Backlands

by Michael McGarrity

  Worn out, Patches blew snot. Matt slid out of the saddle and started slowly afoot for town, more than a little leery to go home, not just for the scolding that surely awaited him, but because of the nightmarish fear that had haunted him since Ma got sick: One day he’d find her on the kitchen floor not breathing or lying cold in her bed.

  He remounted Patches at the river, crossed, and trotted toward town, wondering what Ma would say or do to him once he got there. Only once before in his whole life, when he was six, she had paddled him for stealing coins out of the money jar she kept on the kitchen counter and lying about it. Maybe tonight he’d get a second walloping. The thought of it made him feel even more dismal.

  At the house, Matt quietly unsaddled Patches, walked him into his stall, wiped him down, and gave him oats and fresh water. All the lights burning inside the house seemed a warning sign for him to stay away. Was Ma home alone, or were those men he’d met at the bank with her? He rubbed Patches’ ear, which earned him a contented snort, wondering if he should go inside or just stay with his pony until Ma got tired of waiting for him.

  But what if she wasn’t alone? Or was out in the cold night looking for him? Or maybe getting deathly sick again like he feared?

  The scent of woodsmoke from the chimney made the thought of a warm kitchen and a cozy bed more appealing than a thin covering of straw in his pony’s stall. Besides, he knew Ma would stay on the lookout for him all night if need be. He squared his shoulders, took a deep breath, marched inside, and shucked his coat. Ma was alone, sitting at the kitchen table. She didn’t look at him, didn’t say a word as she got up and took a plate of warm food from the oven and carried it to his place at the table. Matt got a glass of milk and sat, his eyes fixed on Ma, who acted busy searching through her sewing basket, as if he wasn’t even there.

  “Ma, I’m sorry,” he said.

  She just shook her head and said nothing. Her jaw was clamped shut hard, and she had one of those icy looks in her eyes that Matt hated.

  “You can switch me if you want,” he offered.

  Ma flicked a glance at him like he was a complete stranger.

  Miserable but hungry, Matt lowered his head and ate his food in silence.

  When he finished, Ma took his plate, watched as he swallowed the last of his milk, and said, “Go to your room and stay there.”

  He gathered his schoolbooks. “I said I was sorry.”

  Ma pointed toward his bedroom.

  Matt waited for her to say something more, but she turned back to her sewing. Defeated, he trudged to his room, threw himself on the bed, and tried hard not to cry. Sniffling, he opened his schoolbook to the arithmetic lesson Mr. Savacool had assigned for tomorrow. It would have been better if Ma had walloped him.

  ***

  Morning came, and Ma greeted Matt with silence until he was at the kitchen table staring unhappily at a steaming-hot bowl of oatmeal.

  “Are you still planning to run away from home?” she asked as she placed a pitcher of milk next to his oatmeal.

  Matt shook his head. “No, ma’am, and I wasn’t really going to anyway.”

  “Don’t you ever put a fright like that into me again,” Ma said with a half smile.

  Matt smiled back. “I won’t, I promise.”

  Ma ruffled his hair and gave him a quick kiss on the cheek. “Did you finish your homework last night?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Good. Eat your breakfast.”

  Matt poured milk on the oatmeal and picked up his spoon. “I don’t want you to die,” he said suddenly, the words spilling out.

  “Hush now,” Ma replied gently. “I’m still here and there’s no need for such sorrowful talk so early in the morning.”

  Matt forced a smile, gave his ma a serious nod, and said, “Okay.”

  “It’s a lovely morning,” Ma said, “and a walk will do me good. Would you like some company again on your way to school?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Matt replied happily, glad all was forgiven.

  ***

  On the walk to school, Jimmy Potter rushed up. “Morning,” he said to Ma as he careened to a stop next to Matt.

  “Good morning, Jimmy,” Ma replied.

  He nudged Matt with an elbow. “I got something to tell you,” he whispered low, almost bursting with excitement.

  “What is it?” Matt whispered back, glancing up at Ma, who didn’t seem at all interested in the conversation.

  Jimmy shook his head. “I’ll tell you at school.”

  Wise in the ways of boys and their secrets, Ma slowed her pace. “You boys go on ahead.”

  Jimmy grinned. “Race you!” he dared, breaking into full stride.

  “No fair!” Matt yelled, chasing full tilt after him.

  At the schoolhouse, the boys came to a panting stop in a dead heat.

  “What’s the big secret?” Matt asked after catching his breath.

  “I saw a golden eagle down by the river yesterday and I found its nest high up in a big old cottonwood. It’s huge—maybe four, five feet round and deep, real deep. Biggest bird nest I ever saw.”

  “You sure it was an eagle?” Matt asked.

