In that moment it occurred to him that Amado was always right. He had been the one infallible source of wisdom in Jeff
’s life and for a moment Jeff thought of staying with him and toughing it out together, come what may. But the look in Amado’s eyes changed. He said, “I’ll stay, but you have to go. It’s different for me, I’m old. I’ve seen enough of life.”
As he had many times before, J
eff wondered about Amado’s past, but he refrained from asking. Amado had never talked about his prior life either to John Havens or to Jeff, and Jeff had somehow understood from a young age that there were certain kinds of questions that were not to be asked.
Amado continued. “You
’ll have children and the Rafter 8 will be their home. It has to be that way or else your grandfather and I will have worked all those years for nothing. Go, but come back in a year, and we’ll decide together how to get the ranch back.
They rode all morning, following canyon bottoms and game trails, and by late afternoon they had arrived at the forks of a more heavily traveled trail which could either lead them due west out of the mountains, or
southeast back into the bowels of the labyrinth from which they had just come. Both trails showed signs of recent travel, a fact that worried Jeff.
Amado dismounted and squatted down to study the trail, reading the stories printed there like most men read a newspaper. Presently,
he stood and remounted. He said nothing, but Jeff could read trail sign too.
They rode the westward trail for another twenty minutes until Amado abruptly reined in and began sniffing the
air. Then Jeff smelled it too—the pungent odor of campfire.
The sun was disp
laying its final glow over the ragged mountain horizon and the light was fast fading when Harve Buell finished his supper. He stood up and spat a long stream of tobacco juice into the glowing coals of the camp fire, incurring dark looks from his four companions. He walked over to a small dry stream bed and scrubbed his tin plate clean with the fine sand. In country like this it was best not to waste water. Tilting his head upward, his eyes swept the tops of the rugged hills around him, and selecting a low one in the foreground, he started toward it.
“Be back in a while, boys,”
he said. “I’m goin’ to climb a mountain and take a squint around before it’s too dark.”
Ten minutes later, with his companions out of sight behind the low bluff at the base of which they had set up their camp, Harve walked past a large boulder and found a pistol barrel in his face.
“Don’t make a sound,” came the soft-voiced command.
Harve didn
’t need to be told this was Amado Lopez, the man whose magnified exploits were now legendary in the region. He looked into the dark eyes and was sure he was dead. “Don’t kill me, Lopez, please.”
“
Then don’t make any more noise.”
Harve closed his jaw, clicking his teeth in a show of compliance.
“Walk backward,” ordered Amado.
Harve complied again
, moving back a few paces.
“Keep going.”
Harve walked backward until he struck something sharp and spiny, his taut nerves made him jump and almost cry out, but he forced his jaw shut again.
“Stand there,” Amado instructed as he slipped a coil of rope off of his shoulder.
Harve wasn’t sure, but the rope looked a lot like one that belonged to Pete Wagner, one of the men back at camp.
He felt his arms being tied to his sides,
then the rope was looped around his body, and Amado moved backwards away from him, playing out the rope as he went. Harve didn’t dare look around but he heard the sounds of Amado’s boots moving away and he felt the gentle tugs on the rope as Amado played it out. There was a swift jerk and Harve was hauled off his feet, landing in the middle of a giant patch of prickly pear cactus. No longer able to control himself, he began screaming and thrashing about, but with his arms tied to his sides he was unable to extricate himself.
Back at camp, Harve
’s four companions had just finished picketing the horses and were spreading their blankets on the ground when the first shriek reached their ears. Grabbing their rifles, they rushed out of camp and ran in the direction Harve had gone, guided by the sounds of his unremitting screams. They slowed down as they drew near, growing more cautious. None of them wanted to rush into a trap and meet with the same awful fate—whatever it may be—that had overtaken poor Harve.
They scouted the area, and when they felt secure enough to approach Harve
’s position, and were able to see his predicament, they began laughing so hard that for a few moments they were unable to give any assistance to their unfortunate companion. Presently, however, Harve was removed from his bed of cactus.
“Quit yellin’
,” said Joey Tilford. “You ain’t hurt that bad.”
Harve was furious now
. “Why don’t you try wallowin’ in that stuff and see if you don’t yell.”
While he was untying the rope
, Pete Wagner exclaimed in surprise, “Hey this is my rope, Harve, how’d you get tied up with my rope?”
For a few seconds, unea
sy glances were exchanged, and almost in unison, the four men bolted in the direction of the camp, leaving Harve to finish untying himself and begin the long process of extracting cactus needles from his body.
A few minutes later, when the men arrived back at camp, th
eir worst fears were confirmed. Everything was gone but the fire. It was now completely dark and the moon wasn’t out yet, so the chances of tracking the thief tonight were slim. And though they tried for several hours, their efforts met with failure.
