“The cattle business,” began Fitzgerald, “was never much good until t
hey built the railroad. Fact is before that, your grandfather and Amado were the only ones around here who ever made any money to speak of raisin’ cattle, and they didn’t make much till the tracks were laid. After the war, when the soldiers came back and set to fightin’ Indians instead of rebels there was some money to be made sellin’ horses to the army, but cows didn’t get profitable till later. Then, of a sudden they were real profitable. People started roundin’ up range cows that had been wild for years. Then it appears all this useless desert has turned into valuable grazin’ land. Everybody starts drivin’ cattle here and drivin’ cattle there, and fightin’ over water, and fightin’ over grazin’ rights.
“
Well, your Grandfather and Amado had a head start on the whole thing. They had already been ranchin’ for years; like I said, not very profitably, but they did sell a few head here and there to miners and settlers for beef. Amado even made a drive once to California. Sold a herd over there in the gold fields, though he didn’t make much on it—losses were too high on the way; cows droppin’ on the trail, Indians drivin’ them off and such. Anyhow, when it got good it got real good. Old John and Amado already had breedin’ stock and a pretty good herd, just runnin’ in the desert, not costin’ them anything. John had filed claim on the land too—land nobody else had been interested in before, and a lot of it. Either he was real smart or just lucky, I never did figure out which. Anyhow, shortly after he died, a slick talker named Tom Stewart shows up with a paper claimin’ you sold the ranch to him and he tells Amado to get off.”
“I
’m surprised Amado didn’t kill him,” said Jeff.
Fitzgerald chuckled, “He would have, but Stewart
’s too smart to ride out there alone. He had gun-slicks backin’ him right from the start. He fired every hand on the ranch and replaced ‘em with his own men—and they’re a rotten bunch.”
“Yeah, I met some of
‘em,” said Jeff dryly. He added, “Dan, I didn’t sell the ranch.”
“We never believed you had but there was no way to prove it. We didn
’t even know where you were. Like I said, Stewart’s smart. My guess is the man’s a professional thief. Been doing it all his life. He knows the thievin’ business like Amado knows the cattle business. Men like him are hard to go up against because they plan ahead for everything.”
“So, what
’s Amado been doing since all this happened?”
Fitzgerald grinned, “He
’s been stealin’ their horses.”
“Why?” asked Jeff.
“Matter of principle I guess. Figures he’s got more right to them horses than Stewart does. Besides, a man’s gotta live.”
“Stewart will kill him if he catches him.”
“That’s true but there’s another business Amado knows as well as the cattle business: the not gettin’ caught business. He’s as tricky as an Indian.”
Jeff grinned
. “He is an Indian. When will he be back?”
“Soon.
Tomorrow, maybe the day after. How about you? Now the ranch is gone there’s nothing to hold you here. Reckon you’ll be headin’ off again, eh?”
Jeff looked at Fitzgerald and in the clear blue eyes the older man saw an honest strength that pleased him.
“Not likely,” said Jeff.
Fitzgerald smiled
. “Hoped you’d say that.”
A week after the incident at the T. S., Tom Stewart rode into town, accompanied by Fogarty. He had several items of business to take care of, but his main interest was finding out what Jennings had accomplished in regards to locating Jeff Havens and evicting Julio Arroyo. Stewart timed his arrival in town to coincide with the hour when Jennings customarily went to the hotel for breakfast. Had Jennings known how closely Stewart had studied him and how well his habits were known to the man, he would have been quite uncomfortable and more than a little suspicious. Stewart and Fogarty were already seated at a table near the door when Jennings entered the hotel. Stewart, acting surprised, stood up and extended his hand.
“Sheriff,” he said, “
good morning, it’s good to see you. Would you care to have breakfast with us? We’d be pleased to have you share our table.”
Jennings, never completely at ease around people, gave an awkward nod and sat down opposite Stewart. Fogarty
, who had remained seated, looked up but said nothing while Jennings ignored him.
“Beautiful day isn
’t it?” said Stewart.
“Nice one,” agreed Jennings. “Be hot later on though.”
A heavy-set woman with a greasy apron arrived to take their orders. Stewart made a few attempts to engage Jennings in conversation but with only moderate success. Fogarty left the table and went to the lobby to procure a newspaper, and for a minute there was silence as Jennings pushed a crumb around on the tablecloth with his finger. Stewart smoked and gazed out the window.
Finally Stewart broke the silenc
e. “I love this country. I don’t care if it is a desert.” He turned to look Jennings in the eyes, for better effect. “It’s the people I appreciate the most. Westerners are the salt of the earth. This is a place for a man to put down roots and raise a family. Everywhere you look, there’s growth: new houses being built, new land being broken for farming, businesses moving in. Soon this will be a large and prosperous community and there won’t be a square foot of land in fifty miles that’s not owned by somebody. This is the time and place for a man to build his future.”
