“No one,” said the sheriff, “and you
’re not going either. I want you to ride around to the south end of town, then get on Main Street and fog it out of town. Go south. I want them to hear your two horses running. When you get a couple of miles away, get rid of the spare horse and ride back to town slow. If you meet anybody on the trail, tell them you were with me and I sent you back. Don’t tell anyone the truth until day after tomorrow. That’ll throw ‘em off long enough for us to get a good lead. “I need you to get word to Jim Marcellin too, that Webb ain’t Webb.” He shot a meaningful look at Jeff as he pulled the folded wanted poster out of his pocket. “Get word to Emil Tannatt too. He’ll take it hard when he finds out there’s no rustler’s pass.” He looked at Jeff again, “I don’t know what you were trying to pull, Havens, but I hope you burn in hell for giving those people false hope.”
Jeff sat
in stoic silence.
“All right, Sheriff,” said Babcock
. “Good luck.” And he rode out of the trees leading the empty-saddled horse.
Beeman turned to Ben Houk who had not spoken.
“Where do you stand, Ben?”
“
I’m with you, I can’t stomach a mob.”
“
I’m trusting you, Ben. If you tell anyone about this I’ll have a passel of trouble on my hands.”
“You have my word, Alvah.”
“That’s enough for me,” said Beeman. He turned to Jeff, “Let’s go, we’ll move slow for the first while.”
Jeff heard shouts
coming from Main Street, and he knew the mob had discovered he was gone. The sounds of running horses were heard from the south end of town, and the pitch of the shouting changed from angry to excited. More running hoofs—the mob was in pursuit.
Beem
an held to the trees for about two miles, riding along the bank of a small stream. When they reached the point where the stream intersected with the main trail, they stopped the horses and listened. Hearing no sounds, Beeman spurred the horses down the trail at a faster pace. Hours later they rounded the mountain, and the trail gradually turned east and later, south. Jeff finally relaxed, confident they weren’t being followed.
For hours the two men rode in the darkness
, Beeman holding his own reins with his right hand, and Jeff’s with his left. They rode in silence, stopping only occasionally to rest the horses. Beeman finally called a halt in the early morning hours, and after a simple meal, he tied Jeff’s feet together. They slept for a few hours, after which they were in the saddle again. At no time did the Sheriff remove the handcuffs from Jeff’s wrists. They camped that night in the shadow of a large, dome-topped boulder that Jeff recognized. He knew he must make his move before they were too far from this place. He patted his shirt pocket and felt the small, reassuring bulge of the stolen key.
Beeman woke him early the next morning before it was light. T
hey breakfasted in the dark, saddled up and were soon on the trail again, with Beeman still holding the reins to Jeff’s horse in his left hand. Jeff slipped the handcuff key out of his shirt pocket and quietly unlocked the cuff from his left hand. With the cuffs hanging from his right wrist, he urged the buckskin forward, coming almost parallel to Beeman’s horse. Leaning forward in the saddle, he swept his right arm down, swinging the cuffs like a mace, striking the reins and jerking them out of the unprepared Beeman’s hands. At the same instant he spurred his horse, leaned forward in the saddle and gathered up the bridle reins. Behind him he heard Beeman’s shout of warning and the sound of the sheriff working the lever of the Winchester, followed almost immediately by a click. Beeman swore a surprised oath and quickly worked the lever again. Again the hammer fell on an empty chamber. It took one more time before Beeman came to the realization that he was holding an empty rifle. He pulled his pistol and fired twice, but Jeff was already out of sight in the pre-dawn gloom.
Beeman was sure Jeff did not have a gun, so he threw caution aside and pursued.
In the darkness he lost the sound of the receding hoof beats of the buckskin so he stayed on the trail, hoping Jeff would do the same. He knew there was a good chance Jeff would change directions, but there was nothing else he could do until there was enough light to read trail sign. He considered discarding the heavy saddle bags full of provisions, so as to spare his mount, but decided against it. Instead, he allowed the horse to set its own pace rather than pushing it as he had been.
Beeman didn
’t have long to wait: the sun was just over the horizon and in a few minutes it became light enough for tracking. He was relieved to see Jeff had stuck to the trail. The sheriff pushed his horse into a run. He disliked doing it, but not nearly as much as he disliked the thought of returning to town and explaining to the unhappy citizenry how he had allowed the prisoner to escape. He could not resist a wry smile, however, when he thought of how Jeff had accomplished his escape. He had easily deduced what Jeff had done in the short time he was left alone in the sheriff’s office. ”He’s a smart one,“ he thought grudgingly, ”I’ll give him that. If I catch him again I’ll be a lot more careful.”
