Return of the Outlaw

by C. M. Curtis

  Jim Marcellin saw the riders first. He was crossing to the house from the barn, where he had been helping Shorty doctor a sick horse. As the Double T riders had expected, besides Marcellin and Shorty Grange, all the other men except Felipe and the old cook were away. When Marcellin recognized Al Tannatt as the lead rider, he knew instantly what was afoot and ran the last few yards to the front porch of the house. Al Tannatt fired the first shot at Marcellin, just as the rancher reached the shelter of one of the thick stone pillars that supported the roof beams. The riders were still a little too far away for good pistol accuracy and the shot missed.

  Since the unpleasant visit from Emil Tannatt and his crew, Marcellin had taken to wearing his pistol at all times, and had ordered his men to do the same. He was grateful now for that precaution. By the time he reached the pillar, his pistol was already in his hand, and he fired two quick shots at the group of men, hoping to buy himself a few seconds to get into the house. The ploy did not work; Al Tannatt fired his second shot, and Bill Green his first, a split second later. Bill Green’s shot took a chip out of one of the stones in the pillar and Al Tannatt’s bullet grazed Marcellin’s left arm, just above the elbow.

  Sid Wilkins was struggling with his horse which, frightened by the shooting, was rearing and plunging, raising a good deal of dust in addition to that which had followed the riders into the yard. Chuck Burbank and Kinsey Bates, who had been behind the other three riders, had just ridden into the yard—guns drawn, but had not yet gotten into position to shoot.

  At that moment, Shorty Grange appeared from the darkened interior of the barn, holding a Greener ten gauge shotgun. He raised it and fired. The load of double aught buck-shot struck Bill Green in the side of the head and face and he was lifted out of the saddle as if by a giant, invisible hand—dead instantly. At this same moment, Marcellin fired again from around the side of the pillar. The yard was filled with powder smoke and dust and he took little time to aim, wanting to expose himself for as short a time as possible. The bullet struck Al Tannatt in the fleshy part of his lower left leg, passing through it into his horse. Now, Shorty Grange was swinging the wicked barrel of the greener toward Al Tannatt, his next target. Burbank and Bates fired at him simultaneously. One bullet hit Shorty’s left arm and the other hit him in the left side of the chest, spinning him around. As he fell, he pulled the second trigger of the greener, and the wicked pellets struck Burbank’s horse in the neck. The front legs of the horse buckled, and it fell forward, then to the side. Burbank slipped his feet out of the stirrups and hit the ground rolling. He had dropped his pistol but ran to pick it up.

  Marcellin had two shots left, and he knew he would have to make them count.

  Between them, Al Tannatt and Kinsey Bates had fired several more shots at Marcellin. One struck the pillar, another grazed the right side of Marcellin’s rib cage. Al Tannatt’s pistol was now empty, and he pulled back to reload and to check his wound. Sid Wilkins had finally gained control of his horse, Burbank had found his pistol, and Kinsey Bates, having made sure Shorty was dead, and no other attackers would be issuing from the barn, turned his attention to Marcellin.

  Marcellin knew this momentary lull in the battle was the time when he must act. He had two bullets left and four men to kill. His only hope was to make both bullets count and pray the other two men would lose their nerve. At this moment the man who represented the greatest threat to him was Burbank. He was afoot and would have better aim than those who were on the backs of the frightened horses. Burbank was already taking aim. Marcellin made a quick movement to the left, exposing himself momentarily, then swung back to the right, just as Sid Wilkins snapped off a shot which tore a deep gash in the flesh of Marcellin’s left thigh. Marcellin, following his momentum, swung away from the adobe pillar on the right side and fired a shot, which struck Burbank in the neck, killing him. As Marcellin swung back behind the pillar, Wilkins and Bates each fired a shot, both of them missing.

  Al Tannatt, having determined his wound and that of his horse could wait for attention, pulled his rifle from its scabbard and swung back toward the house, furious and blood-crazed. There was another lull as the three remaining men advanced carefully through the haze of smoke and dust, guns raised, waiting for Marcellin to show himself one last time.

