Jeff heard the sound of a horse coming toward them from the south. This could present no danger, since whoever it was, was not co
ming from town but going toward it.
It was not yet dark, and as the horse and rider came into view from around a bend in the trai
l, Jeff felt his pulse quicken. He recognized the man’s face. It was a face he would never forget—one possessed of a permanent sneering arrogance.
Rand Fogarty.
As Fogarty passed, Jeff watched him, despising him. He wished now more than at any other time today that his hands were free and he had a gun. Fogarty nodded and gave the group a casual appraisal as he rode by. Hank and Reef both grunted monosyllabic salutations, while Cracker and Jeff said nothing. Fogarty kept his hand near his pistol and watched over his shoulder until he was out of effective range of the weapons the men were carrying.
The gunm
an had shown no sign he recognized Jeff, and Jeff felt sure he hadn’t. Jeff’s appearance was vastly changed from what it had been the one and only time Fogarty had seen him. His hair and beard had grown long and unkempt, and he was gaunt and ragged looking. Suddenly Jeff had a desperate desire to live, at least long enough to kill this man. He saw in Fogarty the embodiment of everything he hated. The killer represented all that had been taken from him, all the injustice that had been done to him.
At this moment the world seemed a terribly unfair place.
Why this killer free, well clothed and well fed, riding a good horse while Jeff, who had done nothing wrong, was a filthy, unshaven prisoner, riding to his own hanging on a horse borrowed from a dead man? His hatred increased with every heartbeat. Then the irony of it struck him: now, on the eve of his death, his most urgent need was to kill another man.
Two hours later they arrived at Circle M Headquarters. Dismounting in front of the barn, they were greeted by a small, wiry old timer with a wizened, tree-bark face that bespoke a lifetime spent in the elements.
“Hello, Shorty,” said Reef, with his habitual cheerfulness.
“Howdy boys, what
’cha got there?”
“Rustler,” replied Reef.
“Why didn’t you hang him?”
“We hung so many rustlers we run outta ropes,” said Reef
. “Got to where we was holdin’ a pistol on ‘em and makin’ ‘em choke theirselves to death with their own hands. This one here wouldn’t do it though; said it gives him heartburn.”
Shorty chuckled, shaking his head as he led the horses into the barn, and the four saddle-weary riders walked toward the house. As they approached it, the front door opened, and a big, hawk-nosed man stepped out onto the porch. Je
ff knew without being told that this was Jim Marcellin.
“Evening, boys,” Marcellin said, holding the door as they tramped into the front room of the house. He motioned for them to be seated, eyeing Jeff with frank animosity.
The room they were in was plainly a woman’s room, and though no opulence was displayed here, character and good taste were. The room emanated hospitality and warmth, and to Jeff, who had been living outdoors for weeks, sleeping on the ground with no shelter from sun or rain or heat or cold, it was very appealing. He found himself wishing he were not an outsider here.
Marcellin sat down in a
leather wing-backed chair. Hank and Cracker also found places to sit. Jeff remained standing, his bound hands hanging in front of him.
“Everyone alright?” asked Marcellin.
“Yeah,” answered Hank, “no problems. It was Gordon and Billy, just like Johnny and Carlos said.” There was a pause. “We hung ‘em.”
Marcellin was visibly disturbed by this news. He sat in silence for a moment, shaking his head.
At length, he motioned to Jeff. “Who’s he?”
“Rustler,” said Hank.
Marcellin said nothing, but looked expectantly at Hank, knowing there must be some reason why Jeff had not been hanged along with Gordon and Billy.
Hank shot a meaningful glance at Cracke
r as if to indicate he was to explain. Cracker said, “Reef, take him outside—and watch him good.”
Reef stood up and led Jeff back out the fro
nt door, closing it behind him. Outside, Jeff surveyed the surroundings. He liked this place; he liked the sounds of the animals and the smells of the ranch. It all reminded him a great deal of the home he had grown up in. This was a good place, he thought. These people had worked hard to build it and he hoped the rustlers would not be able to destroy what had been accomplished here.
