by C. M. Curtis
The whole town was coming awake, and a large crowd had gathered at the bank. It was an ugly scene: Audrey Hammond was dead with a bundle of the bank’s money stuffed in her blouse. Willard Deering was still alive—barely. Dr. Matthews said he would either live or he would die. Ollie Shepard—no lover of doctors—averred that this was one of the most astute statements he had heard from a doctor and the only one he had ever believed. Jennings, who was at the bank when the two men arrived, was questioning Mrs. Deering. She said she had become concerned about her husband, had gone to the bank and made the grisly discovery. Her lack of tears would be grist for the town gossip mill for years to come.
Ted Walker tapped Jennings on the shoulder. “Lloyd, we need to talk to you.”
“Right now?”
“Yes.”
“Where?”
“Let’s go to your office.”
When they got to the sherifff’s office, Jennings sat behind his desk and politely motioned for them to take seats. They refused. Walker said, “Lloyd, there’s no easy way to say what I’ve got to say to you.”
Jennings said, “I know, Ted; I’ve been expecting it. You’re going to ask me to resign.”
“No, Lloyd; we want you to leave town, and we’re not asking. The milk’s gone sour and there’s no way to sweeten it.”
Jennings leaned back in his chair and digested this information. There was a momentary stubbornness on his face, but it passed.
Ollie Shepard spoke, “We’re doing this for you, son. This mess has been brewin’ for some time, and now the lid’s about to blow off. Folks’ll be lookin’ for scapegoats and that’ll be you. You ran with skunks, and you got to smellin’ like them. Your best bet is to go somewhere as far as you can from here and get yourself a fresh start.”
Jennings looked down at his badge and fingered it for a moment. Then he removed it from his shirt and set it on the desk.
“I’ve got something to ask you, Lloyd,” said Shepard. “Stewart and Fogarty were lying about Julio Arroyo weren’t they?”
An odd smile came to Jennings’ face and he nodded.
“I’ve lived a long time,” Shepard continued. “Seen a lot of dyin,’ and a lot of killin.’ That old man was hacked up after he died. You knew that, didn’t you?”
Again Jennings nodded.
“Who killed him, Lloyd?”
As the two men watched, Jennings’ face reddened and his eyes became moist. They knew before he spoke who had killed Julio Arroyo.
He said, “I didn’t mean to do it. I should’ve faced up to it, but I ran from it. I let Stewart talk me into lying, and I haven’t had a minute of peace since then. After a while I realized it wasn’t the killing that was wrecking me; it was the lie. If I could have just told somebody about it, like now, I could have gotten over it.” He leaned back in his chair, looked up at the ceiling and took a few deep breaths, struggling to keep his composure. Presently, he asked, “How soon do you want me gone?”
“An hour,” said Walker.
Jennings gave a small, ironic laugh, “You don’t give a man a lot of time.”
“Anyone you want to take with you?” asked Shepard.
Jennings smiled bleakly, “No.”
“Anyone you want to say good-bye to?”
“No.”
“You sure about that?” asked Shepard gently. “Sometimes things can be fixed.”
“So you knew,” said Jennings.
“I suspected,” admitted Shepard.
There was a short silence and Jennings said, “Like Ted said, the milk is soured and there’s no making it sweet again. I guess an hour will be long enough.”
Jeff rode most of the night, stopping only to water the horses. He hadn’t slept in two days and two nights, and he was feeling the effects on his mind and body. He tried to stay alert by eating jerky and dried fruit while he rode, but still he caught himself periodically drifting into sleep. This was dangerous, he knew. It was imperative that he stay alert: he was trailing a killer.
Not far from town he had picked up the trail of one horse. Logically there was no way to know whether this was Fogarty or someone else, but Jeff knew. He had to stop frequently to dismount in the dark and check the ground close up, in order to make sure the tracks he was following were still on the trail he was following. This slowed him down, but it would be worse if Fogarty veered off on another course and Jeff did not.
He had expected to overtake Fogarty before now, by riding fast without stopping to rest, but Fogarty evidently still possessed the innate caution that had kept him alive this long, and though he had no way of knowing he was being pursued, he was riding as though he were.