  “You bet,” Jimmy replied, spreading his arms wide. “It was no more than a hundred feet above me, floating over the river, not even beating its wings. My pa says this is mating season, when they lay eggs, so there should be two of them, but I only saw one.”

  “Maybe it’s just an old nest,” Matt said, feeling a twinge of regret for being absent during such a grand discovery.

  “Nope,” Jimmy said authoritatively. “There’s fresh rabbit fur and bones scattered at the base of the cottonwood. Gopher and prairie dog bones too. Even some snakeskin. We gotta go right after school.”

  “Count me in,” Matt said.

  “Nobody’s to know except us two and Joe Pete,” Jimmy cautioned.

  “Mum’s the word,” Matt said. He knew Jimmy had a single-shot .22 rifle and sometimes went bird hunting with his father. “You’re not gonna shoot it, are you?”

  Jimmy shook his head. “Pa says not to. But I’d sure like to find some eagle feathers.”

  “Me too,” Matt echoed.

  “I’ll bring along my pa’s field glasses,” Jimmy said.

  Joe Pete caught up to Matt and Jimmy just as Mr. Savacool rang the school bell. As they hurried to their classroom, they told him about the after-school expedition.

  “That’s okay with me,” Joe Pete said with a grin as he shoved Matt up against the crowded hallway wall.

  “Get off me, you lug!” Matt hooted, shoving back.

  During recess and lunch the three chums made plans for the adventure. According to Jimmy, the eagle’s nest was a far piece outside of town, deep in the bosque. To save time, the boys agreed to travel by horseback, which would give them plenty of daylight to look for the eagle and investigate the nest. Joe Pete, who didn’t have a pony, would ride double with Matt on Patches, and Jimmy would be on Blue, his roan mare. Matt volunteered to bring snacks and Joe Pete agreed to bring a canteen of water.

  When school let out, the boys split up and raced home. Matt slammed inside the house, out of breath and flushed with excitement, and told Ma about their plans to go by horseback to look for an eagle Jimmy had spotted in the bosque.

  “Jimmy’s bringing field glasses, Joe Pete the water, and I’m to bring something to eat,” he added. “Can I take some cookies?”

  “Of course,” Ma said, smiling at Matthew’s bubbling enthusiasm. “I’ll put up a bag of snacks for you and the boys while you change and saddle Patches.”

  “You’re the best,” Matt said with a grin.

  “But I want you home before dark,” Ma said, “and you must promise to be careful.”

  “I promise,” Matt replied as he hurried to his room to change out of his school clothes.
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  He dressed in a hurry, had Patches saddled and bridled lickety-split, and came upon Joe Pete running down the road from his house, the canteen looped on his belt and bouncing against his hip. He gave him a hand up and broke Patches into a trot. Up ahead, past the last building on Main Street, Jimmy sat ahorseback waiting. They joined up, Jimmy took the lead, and soon they were past the last levee in thick bosque, dodging Patches and Blue around stands of brush and trees.

  They broke into the open, crossed a wide, sandy channel where the river had once wandered, stopped under a stand of old cottonwoods heavy with buds on thick branches, and dismounted.

  “We’ll walk from here,” Jimmy said in a low voice.

  “I don’t see any eagles,” Joe Pete noted, his head craned skyward. “You made it all up, didn’t you?”

  “Did not,” Jimmy replied, punching Joe Pete on the arm.

  Joe Pete playfully shoved Jimmy to the ground.

  “Stop horsing around,” Matt said. “Where’s the nest?”

  “Yonder a ways,” Jimmy replied as he brushed twigs and leaves off the seat of his pants.

  “Let’s go,” Matt urged.

  Once again, Jimmy took the lead, and soon they were at the base of a mighty cottonwood with a trunk wider than the smokestacks of the power plant in town. High up, an eagle nest lodged against the tree trunk, supported by two large lateral branches, the bottom bulging fit to burst.

  “Holy cow,” Joe Pete said.

  A shadow flashed above the crown of the cottonwood, followed by a high-pitched scream of kee-kee-kee, and there it was, floating away, white at the wing tips, gold at the nape.

  “Hot diggity,” Matt said, pointing at a speck high above it. “There’s another one!”

  Mouths agape, the boys watched in silence as the majestic birds danced in the sky, swooping up, plummeting down, sweeping around each other in an ever-shrinking arc. Finally, the eagles circled away, across the Rio Grande toward the rock-strewn Robledo Mountains northwest of town.

  “I bet there are eggs in the nest,” Jimmy said. “I’m climbing to see.”

  “Dibs after you,” Matt called as he watched Jimmy hoist himself onto a low branch that curled almost to the ground.

