What he saw surprised him
. On the east side of the hills, just about to round the southern-most point, he saw the first group of riders. They were only a couple of hundred yards away and he could tell that these were not Stewart’s men. There were only three of them, and Jeff could tell by their appearance and the horses they rode that they were either some of the local Mexican farmers or residents of Mexican Town. The three head of cattle they were pushing were, no doubt, being stolen from the T.S. Their horses were nags, and only one of the riders had a saddle, the other two having only thin blankets between them and their horses’ backs. They were hugging the hills for cover and though they were acting cautious, they seemed to be unaware of their present danger. Stewart’s men would either shoot them down or hang them.
One of the Mexicans appeared more alert than the other two—
constantly scanning the horizon and nervously watching their back-trail. Jeff estimated his age at about fifteen. The other two were the same age or younger. He thought of trying to warn the boys, but knew it would do no good. If they had not already been detected by Stewart’s outlaws, they soon would be, and their feeble horses were no match for the sturdy cow ponies ridden by Stewart’s men. Though they hadn’t yet realized it, the three boys were in a very tight spot.
Luke Stratton had been the first of Stewart
’s three riders to spot the dust and had decided to investigate. The fact that Stewart was offering a substantial reward to the man or men who brought Jeff Havens in was a powerful incentive to these greed-driven men, and they spurred their horses into a run. When they crossed Jeff’s trail, Luke said to his companions, “I got me a funny feeling it’s him.”
A short distance down the trail they came to the point where
Jeff had cut through the hills, and Luke motioned with his thumb in the direction Jeff had gone. “Ike, you follow him, I’m bettin’ he’ll head south after he gets through the hills: it’s the closest cover. If me and Lester cut around the mountain, we might be able to head him off.”
Without comment, Ike immediately did as he was told, nor did Luke and Lester waste any time, and soon they had rounded the south end of the hills, where they stopped their horses and began watching the sky for the dust that would betray the position of their quarry.
They were immediately rewarded, but then Luke scowled, “Too much dust for one rider.”
“May
be he’s doin’ a little rustlin,” offered Lester.
Luke shook his head
. “Too smart to do it in daylight.”
“It can
’t be any of the TS riders; we’re the only ones down here today. Let’s wait.” They turned their horses into a short ravine and watched as the betraying dust approached.
Juan Morela shi
fted nervously in the saddle, not sure what to do. A while ago he had seen a hint of dust in the air off to the northwest, and just a few minutes ago he was almost positive he had seen some more to the southwest. The breeze was from the east, so he couldn’t judge the direction of travel of whatever or whoever had stirred up the dust and he told himself it was probably just a cow that had been spooked by something. Whichever was the case, he would be glad when they had these steers across the river and well away from the TS. Juan didn’t consider himself and his friends to be rustlers—this was not stealing. They had a right to these steers, he thought angrily. Their lands had been taken from them by Stewart and his men, and now their families had to survive somehow.
Abruptly these thoughts left him as two men stepped out from be
hind a boulder; both of them pointing rifles. Juan’s stomach lurched as he realized he and his companions were as good as dead.
Luke Stratton stayed in front of the boys while Lester circled around to their left, boxing them in against the steep hillside. Luke held hi
s rifle directly on Juan Morela and said with a wicked smile, “Where ya headed, Mex?” Receiving no reply, he repeated the question in poorly spoken Spanish.
Juan said, “We speak English.”
Despite the dread that clutched at him, Juan maintained an outward calm and managed to imbue his words with the disdain he felt for these hired killers of Tom Stewart’s.
“Well
then,” Luke retorted, “I suppose you know what the word ‘rustler’ means.
Juan could feel the fear emanating from his two companions. The three h
ad been friends all their lives and he was more concerned for their safety than his own.
Receiving no reply to
his question, Luke spoke again, “Do you greaser boys know what we do to rustlers?”