“What do we do now?” asked Harve, still with a trace of a whine in his voice.
“We start walking back to town,” said Tilford, “and when we get there, I’m going to grab the first Mexican I see and kill him for pure pleasure.”
“Me too,” said Harve bitterly, and spat the last of his tobacco into the dead fire.
Amado reined in at the narrow pass, which was the last protected area before the trail exited the mountains, miles north of the point where Jeff had first entered with the posse on his heels. He began rummaging through the packs of provisions and gear, taking stock of what was there. It was obvious the five men had been planning to spend considerable time in the mountains—there were enough provisions for them to have stayed for at least two weeks.
“I heard them talking,” said Amado.
Jeff stopped what he was doing and turned to face his friend.
“Stewart has offere
d a reward—two thousand dollars for each of us.”
Jeff reflected on this for a moment. His own suspicions were confirmed. Already this trail bore the tracks of several parties and there were other trails as well. Two thous
and dollars was a lot of money—more than most men in these parts earned in five years. Soon the mountains would be overrun with bounty hunters; amateur and professional. It was time to leave for a while. Now, more than ever, Jeff worried about Amado, but he understood the futility of trying to convince the man to come with him. Moreover, he understood why Amado needed to stay.
“It
’s best you go tonight,” said Amado interrupting Jeff’s thoughts.
“How about you?”
“I’ll pick up a few horses and head south. I’ll sell them and stay there for a month or so, by then the bounty hunters will have given up.”
In the darkness the two men made the necessary preparations to go their separate ways. Jeff was outfitted with three horses, packs
, and provisions.
The packs were tied on and rechecked and it was time. Jeff felt a profound heaviness of heart and a deep reluctance to leave his friend. Somehow it seemed wrong for them to separate. They should s
tay together and stand together, as they had in the mountains. They should face the future together as they had faced Hatcherson and Sundust. It seemed wrong to ride away from danger, knowing Amado was riding into it, but there was no other course. Jeff knew he had to leave.
They stood facing each other for a
moment. Presently Jeff said, “Well, old friend, be careful.”
There was a look in Amado
’s eyes that Jeff had never seen before; one that seemed to speak of things he was unable to say. Finally he did speak. “If my sons had lived, I would have wanted them to be like you.”
This was the only time Amado would ever mention his past to Jeff. They stood facing each other for a moment, but neither one said anything else.
If they had been able to see the future, they probably would have.
Jeff followed the trail north to where it
made an almost ninety degree bend, swinging west, taking him to a point that was a scant three miles north of town. Here he picked up the trail that led over the mountains to the west. He rode all night and by morning he and his three horses had reached the open desert on the other side.
Here the trail forked, and from this point Jeff could head south, west
, or north. His intention had been to travel west, but as he sat at the cross-roads he felt drawn to the northward trail. There was nothing he could think of that appealed to him in the north—winter would be coming soon and Jeff disliked snow and cold sunless weather, but he had learned to listen to his instincts and pay heed to the unnamed feelings he sometimes had. He had survived perilous times during the war and since by doing so. Besides, he reasoned: all things considered, what did it really matter which direction he went? A man never knew what was around the next bend in the trail, much less what awaited him at the end of a journey.
Anne lay on the bed in the guest room
—which she had begun to think of as her room. She had been there for hours, thinking. The sun had set and the room was dark, but she had not bothered to light a lamp. Stewart was in town again tonight. He was spending more and more time away from the ranch and things were not right between them. She realized now they never really had been. Until recently, she had convinced herself her life was satisfactory. Now she understood it was woefully deficient in the things most essential to happiness. The fact she was expecting a baby gave her additional reason to reassess her circumstances. She wanted her child to be happy—she didn’t want its childhood to be like hers had been, and she realized unhappily, that her life was following a pattern which had been established for her by her parents.
Everett and Audrey Hammond had always been cold and indifferent to
ward each other and had avoided conflict by avoiding contact. Unlike his wife, Everett was kind to his children, and though he never told her, Anne knew he loved her. But he had never seemed to be aware of her needs and had seldom made time for her.
Anne
wanted a better life for her child; she understood that a great deal more than her own happiness hinged on her relationship with Tom. She knew she could never love him the way she had loved Jeff and she felt no guilt for that—she could never love anyone the way she had loved Jeff. But, for the sake of their child, she and Tom should at least try to be good friends. After that, maybe the love would come.
S
he tried to convince herself it could happen. She told herself Tom was a good man and it would still be possible for her to grow to love him as a wife should love her husband, but deep down something told her she was lying to herself on both counts.
S
he refused to accept these realities. They were simply too harsh. If she accepted them, she would have to admit she had made the biggest mistake of her life in marrying Tom Stewart, and in her need to give her child a good life she refused to do so.