“Well, the jury
’s in session,” said Reef.
Jeff smiled and nodded.
“Nervous?”
“Doesn
’t matter.”
“I gotta tell you, things don
’t look good,” said Reef.
“I knew that.”
“But there’s something you didn’t know. Remember the friendly fella you pasted in the Red Stallion?”
“Eli?”
“Yeah, Eli Marcellin. He’s Jim’s son.”
For a moment Jeff was silent,
then the irony of it struck him and he began to laugh. Reef, ever sociable, joined him.
With Jeff and Reef out of the room Cracker spoke
. “He ain’t a rustler.”
Hank threw up his hands in an exasperated gesture
. “Just because Gordie said . . . ”
“He
’s more’n likely a gun slinger,” interrupted Cracker.
Hank
’s mouth went shut and his eyebrows elevated.
Marcellin was staring intently at Cracker. “How do you know this?”
“I’ve been watching him all day, starting in Gordon and Billy’s camp even before we tied him up. He moves like a gunman, even with his hands tied and no gun. There are other things he does too, not like he’s meaning to, just habits. He always keeps his right hand free, he wouldn’t even hold a cup of coffee in it, and he’s always watching and alert.”
Hank swore softly and gazed at Cracker in open admiration.
Nor was there any incredulity on the part of Marcellin. Both men accepted that Cracker knew what he was talking about. He had ridden with outlaws, and was, himself, no amateur with a gun.
“Gordie said he wasn
’t working with them,” continued Cracker, “and Jim, you know how well I knew Gordie. He wasn’t lying, but I don’t think he knew himself who this varmint is, or maybe he wouldn’t have stopped us from hanging him. As for me, I suspicion the man outside is Dick Masion.”
Marcellin
’s expression changed and he leaned back in his chair. “I don’t doubt you, Cracker, when you say he’s a gunman—I reckon you’d know about those things—but as to his being Dick Masion, how can you know?”
“I can
’t, and maybe he ain’t, but Sheriff Beeman told us months ago he had word Masion was coming this way. He never showed up. Gordie said this stranger stumbled into their camp all hungry and ragged. The way I figure it, he could have lost his horse in the mountains and had to walk out.”
Now, Hank spoke
. “But what makes you think he’s Dick Masion?”
“Because he knows Rand Fogarty.”
The words hung for a moment in the stunned silence that followed this pronouncement. Cracker continued. “Masion and Fogarty used to run together down in Texas.”
“I knew that,” said Marcellin.
“Well, this hombre we got outside knows Rand Fogarty.”
“Wait a minute,” said Hank. “You haven
’t known him any longer than I have. How do you know he knows Fogarty?”
“I
’ve seen Fogarty twice,” said Cracker. “First time was in a saloon in Kansas where I watched him kill a man ‘bout like you’d swat a fly. I never saw anything so fast. I saw him again tonight. He was the sweet-faced gent that passed us on the trail while we were resting our horses.”
“W
hat?” said Hank in amazement. “That was Rand Fogarty?”
“It surely was,” said Cracker, “and this prisoner we got outside recognized him. I was watching him. I could tell by the way he stiffened up. He recognized Fogarty for sure.”
“Did Fogarty recognize him?” asked Marcellin.
“No, his face was
shadowed; Fogarty didn’t get a good look at him.”
“So instead of hanging a rustler,” said Hank, “we get to hang a gunslinger.”
“No,” interrupted Marcellin, “in the first place, we don’t know for sure he’s Dick Masion, but if he is, or if he’s anyone else connected with that gang, he could lead us to them. This could be our first lucky break in this whole mess. We have the advantage that he doesn’t know we know who he is. Let’s watch him and see what he does.”
“But how can we go up against guns like Masion and Fogarty?” asked Hank.
