“Sorry about the reception we gave you out at the tra
il, Jeffie,” said Levi, interrupting the silence. “We didn’t know it was you.”
Jeff waved his hand dismissively and opened his mouth
to speak, but Levi continued, “Used to be nobody came by here, but nowadays we don’t go more than a week or two without somebody, or a bunch of somebodies passin’ through. Not that we mind travelers,” he added. “Our home is open to all good and decent people, but the kind of people that’s been passing by here lately, why you’d just as soon have a swarm of rattlesnakes over for dinner.”
“My opinion, they
’re just plain outlaws,” offered Fred.
“Of course they
’re outlaws,” said Edna. “They’re rustler outlaws.”
“Judge not,” said Levi in a kindly voice
. “We don’t know for a fact they’re rustlers or outlaws; we ain’t witnessed any of their acts, but it ain’t hard to tell they’re not God-fearin’ men.”
“Of course they
’re rustlers,” retorted Edna. “They ride north, and a week or two later they ride back south again, pushing a herd of cattle with fresh brands. If they weren’t rustlers, they could take an easier trail, ‘stead of coming through this forsaken spot.”
“Forsaken?” asked Levi
. “Look around you, woman; you can see the Lord’s hand in everything you look at. Look at the mountain and the trees. Look at the grass that’s growed so green from the rain he sent us. Look at our fat, healthy livestock, and our two healthy children. We’ve plenty of good food to eat, and a roof over our heads. What more do you want, woman? What does a town have to offer us that’s truly important, that we don’t have here?”
Jeff could tell
that this was not a new argument, and he was uncomfortable at having to witness it.
“A school,” asserted
Edna, “a church, stores, neighbors.”
“Schools, churches
, and neighbors,” scoffed Levi. He slapped his hand on the Bible beside him on the table. This is our school. Both of our children can read from the Bible—you taught ‘em yourself—and this is our church.” He thumped the dog-eared book again. “We read the words of the Lord every day, not just on Sundays. Our children can recite the ten commandments—and live ‘em too. And don’t talk to me about neighbors. I’ve had neighbors. All they’re good for is complainin’ and gossipin’. They don’t need my cows gettin’ into their cornfield, and I don’t need theirs gettin’ into mine. What else do you need that we don’t have here?”
Looking down, Edna said in a voice th
at was low, almost inaudible, “Maybe a new dress.”
Levi snorted and looked away, as if this last statement was unworthy of an argument.
Suddenly Edna seemed embarrassed. “I meant for Lucy,” she said. She stared silently at the dirty plate in front of her. Levi watched her for a moment, ready to defend himself and this life he had chosen against any further attacks. When none came, he relaxed, looked back at Jeff and resumed the previous discussion. “We ain’t had any trouble with them yet, except once when they butchered one of our hogs. But I don’t like the looks of them. They’re trouble. You can see it with your eyes closed.”
That evening after another superb meal, they all sat in the front room of the house and Levi read aloud from the Bible as he did every night. Edna sat and knitted with home-spun yarn, and Fred whittled on an unusually shaped piece of wood. Lucy sat next to her mother, ostensibly listening to her father read, but surreptitiously watching Jeff, her eyes flitting away from his fac
e whenever he turned her way. Several times during the day Jeff had caught those large blue eyes watching him, and had seen the look in them before they darted shyly away. He felt sorry for Lucy in this lonely existence.
Levi finished his reading, closed the Bible
, and set it on his lap. “What you working on, Fred?”
“Cougar.”
Jeff had previously noticed a row of artistically carved animals sitting on the mantle piece. He stood and walked over to the fireplace to make a closer inspection of Fred’s handiwork. Most of the carvings were of wild animals, but there were a few farm animals included in the menagerie. Jeff was impressed by the fine detail and faithfulness of the pieces.
Edna look
ed up from her knitting. “Got a talent, don’t he?”
“S
ure does,” said Jeff. “Wish I could do that.”
