Stewart smiled. He had never liked Audrey Ha
mmond and he was pleased by anything that would bring pain to Anne.
Fogarty
’s smile departed. “All right, Stewart, you got what you wanted; now I want mine.”
Stewar
t said, “Let’s ride out of here, Rand. I’ll get you a woman. I’ll get you fifty women; what’s the difference?”
Fogarty pulled his horse next
to Stewart’s and leaned over so close that Stewart could smell his breath. In a tone of absolute finality the gunman snarled, “I want her!”
“Shhh,” said Stewart looking around anxiously. “Do you want to wake the whole town?
All right, Rand, all right. I’ll find her for you. But Deering’s wife must have missed him by now, and not only was the bank robbed, a woman’s been killed. They’ll figure the same ones who robbed the bank killed her. They’ll have the biggest posse this territory ever saw on our trail. You ride out now, and I’ll follow as soon as I get Anne. I’ll meet you at the forks. Ride fast; you’ve got the money and you’ve got my kid, so don’t get caught.”
Fogarty frowned. “Alright, but you
’d better get her for me, Tom.”
Stewart understood the threat im
plicit in Fogarty’s statement. If Fogarty didn’t get Anne, Stewart didn’t get the money or the baby.
“Of course I
’ll get her for you, Rand; like I said, you’ve got the money and my kid. Now ride, I’ll catch up.”
As he rode back into town, Stewart heard shouting up the street by the bank. The alarm had been sounded.
When Anne arrived home everything was dark. She pulled her key from her handbag and let herself in, and there she remained without lights for what seemed an eternity. Silently she paced, frequently peering out the window, watching the street. She wondered why the Walkers were not home. They must have stopped to visit with friends; they often did that, sometimes not arriving home until late.
Finally, she could stand it no longer. She picked up her handbag and went out by way of the back door, locking it behind her. As she rounded the corner of the house, swinging wide to avoid
catching her skirt in a bush, a hand shot out and grasped her wrist in an iron grip. Before she could scream she was spun around, and another hand was clamped over her mouth. She struggled ineffectually, finding herself being pulled around to the back of the house. Realizing the futility of resistance she relaxed and allowed herself to be turned around to face Tom Stewart.
“Hello darling,” he said. Slowly he slid his hand down her chin and onto her neck, which he gripped firmly, squeezing with just enough pressure to let her know what he would do if she struggled or screamed.
“What do you want, Tom?” she asked with a calmness she did not feel.
“I want you to go for a ride with me.”
“Where to?”
“It
’s a ways.”
“Will I need things? W
ill I need to change?”
“Yes, but pack light
. One very small bag.”
“Did you
bring me a horse?”
“No, but t
here are three stabled out back. I’ve already saddled one for you.”
“They
’re Ted’s,” she stated obstinately.
“No more talk,” he barked, realizing that she was stalling. They bo
th knew what was happening here, and compared with kidnapping a woman, the theft of a horse was insignificant.
Still gripping her
throat, he propelled her toward the back door. He reached down and twisted the knob, but it wouldn’t turn. “It’s locked,” he said.
“I know
. I locked it.”
The triteness of the sta
tement angered him, and he slapped her. He clutched her neck, squeezing it hard and shaking her violently, striking her head against the door. “Don’t waste time,” he hissed through gritted teeth. “Just unlock the door or I’ll kill you right here.”
Breathing hard from fear, s
he reached into her handbag and turned to face him. “Tom?” she said.
“What?” he shot back impatiently.
With her hand still inside the handbag, she lifted it, held it against his chest and squeezed the trigger of the small hideout gun Amado Lopez had secretly given her as a wedding present. She felt the gun jump against her palm, she saw the shock in Stewart’s eyes, and felt his sharp expulsion of breath. He took three steps backward, caught himself and reached out for her with a clawed hand. The hatred on his face made her tighten her finger on the trigger, but she didn’t back away from him. She never would again.
