by C. M. Curtis
Audrey said, “You don’t suppose . . .”
“I don’t know, but Sarah isn’t there. Mrs. Walker couldn’t baby-sit tonight, because she went to the meeting so I took Sarah over to Rosie Dayton’s. Rosie’s taking care of her for me, but Tom may know that she sometimes does. Take me over there, mother, and take Sarah home with you and dad.”
“Of course,” assented Audrey, and Anne climbed into the buggy.
Stewart wasn’t at the Dayton’s, and Anne could tell immediately by the smile on Rosie’s face that all was well. The baby was asleep, and Anne quickly wrapped her in a blanket and laid her on the seat of the buggy beside Audrey. “On second thought, mother, go straight home; it’s too dangerous to go pick dad up. When Ted comes home, I’ll have him take a horse up to dad. Don’t drive down Main Street: Tom will recognize your buggy. Take the alley.” Audrey agreed and she touched the whip to the horse’s rump.
Anne watched as her mother drove away. Thanking the bewildered Rosie, she walked quickly to the corner, turned south on Main Street, and made her way home, keeping in the shadows whenever possible and staying completely out of sight when any horseman was in view.
Audrey did as Anne had instructed, and after crossing Main Street, she cut between two buildings and headed north, up the narrow dirt alley. As she passed the rear of the bank, something caught her attention and caused her to rein in. The rear door of the bank was open though the bank’s interior was dark, and there seemed to be no one around. Not sure what to do, she sat for a moment, trying in vain to pierce the darkness behind the open door with her eyes. Then, from inside the bank, she heard a low moan. She set the hand brake on the buggy, laid Sarah, who was still asleep, on the floorboard and tiptoed up to the door. She looked around, both inside and outside the bank and saw no one. Again she heard the moaning.
“Hello,” she said, “is anyone here? Willard?” The sound came again. Bolder now, she stepped inside. Her eyes had grown more accustomed to the darkness and she was able to make out the form of Willard Deering, lying on the floor. She went to him and knelt beside him. Quickly she stood up, realizing he was lying in a pool of blood.
She spoke to him, but his reply, if it was one, was incoherent. He was holding his hands on his abdomen, and she reached down and pulled one of them away and felt the stickiness of blood. Gasping in horror, she stood up and backed away. What if Deering’s assailant was still around? Quickly she spun to look behind her. No one was there. She saw outlines of desks and chairs and a coat rack, but that was all.
Then she noticed the safe with its door hanging wide open, and she realized the bank had been robbed. She thought of calling for help, but the open accessibility of the safe intrigued her and drew her to it. She walked over and stood in front of it, fascinated. She had seen the safe before, but never open, and certainly never unattended. A thought came to her: What if . . . her foot touched something and her attention was drawn to the bundle of bills on the floor. She picked it up. It was thick, and quite heavy for just a bunch of paper. She looked over at Deering. The bank had been robbed, Deering was dying. She should call for help, she knew, but if she left now, no one would know the bank robbers had missed one bundle of bills. The entire loss would be attributed to the thieves. Deering was obviously going to die anyway; no one could help him. She held the money up close to her eyes and riffled the bills, excitedly sucked in her breath and slipped the bundle inside her blouse.
Willard Deering was in the desert. He was alone and lying on his back. A huge rock had fallen on his stomach and rested there still. The sun was blazing hot. It had been a long time since he had had a drink of water and he was terribly, terribly thirsty. Someone spoke to him. Who was it? Would they hurt him again? He tried to speak to them, to plead with them for water, but he couldn’t speak. He knew he had to try, he knew he had to open his eyes. He needed to see; to wake up. Summoning what little remaining strength he had, he forced his mind to clear and opened his eyes. It was dark. Where was he? He looked around and knew he was in the bank. Suddenly he remembered Fogarty. Fogarty was here; Fogarty had stabbed him. But he wasn’t dead. Not yet. But Fogarty would make sure he was. He remembered the eyes of the killer when he had felt the knife penetrate his body. Fogarty liked killing. He thought of the gun. Where was it? He had it, it was right here—he remembered retrieving it—and there was Fogarty, over by the safe, a shadow in the gloom. He remembered too, that Fogarty had made him put all the money in the sack. Fogarty turned to look at him, holding up a bundle of bills. Deering knew it was the last bundle; he had put all the rest in the sacks. Now Fogarty would finish him off. Fogarty was walking toward him now. Deering raised the pistol and fired, and Fogarty uttered a frightened, high pitched scream and fell to the floor.
