Return of the Outlaw (35 page)

Mitch Packer was one of the bench ranchers who had already signed papers to sell his ranch to Stewart. He had ridden into town early that afternoon to get drunk and to tell anyone w
ho would listen how unfair life had been to him. It didn’t really matter who he told; Mitch just wanted to talk. Mitch liked to talk, and when things went sour for him, as things generally did because of his indolence and his fondness for drink, he needed someone to blame.

Fogarty observed
that Mitch was not drunk yet, but his voice was growing louder with each passing minute. Now was the time to make his move, before Mitch became too inebriated.

“Makes me mad enough to kill
,” Mitch was saying, addressing himself to no one person in particular. “Man pushes himself from sun up to sun down year in and year out, works himself near to death, so’s a bunch of no good thieves can come in and steal it from him, and then some other thievin’ scum in fancy clothes comes in and offers him ten cents on the dollar and he has to take it, ‘cause he’s going to lose it anyway. A man just can’t get ahead. It ain’t fair, that’s all. You can make yourself old, you can work yourself into an early grave, but somehow, someone’s always going to come along and ruin it all for you.”

“That
’s the sorry truth,” said another, quieter voice.

It was Fogarty, standing next to Mitch Packer
’s table. “You’re so right, my friend,” he continued, “It always happens that way doesn’t it?”

“I
’ve never seen it any different,” responded Packer. “Seems to me you either have to be born rich and have it give to you, or steal it from somebody; and there’s those of us as just won’t do that.”

“Seems like an honest man doesn
’t stand a chance,” said Fogarty as he sat down.

“You got that right.”

“You married?” asked Fogarty.

“Sure am.”

“Kids?”

“
Nine of ‘em.”

Fogarty sh
ook his head. “Too bad. They’re the ones who really suffer; I’ve seen it time after time. A man works his guts out to build something for his family, and the thieves come in and steal it all. Children go hungry, have to move from place to place and grow up and inherit nothing. And what about the thieves?”

“Why,
they live high,” said Mitch. “Fat as hogs.”

Fogarty leaned across the table and spoke softly. “You were right in what you said earlier, it
’s time for the people of this valley to take some action and teach the rustlers they’re not going to sit and take it anymore.”

Mitch had said no
such thing, but it sounded good and he didn’t mind taking the credit for it.

“Those rustlers are just laughing at you cattlemen,” continued Fogarty
. “Take that fellow across the street in jail: Havens. He’s the leader of the rustlers and do you think he’s worried? Not a bit. He’s just sitting there laughing. He knows his pals will spring him, just like they always do. Either that or the law just won’t have enough evidence to convict him. Then he’ll go free and he’ll ruin some more lives.”

Mitch slammed his glass down on the table and uttered a long
, heart-felt stream of profanity. Fogarty stood up and said, “It’s a sorry situation. Too bad somebody doesn’t do something.” Shaking his head, he turned and walked toward the door, leaving Mitch behind him in brooding silence.

But Fogarty knew the silence wouldn
’t last long; Mitch was just trying to decide what to do. The seed had been planted in the fertile soil of Mitch Packer’s bitterness. It would germinate quickly and without further assistance. Fogarty moved on down the street to another saloon, where he bought a glass of whiskey, selected a corner table, and began studying the patrons of that establishment. Within ten minutes he had spotted another subject, and within ten more that unwitting soul found himself in the same state of agitation as Mitch Packer. At the same time, Tom Stewart was drifting back and forth between the two hotels and several saloons, doing the same thing.

All evening the two men moved from establishment to establishment
watching the fires they had set grow larger and fanning the flames; staying farther away from the forefront each time. By nine o’clock that night a very ugly mob was shaping up.