When Jeff
’s trail turned into the mouth of a deep arroyo, Beeman became concerned. Here he would be entering terrain that would afford numerous opportunities for ambush. After giving it some thought, however, he decided to proceed with speed rather than caution, for while Jeff had demonstrated admirable resourcefulness, the fact remained that he was unarmed. There had been no guns, loaded or unloaded, left unlocked while Jeff was out of his cell. Moreover, Beeman reasoned, if Jeff had been in possession of a gun, he would have used it to escape.
The
sheriff was surprised when, after what seemed like miles of twists and turns, the narrow, convoluted arroyo opened into the small, lush basin where the rustlers had built the brush corral. He indulged himself and his horse in a refreshing drink from the sweet, flowing waters of the stream. As he surveyed his surroundings with increased scrutiny, he noticed for the first time, the mouth of the pass, which, in the early morning shadows, he had previously thought to be merely a hollow place in the rock wall. Beeman realized immediately what he was seeing and suddenly a number of things became clear in his mind, and one of them was that Jeff Havens was not a rustler. He had made no effort to hide his trail though he must have known Beeman would follow him; and Beeman was sure Havens had led him intentionally to this place. If Havens were a rustler this would be the last place he would come while he was being pursued.
The sheriff remounted and spurred his horse forward into the maw of the dark, narrow canyon, almost without apprehension. Later, having pas
sed through the mountain, he chuckled gleefully, “Never thought I’d be glad to have one of my prisoners escape.”
Jeff
’s trail led him through the confusing snarl of hills and canyons, and brush-choked washes of the brakes, and the sheriff was glad he was being led. “A man could get lost in here for a week,” he muttered.
He was relieved w
hen he finally emerged and saw the open range before him. From here he could find his own way home. But rather than turning north toward the ranches and the populated area of the valley, Jeff’s trail led southward for about half a mile, where it entered a fast moving creek that flowed directly out of the brakes, fed by a thousand small streams. Beeman scanned the opposite bank of the creek, looking for tell-tale signs of wetness that would indicate where Jeff’s horse had left the water. There were none. No doubt Jeff had walked his horse up the stream, back into the brakes where there would be countless tributary streams, any one of which would take him deeper into the hills. Beeman knew he could follow the tracks in the mud and gravel of the stream bed, but every tributary would slow him down. The two salient facts of the matter were that Jeff Havens no longer wished to be followed, and Beeman no longer wished to conduct him to a place where he would stand trial and be hanged. He had liked Jeff Havens from the first night he had met him, and Catherine Marcellin liked him too. That fact meant a lot to Beeman.
Moreover,
he had disliked and mistrusted Tom Stewart from their first encounter, but there had been a wanted poster and his duty had been clear. But now things were different. Havens was free and had led him to the rustlers pass. There could be only one reason for that. Suddenly he had the unshakable sensation that Jeff Havens was watching him from somewhere in the hills. He smiled.
He pondered the situation for a few moments and came to a decision. Dismounting, he
untied the heavy pack and set it on the ground beside the horse. For the space of several minutes he stood there in mental debate. Then he did yet another unusual thing. Unbuckling his gun belt, he let it fall onto the pack. He hated to do it—it was his best pistol. The front sight had been removed and the trigger pull and barrel had both been shortened. It was made for quick, close work, and Beeman, suspecting what Jeff had in mind to do, knew he may soon have need of it. Leaving the pack and gunbelt lying on the ground, he mounted, swung his horse around and headed north.
Jim Marcellin was in a foul mood. The day had turned gray and
chilly, making his wounds ache. The leg wound was starting to look inflamed, and Catherine had poulticed it and advised him he had been doing too much and she was going to make sure he engage in nothing more strenuous than eating and reading for a solid week.
The main cause, however, of Marcellin
’s ill humor was the unwelcome news which had been brought the previous night by Orville Babcock regarding Bob Webb’s arrest. Babcock had said Sheriff Beeman was sure of Webb’s identity as Jeff Havens, who was wanted for rustling and murder. Marcellin reasoned that if this was true, there was no reason to believe the story Webb had told them about the rustler’s pass. Now all hopes were dashed of finding a remedy for the rustling problem in the near future.
Marcellin was sitting
on the front porch of the house with his feet propped on a footstool and a blanket over his legs, looking at the sunless sky and pondering the situation when he noticed a rider approaching. The man was handsome and well dressed and sat straight and easy in the saddle. Even from a distance his demeanor displayed his self-assurance. He stopped in front of the house and swung down from the saddle. Smiling easily he said, “I’m looking for Jim Marcellin.”
“You
’re looking at his mortal remains,” said Marcellin, unwilling to feign cheerfulness even for a visitor.
The stranger laughed and stepped closer, extending his hand.
My name is Tom Stewart.
Marcellin sh
ook the proffered hand.
“A little under the weather
today, I see,” said Stewart. “Hope it’s nothing serious.”
“
I’ll be fine. What can I do for you, Mr. Stewart?”
“I
’m interested in buying land here in the valley.”
