Fred now strode over to where Jeff had j
ust finished tying Fogarty. He glared at the outlaw, and for a moment Jeff was afraid he would do something violent. But, presently he turned away and put his hand on Jeff’s shoulder. “Jeffie, I’m thankin’ you for the life of my sister.”
Jeff nodded
. “Glad you’re here, Fred; I can use the help.”
Fogarty had silently observed these events with sneering countenance. He was, Jeff realized
, a man whom altruistic human emotions could not reach.
“You look awful, Jeffie
,” observed Fred. “Look like you could use some rest.”
“I could
,” admitted Jeff. He had been in the saddle almost constantly for how many days and nights? He tried to count but couldn’t force his brain to concentrate on the task. His muscles and joints ached with fatigue, the left side of his head and face throbbed with pain from the sledgehammer blow of Fogarty’s fist, and the back of his leg was on fire where Fogarty’s bullet had burned it. His thoughts were fuzzy and slow-moving. “We’ll ride back to your place and rest there,” he said. “Lucy needs to be home, and your folks need to know she’s safe.”
The horses were saddled
, and Fogarty, who seemed dazed and docile, was placed on one of them. His hands were tied, and he was still wiping blood off his face from the gash Jeff had given him with the pistol barrel. He would ride between Jeff and Fred.
Fred said he knew where there was a small spring. It was some distance away
, but the canteens were empty and he volunteered to go fill them. Fogarty sat astride his horse with an empty-saddled horse on either side of him. His horse’s bridle reins were tied securely to a tree. Lucy, holding the baby, sat on her horse beside Fred’s, eyeing Fogarty with distrust, clearly not comfortable with the proximity of the man despite the fact that he was tied up and unarmed.
Jeff felt the need to scan the trail below before riding down off the mesa. The trail was used by outlaws
, and he didn’t want to encounter any of Fogarty’s friends. He made the mistake of thinking that, disarmed, with his hands bound and his horse tied to a tree, Fogarty was harmless. Moreover, Jeff knew he would not be out of bullet range and would keep one eye on the outlaw at all times. He was almost to the edge of the mesa when, without warning, Fogarty lunged off his horse, throwing himself across Fred’s empty saddle, straining with his bound hands for Lucy. Lucy screamed as he caught her by the hand, but he barely grasped her fingertips and she managed to jerk free from his blood-slick grip. Jeff spun around and pulled his gun.
The horses, spooked by the suddenness of Fogarty
’s lunge, were milling, and Lucy’s horse had moved around in front of the other animals. Lucy was attempting to wipe Fogarty’s blood off her hand, slapping at it as though it were acid, crying in fear and disgust. Fogarty had pulled himself back into the saddle, had lifted one of his booted feet, and had his hands inside it. Jeff knew instantly what he was doing.
He had a boot gun.
“Freeze, Fogarty,” said Jeff, aiming his pistol. He didn’t like the distance; it was too far for good pistol accuracy. He wished he had a rifle.
Fogarty froze, but he smiled.
“Lower your foot,” Jeff repeated.
Fogarty didn
’t move. “I’ll kill the girl,” he said. He shot a wicked glance at Lucy, “Don’t move kid, because if you do I’ll kill you and that baby.”
Lucy
’s face filled with terror.
“Don
’t move, Lucy, It’ll be all right,” said Jeff, never letting his eyes leave the gunman. To Fogarty he said, “I’ll kill you if you try it. Now put your hands up, and they’d better be empty.” Jeff wanted to move closer, but he didn’t want to spook Fogarty into making his move. He doubted not for a second that Fogarty would kill Lucy.
“You sure you can kill me first?
” said Fogarty. “You’re pretty far away for a pistol shot, what if you miss?”
“I
’ve got the drop on you, Fogarty.”
“I
’m fast, Havens. You miss your first shot, the girl’s dead. Are you willing to risk it?”
“If you shoo
t her I’ll kill you for sure,” promised Jeff.
“Sure you will, but I
’m dead anyway if you take me in. I’ve got nothing to lose.”
Jeff knew this
was true, but he also knew if he gave Fogarty the advantage the man would kill them all. He stood there, his gun trained on the outlaw, mentally cursing himself for making the mistake of not searching Fogarty well enough and for getting so far away from Lucy and the baby. He was exhausted and not thinking clearly, but whatever the reasons, he had underestimated his enemy. Amado would have never made such a mistake.
Fogarty still had his foot up and his
hand inside the boot. He said, “All I want is a fighting chance. You give me your word you’ll holster your pistol if I let the girl go. When she’s gone we’ll both pull at the same time. Let the best man win.”
Jeff thought about it and knew he had no choice. “I won
’t holster the gun until the girl and the baby are gone. You’ll have to trust me.”
Fogarty smiled a mocking smile. “I
’ll take your word because you are an honorable man.” His voice was filled with contempt.