The situation was not wholly unexpected by Sheriff Beeman. He knew the people of the valley needed someon
e on whom to vent their anger, but so far the rustlers had eluded capture or even detection. In fact, the only clue to their existence was the large number of missing cattle and people were growing increasingly angry and frustrated. Now, here he was—or so the townspeople were being told: right in their jail; the leader of the rustler band; the man who had destroyed lives and made children homeless. A man who had killed innocent women and children and had even murdered a minister and his wife, and raped their young daughter—the story grew with each telling, as did the fever pitch of outrage in the town.

Beeman sent for his deputy, Orville Babcock
, just before dark. Babcock acted nervous. “There’s no way we can hold off a mob.”

“I want to move him,” said Beeman, “
but I doubt they’ll do anything until after dark and it would be hard to get him away from here before then without being seen. Go to the livery stable, get his horse and three others ready. Ben will know what we’re up to, so keep him with you. Don’t let him out of your sight.”

“Ben and Havens are good friends,” said Babcock
. “I don’t think he’d tell anybody.”

“They were good friends,” said Beeman. “There
’s no way of knowing who is for him and who’s against him now. He may not have any friends left. When it gets dark, you and Ben take the horses to my place. Hide them out back in the trees. Load one of them with provisions for two men for several days. Havens and I will run for it from here. Be ready for us.”

There was a knock at the door.
Beeman pulled his pistol and said, “Who’s there?”

“Jake Sharp.”

Beeman stepped to the door and opened it a crack. Jacob Sharp was standing outside, holding a shotgun.

“What do you wa
nt, Jake?”

“Can I come in?”

“Hand me your gun.”

Sharp passed the
shotgun through the partially open door.

“Pistol?” asked Beeman.

Sharp pulled a pistol from his belt and handed that also to Beeman.

Beeman opened the door wider and Sharp stepped quickly through. The door was closed and bolted behind him.

“What can I do for you, Jake?”

“I came to see if I could help. There
’s some mighty mean talk going on around town. I’d hate to see them do what they’re talkin’ about doing. I seen it once before, in Kansas. Feller deserved it, it’s true, but it ain’t pretty. I’d hate to see it happen to a friend of mine.”

Beeman eyed Jake suspiciously, “You sure he
’s still a friend of yours? I heard you two had a falling out.”

“A fallin
’ out?” said Jake incredulously, “Well, I may have got a little steamed, and yelled some, but I do that now and again, you know my temper, Alvah. But I’ve worked side by side with that boy, and I know him better than anybody else in this town. I don’t believe a word they’re saying about him. Now you might as well let me help, because you’ll have a hard time gettin’ me to leave here till that mob clears up.”

“All right, Jake, but don
’t do anything I don’t tell you to do, understood?”

“Sure, Alvah, I can take orders.”

Beeman turned to Babcock, “Go now, Orville, but don’t act like you’re in a hurry.”

Babcock started for the door, but Beeman stopped him, “Wait,” he said as he stepped quickly to the gun rack. Pulling a key from his pocket, he un
locked the padlock on the chain that held the guns in the rack. “Take this scatter gun with you.” He handed a shotgun to Babcock.

B
abcock stepped through the door and the men inside heard his boots on the boardwalk as he walked casually toward Ben Houk’s livery stable.

“Jake,” said Beeman, “I want you to walk down the street and stand across from the Red Stallion
—that’s where they’re congregating. If it starts looking like trouble, hotfoot it over here and let me know, but stay in the shadows.” Sharp nodded and went out the door.

Beeman
barred the door behind him and moved quickly across to the door of the cellblock. It was dark inside, but he did not want to light a lamp for fear of making a target of himself or of Jeff.

“Havens?”

“Yeah.”

“We
’re leaving. Step closer where I can see you.”

He heard the cot c
reak as Jeff got up. A second later, Jeff materialized in front of him—a shadow in the gloom. Beeman produced a pair of handcuffs and passed them through the bars. “Put those on good and tight.”

Jeff did as he was told.
Beeman ordered him to hold his hands out while he checked to make sure the handcuffs were tight. He unlocked the cell door and held it as Jeff stepped through. “Walk in front of me.”