He started
toward her, but his legs gave out and he dropped to his knees. Leaning to one side he caught himself and lowered his body the rest of the way to the ground, then rolled onto his back.
Hoarsely, stridently he spoke, “You foo
l. What have you done? He’ll kill her now.”
The message was incomplete, but Anne
was instantly gripped by fear, “Who?” she cried, kneeling in front of him, “Who?”
Stewart
’s voice was a mere whisper now. “Fogarty.”
“Who will he kill?”
she screamed the words.
He told her.
Ollie Shepard had been nervous and worried all day and was vastly relieved when Jeff and his horse appeared out of the darkness and passed into the runway of the livery. Ollie closed the doors and demanded to be told everything. Jeff related briefly all that had occurred, after which Ollie clapped him on the back gleefully and said, “I’m gonna go get drunk.”
“Do it without me, I need to get some shut-eye.”
“When did you sleep last?”
“Night before last.”
“You look it.”
The sound of boots h
urriedly tramping up the street came in through the open door of the livery, and Ted Walker entered, rushed and breathless. Scarcely glancing at Jeff, he said to Shepard, “The bank’s been robbed.”
“When?” d
emanded Shepard.
“Just happened, but that
’s not all,” said Walker, “Willard Deering’s been stabbed. He’s alive, but it don’t look good, and Audrey Hammond’s dead.”
Jeff
’s thoughts immediately turned to Anne.
Shepard glanced at Jeff and sai
d, “Wait here.” He and Walker started for the door.
Jeff said, “I
’ll come with you.” He was concerned about Anne, and something told him Stewart and Fogarty had something to do with this. He experienced a pang of guilt as he recalled Ollie Shepard’s warning: “The less a man has to lose, the more dangerous he is.” He hoped he hadn’t triggered these tragic events.
“Who are you?” Walker demanded.
Jeff looked at Shepard.
Shepard said
to him, “He’s all right.” Turning to Walker he said, “Ted Walker, meet Jeff Havens.”
Walker
’s face showed momentary surprise, and he gave Jeff an appraising look, but Jeff saw no animosity in the man’s eyes.
Shepard added by way of explanation, “Ted
’s the mayor.”
“Does Anne know about her mother yet?” Jeff asked.
“Not yet,” replied Walker, and his voice mirrored Jeff’s own concern for Anne.
“Where is she?”
Walker was not hasty to reply. He had taken upon himself the role of Anne’s protector and guardian, and he took the job seriously. And though he knew few of the details, he knew that, long ago, Jeff Havens had hurt Anne very deeply. For a moment the elder man studied Jeff’s eyes, then finally he said, “She’s at my place, at least she should be by this time of night.”
“Where
’s that?”
“You know where Tenth
Street is?”
“No
,” answered Jeff. When he had lived here, Main Street had been the only street with a name. The few houses had been haphazardly placed.
“Yo
u know the old Hardy place? Stan Hardy used to live there.”
“I know it
,” said Jeff, and he went for his horse.
Jeff was two blocks away from Ted and Marsha Walker
’s house when he saw another rider coming up the street toward him, riding fast. Ever cautious, he rested his right hand on the butt of his revolver. As the rider approached he noted she was a woman and she was wearing a dress; not riding clothes. On the heels of that observation came recognition. He knew the familiar way she moved in the saddle; easy, effortlessly.
He reined in and held up his hand a
nd she pulled hard on the reins. As she pulled up, the distress written on her features made him think she must have already heard the news about her mother.
“Jeff,” she said pleadingly, “Help me, please; Fogarty took her.”
The detested name of Fogarty fell harsh on Jeff’s ears.
“Who did Fogarty
take?”
“Sarah, my baby,
” said Anne, sobbing.
For a moment she lost control and
he kneed his horse next to hers and leaned over to put an arm around her shoulders. “Anne,” he said gently, “Get hold of yourself. Tell me what I need to know.”
