by C. M. Curtis
“I knew that,” said Marcellin.
“Well, this hombre we got outside knows Rand Fogarty.”
“Wait a minute,” said Hank. “You haven’t known him any longer than I have. How do you know he knows Fogarty?”
“I’ve seen Fogarty twice,” said Cracker. “First time was in a saloon in Kansas where I watched him kill a man ‘bout like you’d swat a fly. I never saw anything so fast. I saw him again tonight. He was the sweet-faced gent that passed us on the trail while we were resting our horses.”
“What?” said Hank in amazement. “That was Rand Fogarty?”
“It surely was,” said Cracker, “and this prisoner we got outside recognized him. I was watching him. I could tell by the way he stiffened up. He recognized Fogarty for sure.”
“Did Fogarty recognize him?” asked Marcellin.
“No, his face was shadowed; Fogarty didn’t get a good look at him.”
“So instead of hanging a rustler,” said Hank, “we get to hang a gunslinger.”
“No,” interrupted Marcellin, “in the first place, we don’t know for sure he’s Dick Masion, but if he is, or if he’s anyone else connected with that gang, he could lead us to them. This could be our first lucky break in this whole mess. We have the advantage that he doesn’t know we know who he is. Let’s watch him and see what he does.”
“But how can we go up against guns like Masion and Fogarty?” asked Hank.
No one answered, and there was a space of silence as each man pondered the situation.
Presently Marcellin said, “Bring him back in.”
“One more thing you need to know, Jim,” said Cracker with a sidelong glance at Hank.
Marcellin laughed and closed his hands behind his neck, “Cracker, you’ve got more surprises than a magician’s saddlebags. What else do you have to unload on me?”
Cracker related to him the incident in the Red Stallion and the short fight between Eli and Jeff. As Marcellin listened, his face darkened and his lips stretched into a tight line. When Cracker ended his narrative, Marcellin repeated, “Bring him back in.”
By the time he and Reef were invited back into the room Jeff was feeling irritable. He had been tied up all day and he was tired of it. For reasons he did not understand, he was not worried. Whatever was going to happen, he wanted to get it over with.
Marcellin motioned for Jeff to take a seat and gazed at him for a moment with a veiled expression. “Cracker tells me Gordon swore you didn’t rustle any of my stock. Did you?”
“No.”
“What were you doing in Gordon and Billy’s camp?”
“I lost my horse, smelled the smoke, and followed it to their camp.”
“What’s your name?”
“Does it make a difference?”
“Reckon it does.”
Jeff was on the verge of stubborn refusal to answer any more questions. He hadn’t done anything to these men and he didn’t owe them any answers. His voice was tinged with anger when he replied, “If you think I’m guilty, you’ll hang me; you don’t need to know my name for that. If you think I’m innocent, I don’t think you’ll hang me, no matter what my name is, and what’s more, I think you’ve already decided.”
Marcellin gave a humorless laugh. He held Jeff’s gaze for a few moments, then looked away as if Jeff were insignificant, and murmured, “You can go. Reef, untie his hands.”
Reef did as he was told and the relief Jeff felt was enormous. He moved his arms far apart and pulled his shoulders back, stretching muscles and restoring circulation. Marcellin said in a toneless, disinterested voice, “You can stay in the bunk house tonight. One of the hands will drive you into town tomorrow. Reef, give him back his pistol.” He stood up, indicating the meeting was over and left the room. Hank followed close behind his boss without glancing at Jeff. Cracker stood, gave Jeff a long, un-intimidated stare and walked out of the room.
Left alone together, Reef and Jeff looked at each other. Reef shrugged his shoulders and said, “Your lucky day.”
“Good luck just seems to hound me,” Jeff said, rubbing his chafed wrists. Stepping outside again with Reef, he saw a small group of men on the other side of the yard. Cracker was standing in front of them, saying something. When Jeff stepped out on the porch all eyes turned toward him. Cracker stopped speaking and stepped around the men into the dark interior of the barn. With the exception of Reef, who seemed incapable of negative emotions, the attitude of the men—judging by the looks they were giving him—was decidedly hostile.