Catherine came through the open front door, carrying a tray with a steaming teapot, some muffins, and two cups.
She set the tray down on a table beside her son’s chair.
Marcellin introduced Catherine to Tom Stewart, and th
e two exchanged greetings. “Mr. Stewart is in the market to buy land in the valley,” explained Marcellin.
“Yes, I
’ve heard,” said Catherine, meeting Tom Stewart’s gaze squarely. “I’ve also heard he’s paying far less than what the land is worth.”
Stewart smiled patiently, and when he spoke it was in the condescending way he used whenever he addressed a woman. “Land in any area,” he explained, “is worth at any particular time, what the
market in that area will bear—which, in many cases is different from what was originally paid for the land. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
Catherine nodded stiffly.
“Land,” Stewart continued, “is generally purchased as part of a money making venture. The margin of profit that is anticipated is the criterion that is used in determining whether the cost of the land is justified. I hope I’m not confusing you.”
“Go on, Mr. Stewart,” s
aid Catherine in an icy tone.
“If the venture is unsuccessful and no other profitable use can be made of the land,
then obviously the value of the land decreases significantly, do you follow?”
“My mother is an intelligent woman,” said Marcellin
. “I’m sure she understands what you’re saying.”
“The question is,” observed Catherine, “if the land in this
valley has become so worthless, why are you so interested in buying it?”
“Speculation, Mrs. Marcellin;
I am a speculator. It is my hope that in the future, certainly not in the near future, but maybe ten years or so down the road, the situation will improve, and ranching in this valley will again become a profitable venture, in which case I shall be able to sell the land and make a profit. But speculation can be risky and I could lose money too. And there’s another disadvantage to speculation: there is no quick turnover on the investment. One must be able to afford to sink money into something that may not be productive for a long time. If the ranchers in this valley had that kind of money they would be able to afford to wait until the situation improves . . . but they don’t. As for you, Mr. Marcellin, I don’t know what your situation is. You may or may not be interested in doing business with me.”
“I
’m not,” said Marcellin flatly.
“I can honestly say
I am glad to hear that,” said Stewart. “It’s been truly heartbreaking to see these ranchers being forced to sell their ranches, and I’m happy to see you are not so desperate. In any event, let me leave you my card in case you ever want to talk to me. You have a nice ranch here and I would give you the best price I could for it.”
He pulled a card out of his vest pocket and laid it on the tea tray. Extending his hand to Marcellin
, he said, “I’m glad I was able to meet you since, in a sense, we’ll be neighbors.”
“Has Emil Tannatt sold out to you?” asked Marcellin
, trying not to sound worried.
“Not yet, though I believe he will, but several of the ranchers on the bench have signed papers and others have given me verbal commitments.
Turning to Catherine, he smiled and said, “Mrs. Marcellin, it’s been a pleasure meeting you.”
“Good day, Mr. Stewart
.”
As he rode aw
ay, Catherine said, “I don’t like that man.”
Marcellin chuckled, “T
hat was pretty obvious.”
“You didn
’t like him either, did you?”
“No, I didn
’t.”
“Is he the one who turned Jeff Havens in to the law?”
“Yes.”
Catherine
’s face grew hard as she stared at the straight back of the departing visitor. “I don’t trust him, though they say he’s a well-respected rancher where he comes from. But Jim, if Jeff Havens is a murderer and a rustler and Tom Stewart is a respectable man, then I choose to spend my time with murderers and rustlers.”
“Havens deceived us
, Mother.”
“How do you know that?”
Well, for one thing, he lied to us about who he really was.”
“Not to me he didn
’t.”
Marcellin
’s face showed surprise. “You mean to tell me you knew? Since when?”
“Since the first night he came here.”
“He told you his real name? Did he also tell you he was wanted by the law?”
“Yes he did.”
“And you didn’t see fit to tell me?”
“I believed he was innocent. I still do.”
“Do you believe that fantastic story about a pass though the mountain?”
“I don
’t know,” she said, “but I don’t know why he would lie about it.” She paused and looked away, as if remembering something. “Yes,” she murmured, “I do believe it.”
Marcellin said, “If he really is a murderer and a rustler maybe his intent was to lure us all down there into an ambush.”
“But why? What could he possibly gain from that?”
“I don
’t know, but he must have had some reason for lying to us. I don’t mind telling you Mother, it’s a huge disappointment to me.”
“Maybe the rustler
’s pass really does exist, Jim; maybe you should go look for it.”
Marcellin
was beginning to show his frustration. “Mother, you’re clinging to false hopes. I know how worried you are and I know how badly you want to save the ranch, but you believed in someone and you were deceived; we all were. I’m just glad we found out as soon as we did. I wish Jeff Havens had never come to this val . . .” He stopped mid-sentence and looked up at Catherine, who was slowly nodding her head.
