Free Return of the Outlaw by C. M. Curtis Page A

rightfully belonged to him. He believed he would be in possession of it now, had it not been for the fact his father had been a no-good drunk. The old, familiar feelings of frustration and shame came upon him, and he almost looked around like he had always done as a boy when he walked down the street, feeling sure people were following him with their eyes, watching him covertly and condemning him for his father’s sins. Out of this had grown the shyness of the boy and the reticence of the man.
    He topped a small rise and could see Julio Arroyo’s shanty in the afternoon light. He regarded it for a moment with disdain. What a pitiful thing it was in comparison to what he would have built here. It was such a waste for one old man with a few chickens and goats to occupy the best piece of graze within miles. He felt a sharp, unreasoning hatred for this old man who had been so unappreciative, and had for so long occupied this land to which he had no legitimate claim. Why old John Havens and Amado Lopez had allowed Julio to stay all these years, he had never understood. It was probably, he considered, because the Rafter 8 was so large it was easy for them to ignore a squatter or two. But he, Jennings, had no land at all, and the unfairness of it embittered him a little more each time he thought of it.
    He spurred his mount down the easy slope and crossed the grassy meadow to Julio Arroyo ’s shack. As he drew up in front of the ramshackle dwelling, the old man emerged, bowing through the low doorway, and afterward straightening only a little to regain his habitual stooped posture. He ambled forward a few paces and stopped, looking at Jennings with suspicious eyes. He spoke no greeting, for he was a mute, nor did he offer any other gesture of acknowledgment or welcome. Like most people of his race living north of the border he distrusted the “gringo” law and had found little justice in it for him and his kind. Moreover, he was aware that, for some reason obscure to him, Jennings disliked him. So, he stood in front of his home, guardian of ducks, and chickens, and goats; bent and waiting as the Sheriff drew up a few yards away and sat on his tall horse.
    Looking down at the old man, Jennings was dismayed to feel anger begin to be displaced by feelings of charity. Deep inside, he knew he had no reason to hate this man, and under other circumstances he would have allowed himself to feel compassion. But today he had a job to do, and knowing that compassion fosters guilt, he forced it away and recalled his anger. This was not his choice, he reasoned, he was the law, he had to do his job whether there was benefit to him in it or not. Old Julio just happened to be squatting on Two Mile Meadow. Had it been any other part of Tom Stewart’s land or anyone else’s land, Jennings’ job would still be the same. He was not to blame for this. Besides, who had asked this old man to come and squat here in the first place?
    “I ’m here on official business,” Jennings said stiffly. “Do you understand me?”
    He had never had any dealings with Julio and wasn ’t sure how much English the old man understood, or for that matter, how much the old man understood about anything.  After all, his brain couldn’t be too right: he couldn’t even talk.
    Julio ’s eyes narrowed and he nodded.
    Jennings c ontinued, “You know I’m the Law.” He pointed helpfully to the star on his vest.
    The old man nodded again.
    Again Jennings did silent battle with the better side of himself and again he won by calling upon the deep reserves of anger he carried inside. “This isn’t your land. The man who owns it wants you to move off.”
    The old man straightened his spine a few degrees ; his eyes widened and his mouth opened as if to speak. He began shaking his head with purposeful urgency.
    “You ’ve got no business being out here alone,” Jennings advised him, “You’re old. Go live with your people. Take your ducks and your goats with you.