Jeff walked ahead
and Beeman followed, keeping about five feet behind him. When they were in the front office, Beeman ordered him into the far corner. “Sit on the floor; we’re leaving in just a few minutes. I’m not going to handcuff you to the chair, because when we leave, we may need to leave fast, but don’t try anything, Havens, because I’ll kill you and then my problems will be over. You understand me?”

“Yeah
.”

There was
more light in the front office than in the cell, and Jeff watched as Beeman went to the gun rack and removed a Winchester lever action carbine. From the desk drawer he removed a box of cartridges and loaded the gun, leaving the chamber empty, ready for the first cartridge to be levered in. He then returned the rifle to the rack, threaded the chain through the lever and re-locked the padlock.

“I
’ll be back in about one minute,” he said to Jeff. “You stay put.”

He opened the door and stepped through, closing it behind him. J
eff heard the door being locked from the outside.

Jeff did not stay put. As the sound of Beeman
’s boot steps receded he was already moving toward the gun rack. He knew the rack was designed so the guns it held could not be taken out without the padlock being unlocked and the chain removed, but he was able to lift the butt of the Winchester up and slide it down over the bottom lip of the rack. At this point the chain caught on the lever and the gun would go no farther. Jeff raised the lever and lowered the gun at the same time, opening the chamber. The reverse action levered the first cartridge into the chamber. Again Jeff pulled the gun down and lifted the lever, ejecting the cartridge from the chamber. He repeated this cycle over and over until he had ejected all the cartridges from the magazine. Replacing the rifle, he gathered the cartridges up from the floor and slipped them behind the gun rack.

He spent a moment listening for any sound that might indic
ate Beeman was returning. Hearing none, he moved quickly to the desk and began opening drawers, groping in the darkness, searching by feel for what he hoped was there. Finally, at the very back of the top drawer, he felt a small metallic object—a key. At that moment he heard the sound of boots striking the boardwalk, approaching at a fast walk. Closing the drawer carefully, he slipped the key into his shirt pocket. Trying to move as quickly as possible without making noise, he started back to the corner of the room. The footsteps stopped in front of the door and Jeff heard the key being inserted just as he dropped into the corner where he had been when Beeman left.

Beeman, ever cautious, held the door open for a moment to all
ow light into the room. Seeing Jeff in the corner, his cuffed hands in front of him, The Sheriff quickly entered and closed the door. Just then came the sound of running boots on the boardwalk. They stopped in front of the door. There was a quick knock and Jake Sharp said urgently, “Its Jake, Alvah, you’d better leave now.”

Beeman moved quickly to the gun rack, unlocked it and removed the Winchester. “Let
’s go.”

They slipped out the door and turned right, keeping close to the building. Beeman led Jeff between the sheriff
’s office and the adjacent building, and as they ran, Jeff heard the angry rumbling of the mob headed toward the jail. It would have been better, he thought, if Beeman had taken time to lock the door. That way it would take the mob longer to discover the jail was empty. He appreciated what Jake Sharp had done and hoped he’d have a chance to thank him some day. It was good to know he wasn’t totally friendless.

When they reached the tre
es Babcock was waiting with the horses. Ben Houk was there too, sitting in the shadows. Jeff recognized one of the horses as Billy Dell’s buckskin. He had sent it back to Marcellin, but not long after, Reef had shown up, leading the horse and carrying a note from Catherine. She wrote that Jeff had saved her son’s life and she would consider it a personal favor if Jeff would keep the horse and saddle. He did.

B
abcock lifted the bulky saddle-pack that held provisions for the trip and tied it behind the sheriff’s saddle. Beeman took the reins from Babcock and mounted, motioning for Jeff to do likewise. Babcock made his selection from one of the two remaining horses. “Who else is going with us?” he asked, indicating the riderless animal.