Jeff nodded
. “Let her go. I give my word.”
“Get out of here,” Fogarty growled at Lucy.
Lucy wasted no time. After she was out of sight, Jeff kept his gun trained on Fogarty.
Fogarty said, “Time to keep your word.”
“I’ll keep it when I’m ready.”
Then
Fogarty understood. He cursed Jeff savagely, “I should’ve killed her.”
“You
’ll still have your chance to kill me, but you’ll never kill anyone else, Fogarty.”
Jeff held the gun up until Fred came back into camp. Instantly sizing up the situation, he dropped the canteens and raised his rifle.
“Don’t shoot,” said Jeff.
Fred he
ld the rifle to his shoulder. “Why not.”
Jeff wasn
’t sure how to explain the present circumstances. He merely said, “Thou shalt not lie.”
Fred seemed to accept this, even if he didn
’t fully understand.
“Fred,” said Jeff.
“Yeah, Jeffie?”
“Keep your gun on Fogarty. If he gets me, kill him.”
“Try an’ stop me.”
Fred was well out of accurate range of Fogarty
’s short-barreled boot gun, but Fogarty was within easy range of Fred’s rifle. And Fogarty, a man of the gun, had already appraised Fred as a man who knew how to use his weapon. It was an accurate assessment: Fred never missed.
Fogarty went into a rage. His profanity was loud and heartfelt. The putrefaction of the man
’s soul was completely unveiled. His stoic façade was stripped away, and he cursed Jeff with unrestrained venom. Presently, he bellowed, “I’m dead either way, Havens.”
“That
’s the general Idea.”
The gunman
’s voice trembled with impotent rage, “I swear to you, Havens, you’ll die before I do.”
Suddenly, Jeff had had enough of Fogarty and everything about him. “Shut up
!” he barked, and he holstered his gun.
He moved closer. He knew it gave Fogarty a better chance, but if he was going to pull against a gunfighter he wanted to do it at a range he felt comfortable with. He cleared his mind and relaxed his body. Amado had always said, “Tight muscles move slowly.” His left hand came up and briefly touched his shirt pocket,
but Anne’s locket was not there; it had long ago fallen into the bloody mud of the battle field. It didn’t matter anyway; the gesture was an unconscious one.
There was no signal. No one drew first. They both
just seemed to know and pulled their guns at the same time. The stillness was rent by two shots, but Jeff’s was a fraction of a second earlier, and the bullet struck the gunman’s chest, spoiling his aim. The impact threw him backward, and he landed hard on the ground. Jeff walked over to him. Lying on his back, his gun still in his hand, Fogarty looked up at him and said, “Don’t shoot, I won’t try anything.” Jeff shook his head. He knew it was a lie. The habitual sneer returned to the killer’s face and as his gun swung up, Jeff drove a bullet through his heart.
Jeff climbed the last few steps up
the hill to Amado’s grave and turned to gaze out over the valley as Amado had loved so much to do. It was truly a beautiful place. The desert had shed the dry brownness of summer and was dressed in green, brought on by the cool weather and the recent rains.
He thought of all that had transpired in the six months since the deaths of Stewart and Fogarty and permitted
himself a moment of satisfaction.
He looked southw
est toward the little Mexican village and gazed for a moment at the broad, green fields of the farmers who were again working their lands. Northward, far beyond his view, things were also returning to normal. Jeff had sent a large herd of cattle north—all the ones with altered brands, which left him with only a small herd, but he had plenty of good graze. His herd would grow.
He turned to gaze for a moment at Amado
’s grave. There were fresh flowers lying on it as usual, and he knew it was Anne who brought them.
He had seen her briefly on two occasions since her mother
’s funeral, but there had been a barrier between them that had made conversation awkward and superficial. It had been more than two months now since their last meeting; a chance encounter on Main Street when he had been in town picking up some supplies. She had noticed his limp and asked him about it.
“Hurt my knee,” w
as all he had said, thinking it sad she knew so little about him after all they had once meant to each other.
He descended the hill and rode back to the ranch. He was just dismounting when he heard
hoofbeats entering the yard and turned to see Fred Ruggles ride in. The Ruggles were now living on the Hammond farm which they, with Jeff’s assistance, had leased from Anne’s father. Everett Hammond, unwilling to live the rest of his life under the scandal of his wife’s death, had gone to live near Alice and her husband and was buying a small farm there.
“Lo, Jeffie,” said Fred.
“Mornin’ Fred, light and come on in.”
“Can
’t stay, just bringin’ a message from Ma. She wants you to come over. Says she needs to talk to you about somethin’.”
“Sure,” said Jeff, “maybe this evening I can . . . “
Fred interrupted, “She says it’s important; says you should come right now.”
Jeff knew better than to argue with Edna Ruggles. He
smiled and climbed back into the saddle. As they rode out of the yard side by side, he asked, “What’s it about, Fred?”