He was unsure what he was to do now. He was still dependent on these people and their decisions regarding him and he hated being in that position. He had no horse, no money, no job, and no place to stay. He didn’t even have a hat. What he needed was to get to town. He had been down-and-out before, but had always been able to find work of some kind. The place to look would be in town. He felt a pressing need to get there for another reason too. Fogarty was there. He felt a primal urge to kill Fogarty, but his good sense told him there was a greater need—to find out what Tom Stewart’s hired killer was doing here.
Reef brought Jeff’s gun to him and said, “Let’s get some grub; I’m hungry enough to eat a folded tarp. Jeff threw a cautious glance at the group of men by the barn and followed Reef around the corner of the house. Two punchers walking past them gave Jeff a wide berth, reminding him that he was a pariah here.
As they walked past the house, angling toward the cook-shack, a woman’s voice rang out, clear and melodious. “Oh, Reef.” Jeff turned and saw a woman framed in the soft yellow light of the kitchen doorway. She was a large woman, tall and big-boned, but with the light behind her, her face was in shadow, rendering her features indistinguishable.
“Yes, Mrs. Marcellin?”
“Introduce me to your guest.”
The two men moved across the yard to where Catherine Marcellin stood.
“Mrs. Marcellin, this is Bob Webb,” Said Reef.
Unconsciously, Jeff reached up to tip his hat and remembered he had no hat. He shook Catherine Marcellin’s proffered hand, noting she had a strong grip.
“How do you do, Mr. Webb?”
“Pleasure, Ma’am.”
There were Kitchen smells sliding out through the doorway past Catherine Marcellin’s body, and they made Jeff’s stomach growl. It had been a long time since he had sat at a table and eaten a home cooked meal, and he craved the experience as much as he did the food. But not here; he would accept no hospitality from these people other than a cold supper, a bunk, and a ride into town tomorrow.
Catherine asked, “Have you men eaten?”
“We were just on our way to the cook-shack for sandwiches,” responded Reef. Then he added significantly, “Cold sandwiches.”
Catherine Marcellin smiled. “Dolores is putting together a hot meal right now. If you two would like to wash up, it should be ready by the time you’re back.”
Jeff felt distinctly uncomfortable with the invitation. His clothes were ragged, he hadn’t bathed in weeks, and he was unshaven and covered with trail dust.
“Ma’am,” he said, “I don’t think I’m presentable enough for your kitchen. I’d better go to the cook shack.”
“That doesn’t bother me at all, Mr. Webb; I raised four sons.”
“I appreciate that ma’am, but I would be awfully uncomfortable.”
Catherine directed a glance at Reef, who could see a good thing about to slip away from him. He acted quickly.
“Dolores is as touchy as a teased snake about this sort of thing, Webb. Why, I once saw her whack off a man’s thumb just for turning down a third helping of her rattlesnake head soup. I fear and tremble at what she might do if a man rejected a complete meal.”
Jeff knew when he was beaten. He grinned and made a show of clasping his fingers protectively around his thumbs.
“Follow me,” said Reef triumphantly. “We’ll wash up.”
The kitchen was large and homey and filled with the kinds of smells J
eff hadn’t experienced in a very long time. A Mexican girl, whom Jeff correctly assumed to be Dolores, was busy at the stove. She was of medium height for a woman, round and sturdy looking. Her jet black hair was parted in the center with a braid on either side hanging down to her mid back. Her pleasant face glistened with perspiration from the heat of the stove.
For the second time, Jeff started to reach for a hat to tip. Instead, he sniffed the savory air and gave her a nod of his head and an approving smile, which spread her own smile even more broadly across her round face and deepened the dimples in her cheeks.
It wasn’t until Jeff had taken a seat at the long, pine table, that he got his first good look at Catherine Marcellin’s face. She was looking at him with a penetrating gaze through deep blue eyes. Her gray hair still showed vestiges of its former red hue, and the glow on her cheeks and the shallow diagonal lines at the corners of her eyes lent her countenance an aspect of kindness and wisdom. It was a face Jeff immediately liked, and one in which no animosity toward him could be read.