“You forgot something, didn
’t you,” she said.
“Yes,” he murmured. He
leaned his head back in the chair, staring up at the gray sky. “He saved my life.”
“And he could have been killed doing it; don
’t forget that.”
“And why do you suppose he d
id it, Mother?” Without waiting for an answer Marcellin said, “He’s a gun fighter, a rustler, who knows what else? Maybe he just enjoys killing. Maybe he did it for the excitement.”
“A man who saves your life deserves a little more loyalty tha
n that, Jim.” She picked up the tray and walked into the house.
It had been drizzling rain for over an hour when Beeman arrived at the Circle M, wet and hungry and exhausted.
Dolores was sweeping off the front porch, and when she saw him she stopped and smiled. She liked Beeman; partly because he enjoyed her cooking and showed it, but mostly because Catherine liked him, and Dolores liked everyone her mistress liked.
Beeman stepped out of the saddle, where he had spent most of his time for the past two days. His weariness showed on his face
, and seeing it, Dolores propped her broom against the wall and disappeared into the house. Soon Catherine came out, concern on her face. She was alarmed at his appearance. She could not recall ever having seen him without his gun belt. Moreover she had believed him to be on his way south with Jeff Havens. Now, here he was, standing on the front steps of her house.
“Alvah, what
’s happened, where’s Jeff Havens?”
Beeman forced a wry smile, “Oh he
’s all right; you don’t need to worry much about him for the time being. Catherine, I’m as empty as a post hole. If you could spare a crust of bread and some cold coffee, I’d be glad to tell you the whole story. Jim needs to hear it too.”
“Dolores,” Catherine said, turning quickly, but there was no need to give Dolores instructions, she was already
on her way to the kitchen, whence the sounds of lively activity and the delicious smells of food were soon emanating. Catherine built a fire in the fireplace and the sheriff sat on the hearth, drying, while the food was prepared.
He
ate ravenously at first, but after taking the sharpest edge off his hunger, he slowed down and began to savor his food, occasionally nodding and winking at Dolores, sending her into throes of beaming ecstasy. He was almost finished with his meal when the door opened and Jim Marcellin entered. He was moving with less stiffness, but he still used a crutch. The two men exchanged greetings, and Marcellin sat down at the table next to Catherine.
“Alvah, we expect
ed you to be a day and a half ride from here by now,” said Marcellin.
“I was.”
Marcellin appeared perplexed, and he opened his mouth to speak, but Catherine interrupted, “Where’s Jeff Havens?”
Beeman looked
down and chuckled, “Oh about a day and a half ride from here.”
Marcellin was looking at him intently, “On which side of the mountain, Alvah?”
“The east side. We went north around the mountain last night.”
Marcellin
’s face broke into a grin, and he slammed his fist on the table. “The rustler’s pass,” he exclaimed.
“Yep,” said Beeman, “I rode through it this morning.”
“So you let him go?” asked Catherine.
Beeman winced, “No
, not exactly.”
Marcellin roared with laughter, cheerful for the first time in days. “You mean he got away from you?”
“Yes, he got away from me, Jim,” said Beeman, clearly embarrassed.
Catherine was smiling and her eyes were wet, but she said nothing, not wishing to contribute to the sheriff
’s discomfort.
“Dolores,” said Jim, “go get Reef.”
Reef, who still occupied Shorty’s recently vacated position, was the only cowboy on the premises at the moment. Beeman jumped to his feet, “I’ll get him!” He knew Dolores would tell Reef the entire story. But she was already out the door, and when she returned a few minutes later, followed by Reef, the latter wore an impish smirk, confirming Beeman’s fears.
Reef removed his hat as he entered the kitchen and nodded a greeting to Catherine and Jim.
“Afternoon, Sheriff,” he said to Beeman.
Beeman nodded stiffly, but said nothing.
“Reef,” said Jim, “I want you to ride over to Emil Tannatt’s. Tell him I need to speak with him here today. Tell him it’s important.”
Reef looked down at the floor, frowning, turning his hat in his hands, “Well
, all right I’ll go, if you say so, Mr. Marcellin.”
“Is something wrong?” a
sked Marcellin, perplexed by the young cowboy’s apparent reluctance to carry out this simple order.
“It
’s just that with all these escaped outlaws runnin’ around the country, a man ain’t safe.”
Beeman shot
up out of the chair as Reef spun around and sped out the door.
“I
’ll arrest you next,” Beeman shouted after him.
Marcellin laughed for a moment,
then, settling back in his chair, he became serious. “Alvah, what we have to do has got to be done fast. Some of the ranchers on the bench have already signed papers with Tom Stewart. They practically gave their ranches away and there are a lot more who are talking about doing it, including Emil Tannatt—as you already know. If that happens Tom Stewart will own most of the valley, and what’s more, he’ll be my closest neighbor.”