“S
he didn’t say.”
They rode in sil
ence for a time then Jeff asked, “How’s Levi?”
“S
tronger every day.”
“I
’m still surprised he agreed to come and live this close to a town. I guess gettin’ shot can change a man’s point of view.”
“I think
it was Lucy gettin’ carried off that changed him the most.”
The Ruggles
’ farm was as attractive as it had been when it was the Hammond farm. These were industrious people, and Jeff was glad they lived here, but the place was full of memories for him and he never stayed long when he came to visit.
Edna Ruggles was sitting
on the porch when they arrived and the greeting she gave Jeff, though friendly, was brief and business-like. She motioned for him to sit in one of the chairs on the porch, and Fred did the same.
She looked at Fred and said, “Fred, we want to be alone.”
Instantly Fred rose and left.
“That
’s a pretty dress you’re wearing,” said Jeff.
Edna
looked down and smiled, smoothing the fabric with her hands.
Jeff saw
she was holding something on her lap: a bundle of some sort, wrapped in oilcloth.
“I was cleanin
’ out the pantry,” she began, “scrubbin’ the floor, and I found a loose board. I lifted it up to check for black widders and found this underneath.” She handed the bundle to Jeff. He unrolled the oilcloth and found a stack of letters inside. For a few moments he sorted through them then he dropped his hands to his lap and looked away into the distance with unseeing eyes as he caught the realization of an enormous betrayal.
These were letters he had w
ritten to Anne during the war; a young solider writing to his love back home, and letters she had written to him, a young girl writing to her soldier. His had never been delivered and hers had never been sent. It was clear to him what had happened: Audrey Hammond had been the carrier, the one who went to town on errands such as sending letters and picking up the mail. She had intercepted the letters; all the soul-felt words of love, the promises of undying fidelity, the terrible longing and the loneliness, and finally, the anguished pleas for reassurance or at least an explanation.
All the pain and love of two human souls were written on paper, sealed inside these envelopes which had never been delivered. They had lain for years, unopened, wrapped in an oilcloth and hidden under a loose board.
He thought of the irony. He wondered why, and he already knew: Audrey had never liked him. His family had consisted of Old John Havens and Amado Lopez—not the kind of family to lend status in the community. They had never had any money to speak of; it had not been until later, after the war, that Amado and John had done well in the cattle business. Audrey had wanted Milt Carr for a son-in-law; Jeff had known that for years. Milt’s family was prominent in the community and very wealthy. Everyone had known Milt was a young man destined for prosperity. And Milt’s family would have been generous. They would have helped Everett Hammond to rise; perhaps even included him in the family business. John Havens would have done no such thing. He was a man who believed every man should earn whatever he got.
Jeff turned to look at Edna Ruggles and read a deep sympathy in her eyes. It was plain to see she had pieced the story together in her own mind.
“I think she’s waiting for you, Jeffie. I think she has been for a long time.”
Jeff waited across the street from the dress shop until Anne
’s customers, two middle-aged women, had gone. Then he crossed the street, carrying the oilcloth bundle.
When he entered, Anne lo
oked up and smiled at him. He could read her smile now; there was so much in it and in her eyes that had previously been indecipherable to him.
“Hello,” she said, standing up. “Have you come to be fitted for a dress?”
“Hopefully a wedding dress.”
Anne almost laughed, but she caught herself as she realized it was not a joke. His voice was flat and as serious as the expression on his face. She tried to disguise what she felt but Jeff could see through the barrier now, and he remembered that evening long ago when he had returned to her and she had told him she was marrying Milt Carr. His face must have looked something like hers did now.
“If things go well,” Jeff said soberly, “I’ll be getting married soon.”
Trying to sound sincere, she said
, “That’s wonderful Jeff, I’m happy for you.”
He remembered saying something like that to her back
then.
“Who
’s the lucky girl?” she asked.
“Just for the moment
, I’d rather not say.”
“I
’m sorry,” she said, dropping her eyes, “I had no right to ask.”
Ignoring the comment, Jeff said, “I brought something for you to see.” He handed her the bundle. “Edna Ruggles found this unde
r a loose board in the pantry—your mother’s pantry.”
Anne
unwrapped the bundle and picked up the unopened letter lying on top of the stack. She held it for a moment, bewilderment furrowing her brow. She read the postmark: Feb. 10, 1864. She sat down and laid the bundle on her lap. She pulled out another envelope and looked at it, and then another and another, and then she knew. She put her face in her hands and wept.
Presently she looked up, anguish on her face, and
said, “Oh Jeff, I’m so sorry.”
As she d
ried her eyes Jeff said, “Now, about that wedding dress . . .”
She looked up into
his face and read his meaning—there were no more barriers now. Tears sprang into her eyes again, and she gave a little gasp and flung herself into his arms, scattering the letters on the floor at their feet.
*