Deering lowered his hands slowly, relaxed, and closed his eyes. Outside, on the floorboard of the buggy, the baby began to cry.
Fogarty was getting nervous. He wondered why Stewart had not returned. It had been too long. When he heard the gunshot, he thought of just riding away alone; after all, he had all the money from the bank. But Stewart had promised him something he wanted more than money—something he had wanted for a long time.
He waited for a few minutes, wondering about the significance of the gunshot. Apparently no one had heard because all was quiet. But where was Stewart? And where was the woman? He knew he should ride away, but he thought of Anne, and his malignant hungers, never far from the surface, were aroused. If Stewart had failed; if he had been shot, then he, Fogarty, would find Anne. And he would take her with him.
Riding through the darkness, Fogarty approached the alley that passed the rear of the bank. There were no sounds of people shouting or moving about, no drumming of horse’s hoofs or any other indication of alarm. He had planned to follow a route that did not take him past the bank, but he heard the sound of the baby crying and it rang significantly in his ears. Riding closer, he saw Audrey Hammond’s buggy, the horse standing patiently in front of it. He recognized the animal and the buggy, having seen them a few times at the ranch when Anne still lived there, but their presence now behind the bank mystified him. Was Stewart inside? If the baby was here, maybe Anne was too. Dismounting, he drew his gun and quietly slipped through the door into the bank. What he saw there was totally unexpected.
Willard Deering was lying on his back across the room from where Fogarty had left him. Audrey Hammond was a few yards away, apparently dead. No one else was around. Fogarty walked over and kicked Deering. Satisfied the banker was dead he slipped out the back door, lifted the baby from the floorboard of the buggy, and went to his horse. Mounting up, he rode back to the rendezvous point, holding the baby on the saddle in front of him. At first the baby’s crying worried him, but soon, with the gentle rocking of the horse’s gait, she went back to sleep. In order to keep the child from waking, Fogarty kept the horse moving in a circle as he waited for Stewart.
Now he had everything Stewart wanted: The money and the baby. Stewart had better not let him down.
It was only a few minutes later that Stewart arrived. He was alone.
“Where is she,” Fogarty demanded.
“I can’t find her anywhere, we’ll have to . . .” Abruptly Stewart stopped speaking as he noticed the bundle Fogarty held on the saddle in front of him. The baby moved and made a soft sound, but did not awaken.
“How did you get her?” asked Stewart in astonishment.
Briefly, Fogarty explained. Then he said, “Deering must have killed the Hammond woman—who knows why?” He grinned, “Maybe he thought she was me.”
Stewart smiled. He had never liked Audrey Hammond and he was pleased by anything that would bring pain to Anne.
Fogarty’s smile departed. “All right, Stewart, you got what you wanted; now I want mine.”
Stewart said, “Let’s ride out of here, Rand. I’ll get you a woman. I’ll get you fifty women; what’s the difference?”
Fogarty pulled his horse next to Stewart’s and leaned over so close that St
ewart could smell his breath. In a tone of absolute finality the gunman snarled, “I want her!”
“Shhh,” said Stewart looking around anxiously. “Do you want to wake the whole town? All right, Rand, all right. I’ll find her for you. But Deering’s wife must have missed him by now, and not only was the bank robbed, a woman’s been killed. They’ll figure the same ones who robbed the bank killed her. They’ll have the biggest posse this territory ever saw on our trail. You ride out now, and I’ll follow as soon as I get Anne. I’ll meet you at the forks. Ride fast; you’ve got the money and you’ve got my kid, so don’t get caught.”