  For a moment, there was an eerie silence that was broken by a sound that, for an instant, stopped the hearts of the four men. It was a blood chilling cry that had the power to give courage to the man who made it and weaken that of those who heard it; a sound Jeff Havens had heard many times in the heat of battle. It was his best imitation of the “rebel yell.” He charged into the yard, low in the saddle, his lathered horse grunting and drawing air.

  Marcellin had no idea who this was, but he sensed it was a friend, and taking advantage of the diversion that had been created, he stepped quickly out from behind the pillar and fired his last remaining bullet through Kinsey Bates’ heart.

  Sid Wilkins’ finger tightened on his trigger, then strangely hesitated, giving Marcellin time to duck back behind the pillar. As he did so, he felt a touch on his left sleeve. He swung around violently, expecting a new enemy, only to find Catherine standing there, handing him a freshly loaded pistol. He understood now why Wilkins had hesitated. Seizing the pistol, he screamed at her, “Get in the house!” his face contorted with anger.

  On seeing Jeff, Al Tannatt swung his big rifle around, but Jeff fired first and his shot hit Tannatt in the left shoulder. Tannatt, by super-human effort, caught himself and stayed in the saddle, raising the rifle again. Jeff’s second bullet hit him full in the chest, knocking him off his horse.

  Sid Wilkins had had enough. He wheeled his horse and spurred out of the yard. Both Marcellin and Jeff took aim as he rode away, but finding themselves disinclined to shoot a fleeing man in the back, he was allowed to escape.

  Jeff took a quick look around the yard, making sure there were no more live enemies. He reloaded and holstered his gun, and dismounted.

  “You alright, Mr. Marcellin?” he asked as he walked toward the house.

  “I think I’m fine,” Marcellin replied. His face went gray and he sat down heavily on the porch and fell back, his head striking the planks. Catherine was at her son’s side now. He was bleeding profusely from several bullet wounds, but a quick check showed none of them were fatal. Owing to the protection of the stone pillar, his enemies had never had a clear shot at the central part of his body.

  “Dolores!” Catherine yelled. Almost immediately, Dolores was at Catherine’s side, carrying clean cloths in hands that trembled uncontrollably. Felipe, who had been hiding in the tack shed, came running out, an unintelligible mixture of Spanish and English flooding out of his mouth. He ran toward Marcellin, but seeing Shorty’s body, he let out a shocked cry and changed directions. He ran in an awkward, foot-throwing gait, propelled by panic. He bent over Shorty’s body. It took only a moment for him to realize Shorty was dead. He dropped to his knees and began rocking and moaning softly.

  The smoke and dust had almost cleared and an eerie silence descended on the yard. Now Jeff’s ears picked up another sound. He stood and pulled his pistol, waiting. It was a rasping sound, like the breathing of a lung-shot deer. And it was accompanied by the rhythmic thud of Eli Marcellin’s boots striking the ground.

  Henry Wallen’s horse had finally given out and had stopped in its tracks. Unable to run another yard, it had stood immovable, chest heaving, sucking air, like Eli was doing now. As he drew near he tried to speak, but all that came out was an indecipherable, croaking sound.

  Catherine, attending to her son’s wounds, looked up as Eli approached, dragging his feet with each shambling step, his body inclined forward, moving at about the speed of a walk.

  ”He thinks he’s running,“ thought Jeff.

  Eli saw his father lying inert on the porch and his face twisted into a grimace of anguish.

  “Your father is alive,” said Catherine, knowing what Eli feared. Her voice trembled from emoti
on.

  Eli stumbled forward into her arms and began crying in great, gasping sobs.

  When the riders of the Circle M returned to the ranch that evening and were told of the gun fight, the general sentiment was that a retaliatory raid on the Double T was called for. But Jim Marcellin, lying in his bed, weak and gray, forbade this in no uncertain terms. Cracker, wise in the ways of the gun, and Hank, who obeyed his boss with dog-like devotion, were hard-pressed to restrain the enraged cowboys.

  “They’ll be waiting and they’d cut you to pieces,” Marcellin told the group assembled around his bed. Besides, it would only be the beginning. We would go back and forth at each other like prize fighters. Sooner or later, some, or all of the other ranches would be pulled into it. It would be a range war. Enough men have died already. I’m not sure Emil Tannatt had anything to do with the attack today anyway. I think he’s smarter than that, and I think he would have led his riders. I can’t see him sending Al to do the job. Al may have acted on his own and convinced the other boys to go along with him. He probably didn’t have much trouble stirring them up over the two hands that were found hanged, what were their names?”