She drew away from him and took a deep breath, achieving s
ome composure. “Tom told me Fogarty has my baby.”
“Tom? Where did you see Tom?
“He’s dead Jeff, I killed him, but Fogarty has Sarah.”
Jeff gently touched her shoulder, urgency was in his voice. “Tell me everything you can. How long ago did Fogarty leave?”
I don’t know for sure—sometime in the last two hours.”
“Do you know where he was going?”
“No, Tom didn’t . . . couldn’t tell me.”
“Anne, I
’ll get your baby for you. I promise.”
For a moment she
bent her head forward, sobbing, then, as a thought struck her, she said animatedly, “This is Tom’s horse,” she gestured to the bulky saddle bags, full of provisions. “There’s food here; you can take this horse and yours too. With two horses you can switch off and you can ride Fogarty down.”
She dismounted an
d handed him the reins. “I trust you, Jeff,” she said, but he was already riding away. “I love you Jeff,” she sobbed. He was too far away to hear her . . . but she was used to that.
He angled out of town, heading northeast, knowing where he wanted to go without thinking about it. An icy fear was upon him and
it clawed at him from within: Fear of failing and allowing further devastation to come into Anne’s life, fear of letting Fogarty escape to continue with a life of murder and destruction, fear, even, of his own self recriminations, which he knew he would carry for the rest of his life if he failed, but worst of all: fear for the life of a little baby. All these fears laid their cold grip on him and he felt as though an enormous weight had been laid upon his shoulders.
The whole town was coming awake
, and a large crowd had gathered at the bank. It was an ugly scene: Audrey Hammond was dead with a bundle of the bank’s money stuffed in her blouse. Willard Deering was still alive—barely. Dr. Matthews said he would either live or he would die. Ollie Shepard—no lover of doctors—averred that this was one of the most astute statements he had heard from a doctor and the only one he had ever believed. Jennings, who was at the bank when the two men arrived, was questioning Mrs. Deering. She said she had become concerned about her husband, had gone to the bank and made the grisly discovery. Her lack of tears would be grist for the town gossip mill for years to come.
Ted Walker
tapped Jennings on the shoulder. “Lloyd, we need to talk to you.”
“Right now?”
“Yes.”
“Where?”
“Let’s go to your office.”
When they got to
the sherifff’s office, Jennings sat behind his desk and politely motioned for them to take seats. They refused. Walker said, “Lloyd, there’s no easy way to say what I’ve got to say to you.”
Jennings said, “I know, Ted; I
’ve been expecting it. You’re going to ask me to resign.”
“No, Lloyd; we want you to leave town, and we
’re not asking. The milk’s gone sour and there’s no way to sweeten it.”
Jennings leaned back in his chair and digested this information. There was a momentary stubbornness on his face, but it passed.
Ollie Shepard spoke, “We’re doing this for you, son. This mess has been brewin’ for some time, and now the lid’s about to blow off. Folks’ll be lookin’ for scapegoats and that’ll be you. You ran with skunks, and you got to smellin’ like them. Your best bet is to go somewhere as far as you can from here and get yourself a fresh start.”
Jennings looked down at his bad
ge and fingered it for a moment. Then he removed it from his shirt and set it on the desk.
“I
’ve got something to ask you, Lloyd,” said Shepard. “Stewart and Fogarty were lying about Julio Arroyo weren’t they?”
An odd smile came to Jennings
’ face and he nodded.
“I
’ve lived a long time,” Shepard continued. “Seen a lot of dyin,’ and a lot of killin.’ That old man was hacked up after he died. You knew that, didn’t you?”
Again Jennings nodded.
“Who killed him, Lloyd?”
As the two men w
atched, Jennings’ face reddened and his eyes became moist. They knew before he spoke who had killed Julio Arroyo.