Fogarty frowned. “Alright, but you’d better get her for me, Tom.”
Stewart understood the threat implicit in Fogarty’s statement. If Fogarty didn’t get Anne, Stewart didn’t get the money or the baby.
“Of course I’ll get her for you, Rand; like I said, you’ve got the money and my kid. Now ride, I’ll catch up.”
As he rode back into town, Stewart heard shouting up the street by the bank. The alarm had been sounded.
When Anne arrived home everything was dark. She pulled her key from her handbag and let herself in, and there she remained without lights for what seemed an eternity. Silently she paced, frequently peering out the window, watching the street. She wondered why the Walkers were not home. They must have stopped to visit with friends; they often did that, sometimes not arriving home until late.
Finally, she could stand it no longer. She picked up her handbag and went out by way of the back door, locking it behind her. As she rounded the corner of the house, swinging wide to avoid catching her skirt in a bush, a hand shot out and grasped her wrist in an iron grip. Before she could scream she was spun around, and another hand was clamped over her mouth. She struggled ineffectually, finding herself being pulled around to the back of the house. Realizing the futility of resistance she relaxed and allowed herself to be turned around to face Tom Stewart.
“Hello darling,” he said. Slowly he slid his hand down her chin and onto her neck, which he gripped firmly, squeezing with just enough pressure to let her know what he would do if she struggled or screamed.
“What do you want, Tom?” she asked with a calmness she did not feel.
“I want you to go for a ride with me.”
“Where to?”
“It’s a ways.”
“Will I need things? Will I need to change?”
“Yes, but pack light. One very small bag.”
“Did you bring me a horse?”
“No, but there are three stabled out back. I’ve already saddled one for you.”
“They’re Ted’s,” she stated obstinately.
“No more talk,” he barked, realizing that she was stalling. They both knew what was happening here, and compared with kidnapping a woman, the theft of a horse was insignificant.
Still gripping her throat, he propelled her toward the back door. He reached down and twisted the knob, but it wouldn’t turn. “It’s locked,” he said.
“I know. I locked it.”
The triteness of the statement angered him, and he slapped her. He clutched her neck, squeezing it hard and shaking her violently, striking her head against the door. “Don’t waste time,” he hissed through gritted teeth. “Just unlock the door or I’ll kill you right here.”
Breathing hard from fear, she reached into her handbag and turned to face him. “Tom?” she said.
“What?” he shot back impatiently.
With her hand still inside the handbag, she lifted it, held it against his chest and squeezed the trigger of the small hideout gun Amado Lopez had secretly given her as a wedding present. She felt the gun jump against her palm, she saw the shock in Stewart’s eyes, and felt his sharp expulsion of breath. He took three steps backward, caught himself and reached out for her with a clawed hand. The hatred on his face made her tighten her finger on the trigger, but she didn’t back away from him. She never would again.
He started toward her, but his legs gave out and he dropped to his knees. Leaning to one side he caught himself and lowered his body the rest of the way to the ground, then rolled onto his back.
Hoarsely, stridently he spoke, “You fool. What have you done? He’ll kill her now.”
The message was incomplete, but Anne was instantly gripped by fear, “Who?” she cried, kneeling in front of him, “Who?”
Stewart’s voice was a mere whisper now. “Fogarty.”
“Who will he kill?” she screamed the words.
He told her.
Chapter 22
Ollie Shepard had been nervous and worried all day and was vastly relieved when Jeff and his horse appeared out of the darkness and passed into the runway of the livery. Ollie closed the doors and demanded to be told everything. Jeff related briefly all that had occurred, after which Ollie clapped him on the back gleefully and said, “I’m gonna go get drunk.”
“Do it without me, I need to get some shut-eye.”
“When did you sleep last?”
“Night before last.”
“You look it.”
The sound of boots hurriedly tramping up the street came in through the open door of the livery, and Ted Walker entered, rushed and breathless. Scarcely glancing at Jeff, he said to Shepard, “The bank’s been robbed.”
“When?” demanded Shepard.
