass of kicking, lurching horseflesh, then his horse extricated itself and Stewart—miraculously still in the saddle—spurred down the wash.

  Amado and Anne had gained a few precious seconds, but Stewart was confident he could still overtake them; he had a good horse and knew Amado’s gelding, carrying double, would tire more quickly. Stewart spurred his mount without mercy, whipping it furiously with the reins and soon had the two fugitives in sight. He pulled his pistol, waiting to close the distance enough to permit an accurate shot, but he noticed his horse was beginning to falter. Cursing and spurring viciously he urged it onward, but the animal had developed a limp in its right fore-leg—no doubt a result of the jump into the wash—and try as it may to run faster, the limp was becoming increasingly pronounced and Stewart was falling behind.

  Seeing his chance slip away, he aimed his revolver into the night, and hurling epithets of the foulest kind at Anne, he emptied the gun at the receding shadow. It was an act of desperation. He knew that, under the circumstances, the chances of hitting his target were remote. When his gun was empty he sat in the saddle, incensed by his failure, listening to the rhythmic hoof beats of Amado’s gelding fade into inaudibility.

  Stewart could not know it, but he had not failed. By sheer luck, one of his bullets had found its mark. Anne felt the breath knocked out of her as she was thrown forward onto the gelding’s neck by the impact of the bullet striking her in the back. For the second time that night she almost slipped out of the saddle, but somehow she managed to hold on as the gelding’s steady, smooth gait carried her away from those who would do her harm. The pain gradually changed in character from dull to burning, and it felt like her back was on fire. Nausea swept over her and she feared she would lose consciousness, but she held on, and the gelding ran on and on in the darkness. Finally, confident they were no longer being pursued, Amado reined in and the gelding slowed to a walk and then stopped, lathered and blowing hard.

  Anne sat hunched forward, clinging to consciousness as the world around her spun in dizzy circles. Her hair hung over her face, and her forehead almost touched the gelding’s mane.

  With rough-skinned, but gentle fingers Amado probed her wound. “Does it hurt, Angelita?” he whispered breathlessly.

  “U-huh,” came the dull reply.

  She felt him leave the saddle and grunt as he slid to the ground. “Can you ride?” he queried, still whispering.

  “Yes,” she replied, but she wasn’t sure if it was true.

  “Do you know how to get to Emelia Diaz’ house?”

  “I think so.” She turned her head toward him and it hurt. It hurt to move, it hurt to talk, it hurt to breathe. “Come with me,” she pleaded, realizing now, that he intended to send her on alone.

  Amado’s voice was low. “No, I have to stay here. I’ll make sure no one follows you. You’ll be all right, Angelita. Can you find the trail to Emelia’s house?”

  “Yes.”

  “Find the trail. Give the horse his head. He knows the way; he’ll take you there.”

  She nodded and slid backward, fully into the saddle.

  “Slip your feet into the stirrups, Angelita, so you won’t fall off.”

  Anne did as she was told. Amado slapped the gelding lightly on the rump and watched as they moved away from him. Anne would be all right. Emelia would take care of her.

  He pulled his pistol and lowered himself to the ground. Leaning back against a boulder, he waited.

  For a moment he reflected back over his life. He glanced in the direction Anne had gone, but could no longer see horse or rider. He had wanted so much for her to marry Jeff. He wondered, as he had many times before, what had happened to separate those two who had been so right for each other and so much in love. Their children would have called him grandpa and they would have been his family; his joy in his old age. But he had come to understand long ago that life seldom brings what one hopes for. He had learned to accept what came. ”It’s all right,” he thought. ”I’m old.” He sat and waited and no one came. And still he waited.

  Dawn came and still Amado sat there, and it was just after daybreak when Emelia and the others found him. She knelt down beside him and laid her head on his chest and wept. Anne’s wound had bled little, telling Emelia that the large quantities of blood she had found on the saddle and down the side of the horse must be Amado’s. The bullet had passed through his body, and flattened, and with most if its energy spent, it had struck Anne in the back. Deflected by a rib, it had traveled a short distance under the skin, creating a wound that was painful but not serious.

  Presently, Emelia stopped crying and was helped to her feet. They wrapped Amado’s body in a blanket she had brought for that purpose.

  In the Spanish language the name Amado means beloved and Amado was that. Today there would be mourning in San Vicente.