“You could learn,” said Fred
. “It ain’t so tough to do.” He spoke with the naive confidence of one who possesses an inborn ability. “Any piece of wood that’s worth whittlin’ on already has the figure in it that needs to come out. The good Lord put it there. All you got to do is carve off all the extra wood around it and set it free. The first trick is just bein’ able to spot what’s trapped inside that piece of wood. You want to try?”
“Sure,” said Jeff, but he lacked Fred
’s confidence in the simplicity of the endeavor.
Fred slid a box out from beneath the chair on
which he was sitting. It contained several knives of different shapes, obviously homemade, a whet stone, and numerous pieces of wood of varying types, shapes, and sizes. He selected a knife for Jeff. “This will be the best one to start out with. Now you need to find your piece of wood. It’s kind of like lyin’ on your back and lookin’ up at the clouds. You can see all sorts of things in ‘em if you let your mind run. Just pick a piece and look at it for a while. Sometimes it helps if you squint.”
Jeff spent a few minutes sorting through the pieces of wood, seeing nothing in particular in any of them. Finally he came across one that reminded him vaguely of a squirrel, and began whittling.
Levi had lit a pipe and was leaning back in his rocker, contentedly smoking. Jeff and Fred whittled in the flickering candle light, Edna knitted, and Lucy gazed at Jeff. For almost an hour no one spoke. Then, Lucy said, “Jeffie, will you be staying long?”
He looked up from his whittling
. “Wish I could, but I’ll have to be leaving early in the morning.” Her eyes were shadowed in the dim light, but he saw a deeper shade of disappointment pass across her face.
Early next morning Jeff stood
in the door yard holding the reins of his horse. Edna had fed him breakfast and packed food for him to take on the trail. She became wet-eyed when he hugged her and thanked her for everything.
“Don
’t you stay away so long this time,” she said.
Jeff promised her
he wouldn’t. He shook hands with Fred and thanked him for the whittling lesson. He pulled from his pocket the crudely carved squirrel which he had finished the night before by the light of a single candle after everyone else had retired. Handing it to Lucy he said, “This is for you.”
Lucy
’s shyness made the situation awkward, but she smiled and thanked Jeff as she accepted the gift, and Jeff could tell she was genuinely pleased.
“Come back soon Jeffie,”
said Fred in a smirking tone. “Betcha Lucy won’t mind.”
A horrified look came to Lucy
’s face and she wheeled and ran into the house. Edna turned to Fred and fixed him with a withering glare. “You jackass.”
Fred
’s smirk departed instantly. He looked down and was seized suddenly by the need to dislodge with his boot toe a rock which protruded from the ground at his feet.
Levi, carryin
g a rifle, walked with Jeff to the main trail. “You be careful on this trail,” he said, “Time was, the only danger out here was Indians, and we always got along pretty well with them. From time to time we would give them a hog or a steer to butcher, and they never bothered us. But now we got outlaws too.” He paused and looked away. “I doubt you’ll need to worry about meetin’ up with any lawmen on this trail; least wise not till you get closer to town.”
Jeff
looked into Levi’s eyes. “So you know?”
“Uh
-huh. News is usually old when we get it, but we get in to town now and then to sell a steer or two, buy tobacco, salt, and flour. Anyhow, the way I see it, most news that comes out of a town is just rumors and gossip, but a friend is always a friend until he proves otherwise.”
“You took a risk.
What if I really was a murderer?”
“Nope,” s
aid Levi. “Edna looked in your eyes. She can always tell. She says your eyes are good.”
Jeff pointed
a finger to the south. “Mr. Ruggles, I’m going down there to clear my name. Next time I come here a lot of things will be different.”
“You be careful to stay alive
—and take care of that game leg.”
It was the first mention of his limp since Jeff had been with the Ruggles
’ and he knew they had avoided the subject out of politeness. But now he sensed Levi had brought it up because he wanted to know.
“I was in the
war,” he said. “Took a bayonet in the knee.”