  “Alex and Joe,” supplied Cracker.

  “Yeah,” said Marcellin. “You know they thought we hanged those boys.”

  “Boss,” said Hank, “Emil lost four men today, and one of them was his son. Looks to me like we got us a war, whether we want it or not.”

  “You may be right, Hank, and we have to be ready for them if they come, but I’m going to do everything I can to avoid more bloodshed. I want you to ride to town tonight. Tell Sheriff Beeman what happened and get him to ride with you out to the Double T. Don’t go alone. Ask Emil to meet me tomorrow morning at nine o’clock on Sunset Ridge. Take the buckboard with the bodies in it, and leave them in town. Tell Emil where he can pick them up. I don’t want you to take them to the Double T, because that could make matters worse. Tell Emil if he wants a war after I talk to him tomorrow, we’ll oblige him, but tell him I think he needs to hear what I have to say first. He’ll suspect a trap, so let Beeman arrange to be there too; I think Tannatt trusts him. The rest of you men, start making preparations. We don’t know but what they’ll hit us again tonight. Cracker, you’re in charge of that.”

  “Sure boss.”

  As they shuffled out of the room, Marcellin added, “Send Webb in here; I want to talk to him.”

  When Jeff entered the room he was motioned into a chair by a wave of Marcellin’s hand. The big man was swathed in bandages and looking pale.

  “Webb, I haven’t had a chance to thank you. Those two women have been hovering around me like a couple of old hens.” He extended his hand to Jeff. “I’m thanking you now for what you did.”

  Jeff accepted the handshake. “No need to make a big thing out of it,” he said. He would have preferred not to do this, but Catherine had insisted he stay around the ranch until her son was able to speak to him.

  “How’s Eli?” Jeff asked, changing the subject.

  Marcellin shrugged, and winced from the pain it elicited. “Seems to be all right.”

  There was a sound at the door, and it swung open to admit Catherine, carrying a tray with a pot of hot tea and three cups.

  “May I join you two?” she asked.

  “Yes Mother, please do,” said Marcellin.

  She served the tea, and for a few minutes, while the three sipped, only polite comments were spoken. Presently Marcellin’s gruff voice broke the silence. “Why did you do what you did, Webb?”

  Jeff was mildly surprised by the question. “I don’t know, Mr. Marcellin; it’s the kind of thing you don’t think much about at the time. You just do it because it needs to be done.”

  Marcellin nodded pensively then he said, “Webb, would you be interested in working for me?” Jeff was thoughtful for a moment. “Ranching is my preferred line of work, but . . .”

  Marcellin interrupted him. “Webb, I don’t need you to punch cows.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I saw how you handled a gun today and the way you charged into the middle of that fracas. I know experience when I see it.”

  Jeff was starting to understand and he didn’t like it. Marcellin continued, “I don’t need you as another hired hand; I need your gun. If the worst happens, I may need your services for some time. If things go well tomorrow I’ll only need you for a day or two. Either way I’ll pay you well enough to make it worth your time.

  Jeff replied in offended tones, “Mr. Marcellin, you’ve read me wrong. I’m just a cowboy.”

  Marcellin was surprised by Jeff’s abrupt refusal of his offer. Why would a gunman turn down a chance for some quick money? Unless . . . for the first time, Marcellin entertained the possibility that Jeff really wasn’t a gunman. “I’m sorry, Webb; I meant no offense, but I’m in a desperate situation here.”

  Jeff forced a smile. “No harm done.”

  For a moment neither man knew what to say. Marcellin shot a glance at his mother, who had not spoken since pouring the tea. Her face was unreadable and it made him angry. She could easily say something now to mitigate the awkwardness and he knew she was intentionally not doing it.

  Finally, Jeff broke the silence. “Well, I guess I’d better be getting back to town.”

  He stood up and nodded to Catherine. “Mrs. Marcellin,” he said formally, “Thank you for the tea.”

  “You’re quite welcome,” she said, with like formality. Her face displayed a warm smile and there was a kindness in her eyes that made her son realize that his mother genuinely liked this young man.

