Jennings was interested. He now wanted very much to find Jeff Havens as a way of repaying Stewart and of wiping away some of his indebtedness.
“Where is he?”
“Emelia Diaz, she is taking care of someone who was hurt. Havens, I think.”
“Where is her house?”
Not at her house,” said Ortega, “Dan Fitz . . . Fitz...,-” he struggled with the name.
“Dan Fitzgerald
’s house? Jeff Havens is at Dan Fitzgerald’s house?”
“Yes, Se
ñor Yennings, Emelia ees very sneaky, she tell nobody. Want nobody to know. Why you look for Havens? What he do?”
“He killed a man.”
“Steal horses?”
“No,” said Jennings, his interest piqued even more, “but somebody is stealing horses
. Why, what do you know about that?”
Ortega hesitated before speaking. “Maybe Se
ñor Stewart can buy saddles, or adobes, maybe ollas for kitchen.”
“I think I can talk to him about it,” offered Jennings, “and if you can provide information about who
’s stealing his horses, I would expect he’d be very grateful. Mr. Stewart is a good man.”
“Nobody weel know who tol
’ you?”
“I won
’t tell anyone but Mr. Stewart. Who is it, Ortega?”
“Amado Lopez
.”
“Lopez? I thought he had left the country.” Jennings
’ brow furrowed pensively for a moment. He compressed his lips and nodded. “Lopez and Havens, they go back a long way.”
Ortega nodded and smiled with the smugness of a businessman who has just clinched another deal.
“Anything else?” asked Jennings.
“No, Se
ñor, you talk to Stewart, tell him I give good prices.”
Jennings nodded. He wheeled his horse and headed back at a run.
When Stewart and Fogarty left Julio Arroyo’s shack, they had in tow Julio’s old burro with the blanket-wrapped body of its dead master draped over its back. Soon after reaching the main road and turning toward town, they were surprised to see Jennings emerge from a small thicket of trees on the roadside.
“Lloyd, you shouldn
’t be here,” protested Stewart, “the plan was. . . ”
Jennings interrupted, “I know, but I have some information about Havens. He
’s alive and I know where he is. Quickly he told them what he had learned from Ortega, not omitting Ortega’s request that Stewart purchase goods from him.
“This is good,” said Stewart.
“Alright, Lloyd we’ll head into town now. You ride in about twenty minutes after we do. That’ll give us time to do what needs to be done.”
“What
’s that?”
“Don
’t worry about it. Like I said, you’ve got to trust me. Did anyone else see you besides Ortega?”
“No, just him and he won
’t talk because he doesn’t want anyone to know the information came from him.”
“Good
, then we’ll see you in town.” Stewart was vastly pleased. This was turning out to be a very good day.
The sight of a body draped over a saddle is always
guaranteed to attract attention and this case was no exception. By the time Jennings rode casually into town, a sizable crowd had already gathered in front of the High Point, where the body was laid out on the boardwalk.
Jennings dismounted at the fringe of the crowd
, and handing the reins to one of the men standing there, began shouldering his way through the bristling assembly. The outrage he could hear and feel in the group exacerbated his own sense of guilt and he prayed it wouldn’t show on his face.
“What
’s going on here?” he asked, trying to sound calm and authoritative.
Several men
voiced approval of the fact the sheriff had now arrived, but it was Stewart who spoke to Jennings directly.
“It
’s old Julio, Sheriff. He’s been murdered.”
Jennings now stood over the covered body and Stewart pulled back the blanket to unveil a grisly sight for which the Sheriff was unprepared. The body had been horribly mutilated
—almost to the point of being unrecognizable.
Stewart was pleased at the
genuine look of shock on Jennings face. No one present would ever suspect Jennings of this crime.
Jennings turned away, white-faced
, and asked weakly, “What happened?”
Stewart replaced the blanket. “
We were riding down by Two Mile Meadow and heard a shot over toward old Julio’s place. We rode over to investigate and we saw Julio on the ground and a man bending over him. At first we thought the man was trying to help him, but as we got closer, we saw what was really happening. What you saw under this blanket was done while Julio was still alive. The poor old mute couldn’t even scream.
Stewart paused for effect, listening as the angry rumble of the voices around him crescendoed. He continued, “When the killer saw us he jumped on his horse and took off, but we recognized him. It was Jeff Havens.”
At this point the crowd voiced its outrage at such a pitch that speaking became pointless. Stewart held up his hands in a silencing gesture. “Please, please.”
Gradually the noise subsided and he resumed, “There
’s something else, Sheriff. I learned today the man who has been stealing T. S. horses is Amado Lopez, and what’s more, I’ve learned Lopez and Havens are hiding out over at Dan Fitzgerald’s place. I suspect Fitzgerald’s hands are not clean either. It’s a rat’s nest of murderers and thieves and we’re counting on you to clean it up.”
With a single voice of rage, the crowd roared its assent. Jennings felt frighteningly out of control, like he was bein
g dragged by a team of horses. And he didn’t like the direction they were taking him.
Fogarty had watched the range of emotions that had crossed Jennings
’ face with contemptuous amusement. It had been interesting to see how Stewart had drawn Jennings into the trap and closed it securely behind him. He had to hand it to Stewart; the man was good at what he did. Fogarty experienced a malicious pleasure as he saw the realization of what had happened to him dawn on the young sheriff. Yet, so effectively was he caught, he could not even voice a complaint. The only avenue open to him was to act on Stewart’s every suggestion and give the appearance that he agreed with each one.