Levi fro
wned and scratched his chest. “You should’ve said somethin’ sooner, Jeffie; Edna makes a liniment out of greasewood and turpentine that’d be real good for that.”
Noon of the following day found Jeff back on his grandfather
’s land, though miles from the ranch house. He skirted the edges of the flat-lands, keeping to the foothills where he had plenty of cover and multiple avenues of escape in case he was spotted.
Jeff was desert born and raised
, and the hot, dry air felt good on his skin. He felt a sense of familiarity with the land. This had been his grandfather’s land, and it was his land, and he knew every hill and every trail on it. The men who now possessed it had stolen it and owned no just claim to it. Now, more than ever, Jeff wanted what was his. This land was his home; the only real home he had ever known, and he intended to reclaim it.
Giving the inhabited areas a wide berth, h
e kept to the fringes of the ranch. His objective was the Mexican village. He was taking the long way around, but it was the safest route. Jeff was considered an outlaw, and in this region he was well known. Even an honest man would be justified by the law in shooting Jeff Havens on sight. He traveled slowly, stopping frequently to look all around, never relaxing vigilance. His eyes were constantly moving, watching for any flicker of movement on the ground or rumor of dust in the air.
Late in the day
he reached the point where the trail he was following bisected the one that led to Dan Fitzgerald’s cabin. On an impulse, he rode over to his old friend’s homestead.
The cabin had been razed
, as had the outbuildings. Jeff sat on his horse in the deepening twilight and thought of Dan and Amado, and the controlled fury that burned within him grew larger still. He felt an urgency for action now. He could no longer be patient. He had stated his intent to Tom Stewart in the jail on the afternoon he was arrested, and for that same purpose he had returned now to this place: to carry out his promises. He did not care if he was killed; he had no fear of death. He only feared dying before he finished what he had set out to do.
From the desolation that was once Dan Fitzgerald
’s farm, Jeff rode in the darkness to Emelia Diaz’s house, keeping in the shadows and stopping often to listen to the sounds of the night. He was in the enemy camp now; it would not do to be careless. He hid his horse in a thicket of brush a hundred yards from Emelia’s house and continued the rest of the way on foot, scouting the area carefully as he went.
At Emelia
’s front door, he stood for a moment, listening to the sounds within. He heard the sharp voices of children and the mellow tones of female conversation. Satisfied the situation inside was normal, he rapped lightly on the door. The sounds within the house ceased.
There was long silence,
and from the other side of the door came a quiet voice.
“Quien es?”
“Emelia?” he asked.
“Quien es?”
“It’s me, Jeff.”
He heard the sound
of the bolt being drawn, and the door opened slightly. Emelia Diaz peered out holding a candle. Recognizing Jeff, she flung the door wide and threw her arms around his waist, squeezing him close to her short, thick body.
“Se
ñor Jeff,” she exclaimed tearfully, “you have returned.”
Not wanting to stand in the lighted doorway
, Jeff eased the old woman into the house, closed the door and shot the bolt behind him.
He surveyed the candle-lit interior of the one
-room house and saw two other women and six children of varying ages. Some occupied the few pieces of rough, homemade furniture in the room; the rest stood, or sat, on the hard-packed dirt floor.
When composure returned to Emelia, she introduced Jeff to the
two other women: Maria Moreno, Juan Moreno’s widow and Imelda Salazar, whose husband, Pablo, had also been killed by Tom Stewart’s men for refusing to leave his land. Imelda had been left to raise five children by herself and at the present time was, like Maria, the grateful recipient of Emelia Diaz’s generosity.
The house was a thatch
-roofed adobe structure, consisting of one good-sized room. It was surprisingly tidy despite the fact that it had a dirt floor and was occupied by three adults and six children.
Emelia patted Jeff on the stomach and s
miled knowingly. Saying nothing she scurried to what was obviously the cooking area and began removing food and utensils from cupboards, which consisted of wooden boxes turned sideways, nailed to the wall with burlap hung over the openings. Soon Jeff was eating beans, tortillas, fresh garden vegetables, and homemade goat cheese, all complemented by liberal amounts of a red chili sauce, which made his eyes water and opened up his sinuses.