The food arrived on steaming plates at the same time Fogarty returned. Stewart laughed at himself
. “Well, enough of philosophizing, let’s eat.”
When they had finished eating, the waitress came to collect the plates.
“I’ll be covering this,” Stewart told her. Jennings protested, but Stewart was insistent, and took out his coin purse and paid for the meals. He passed around cigars, and after lighting his own, leaned back in his chair exhaling the smoke toward the ceiling.
“Well,” he said, “I guess we
’d all better be about our business. My mother used to tell me, work won’t go away from being ignored.” He rose and shook hands with Jennings. “By the way, Lloyd,” he commented casually, “have you had a chance to do anything about that business we discussed?”
“I paid a call
on old Julio,” said Jennings. “Told him to move off. He didn’t like it much.”
“So is he gone?”
“Don’t know. I’ll be checking on him again this afternoon.”
“What if he refuses to leave?”
Jennings wasn’t sure how to answer this question. He had not yet decided how to handle the eventuality of the old Mexican refusing to leave. He shrugged, unwilling to commit himself one way or another.
Although Stewart was displeased by this response he did not show it. “What about that other matter?”
“I’ve done some checking around. Haven’t found anything out yet.”
Stewart decided it was time to apply some pressure. “We buried a good man last week,
Sheriff. He was a good friend and a faithful employee. Never harmed anyone. A man rode in, and for no good reason, shot him down. Now, I feel very strongly about this. That man needs to be brought to justice.” Here, Stewart assumed a self-righteous tone. “I hate to see this sort of thing happen. Criminals like Havens mock the law. They mock you, Sheriff. If he’s alive, he needs to be brought in, he needs to stand trial, and he needs to be hanged. If he’s dead, I want to see a body. A sheriff is supposed to protect people from killers and criminals, and no one around here will have a right to feel safe until the law does its job and finds Havens—alive or dead.” The words were spoken mildly, so as not to give offense, but with sufficient firmness to convey strong feelings.
A part of Jennings was affronted by the things Stewart had said, yet in an uncomfortable way, he found hi
mself wanting to please the man and wishing he had approached the two assignments more aggressively from the beginning. He couldn’t think of anything to say that seemed appropriate to the situation so, after a moment’s pause he merely said, “I’ll see what I can do,” and turned and walked away.
Stewart was pleased.
Later that morning, when Jennings rode out of town, he was angry. Angry with himself, angry with Julio Arroyo, and angry with Jeff Havens and whoever it was who had found him in the desert. But as he crested the hill and saw the panorama of Two Mile Meadow spread out before him, he was angry most of all with his father.
Fred Jennings and John Havens had been good friends. The two were among the first settlers
in the region. Havens knew Fred wanted Two Mile Meadow and planned to homestead it. He’d planned to do a lot of things thought Lloyd bitterly, but he never did anything but lie around drunk.
John Havens filed on the
land first and told his friend he could have it any time he wanted it. All he had to do was to sober up and stay sober. Those in the community who were older and wiser than young Lloyd recognized what John Havens was trying to do for his friend. But Lloyd resented it and he lay at John William’s doorstep a substantial portion of the blame for all the want and humiliation he had endured as a youth. Now Stewart was offering to sell him Two Mile Meadow—to sell him something that should belong to him anyway. The misdirected resentment in him grew as he thought about it.
Concentrating his gaze on the shanty in the distance, at first he was relieved to see no movement.
Then he saw the stooped form of Julio Arroyo emerge to toss a pan of water into the yard and disappear back into the shack. Jennings cursed the insolence of this old Mexican for disobeying him, the representative of the law, and for placing him in this situation. It had been a week. Why couldn’t the stupid old man just move out like he was told? He spurred his horse hard, venting his anger on the brute. The big animal lunged forward, taking the slope in several bounds and leveling off at a hard run.
Hea
ring the approaching hoof beats, Julio poked his head out of the doorway and immediately pulled it back inside like a desert tortoise.
From the top of a distant hill, Tom St
ewart watched through field glasses as Jennings raced his horse across the meadow. Handing the glasses to Fogarty he said, “Take a look at this. Tell me what you think.”
Fogarty watched for a mom
ent and returned the glasses.
“Why is he driving his horse like that?” asked Stewart.
Fogarty shrugged. “Search me.”
Stewart was merely observing Jennings out of curiosity, but he was about to witness an event that in his wildest imagin
ings he would not have expected.
Jennings
’ anger was focused on Julio Arroyo now, and he intended to remove him from the premises if he had to personally hitch the old mute’s donkey to its cart, load him and all his possessions on it and drive it to Mexican Town.
