suit, each producing a weapon, and the party moved toward the point at the far end of this flat and open area where they saw the old Mexican piling up rocks. As they drew near, the old man seemed to become aware of their presence and acted startled. He straightened, dropped the rock he was holding and stood watching them expectantly as they approached.
Standing to one side, tied to a tree, was the mare Fogarty recognized as the one Jeff Havens had been riding. The pile of rocks was obviously a grave.
Fogarty looked down at the old man in superior disdain. “What are you doing on the T S.?”
The old man looked perplexed and held up his hands in a gesture of non-comprehension. “No entiendo,” he said.
Fogarty looked at the other three men. “Any of you speak Mexican?”
“Geo rge does,” said one of the men. Fogarty’s gaze settled on George.
“I speak it some,” George said and spurred his horse closer to where the old Mexican stood. He said, “Que haces aqui?”
The old man’s words poured forth in his native tongue. He gestured frequently to the pile of stones and to the mare.
Presently, George held up his hand and the old man ceased talking and stood watching them, his hands behind his back like a prisoner awaiting a verdict.
George turned to Fogarty, “Says he heard a man moaning from across the river, came over and saw the horse. The man was already dead when he got here, so he buried him. Says he figured on taking the horse back to town tomorrow.” George gave a derisive chuckle, “I’ll believe that part the week after next Sunday.”
Fogarty asked, “Why didn ’t he take the body to town?”
“These people don ’t trust the white man’s law. Probably afraid he’d get blamed for it.”
Fogarty re-holstered hi s pistol. “Tell the old greaser if I ever see him on T. S. range again I’ll kill him. Get the horse and let’s go.”
As the four men rode away the old Mexican stood watching. His hands were still behind his back , and in his right hand he gripped the handle of the pistol tucked under his belt. He had known he stood no chance against the four of them but he would have killed at least two of them before he died, and to his way of thinking, that would not have been a bad bargain so long as one of the two was Rand Fogarty. He stood there for a long time, watching until the outlaws were out of sight. Then, in well-practiced English, he said, “Yes, Fogarty, you will see me again.”
It was late when Tom Stewart returned to the ranch. He had been in town all afternoon socializing and pretending to be taking care of numerous important items of business. Ever zealous in his campaign to ingratiate himself with important members of the community, he had spent the last few hours of the evening playing cards with several of them. During the game he had steered the conversation to a discussion about Lloyd Jennings, hoping to glean a morsel or two of information about the lawman. To his great satisfaction, Stewart had learn ed something he believed may be the key to controlling the taciturn young sheriff, so the master of the T. S., formerly the Rafter 8, was in exceptionally good humor when he arrived back at the ranch. Nor was his mood dampened when Fogarty told him Jeff Havens was dead. Havens had been a nagging, loose end Stewart had worried about since, using forged documents and a false story, he had taken possession of the Rafter 8 and evicted Amado Lopez and all the hands, replacing them with his own outlaw crew. Now, like an unexpected gift, Havens had placed himself in their hands and was out of the picture. Even the news that Havens had killed Bob Healy was not upsetting to Stewart. In fact, he felt it placed him in a better position legally should anyone make any allegations of foul play in Havens’ death.
“Here ’s how we’ll play it,” Stewart said to Fogarty. “I was in town, and Havens came out here drunk. He said he gambled away the money I paid him for
Standing to one side, tied to a tree, was the mare Fogarty recognized as the one Jeff Havens had been riding. The pile of rocks was obviously a grave.
Fogarty looked down at the old man in superior disdain. “What are you doing on the T S.?”
The old man looked perplexed and held up his hands in a gesture of non-comprehension. “No entiendo,” he said.
Fogarty looked at the other three men. “Any of you speak Mexican?”
“Geo rge does,” said one of the men. Fogarty’s gaze settled on George.
“I speak it some,” George said and spurred his horse closer to where the old Mexican stood. He said, “Que haces aqui?”
The old man’s words poured forth in his native tongue. He gestured frequently to the pile of stones and to the mare.
Presently, George held up his hand and the old man ceased talking and stood watching them, his hands behind his back like a prisoner awaiting a verdict.
George turned to Fogarty, “Says he heard a man moaning from across the river, came over and saw the horse. The man was already dead when he got here, so he buried him. Says he figured on taking the horse back to town tomorrow.” George gave a derisive chuckle, “I’ll believe that part the week after next Sunday.”
Fogarty asked, “Why didn ’t he take the body to town?”
“These people don ’t trust the white man’s law. Probably afraid he’d get blamed for it.”
Fogarty re-holstered hi s pistol. “Tell the old greaser if I ever see him on T. S. range again I’ll kill him. Get the horse and let’s go.”
As the four men rode away the old Mexican stood watching. His hands were still behind his back , and in his right hand he gripped the handle of the pistol tucked under his belt. He had known he stood no chance against the four of them but he would have killed at least two of them before he died, and to his way of thinking, that would not have been a bad bargain so long as one of the two was Rand Fogarty. He stood there for a long time, watching until the outlaws were out of sight. Then, in well-practiced English, he said, “Yes, Fogarty, you will see me again.”
It was late when Tom Stewart returned to the ranch. He had been in town all afternoon socializing and pretending to be taking care of numerous important items of business. Ever zealous in his campaign to ingratiate himself with important members of the community, he had spent the last few hours of the evening playing cards with several of them. During the game he had steered the conversation to a discussion about Lloyd Jennings, hoping to glean a morsel or two of information about the lawman. To his great satisfaction, Stewart had learn ed something he believed may be the key to controlling the taciturn young sheriff, so the master of the T. S., formerly the Rafter 8, was in exceptionally good humor when he arrived back at the ranch. Nor was his mood dampened when Fogarty told him Jeff Havens was dead. Havens had been a nagging, loose end Stewart had worried about since, using forged documents and a false story, he had taken possession of the Rafter 8 and evicted Amado Lopez and all the hands, replacing them with his own outlaw crew. Now, like an unexpected gift, Havens had placed himself in their hands and was out of the picture. Even the news that Havens had killed Bob Healy was not upsetting to Stewart. In fact, he felt it placed him in a better position legally should anyone make any allegations of foul play in Havens’ death.
“Here ’s how we’ll play it,” Stewart said to Fogarty. “I was in town, and Havens came out here drunk. He said he gambled away the money I paid him for
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