She
had to try to make a success of her marriage. It would require sacrifice, she knew, and she dreaded it, for she understood the only way it could work would be to allow Tom more control in her life. For some reason, he, like her mother, needed that.
Perhaps Tom
’s need for domination would lessen if she became more submissive. Perhaps the resentment he had only recently begun to display toward her would abate. She decided to wait and speak with him when he got home. She wasn’t ready yet to tell him she was pregnant, but they could talk. They needed to talk.
It was well past midnight when Stewart finally arrived. She heard his boots tramping on the wood floor, and she heard him enter his offi
ce and close the door. Now would be a good time to speak with him. She would ask his forgiveness and tell him she was ready to be a better wife. She would ask him what things he needed her to do and she would promise to do them. Her resolve was mingled with a painful sense of loss—the loss of a part of herself that was very important to her.
Sh
e was still in her day clothes—not having wanted to undress with Fogarty in the house until Stewart returned—but she had removed her shoes earlier and her small feet made soft, padding sounds as she walked along the hallway. She stepped up close to the door to listen for sounds of voices in case Stewart wasn’t alone. She knew he sometimes had lengthy conversations with Fogarty about business, and he disliked being disturbed during these times. Hearing low voices inside, she turned to go back to her room.
Suddenly the door flew open behind her, and light poured into the hallway. It happe
ned so abruptly that Anne was startled. She spun around, holding her hand to her chest and found herself face to face with Fogarty. He reached out, grasping her wrist with a powerful fist, and jerked her—nearly dragged her—into the room. “Looks like we caught us a little sneak.”
Anne opened he
r mouth to protest but Stewart—his features darkening with anger—sprang to his feet from the chair behind his desk and barked, “What were you doing outside my door?”
“Nothing,
I was coming to talk to you.”
“No you weren
’t,” accused Fogarty, “you were sneaking.”
“How long were you there?” d
emanded Stewart, angrier than she had ever seen him.
She suddenly felt outnumbered
and alone. “Tom,” she said earnestly, “please calm down, I wasn’t sneaking, I just wanted to talk to you.”
Fogarty made a sound that was half laugh, half contemptuous snort. “Cat-footing around
, barefoot, in dark hallways and she says she wanted to talk.”
Now Anne
’s defensiveness turned to anger; she turned on Fogarty, her brown eyes flashing. “I would like to have a private conversation with my husband.”
Fogarty sneered and looked at Stewart, “Do you want me to leave, Tom?”
Anne turned to face her husband, sensing this would be the test of his loyalty. Her eyes lost their anger and she looked at him, imploring. She had stood up to Fogarty though she feared him, and he had mocked her. Now, she needed the support of her husband. Without that she would be utterly alone.
Leaning forward, supported by his knuckles on his desktop, Stewart
’s face was a blank. She could tell he was thinking it over—taking too long to answer.
“W
e need to talk, Tom,” her voice was soft, pleading. “Before you condemn me, you should at least hear what I have to say.”
Behind he
r, still blocking the doorway, Fogarty repeated, “Do you want me to leave, Tom?”
Anne watched Stewart
’s eyes, involuntarily holding her breath, and saw a hardness come into them. She knew before he spoke what his answer would be.
“No,” he
said, ice in his voice, “you stay Rand.” He looked at Anne. “You, go to your room.”
She did as she was told. She knew it wo
uld be pointless now to argue. But as she walked down the hallway toward her room, she realized she could no longer live in this house. She would leave soon—before it became obvious that she was pregnant. She had no idea where to turn; her mother would never help her, and her father would be unable to understand her need. Nor could he stand against the likes of Stewart and Fogarty if he did.
She thought of Jeff, and wished she could see him and speak with him. He would help her. Sh
e knew it was merely a fantasy—she was nothing to him now, but every woman needs a champion, and Jeff was the only one she had ever known. Somehow it seemed natural to think of him now.
Perhaps Anne would have foun
d it reassuring, had she known Amado was nearby, crouched in the brush, observing the ranch, paying special attention to the corral and pastures. He had a particular horse in mind tonight, a handsome gelding called Sunday—Stewart’s personal favorite and the one he generally rode when he went to town. But Sunday was in the horse corral tonight, near the bunkhouse, and Amado decided against the risk. The gelding would be in the pasture tomorrow night or the next. There was no hurry. Amado considered stealing a different horse, but decided against it. He turned his back on the ranch and returned to his own tethered horse. He would wait for the right opportunity. There was no hurry. A year was a long time.