“We
’re not rustlers,” said Juan, speaking softly because he didn’t trust his voice.
The corners of Luke
’s lips curled into an ugly smile as he detected a quaver of fear in the voice. “Get down and stand over against that rock.”
The three boys dismounted,
walked over to the boulder and turned their backs to it, facing their captors. Juan heard a sniffle from one of his friends. He had to do something, but the looks on the faces of the two white men told him he and his friends could expect no mercy.
Then
a voice came from out of the rocks about thirty feet away, “Drop your guns and do it now.” The two would-be executioners hesitated, unwilling to obey someone who couldn’t be seen. The voice spoke again, “I said drop your guns and if you make one move I don’t like, you’re dead.”
Luk
e and Lester exchanged a glance and lowered their rifles to the ground.
“That you, Havens?” shouted Luke in the direction of Jeff
’s voice.
Jeff stood up slowly, holding a rifle in the crook of his left arm, his pistol in his right hand. He leaned the rifle against a rock and said, “Pistols too, and don
’t try anything; I’d be tickled to kill either one of you.”
Luke muttered something to his companion, and Jeff thought he caught part of it; something about Ike.
Luke smiled up at Jeff and said, “Well, Havens, it’s a real fine day anyhow, even if we don’t get to kill these little greasers.”
Jeff made no comment, and Luke continued in the same conversational tone, “You know
these boys was rustlin’. We can’t have that on this ranch, I’m sure you . . .”
“They weren
’t rustling,” Jeff said levelly.
Surprise showed in Luke
’s eyes and he pointed to the cattle that had now spread out and were placidly grazing, oblivious to the drama taking place nearby. “There’s the evidence. We caught ‘em red-handed.”
“They weren
’t rustling,” repeated Jeff. “Those are my cattle and I’m giving them to these boys. You can’t steal what’s been given to you.”
Luke smiled in comprehension and nodded his head, “So
you still think you own the TS?”
“Not the T
S,” Jeff corrected. “The Rafter 8, and yes, I do own it. I never sold it to anyone, and I never gave it to anyone. It’s still mine and I’m going to take it back.”
“Well now, that
’ll be a piece of work,” offered Luke. “I wish you luck. I really mean that, and speaking just for myself, I’d like to say that when you do I’d . . .”
Jeff smiled indulgent
ly and interrupted, knowing all this talk was Luke’s way of distracting him and stalling long enough for his friend to show up and shoot Jeff in the back.
“He
’s not coming,” Jeff said.
“What?”
“Ike. He won’t be joining us.”
A black anger spread across Luke
’s features and his eyes narrowed as he scanned the terrain behind Jeff.
Jeff spoke again, and there was a strong warning in his voice, “Now drop those pistols!”
A signal of some sort passed between the two outlaws and they both went for their guns.
Jeff
’s gun boomed twice and in an instant both men were on the ground, Luke’s right arm shattered and Lester dead with a bullet in his chest.
“You shouldn
’t have done that,” said Jeff angrily. He half slid, half walked down the steep slope. Standing over Luke, with his pistol still in his hand he asked, “How bad are you hurt?”
Luke eyes were not focused. He reached over with his good hand and clutched his shattered arm, as if realizing for the first time
what had happened. After a moment he spoke, “Arm’s broke, I think.”
Jeff looked at the arm, tore a piece of cloth from the shirt of the dead man and bandaged the wound tightly. It w
as bleeding profusely, but the bandage stopped most of the flow.
“You
’ll have to ride,” said Jeff matter-of-factly.
Luke nodded.
Jeff said, “I’ll be honest with you: I don’t care if you live or die. If you die now I won’t have to kill you later on. The smart thing would be to finish you off, but I don’t want to teach these boys any bad habits, so I’m going to let you ride out of here. You know which trail Ike took?”
Luke nodded again.
“You’ll find him on that trail, tied up. Tell him if I see him again on my land I’ll kill him. Same goes for you. You got it?”