No one answered, and there was a space of silence as each man pondered the situation.
Presently Marcellin said, “Bring him back in.”
“One more thing you need to know, Jim,” said Cracker with a sidelong glance at Hank.
Marcellin laughed and closed his hands behind his neck, “Cracker, you
’ve got more surprises than a magician’s saddlebags. What else do you have to unload on me?”
Cracker
related to him the incident in the Red Stallion and the short fight between Eli and Jeff. As Marcellin listened, his face darkened and his lips stretched into a tight line. When Cracker ended his narrative, Marcellin repeated, “Bring him back in.”
By the time he and Reef were invited back into the room Jeff was feeling irritable. He had been tied up all day and he was tired of it. For reasons he did not u
nderstand, he was not worried. Whatever was going to happen, he wanted to get it over with.
Marcellin motio
ned for Jeff to take a seat and gazed at him for a moment with a veiled expression. “Cracker tells me Gordon swore you didn’t rustle any of my stock. Did you?”
“No.”
“What were you doing in Gordon and Billy’s camp?”
“I lost my horse, smelled the smoke
, and followed it to their camp.”
“What
’s your name?”
“Does it make a difference?”
“Reckon it does.”
Jeff was on the verge of stubborn refusal to answer any more questions. He hadn
’t done anything to these men and he didn’t owe them any answers. His voice was tinged with anger when he replied, “If you think I’m guilty, you’ll hang me; you don’t need to know my name for that. If you think I’m innocent, I don’t think you’ll hang me, no matter what my name is, and what’s more, I think you’ve already decided.”
Marcellin gave a humorless laugh
. He held Jeff’s gaze for a few moments, then looked away as if Jeff were insignificant, and murmured, “You can go. Reef, untie his hands.”
Reef did as he was told and the relief
Jeff felt was enormous. He moved his arms far apart and pulled his shoulders back, stretching muscles and restoring circulation. Marcellin said in a toneless, disinterested voice, “You can stay in the bunk house tonight. One of the hands will drive you into town tomorrow. Reef, give him back his pistol.” He stood up, indicating the meeting was over and left the room. Hank followed close behind his boss without glancing at Jeff. Cracker stood, gave Jeff a long, un-intimidated stare and walked out of the room.
Left alone together, Reef and Jeff looked at each other. Reef shrugged his shoulders and said, “Your lucky day.”
“Good luck just seems to hound me,” Jeff said, rubbing his chafed wrists. Stepping outside again with Reef, he saw a small group of men on the other side of the yard. Cracker was standing in front of them, saying something. When Jeff stepped out on the porch all eyes turned toward him. Cracker stopped speaking and stepped around the men into the dark interior of the barn. With the exception of Reef, who seemed incapable of negative emotions, the attitude of the men—judging by the looks they were giving him—was decidedly hostile.
He was unsure
what he was to do now. He was still dependent on these people and their decisions regarding him and he hated being in that position. He had no horse, no money, no job, and no place to stay. He didn’t even have a hat. What he needed was to get to town. He had been down-and-out before, but had always been able to find work of some kind. The place to look would be in town. He felt a pressing need to get there for another reason too. Fogarty was there. He felt a primal urge to kill Fogarty, but his good sense told him there was a greater need—to find out what Tom Stewart’s hired killer was doing here.
Reef brought Jeff
’s gun to him and said, “Let’s get some grub; I’m hungry enough to eat a folded tarp. Jeff threw a cautious glance at the group of men by the barn and followed Reef around the corner of the house. Two punchers walking past them gave Jeff a wide berth, reminding him that he was a pariah here.
As they walked past the house, angling toward the cook-shack, a woman
’s voice rang out, clear and melodious. “Oh, Reef.” Jeff turned and saw a woman framed in the soft yellow light of the kitchen doorway. She was a large woman, tall and big-boned, but with the light behind her, her face was in shadow, rendering her features indistinguishable.