He said, “I didn
’t mean to do it. I should’ve faced up to it, but I ran from it. I let Stewart talk me into lying, and I haven’t had a minute of peace since then. After a while I realized it wasn’t the killing that was wrecking me; it was the lie. If I could have just told somebody about it, like now, I could have gotten over it.” He leaned back in his chair, looked up at the ceiling and took a few deep breaths, struggling to keep his composure. Presently, he asked, “How soon do you want me gone?”
“An hour
,” said Walker.
Jennings gav
e a small, ironic laugh, “You don’t give a man a lot of time.”
“Anyone you want to t
ake with you?” asked Shepard.
Jennings smiled bleakly, “No.”
“Anyone you want to say good-bye to?”
“No.”
“You sure about that?” asked Shepard gently. “Sometimes things can be fixed.”
“So you knew,” said Jennings.
“I suspected,” admitted Shepard.
There was a short silence and
Jennings said, “Like Ted said, the milk is soured and there’s no making it sweet again. I guess an hour will be long enough.”
Jeff rode most of the night, stopping only to water the horses. He hadn
’t slept in two days and two nights, and he was feeling the effects on his mind and body. He tried to stay alert by eating jerky and dried fruit while he rode, but still he caught himself periodically drifting into sleep. This was dangerous, he knew. It was imperative that he stay alert: he was trailing a killer.
Not far from town h
e had picked up the trail of one horse. Logically there was no way to know whether this was Fogarty or someone else, but Jeff knew. He had to stop frequently to dismount in the dark and check the ground close up, in order to make sure the tracks he was following were still on the trail he was following. This slowed him down, but it would be worse if Fogarty veered off on another course and Jeff did not.
He had expected to overtake Fogarty before now
, by riding fast without stopping to rest, but Fogarty evidently still possessed the innate caution that had kept him alive this long, and though he had no way of knowing he was being pursued, he was riding as though he were.
Jeff knew he
was playing a dangerous game. He had trailed Fogarty once before and had seen how cautious and dangerous the man could be. He knew he needed a plan. What would he do when he overtook the gunman? How could he approach without being observed or, worse yet, ambushed? How could he kill or capture Fogarty without endangering Anne’s baby? He did not have answers to those questions. He hoped he would when the time came.
It was early afternoon when he crested the hill that overlooked the small valley where the Ruggle
s’ farm was situated—an emerald-green stain on the brown of the desert. He regretted he would not be able to stop and visit his friends, but his mission was too urgent, and he felt he would soon overtake the gunman. Fogarty’s horse must be fatigued by now, and Jeff was sure he had made better time than the gunman, having the advantage of being able to switch horses every couple of hours.
As he approached the point where the short trail to the Ruggles
’ farm broke away from the main one, a fear that had been nagging him became more acute. And when he reached the intersection of the trails, his fear was realized. He stared at the ground where the tracks showed Fogarty had turned off. “Oh, please no,” he said aloud, “not these people. Not these good people.” He dropped the reins of the horse he was leading, left the animal standing in the middle of the trail, and spurred his own horse forward, jerking his carbine from the saddle scabbard.
Nothing moved outside the house except the chick
ens that roamed the premises. Jeff thundered into the yard, reined-in hard and threw himself off the horse, using the animal for cover. On the hard packed earth near the front porch lay a dark stain, already gathering flies. Jeff had seen too much blood in his life not to know what it was.
“Hello the house,” he shouted, watching the dark holes of the gun embrasures in the wall. Seeing movement behind one he repeated his call, “Hello the house.” A few seconds later the door opened a crack, and through it he saw one side of Edna Ruggles
’ homely face.
“Who is it
?” she demanded.
Something was lacking in her voice; something that had been there the last time he had heard her speak.
Stepping out from behind the horse, Jeff said, “It’s me, Mrs. Ruggles, Jeff.”
Edna Ruggles emitted a low sound, almos
t a wail, “Jeffie!” She threw the door open.
He moved quickly across the yard, glancing at the dark stain as he passed it, “What happened?” he asked without preamble.