The meal was a memorable one, the atmosphere relaxed and pleasant. When they had finished, Reef slid back his chair and said, “I always said if I ever found a woman who could cook as good as my mama I’d have to marry her.” He winked and threw a glance at Dolores, who blushed and threw a flour-sack dishcloth back at him.
“Well, I guess it’s time to head for the bunk house,” said Reef, rising. “I’ve been in these boots so long they’ve growed to my feet.” Jeff started to rise too, but Catherine said, “Mr. Webb, I’d like to speak with you for a moment.” Jeff sat back down and Reef did likewise, whereupon Catherine fixed him with a stern-eyed look of the type used by mothers and school teachers. “He’s not a prisoner now Reef; you don’t have to guard him.”
Reef suddenly got the idea and with a sheepish look excused himself and slipped quickly out the door. Dolores, too, laid down her dishcloth and left the room.
When they were alone, Catherine turned to Jeff and smiled, “He’s a fine boy.”
Jeff agreed with her.
“He likes to talk,” she continued,. “You spent the whole day listening to him, didn’t you?”
“I didn’t mind the company.”
Her smile faded, and sadness came to her eyes. “I was very sorry to hear about Gordon and Billy. I always liked Gordon, but he wanted things to come easy, and life isn’t that way. Billy was just a follower who followed the wrong person.”
“I hated to see them hang,” admitted Jeff, “but that’s the law of the range; they knew the risks.”
“I wish it didn’t have to be that way,” she said. “If women ran the world, it wouldn’t be.”
Jeff gave her an indulgent smile. “I don’t doubt it, ma’am, but how would you handle rustlers and other criminals?”
She responded without hesitation, giving him the idea she had thought about this before. “They would all be made to join the army and they would be the ones who would fight the wars, and if some of them died in battle it would be no great loss to the world.”
“The idea has its merit,” admitted Jeff, “but they would probably refuse to fight.”
Catherine smiled as if this also had occurred to her before. “Then we would have no wars. How about you, Mr. Webb, if you could run the world how would you change things?”
“That,” he said slowly, “is something a man would need to think about.”
“Tell me the first thing that comes into your mind. No one can hold you to it. If you could change this world, what would you do?”
He felt that somehow he should be uncomfortable with this strange conversation, but he was not. This woman had a disarming way about her, and without thinking much about it, he trusted her. He said, “I would make it so a person could go back and change things; relive his life and do things differently.”
“Maybe,” she asserted gently, “we would make the same number of mistakes, just different ones.”
“Maybe so,” he admitted, “but maybe . . . ” He looked beyond her, traveling for just a moment to another time and place, then he swung his eyes back to her face, and felt her trying to penetrate his thoughts. He smiled. “Don’t tell me this is what you wanted to talk to me about.”
She laughed. “No, I wanted to apologize for the way you have been treated by the Circle M.”
As she spoke he knew she wasn’t telling the whole truth, but he said, “Don’t mention it ma’am; no harm was done, and I got a good meal out of the bargain.”
“Yes, Dolores is a marvelous cook; I trained her myself.”
There was a pause, and Catherine said, “I understand you have met my grandson, Eli.”
“Yes,” replied Jeff, I’m sorry . . .”
“No need to apologize. I’m sure he had it coming. I wish someone had done it a long time ago. Who knows, maybe you knocked some sense into him.” There was another pause. “He wasn’t always this way, Mr. Webb; he used to be a sweet boy. He had an older brother whom he idolized, and Todd was a fine boy, too. Their father worshipped them both. Todd was more like Jim. Eli is like his mother.”
“What happened to Todd?”
“He was killed in the war—at Chancellorsville.”
“I’m sorry,” said Jeff sincerely. He too had fought at Chancellorsville, but he had no desire to discuss it.
“Eli changed after that. He and Jim began having terrible fights. Later, Eli started hanging around with Al Tannatt and his bunch; bad company the whole lot of them. Soon afterwards, he moved out. He’s never been back even for a visit. They say he drinks a lot now.” She lowered her eyes for a moment then looked up again. “You know, Mr. Webb, it’s harder to lose a boy that way than it is to lose one in a war.” She smiled and drew a deep breath. “Life has its sorrows, but the good Lord gives us many blessings to compensate, don’t you think?”