Jeff had never been a light eater and tonight, after a day in the saddle, his was a hunger not quickly sated. When he finally pushe
d his chair back from the table Emelia was clearly pleased by the amount of food he had consumed and by his obvious enjoyment in doing so. The other members of the household had also watched as Jeff had demolished the food placed in front of him. It was, Jeff guessed, the first time they had ever had a gringo in their home.
He smiled and patted his stomach and said, “Muy bueno, muy bueno.”
“You have to go now,” said Emelia abruptly.
“Are you expecting someone?”
“You don’t understand. You have to go away from here, far away. The malvados will kill you like they have killed so many good men. Her eyes filled with tears and Jeff knew she was thinking of Amado.
He
reached over and patted the old woman’s hand. “I’m not going anywhere, Emelia. I didn’t come for a visit, I came back to stay.”
“But how can you?
Where will you stay? It is so dangerous.”
“I intend to live on my ranch.”
Her eyes registered doubt, then fear. “There are so many of them, how will you be able
to. . . You should go, Señor Jeff, it is so dangerous what you think to do.”
“I
’ll need help,” he said, ignoring her last comment. “I’ll need to know everything that’s happened since I left.”
For a few moments she stood
there, silently looking at him until he began to fear she would refuse to help him. Finally, with trembling voice, she began to speak. She told him of Amado’s death and of Anne’s bullet wound. This last piece of information was new to Jeff, and the look in his eyes was not lost on the wise old Mexican woman. She smiled. “She was here with me for a while. I took care of her and helped her to get well from her wound; she was very weak.”
“Where is sh
e now?” he asked, hoping Anne had not returned to Tom Stewart.
“She l
ives in town with the Walkers. She has a baby—a little girl who looks like her.” Here was a second piece of information that took Jeff by surprise.
Emelia wa
tched his face for a moment and said, “I can bring her here if . . .”
Jeff interrupted, “
There’s no need for that.”
“Se
ñor Jeff, if you . . .”
Again he interrupted,
“Emelia, I don’t want to see Anne. I just need you to tell me everything that’s happened since I left.” He had no desire to hurt the old woman’s feelings, but now that Anne had left Stewart, Jeff saw no need to make contact with her. She had made her feelings clear enough on the night he had returned home from the war. To see her again would be unpleasant for both of them.
“Many peopl
e have moved away,” said Emelia, resignation in her voice. “Others have moved into San Vicente. But if they are unable to farm, there will be no food. Tom Stewart has so much land, why must he always have more?”
Jeff shrugged and offe
red no comment. He had no wish to engage in speculation about this man whom he had sworn to kill; nor were there any unanswered questions in his mind. Stewart was simply a man who was ruled by greed and lust for power. Driven by hungers that could not be sated, and encouraged by the easy successes he had experienced thus far, he would continue preying on the weak until someone rose up who was strong enough and smart enough to stop him—if anyone could.
“How many people have left?”
he asked.
“A few families
—four or five, but many more are getting ready to leave. Most have nowhere to go. There is land to the south and to the west; even to the east behind the mountains, but there is no water. Some of the younger men have decided to fight for their land. Even some of the older men agree with them.”
“You don
’t sound like you go along with that,” Jeff observed.
“
They are just farmers; they know nothing of fighting. Juan Moreno and Pablo Salazar tried to fight, and you see?” She gestured almost violently toward the two women and their children. “Their widows are now living in poverty in this house. We have a garden and a small corn field that we care for. We raise some chickens and some pigs and we receive food from people who are generous. Angelita is one of them. She brings food and money when she can. We are lucky. We do not starve. But what good did it do us that our men were brave and did not turn in fear and run away?” She caught Jeff’s eyes with her gaze and held them, expecting a reply.
But Jeff had no answer for her.