“Just happened, but that’s not all,” said Walker, “Willard Deering’s been stabbed. He’s alive, but it don’t look good, and Audrey Hammond’s dead.”
Jeff’s thoughts immediately turned to Anne.
Shepard glanced at Jeff and said, “Wait here.” He and Walker started for the door.
Jeff said, “I’ll come with you.” He was concerned about Anne, and something told him Stewart and Fogarty had something to do with this. He experienced a pang of guilt as he recalled Ollie Shepard’s warning: “The less a man has to lose, the more dangerous he is.” He hoped he hadn’t triggered these tragic events.
“Who are you?” Walker demanded.
Jeff looked at Shepard.
Shepard said to him, “He’s all right.” Turning to Walker he said, “Ted Walker, meet Jeff Havens.”
Walker’s face showed momentary surprise, and he gave Jeff an appraising look, but Jeff saw no animosity in the man’s eyes.
Shepard added by way of explanation, “Ted’s the mayor.”
“Does Anne know about her mother yet?” Jeff asked.
“Not yet,” replied Walker, and his voice mirrored Jeff’s own concern for Anne.
“Where is she?”
Walker was not hasty to reply. He had taken upon himself the role of Anne’s protector and guardian, and he took the job seriously. And though he knew few of the details, he knew that, long ago, Jeff Havens had hurt Anne very deeply. For a moment the elder man studied Jeff’s eyes, then finally he said, “She’s at my place, at least she should be by this time of night.”
“Where’s that?”
“You know where Tenth Street is?”
“No,” answered Jeff. When he had lived here, Main Street had been the only street with a name. The few houses had been haphazardly placed.
“You know the old Hardy place? Stan Hardy used to live there.”
“I know it,” said Jeff, and he went for his horse.
Jeff was two blocks away from Ted and Marsha Walker’s house when he saw another rider coming up the street toward him, riding fast. Ever cautious, he rested his right hand on the butt of his revolver. As the rider approached he noted she was a woman and she was wearing a dress; not riding clothes. On the heels of that observation came recognition. He knew the familiar way she moved in the saddle; easy, effortlessly.
He reined in and held up his hand and she pulled hard on the reins. As she pulled up, the distress written on her features made him think she must have already heard the news about her mother.
“Jeff,” she said pleadingly, “Help me, please; Fogarty took her.” The detested name of Fogarty fell harsh on Jeff’s ears.
“Who did Fogarty take?”
“Sarah, my baby,” said Anne, sobbing.
For a moment she lost control and he kneed his horse next to hers and leaned over to put an arm around her shoulders. “Anne,” he said gently, “Get hold of yourself. Tell me what I need to know.”
She drew away from him and took a deep breath, achieving some composure. “Tom told me Fogarty has my baby.”
“Tom? Where did you see Tom?
“He’s dead Jeff, I killed him, but Fogarty has Sarah.”
Jeff gently touched her shoulder, urgency was in his voice. “Tell me everything you can. How long ago did Fogarty leave?”
I don’t know for sure—sometime in the last two hours.”
“Do you know where he was going?”
“No, Tom didn’t . . . couldn’t tell me.”
“Anne, I’ll get your baby for you. I promise.”
For a moment she bent her head forward, sobbing, then, as a thought struck her, she said animatedly, “This is Tom’s horse,” she gestured to the bulky saddle bags, full of provisions. “There’s food here; you can take this horse and yours too. With two horses you can switch off and you can ride Fogarty down.”
She dismounted and handed him the reins. “I trust you, Jeff,” she said, but he was already riding away. “I love you Jeff,” she sobbed. He was too far away to hear her . . . but she was used to that.
He angled out of town, heading northeast, knowing where he wanted to go without thinking about it. An icy fear was upon him and it clawed at him from within: Fear of failing and allowing further devastation to come into Anne’s life, fear of letting Fogarty escape to continue with a life of murder and destruction, fear, even, of his own self recriminations, which he knew he would carry for the rest of his life if he failed, but worst of all: fear for the life of a little baby. All these fears laid their cold grip on him and he felt as though an enormous weight had been laid upon his shoulders.