Jeff knew he was playing a dangerous game. He had trailed Fogarty once before and had seen how cautious and dangerous the man could be. He knew he needed a plan. What would he do when he overtook the gunman? How could he approach without being observed or, worse yet, ambushed? How could he kill or capture Fogarty without endangering Anne’s baby? He did not have answers to those questions. He hoped he would when the time came.
It was early afternoon when he crested the hill that overlooked the small valley where the Ruggles’ farm was situated—an emerald-green stain on the brown of the desert. He regretted he would not be able to stop and visit his friends, but his mission was too urgent, and he felt he would soon overtake the gunman. Fogarty’s horse must be fatigued by now, and Jeff was sure he had made better time than the gunman, having the advantage of being able to switch horses every couple of hours.
As he approached the point where the short trail to the Ruggles’ farm broke away from the main one, a fear that had been nagging him became more acute. And when he reached the intersection of the trails, his fear was realized. He stared at the ground where the tracks showed Fogarty had turned off. “Oh, please no,” he said aloud, “not these people. Not these good people.” He dropped the reins of the horse he was leading, left the animal standing in the middle of the trail, and spurred his own horse forward, jerking his carbine from the saddle scabbard.
Nothing moved outside the house except the chickens that roamed the premises. Jeff thundered into the yard, reined-in hard and threw himself off the horse, using the animal for cover. On the hard packed earth near the front porch lay a dark stain, already gathering flies. Jeff had seen too much blood in his life not to know what it was.
“Hello the house,” he shouted, watching the dark holes of the gun embrasures in the wall. Seeing movement behind one he repeated his call, “Hello the house.” A few seconds later the door opened a crack, and through it he saw one side of Edna Ruggles’ homely face.
“Who is it?” she demanded.
Something was lacking in her voice; something that had been there the last time he had heard her speak.
Stepping out from behind the horse, Jeff said, “It’s me, Mrs. Ruggles, Jeff.”
Edna Ruggles emitted a low sound, almost a wail, “Jeffie!” She threw the door open.
He moved quickly across the yard, glancing at the dark stain as he passed it, “What happened?” he asked without preamble.
“He shot Pa,” she said in a quavering voice, “and he took my Lucy.”
Jeff looked into her eyes. “Levi, is he dead?”
“No, but he’s bad hurt. I don’t know if he’ll . . . oh, my baby, my sweet Lucy, he took her. I would’ve gone after him but he took the horses. I guess if he hadn’t I’d gone after them and left Pa to die.” A choking sob escaped her throat.
“Where’s Fred?”
“Huntin’. Been gone since yesterday.”
“When will he be back?”
“We don’t never know that. Jeffie, the man had a baby with him; cute little yeller haired thing.”
“I know.”
“That’s why he took Lucy,” said Edna, “to take care of the baby for him. She was cryin’ a lot. He took grub too, lots of it, and milk.”
“How long ago?”
“Maybe three quarters of an hour.”
“Ho
w many horses did he take?”
“Three.”
“Take care of Levi,” Jeff said. He wheeled, bounded down the steps of the porch and leaped into the saddle. He had no other words for her; no time for them.
He raced out to the main trail where he switched horses. He jerked the saddle and bridle off the one he had been riding and rode away, leaving the animal standing in the middle of the trail; the saddle and bridle lying on the ground. This was it: The final stretch. There would be no more changing horses. No more resting. He would push hard now and overtake Fogarty before nightfall. He must.
He kept the horse at a pace that would not wear it out too soon, but was fast enough to eat up the miles. He stopped only to allow it to drink at the infrequent water holes. Two hours from the Ruggles’ farm it started to rain; a hard rain that soaked his clothing. At first it was refreshing, but as it continued it turned cold. Then, the initial anger of the storm abated and the rain settled into a steady drizzle that kept man and beast miserably wet. The rain was accompanied by a wind that cut through Jeff’s wet clothes and deepened the chill already upon him. Fatigue dragged at him, making him wish he could stop and find a dry spot to rest, just for half an hour, maybe even ten minutes. But he knew he couldn’t. It took great effort to keep his eyes open and focused.