  “Do visit us again,” she said. “You are always welcome here and we are grateful for what you’ve done.”

  Jeff smiled back at her, and Marcellin saw Catherine’s warmth returned to her in that smile. Suddenly he felt like the outsider in this group. There was something between these two to which he was not a party, and he knew it would do no good to ask his mother about it. He saw now with perfect clarity he had been wrong about Bob Webb, but he had apologized all his pride would permit.

  Jeff nodded to Marcellin, “Good luck.”

  “Thanks,” said Marcellin. “Watch out for yourself; you made enemies today.”

  “Seems to be one of my talents.” Jeff turned and walked to the door. As he opened it Marcellin called after him, “Webb, I guess I could use another cow hand.”

  Jeff shook his head. “Thanks, anyway.” He closed the door behind him.

  He started across the yard to the barn where he had left his horse, conscious of the dark stains on the ground where men and horses had bled their lives out. Half-way across the yard he was hailed by Hank who was coming around the corner of the house. Jeff waited for him to catch up.

  “Headed back to town?” asked Hank.

  “Guess so.”

  “Your horse is worn out. Looks to me like he’ll need a few days’ rest; you ran him pretty hard.”

  “I know,” said Jeff. “Toward the end there, I was afraid he wasn’t going to make it.”

  “Henry Wallen’s horse didn’t. Eli ran him to death. Reef had to shoot him.”

  “Too bad. How’s Eli doing?”

  Hank smiled. “Time’ll tell. Least he’s home where he belongs. Listen, why don’t you take Billy Dell’s horse and saddle? Since he didn’t have any family, we’ve been wonderin’ what to do with them. You were friends with him . . . sort of, and you need a horse and saddle so you might as well have his.”

  “That’s generous,” said Jeff. “Does Mr. Marcellin know about this?”

  “It was his idea. We can get Ben Houk’s stable horse back to him in a couple of days when it’s rested.”

  Jeff liked the big buckskin Billy Dell had been so proud of, but he didn’t want to accept any favors from Jim Marcellin. “I’ll borrow him, that’s all,” he said. “No good to ride Ben’s horse tonight after the way I ran him today.”

  “Aw, go on and just take the horse. You saved Jim’s hide today; he oug
ht to do something for you.”

  “Jim doesn’t owe me a thing,” said Jeff, finality in his voice.

  Hank shrugged in resignation. “I’m driving the buckboard to town; you can ride along with me if you’d like. I’ll be haulin’ four corpses, wouldn’t mind having somebody a little more lively along for company.”

  “When are you leaving?”

  “Right now.”

  “Fine,” said Jeff, “don’t mind the company myself.”

  When they arrived in town, Jeff accompanied Hank to the sheriff’s house. There was still a light inside, and Beeman answered the door with shirt and boots off.

  “Come in, boys.” He motioned for them to sit at the small table in the center of the room and poured three cups of coffee without asking if anyone wanted it. “What’s on your mind?”

  Hank went straight to the point. “This afternoon, Al Tannatt and a bunch of Double T boys rode out to the Circle M and scattered some lead around. They killed Shorty and shot Jim Marcellin up.

  Beeman’s coffee cup stopped half way to his lips. “Jim gonna be alright?”

  “Why, you know Jim—he’s as gritty as eggs rolled in sand. He’ll be good as new in a week or two.”

  “Sorry to hear about Shorty, he was a good man,” said Beeman with obvious sincerity.

  “One of the best,” agreed Hank. “Never hurt nobody. But that ain’t all of it, Sheriff. There’s four Double T boys who won’t be drawin’ any more pay, and one of them is Al Tannatt.”

  The Sheriff’s frown deepened. “That’s bad news.” He shook his head. “There ain’t a whole lot of folks who’ll be sorry to hear Al Tannatt’s dead, but it’ll cause trouble sure as you live. Who were the other boys who got it?”

  “Kinsey Bates, Chuck Burbank, and some other puncher we don’t recognize ‘cause Shorty blew his face off with a Greener.”

  The Sheriff winced, shaking his head. “What’s Jim aimin’ to do?”

  “Jim doesn’t think Emil had anything to do with it. He thinks Al stirred the other boys up and rode on the Circle M without Emil’s knowledge.”