  Chapter 9

  Ted Walker strode briskly down the boardwalk of Main Street. He had a lot on his mind—not an unusual condition for a man who is mayor of a busy, growing town, but the matters which were presently causing him to furrow his brow and chew his lower lip in anger were matters that extended beyond the scope of the mayoral office. He crossed the street and tramped past the bank, preoccupied and paying little attention to the comings and goings of the people on the street and boardwalks.

  As he passed the open doorway of the bank, Tom Stewart, standing just inside, hailed him, “Mayor.”

  Recognizing the voice, Walker froze in his tracks and slowly turned to face Stewart, an expression of bitter hatred on his face.

  “We need to talk,” said Stewart.

  “No, we don’t,” said Walker coldly, starting to move away.

  “It would be better for Anne if you’d talk to me,” said Stewart. He wore an arrogant smile—his way of showing Walker how little he cared what the man thought of him.

  Walker turned to face him fully now, “What kind of threat is that Stewart?”

  Ignoring the question, Stewart said, “If you care about Anne you’d better listen to what I have to say.”

  Walker considered this for a moment then asked with the same coldness, “Where?”

  “How about the sheriff’s office?”

  “That’s a coincidence, Stewart; I was just on my way there.”

  Stewart smiled the self-satisfied smile of a man who knows something he isn’t telling and gestured for Walker to go first.

  “I’ll follow you,” said Walker. “I won’t turn my back on any kind of a snake who’ll shoot a woman in the back.”

  Stewart’s smile remained intact as he stepped past Walker and walked toward Lloyd Jennings’ office.

  Jennings was at his desk, idly smoking a cigar. Looking at him, Walker was reminded how much the man had changed in the past few weeks. Everyone had noticed it but no one had an explanation for it.

  “Say your piece,” Walker said to Stewart. “Then I have business with the sheriff.”

  Stewart sat down in a chair next to the desk, casually stretching his legs in front of him, crossing them at the ankles. “It has come to my attention that my wife is staying at your home.”

  Walker was visibly stunned by this pronouncement. “How did you find t
hat out?”

  “Doesn’t matter how I found it out.”

  “You’re right, it doesn’t matter,” said Walker hotly. “Because if you think she’s coming back . . . “

  Stewart interrupted. “No, I don’t think she’s coming back, because I won’t take her back; I have no use for an unfaithful wife.”

  “You’re a filthy liar, Stewart. I ought to kill you for saying that.”

  Stewart, having lost none of his composure, turned to look at Jennings, who had thus far displayed no interest in what was occurring.

  Now, realizing something was expected of him, Jennings said in a bland voice, “There’ll be no violence, Ted.”

  “Do you know what this is about, Lloyd?” demanded Walker. “Do you even care?”

  Nothing changed on Jennings’ face. “Why don’t you tell me, Ted,” he said without emotion.

  “That’s what I came here for, Lloyd. Your friend Stewart here shot his wife.” Here he paused as if expecting to see some manifestation of surprise or shock from Jennings, but nothing happened. Jennings sat in his chair, leaning forward, resting his elbows on the desk, looking at the cigar he was turning in his fingers.

  Walker continued. “Stewart tried to make her a prisoner on the ranch. When she tried to leave, he went after her and shot her in the back as she was riding away.”

  Stewart was smiling now, shaking his head. “Is that what she told you?”

  Walker turned hate-filled eyes on Stewart. “I’m not surprised you have a different story, it’s not like a man like you to own up to the truth, but I’ll tell you something Stewart, your reputation around here is . . .”

  Stewart interrupted, “My reputation is not the issue here; it’s Anne’s reputation you should be concerned about.”

  “I suppose you’re going to tell me what you mean by that.”

  “Yes, I am. I’ll tell you, and if you force me to, I’ll tell the whole town. I wasn’t the one who shot Anne; it was one of my hands, a man named Frank Mott. Like I said before, Anne was not a faithful wife. It seems she had jilted Mott for one of the other hands, and Mott threatened to kill her. She was afraid of him, but naturally she couldn’t come to me for protection, so she tried to leave. Mott followed her, and during the chase he shot at her. Apparently the bullet that hit her didn’t knock her off her horse so he continued the chase, but unfortunately—or fortunately, however you want to look at it, his horse stumbled and threw him. Mott’s neck was broken. He was dead when we found him. The horse had to be shot. I assumed Anne had made a clean getaway until last night when I learned she had been shot and was staying with you.”