Luke nodded once more, pain and shock starting to glaze his eyes. Jeff helped him on to his horse.
As the injured outlaw rode away, Jeff shouted after him, “Tell Fogarty to send someone back for this body, I’m not going to waste my sweat burying it.”
Luke grunted, whether in pain or acknowledgment Jeff was unsure.
He turned to the three Mexican boys who were looking at him, wide-eyed.
“Did you boys know Amado Lopez?”
The three nodded in unison. Juan said, “He was my padrino.”
Jeff smiled inwardly;
Amado had been godfather to half of the babies born in San Vicente. “Amado would’ve been ashamed of you today,” he said. “You did a stupid thing and you almost got killed for it.” He might have told them that rustlers generally worked at night, but he didn’t want to give them any ideas. Instead he said, “You’re not smart enough to be rustling beef from Fogarty’s men.” He watched the three young faces for a moment. For their own good, he wanted to make sure the message was clear.
“Now, I want you to ride just as fast as those
horses will go. Get across the river, then head back down to San Vicente. Stay on the main road; no one will be able to track you that way. Now go!”
Two of the boys moved quickly to their horses, but Juan Morela did not. Jeff read a certain stubborn belligerence on the boy
’s face that made him want to smile. The boy walked over to the body on the ground and began rummaging the pockets. He found cigarette makings, a folding knife, and a leather pouch full of coins. These items he stuffed into his own pockets.
“Hold it,” said Jeff. He had seen soldiers stealing from the b
odies of dead enemies, but he had never participated. The young man turned around to face him and Jeff held out his hand. Juan shrugged his shoulders in resignation, pulled the articles out of his pockets and placed them in Jeff’s hand.
Jeff put the knife and the tobacco and papers back on t
he body. Opening the pouch he counted out a few coins and handed them to the boy. “You can take these; I know your family probably needs them.” He closed up the pouch and handed it also to the boy. This, I want you to give to Emelia Diaz—but not today. Don’t go near her house today.”
“What about the steers?” asked
Juan. “You said you were giving them to us.”
“I am,” said Jeff
. “You can have them, but not now. Try to take them now and they’ll get you killed. When I get the ranch back, I’ll give you some cows, but you come to me and ask for them, do you hear? If I catch you rustling my stock, I’ll do to you what those two men were going to do.”
The young ma
n nodded, and Jeff saw respect in his eyes. Juan turned and walked to his horse. Abruptly he stopped and turned again, “What about these guns,” he said, indicating the rifles and pistols lying on the ground. “Can we take them?”
“What
’s your name?” Jeff asked.
“Juan Morela.”
“Why do you want a gun, Juan?”
“To defend my family.”
“Let your father do that.”
“I don
’t have a father.”
“Have you ever shot a gun?”
“Amado let me shoot his, once.”
“Juan,
when I get my ranch back and you come to get your cows I’ll teach you how to shoot. Then I’ll give you a gun.”
Juan nodd
ed and mounted his horse and the three boys turned toward the river.
Jeff hiked to where he had left his horse, climbed into the saddle and sat there for a moment, stroking his chin as he thought something through. His head began slowly nodding and he gazed off at the diminishing figures of the three boys. He could use those boys, he realized, and he spurred after them.
That night, shortly after dark, Jeff rode as close to the ranch house as he dared, dismounted and tied his horse to a tree. Hanging awkwardly off one side of the saddle was a large, clay olla, courtesy of Emelia Diaz. The big pot had been made for carrying water and was wide in the middle with a narrow base, a narrower neck and a flared mouth. It had a leather strap for a handle, and there was a crude wooden stopper jammed in the mouth. Jeff untied the olla from the saddle and gingerly slung it over his shoulder as he began making his way toward the house. He moved cautiously to avoid making any noise, and it took him nearly ten minutes to make what under normal circumstances would have been a one-minute walk.