Abruptly, his mind came alert. The tracks he was following veered off the main trail and up a steep grade. Suspecting an ambush, Jeff dived off his horse, but no shot came. He stopped moving and listened. He heard the sounds of Fogarty’s horses, moving up the grade, pushing to the top of what appeared to be a broad mesa, which overlooked a long stretch of the trail. If Jeff had arrived a few minutes later, when Fogarty was already on top, he would have been an easy target. He pulled his horse off the trail and around to the opposite side of a large, out-jutting boulder, where it wouldn’t be seen. He looped the reins around a tree branch and pulled his saddle carbine from the scabbard. Moving quickly, keeping to the base of the mesa, he made his way around to the ascending trail Fogarty had taken.
He found a gully off to one side of the trail, which offered some concealment, and followed it up. When he reached the top he removed his hat and peered over the rim. There was nothing there. He carefully scanned the top of the mesa, and satisfied that Fogarty was not there, he pulled himself over the rim and located the tracks of Fogarty’s horses again. He followed them across the flat top of the mesa to the opposite rim, then crouching behind a bush, he observed what lay below.
It was a large, tree-studded basin with sharply sloping sides and a wide, flat shelf that filled half of the basin. The level shelf was a good place to camp: there was plenty of graze for the animals and it was off the main trail. The far rim of the basin, at the back of the shelf, was formed by a mountain which towered above both basin and mesa. Jeff could see that from almost any point on this side of the mountain a man could watch the mesa, the basin, and even the trail below. The trail which led from the mesa, where Jeff now found himself, to the basin was shrouded in trees most of the way down. In view of the fact that Fogarty and his captives were not to be seen, Jeff concluded they were in the trees, making their way down.
Scanning the top of the mesa, he spotted a hillock which, owing to size and location, would provide the perfect vantage point from which to observe the basin as well as providing better concealment than the bush he was presently using for cover. He moved cautiously across toward the boulder, crossing as he did, the fresh tracks of Fogarty’s horses. A few yards down the trail, he spotted something that caught his attention—something that shouldn’t be there.
As he passed it he reached down and picked it up. He immediately recognized it, and with that recognition, came the sharp realization that he was in danger. It was a rudely carved wooden squirrel: the one he had made for Lucy Ruggles. A hole had been bored in its head, and it had been strung on a leather thong so it could be worn around the neck. The strong leather thong was not broken, so Jeff knew it had not fallen accidentally, which meant Lucy knew Jeff was following. And if Lucy knew, Fogarty did too.
These thoughts passed through Jeff’s mind in the split instant following recognition of the carved squirrel. He shot a quick glance down into the basin. Fogarty and the girls should be on the shelf by now, out of the trees. They weren’t.
Fogarty had tricked him. He was trapped on this flat mesa with no place to go. The only available concealment was the hillock which Jeff had not yet reached, and he knew that if he took cover there he would be trapped. His only hope was that Fogarty had not yet gotten into position or that he was too far away to hit a running target.
He spun around and headed back toward the far eastern edge of the mesa, bending low and dodging as he ran. The southern edge would have been closer, but he also would have been running directly away from Fogarty, presenting a target that was easier to hit. This way he was constantly moving along Fogarty’s perspective which would make an accurate hit far more difficult.
A bullet spanged on a flat rock in front of him, and its echoing report quickly followed, giving Jeff a rough idea of the range from which the shot had been fired—too close for comfort, but far enough away that if he kept moving even an expert marksman would have a difficult time hitting him. Fogarty was firing fast now; the bullets were whiffing past Jeff very close. One of them burned the back of his right leg, and then he was over the edge.
Now, he wondered, what would Fogarty expect him to do? What he wanted to do was to work his way around to the right and come up over the low mountain behind Fogarty and catch him by surprise. This was probably just what Fogarty expected him to do. If this was the case, Fogarty was no longer interested in the mesa, but would now be working his way to the top of the mountain in order to pick Jeff off as he climbed up. Jeff doubted the gunman would expect him to attempt to cross the mesa when he had just escaped being shot there.