He reined in hard about twenty feet away from the door of the shack. “Julio,” he shouted. “Old man
, come out here; you’re leaving right now. Pack your gear.”
From out of the d
arkened interior of the shack the old man charged, holding above his head a rusted saber, a tarnished relic of a long ago war, the legacy of some forgotten ancestor. His mouth formed a mute scream as he swung the saber and charged across the space between the house and the spot where the surprised Jennings sat on his horse.
There was li
ttle time for Jennings to think. He merely reacted, and in his angry state he reacted in an angry way. Pulling his gun, he fired point-blank. The bullet struck the old man in the chest.
Staggering backward, Julio wore an expression of complete surprise. He fell on his back and lay flat. He gasped
a few rasping breaths and the rasping ceased.
From the instant the bullet struck the old man, Jennings regretted pulling the
trigger. His anger was gone now and his insides were clutched by fear and remorse. Jumping from his horse, he rushed to Julio’s side.
“Julio, Julio, open your eyes,
talk to me. You’ll be all right. I’ll get the doctor, Julio, please, please.” But even as he spoke, he knew the old mute was already dead. Though he had never killed a human being before, Jennings had always felt he was prepared for it; but this was different. He knew this had been unnecessary. He had killed a harmless old man. He could have easily spurred the horse out of the way. He could have evaded the old man and dealt with the situation in a different way. There had been no need to kill. He knelt over the body for a time, his head bowed under the burden of his remorse.
T
he sound of hoof beats came to his ears and a jolt of fear shot through him. How could he explain this? What would people think of a sheriff who would do such a thing? He stood up and turned to face whoever was coming, trying to think of what to do.
There
were two riders, their horses cantering across the meadow, rapidly closing the distance. There was no time to move the body, no time to hide the awful deed. Soon everyone in the community would know what he had done. He could imagine the outrage.
As the two riders drew near, he recognized them as Stewart and Fogarty. He tried to think of something to tell them, some way t
o justify himself, but he could not force his mind to function. He had no way of knowing Stewart had witnessed the entire event through his field glasses.
As they approached the house Stewart called out, “We heard a shot
, Sheriff! Are you all right?” Drawing closer, he pretended to discover the body on the ground. Dismounting, he ran to the body and bent over it. He stood up slowly, turning to face Jennings. “Lloyd, what on earth happened? He’s dead.”
Jennings pinched his forehead between his thumb and fingers,
then, realizing for the first time he still held his pistol in his hand, he holstered the weapon.
“Talk to me Lloyd,” said Stewart.
“I, I don’t know,” stammered Jennings. “He just came at me. I didn’t have time to think. I didn’t want to kill him. He just came at me with that sword.”
Stewart exchanged a glance with Fogarty.
“I know,” said Jennings, “I should have ridden away from him. I wasn’t thinking. It just happened.” He hung his head and said miserably, “Tom, I’m ruined.”
“No
, Lloyd, we can’t let that happen. You’re too good a man. A man should be able to make a mistake without being destroyed by it. This could’ve happened to anyone.”
Jennings shook his head
. “People won’t accept that; you know it, Tom. Maybe they won’t hang me for it, maybe they won’t even make me stand trial, but I’m ruined. My reputation in this place is wrecked. I’ll always be known as the sheriff who shot down a helpless old man.”
Stewart stepped forward and placed a hand on the younger man
’s shoulder. “Lloyd, you’re not thinking clearly. It’s not fair that a man’s future should be destroyed by one mistake. We’re going to help you.”
“How?
What can you do?”
“I want you to ride out of here. Go north, go south, go anywhere, but whatever y
ou do, come up with a reason you’ve been there. Be gone two hours, then ride back into town.”
Jennings started to speak again, but Stewart interrupted, “Lloyd I want you to trust me. When a man gets into trouble, that
’s when he has to trust his friends. You’re in no position right now to be asking questions.”
Jennings hesitated, glanced at the body lying on the ground and quickly made his decision. He reached down and gathered
the reins of his horse and stepped into the saddle.
Look
ing down at Stewart he said, “Thanks Tom, I won’t forget this.” He turned the horse west and spurred out of the yard.
Jennings rode
to the main road and headed south toward Mexican Town. He wanted it to appear he had ridden directly there from town so no one could place him in the vicinity of Two Mile Meadow that day. After traveling a short distance on the road, he saw Victor Ortega approaching in his wagon. Trying to act casual, despite the emotions he was still feeling, Jennings kept his horse at a walk and pretended to semi-doze in the saddle. His intention was to greet the Mexican politely with a nod and continue on past, but Ortega gestured him to stop. “Señor Yennings, I have news for you. You ask me, I help.” He patted his heavy chest proudly.
“What?” said
Jennings.
“Jeff Havens, I found Jeff Havens, I think.”