The small form of Ollie Shepherd had knifed its way through the crowd and now stood over the body on the ground. The voices of the men grew silent, eager to hear Ollie pronounce his opinion. The old mountain man was well respected in the community, and when he spoke, men usually listened. He knelt and pulled back the blanket and gazed at the mutilated face of Julio Arroyo. There was no shock or revulsion to be seen on Shepard
’s face. He had seen too much death in his time, and though he was no longer proud of it, he had, more than once in the heat of battle, scalped and mutilated victims of his own.
For a moment he knelt in silence by the body,
then he turned to Stewart. “You say this was done while he was still alive?”
“That
’s right,” Stewart said. I don’t know how anybody could do that to another human being. We’re getting up a posse,” he added—though Jennings had not yet mentioned anything of the sort. “Are you with us, Ollie?”
Shepard looked around at the assembled group.
“Come on, Ollie,” urged one man. “Ride with us.” Several others added their voices to the request.
“
’Pears to me you’ve got more than enough men to handle it,” said Shepard, moving toward the edge of the crowd.
Stewart knew the influence Ollie Shepard
had in the area and wanted him in the posse. With the participation of Jennings, Shepard and one or two other well respected citizens, nothing the posse did would ever be questioned.
As Shepard moved away Stewart said, “We
’re going to clean out a rat’s nest, Ollie, and Dan Fitzgerald is one of the rats.”
Shepard froze in his tracks. It w
as no secret around town that Ollie Shepard and Dan Fitzgerald were the bitterest of enemies. The story was that they had been good friends—partners, for years, prospecting during the summer and trapping in the winter. Then one winter they were snowed in up in the high country and spent several months together in a small cabin. The poisonous elements of cabin fever, hunger, and lack of any other companionship combined to create a deep antipathy between the two. In fact, it was said that before the snow thawed they had come to blows more than once. Shepard avoided the mention of Fitzgerald’s name, and other people were careful to do the same in Shepard’s presence. On the one or two occasions when, through a careless slip, Fitzgerald’s name had been mentioned to him, Shepard had growled he would just as soon cut out his ex-partner’s liver as look at him. The use of Fitzgerald’s name at this moment was a calculated move on Stewart’s part.
Shepard turned and faced Stewart
. “What did you say?”
“We
’ve got a gang of killers and rustlers to deal with, and Fitzgerald is one of them.
“Who are the others?”
“Jeff Havens and Amado Lopez. Nobody on this range will be able to draw a safe breath until they’re wiped out, and that’s what we’re going to do. Am I right, Sheriff?” Stewart turned confidently and faced Jennings.
Jennings nodded, his face drained of emotion.
“Then,” drawled Shepard, “I reckon I’ll join your little hemp committee.”
The m
ob rumbled unanimous approval. Stewart turned to Jennings. “Sheriff, this is your show.”
Jennings ex
changed a look with Stewart that only he, Stewart, and Fogarty understood. He squared his shoulders in resignation, and in a toneless voice began issuing orders.
A
n hour later a group of nine men, including Stewart, Fogarty, and Jennings, rode out of town with Ollie Shepard bringing up the rear, his scatter gun balanced across the saddle in front of him.
Dan Fitzgerald did not live close to town, and it was two hours before the posse arrived at his cabin. During that time some of the heat of its collective anger had cooled, but the men were still grimly d
etermined to administer justice as they perceived it in this instance. The cabin was small and without door or windows in the rear, so by forming a large semi-circle the men were able to cover all exits while still remaining in sight of each other.
“Hel
lo, the cabin,” hailed Stewart. “Anyone inside, come out, now!”
A slide was pulled back from the gun embrasure in the doo
r and someone peered out. The door opened and Dan Fitzgerald stepped out and stood with his arms folded on his chest.
“What can I do for you gents?” he asked, speaking around the stem of his pipe.
“Check inside,” ordered Stewart, nodding to the men on his left.
Three men dismounted and moved tentatively toward the cabin door. All eyes were on Fitzgerald, but he made no movement or utterance as the men stepped around him and disappeared into the interior of the cabin.
Shortly, two of them emerged, empty handed, and one of them shook his head, “No one in there.”
The third man followed holding a small clay mug, which held a brown paste. “He
’s been doctorin’ somebody.”
“And we know who it is,” stated Tom Stewart. “Where are they, Fitzgerald? Where are you hiding Havens and Lopez?”
Fitzgerald gave Stewart a look of distaste, and slowly swept the crowd with his eyes, making eye contact with each member of the posse one by one. He knew a few of them; some he had merely seen around town, but others were more than casual acquaintances. His eyes caught those of Ollie Shepard and held them for a moment, then moved on.
“What of it, Dan, w
ho’s been staying here with you?” Jennings asked.
Fitzgerald drew a long puff on his pipe
and opened his mouth to exhale as his eyes continued to shift from one man to another. Some of the men were growing increasingly reluctant to meet his gaze.
“Sure glad you boys decided to pay me this visit,” he finally said. “A man needs to know
who’s his friend and who ain’t in case he ever has trouble.”
“All right
, we’ve seen enough,” said Stewart. “Let’s get a rope on him. And burn the cabin. Burn the rat’s nest to the ground.”
Some of the men hung back, but several of the more hot
headed ones, men who were not well acquainted with Fitzgerald, spurred their horses forward, loosening their ropes.
Suddenly, from behind the group, Ollie Shepard
’s voice boomed out, harsh and commanding, “I reckon these festivities is terminated.”
All heads turned to the rear where Shepard held his shotgun to his shoulder, its deadly twin orifices overlooking the group like hollow eyes.
“What are you doing, Ollie?” demanded Jennings.
“Just looking out for my old pard.”