The logic was simple, but how accurate it was Jeff did not know. He would soon find out. He clambered back up to the edge of the mesa, and in a crouching run, crossed again to the opposite side. This time no shots came. Hurling himself over the far edge, he quickly slipped into the trees.
Fogarty waited for over an hour, and still there was no sign of Jeff Havens. From where he sat he commanded a view of the basin, two sides of the mountain that rimmed it, and even large stretches of the trail below. Where else could Havens have gone? It had been too long. He decided to return to the horses and move them to a safer spot. He cursed Stewart for the hundredth time for making him a babysitter. He had not waited for Stewart at the forks as agreed. He had intended to, but decided at the last minute that it was too dangerous. Stewart would have to meet him at the pass, and he had better have the woman with him or he could say good-bye to his kid.
Moving down the hill toward camp, Fogarty picked up the small deer trail he had followed up and let it lead him back down. When he had the camp in sight, he saw everything was as he had left it. The horses were bunched close together, the girl, her face tear-streaked, was still tied up, holding the baby, rocking her. Things had been easier for Fogarty since he had taken the girl. She had been able to keep the brat fed and quiet. This kidnapping of children was a dangerous thing, Fogarty knew, but the farm where the girl lived was an isolated place, and he had taken their horses. It would be days before the old woman got the word out. By then there would be no trail to follow. As for the woman; he had only left her alive because he feared the girl would fall apart and be of no use to him at all if he killed her mother.
He passed a thick tree and heard a rustling of leaves behind him. Before he could turn around a powerful arm encircled his neck, and a gun barrel was thrust violently into his ribs. The voice in his ear said, “Fight me, Fogarty, because I’d love to kill you.”
Fogarty swore a vile oath, and Jeff sensed no fear in the man, only hatred. “Drop your rifle,” Jeff ordered.
Fogarty dropped the carbine.
“Put your hands up.”
Again Fogarty did as he was to
ld.
Jeff released his choke hold and pulled Fogarty’s pistol from the holster, dropping it on the ground. He would retrieve the weapons later—after the gunman was tied up. “Walk in front of me,” he said, “but don’t go fast.”
Just before the clearing, there was a spot where a low tree branch overhung the trail. As Fogarty ducked under it, he abruptly stood up, catching the branch with his right hand, shoving it up and away from him. The branch caught Jeff’s gun hand, carrying hand and pistol upward. Involuntarily Jeff squeezed the trigger, sending a bullet angling up to the sky. Fogarty pivoted now and caught Jeff’s right wrist in his own left hand, and with his other fist, he landed a punishing blow to Jeff’s left cheekbone, rocking his head back with a jolt. Off balance now, Jeff took a step backward, but Fogarty was unable to charge him because the tree branch was still between them. The gunman, still clutching Jeff’s wrist, made a try for the gun with his free hand, but Jeff, having recovered his balance, took advantage of the fact Fogarty’s arms were both upraised and moved in quickly, landing two hard punches to the gunman’s abdomen with his left hand. Involuntary Fogarty bent forward and dropped his free arm and Jeff felt a slight lessening of the grip on his wrist.
With Fogarty still slightly bent forward, Jeff brought his left fist up in an uppercut which caught the gunman on the point of the chin and knocked him backwards, but Fogarty still stubbornly refused to relinquish his grip on Jeff’s gun arm. He pulled Jeff toward him as he went back, pulling Jeff off balance. Jeff caught himself on the branch and threw another punch at Fogarty’s face, but Fogarty hooked his right arm over Jeff’s left and deflected the blow. As Jeff pulled his free arm back, Fogarty slid his right arm down and caught Jeff’s left wrist in the same vice-like grip, in which he so stubbornly held the other. Here, Jeff had the advantage because Fogarty was on the low side of the trail. Jeff raised his leg, with the knee bent, and shoved straight out, catching Fogarty dead center with a booted foot. The gunman grunted as his lungs forcibly expelled their breath, and his grip on Jeff’s gun arm was finally broken. Now as he clung to Jeff’s left arm the force of the kick wheeled him around and he was sideways to Jeff. Jeff swung the pistol in an arc and struck Fogarty square in the forehead, opening up the flesh and knocking him down.