Anne arose early, dressed and slipped quietly out of the house. She saddled her horse and rode to the grove of cottonwoods. She was pleased to find that, as usual, it was undisturbed. No one else ever seemed to come here. Though she knew she had no right to do so, she viewed any invasion of the grove as she would have viewed an invasion of her own home. In truth, she viewed the grove in a m
uch more proprietary manner than she did the home in which she presently lived. This was the only place on earth where she could feel truly safe and at peace. For a long time she sat on a log, tracing patterns in the dirt with a stick, lost in the past. Presently, she rose and walked over to the tree where Jeff had carved their initials long ago. She traced the rough letters with a soft, white finger, trying vainly to understand, as she had a thousand times before, what had happened and why he had stopped loving her when she had been so certain of him.
“So that
’s why you come here.” The voice came from behind her: Fogarty’s voice.
Anne sp
un around, her heart pounding. Fogarty seemed pleased that he had startled her. “I’ve been wonderin’ what makes you ride so often in this direction. Been thinkin’ it was a boyfriend or something.” He stepped past her, roughly shouldering her aside and fingered the carved initials inside the heart, profaning them with his touch as he had profaned her grove with his presence.
He looked at her
and smiled a malicious smile. She could tell he was enjoying the moment. He said, “Old boyfriend, new boyfriend, what’s the difference? Your husband will want to hear about this.” He looked at her with his mocking gaze. “You going to beg me not to tell him? Go ahead, beg me, and maybe I won’t.”
She felt a knot in her stomach and her mouth was dry. She squared her shoulders and faced him, knowing that to show fear now could be disastrous. Men like Fogarty preyed on fear. “You
can tell Tom whatever you want—he doesn’t love me, but I’d die before I’d beg you for anything.” She stepped past him, walking at a normal pace toward her horse, her heart in her throat. She expected him, at any moment, to come after her and put his hands on her body, but he did not.
All the way back to the ranch he rode behind her, watching her, his horse keeping an even pace with hers, neither lagging behind nor overtaking her. She rode up to the house and dismounted, handing the re
ins to one of the hands. She went directly to her room and closed the door. From that point on, nearly everything happened as she expected it to.
Foga
rty arrived. She heard the swaggering sounds of his boots striking the floor and his gloating knock on the door of Stewart’s office. She knew he savored what he was about to do. She heard the low tones of male voices, indistinct, barely audible, and though unable to distinguish individual words, she knew what was being said. More footsteps. This time Stewart’s boots angrily striking the boards, coming toward her room.
H
er door was thrown open, and Stewart stood there, looking as she had expected him to. Until recently she had never seen him angry. Now she was growing accustomed to it. He crossed the room and towered over her. Anne sat calmly on the edge of the bed gazing out the window, her mind set in resignation. For a moment she expected him to strike her, but he backed away and sat in the chair. It was then she noticed Fogarty standing in the doorway, and her calmness departed, leaving her suddenly very angry.
“
Leave this room Fogarty,” she commanded. “You have no right to be here.”
As if it were a reenactment of the previous night
’s scene, Fogarty, with his perpetual sneer, asked Stewart, “Do you want me to leave, Tom?”
Anne was furious. She
crossed the room to face the gunman. “This is not his office and this is not last night, and you will leave, now!” The forcefulness with which she spoke seemed to surprise Fogarty. He glanced at Stewart, who said nothing.
Taking advantage of Fogarty
’s brief shift in attention, Anne swung the door closed in his face and quickly shot the bolt. The gunman was taken completely by surprise, and having received no signals from his boss, was unsure of his position. He waited, but the door did not re-open. He clenched his jaw and made a silent oath that someday she would pay for subjecting him to this indignity.
Anne returned to sitting on the edge of the bed and looked across at Stewart
’s now expressionless, face.
“What have you lacked Anne? What have I not given you?”
At that moment he reminded her of her mother and she decided it was time to fig
ht back; to stand up to him as she never had to her mother.
“What have you given me T
om? Things money can buy, that’s all. You never gave me anything else, you never gave me a place in your life, you never made me feel like a wife. I am not even the mistress of this house. I have no say in anything that goes on here, I make none of the decisions; I’m not even allowed to cook a meal.”
“You
’ve been well treated here,” Stewart differed, “and with great respect by the help.”
“Yes,” she said, “like a guest, a visitor. The last ti
me we argued you complained that I was not really a wife. For a while I felt guilty, but today I have realized you never have treated me as one. A wife is not something you can buy, no matter how much money you have.”
“You
’ve been unfaithful to me,” he said, changing the subject. “That’s one thing I will not stand for.”
“I merely went someplace to be alone; that should be my right and I should be able to do it without being followed.”
“I told him to follow you, and you’d better get used to it: from now on someone will be with you constantly. You will go nowhere without my permission.”
“
Then our marriage is over Tom; I’ll be leaving today.”