Jeff nodded.
She grew somber, looked him in the eyes and began to speak, and Jeff sensed she was coming to the real purpose of this meeting.
“My son’s life has not been easy,” she began. “First he lost his wife, then Todd, then Eli. This ranch is his life now. It would be very hard for him to lose it; he’s worked so long and hard to build it. It seems so unfair that evil men can come in and steal and destroy all the fruits of a good man’s labors.”
Again Jeff nodded, waiting.
Catherine seemed to hesitate. She looked away, her brow furrowed, tapping her fingers pensively on the table. When her eyes returned to him he saw she had made up her mind. “I’ve been praying, Mr. Webb, for an answer to our problems. Seems I pray a lot lately. Three nights ago I had a dream. In it I saw my grandmother who has been dead for nearly thirty years. She told me everything would be all right; that a man would come to help us. I saw the man. I didn’t see his face, but I saw that he walked with a limp. It was a very vivid dream and . . .” she looked down at her hands, and her voice lost some of its confidence, “and . . . well, I couldn’t help noticing your limp.” She raised her eyes to meet his. “So, now I’ve told you. You probably think I’m just a foolish old woman.”
“No, ma’am,” said Jeff, groping for something to say, “but I think . . . I think it was probably just a dream. I don’t know how I could possibly help you, though I wish I could.” He was sincere in this. He felt a deep friendship toward this woman whom he had just met, and was reluctant to disappoint her. “I truly wish I could help, ma’am. I can see your problem clear enough, but I don’t know what I could do about it.”
Catherine smiled. “I’m sure you’re right, Mr. Webb. It was probably just a dream. Still, I’m glad to have met you and I’ve enjoyed our conversation. I feel I’ve gained a friend, and a friend is always a valuable thing.”
“I agree,” said Jeff. But he felt dissatisfied, as though he had received something and given nothing in return. He looked at her for a moment, debating in his mind. Catherine was watching him with her discerning eyes, saying nothing.
“My name,” he said, “is not Webb; it’s
Havens. Jeff Havens.”
“It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance Mr. Havens.” After a brief pause, she added, “You must be in trouble with the law; otherwise there would be no need to use a false name.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She said nothing more, and for a long moment he watched her face. Finally he said, “Thank you for not asking.”
“Sometimes it isn’t necessary,” she said, and her smile deepened the diagonal lines at the corners of her eyes.
He slept on the ground that night, wrapped in a blanket he had borrowed from the bunk house. There were plenty of extra bunks, but the dark looks of the men told him he was not welcome there. He awoke early the next morning and walked to the top of a small hill behind the ranch headquarters. From there he got his first view of the Circle M in the daylight. It was situated at the head of a large, dish-shaped meadow that overlooked a vast expanse of open country. Pine trees fringed the meadow and there were several brooks flowing to the center where they formed a larger stream which flowed away from the meadow and was lost from view. It was a fine place and he could see why the Marcellin’s hated the thought of losing it. He thought of his own ranch and of Amado, and hoped the year would pass quickly. He promised himself once again, that somehow he would get the Rafter 8 back.
He ate breakfast in the cook-shack with the other men, during which time the only one who spoke was Reef. Afterwards, one of the punchers, a sour-faced, stick of a man named Cliff, who made no secret of the fact he was displeased with the assignment, announced to Jeff that he was driving him to town.
Jeff waited outside the bunk house while Cliff readied the wagon and team. The smell of breakfast still lingered in the sharp morning air. Felipe, the young Mexican boy who helped around the ranch, was behind the granary, rhythmically chopping wood. Shorty Grange, the hostler, and another man could be heard laughing and exchanging good natured banter over by the barn, and from the direction of the back corral came the sound of a cowboy singing as he saddled his horse. It was a good place, thought Jeff. He wished circumstances could be different and he could linger a while; it had been too long since he had lingered anywhere.