“I’ve tried to talk them out of fighting,” Emelia continued, “but they won’t listen to me. No one listens to anyone any more, not since Amado died. If Amado were here they would listen to him.”
“If Amado were here,” said Jeff softly, “he would lead them.”
She took his hand and held it to her face and stroked it, weeping softly. After a moment she stopped crying and wiped her eyes. She said, “Be careful.”
Jeff made camp in the hi
lls that night, and despite his fatigue from a long day in the saddle, he slept little, his mind occupied by thoughts of the task that lay before him. He had a broad plan, but it ached for specifics. On the surface, what he had set out to do seemed impossible. He was one man against an entire crew of outlaws, one of whom was Rand Fogarty. To make things worse, he could not even enlist the assistance of honest men, or of the law, because he himself was a wanted man. Notwithstanding all of these negatives, he refused to think of defeat or failure. He knew he had one huge asset upon which hinged all of his hopes for success, and this was that Stewart and Fogarty were unaware that the ranchers up north now knew of the existence of the rustler’s pass.
During the time Jeff had been in Beeman
’s custody, the sheriff had spoken very little, but Jeff had learned that the reason for Stewart’s presence there was to buy land; more specifically to buy ranches. Knowing this, Jeff reasoned that Stewart intended to pay bottom dollar to ranchers who, financially desperate and discouraged by the constant rustling, would be willing to take whatever they could get just to get out. Some of these ranchers would be stubborn and would refuse to sell. There was little doubt in Jeff’s mind as to what Stewart’s next strategy would be in that event—he would step up the rustling and bleed them dry.
If there was anything Jeff had learned about Jim Marcellin, it was that the man was stubborn. He was also sm
art, and Jeff was confident he would set up an effective ambush, aided, of course, by Emil Tannatt and Sheriff Beeman. The men Tom Stewart sent north would not return, and for Jeff’s purposes the larger that group was, the better. What he lacked now was a realistic plan for dealing with the men who remained behind.
The next morning he
visited Amado’s grave. He had been pleased when Emelia had told him where they had buried Amado. It was the spot Amado himself had chosen many years before. It was not located on Rafter 8 land as one might expect, but on the brow of a prominent hill that jutted out from the mountains and commanded a view of the entire range. It was a place where Amado had often gone to be alone with his memories. There was a sense of peace here and Jeff could almost feel the presence of his old friend. Some yellow flowers lay in a small clay pot at the head of the grave. They had been placed there recently, but were already wilted from the desert heat. Jeff observed the small shoe prints of the person who had brought them and speculated on who had made them. They were not Emelia’s broad sandled prints, but those of a woman’s high heeled shoe; a woman with a small, dainty foot. It had to be Anne. He bent and touched one of the prints, tracing its outline with his fingers and imagined he could feel her presence here as well as Amado’s. It was almost as if they were back together—the three old friends. He realized this was the closest he had been to Anne since that night many years before, when he had ridden to her house, thinking he was coming home to stay. These were his thoughts as he sat gazing across the valley.
He spent the day scouting the range and found the cattle to be scattered and poorly culled. Some of them still wore the Ra
fter 8 brand, some wore the T.S. Brand, and there were many with brands that had been altered. By afternoon he had confirmed what he already knew. Tom Stewart’s business was rustling, not ranching. But Stewart was smart enough to rustle from ranches far from here and to quickly sell most of the rustled cattle.
That night Jeff made a cold camp on a hilltop which afforded him a good, if distant, view of t
he goings on at the ranch. He spent most of the next day in restless inactivity, watching and waiting. Late that afternoon, his vigilance was rewarded by the sight of Stewart and Fogarty riding in from the north, their horses and pack mules showing the fatigue of having been pushed hard. The following morning at first light he watched as a group of riders with six pack animals in tow started their northward journey. As Jeff had expected, Stewart had wasted no time. He experienced a twinge of excitement as he realized his days of inactivity were almost at an end. He would wait two more days before he did anything—long enough for Stewart’s men to be too far up the trail to be recalled, then he would announce his presence.