  Jimmy made his way quickly up the tree, pausing halfway to smile down at his pals. “Whoo-e,” he hollered. “This is high. Any sign of the eagles?”

  “Nope,” Joe Pete answered. “I’m last, so hurry up. Otherwise it will be too dark for me to get a look.”

  “Just hold your horses,” Jimmy said as he continued climbing.

  “I’m starting up,” Matt announced, swinging onto the low branch. He threw a leg over it, pulled himself upright, found his footing, and scrambled upward. Above, Jimmy had almost reached the nest.

  “What do you see?” Joe Pete yelled.

  “Nothing yet,” Jimmy replied.

  Matt was a good twenty feet above the ground when Jimmy crawled out on a branch that supported the nest and rose to take a look.

  “It’s empty,” Jimmy reported as the branch cracked and gave way. He tumbled down, arms and legs flailing, crashing against the boughs, the eagles’ nest disintegrating around him as it also fell. He landed with a thud, his head bouncing hard against an old log.

  Matt scurried down the tree to Joe Pete, who was at Jimmy’s side trying to rouse him. Blood gushed from a wound in the back of Jimmy’s head, and he wasn’t moving.

  “Take Blue,” Matt ordered. “Ride to town. Get help. Leave the canteen.”

  Joe Pete stood frozen, staring at Jimmy’s bloody head and vacant eyes. “Is he dead?”

  “Go on,” Matt shouted. “Get!”

  Joe Pete dropped the canteen on the ground and ran to get Blue.

  Matt shucked his coat, took off his shirt, and tried to stem the blood from the wound, but it just soaked through the shirt and kept bleeding. He poured water on Jimmy’s face to wake him, tried shaking him conscious, yelled his name over and over. Jimmy didn’t move.

  He lowered an ear to Jimmy’s mouth. He wasn’t breathing. He put his ear to Jimmy’s chest. His heart wasn’t beating.

  Matt sank back on his haunches, tears rolling down his face. He kept Jimmy company without moving, shivering in the cold until Joe Pete and a posse of men with lanterns gleaming in the dusk arrived.

  “I should have caught you,” Matt whispered into Jimmy’s ear as hands pulled him away. “I should have caught you.”

  It was the worst day of Matthew Kerney’s young life.

  3

  Patrick Kerney slipped into one of the last remaining empty seats at the back of the church. Up ahead, the small casket containing Jimmy Potter’s body stood in front of the altar rail. Except for soft organ music from the choir loft above, the occasional shuffling of feet, and a stifled cough or two, silence reigned. In the front pew Patrick could make out the broad back and big shoulders of Jimmy’s father, Luke Potter. Luke had been a friend since his arrival in Engle some years back. He’d come from Kansas to supervise the vast freight yards built by the railroad to store and ship materials to the massive Elephant Butte Dam construction project on the Rio Grande. When the job ended, Luke got promoted and transferred to Las Cruces. Patrick hadn’t seen much of him since then.

  Luke’s wife, Jeannie, sat next to him. She was a tall, thin woman, quiet by nature. Her sunny personality and intelligent brown eyes livened up her otherwise plain features. She slumped against Luke as if the spark in her had been permanently extinguished.

  On the same aisle two rows back, Emma sat with Matt, her arm wrapped protectively around his shoulders. Patrick had long given up the notion that Emma would ever reconcile with him enough to let him back into her heart or into her bed. Instead, they had forged a tense, polite truce based on his promise to do his best to be a good father to the boy. Two years of trying hadn’t done much to strengthen the ties that bind. Patrick accepted his share of the blame, but Matt had never warmed to him, and Emma always seemed to have one reason or another to cut short their ranch visits.

  They’d settled into a routine of three ranch visits a year during Matt’s school holidays. Although Patrick would never say it aloud, that suited him fine. He just didn’t have much of a talent for fathering. He’d proved that long ago with CJ, the day he shot the boy’s pony after riding it half drunk, getting bucked off, and crashing headfirst into the stubbing post. They scuffled over it, and CJ left the ranch that very day, never to come back.

  That was the last Patrick saw of him. His sodden stupidity caused CJ to run off to the army and get himself killed in France. The memory of it pursued him daily, one of many dim-witted blunders he’d made over the years that had kept him drinking until Emma forced him to stop.

  In the pulpit, the preacher cleared his throat, shuffled a few pages in his big Bible, and looked out over the congregation. Not one for religion or speechifying, Patrick stopped listening before the preacher’s sermon began, his thoughts wandering to Matt. He’d heard tell that some folks held the boy responsible for the accident, saying he’d shamed and bullied Jimmy into climbing that old cottonwood tree to peek into the eagle’s nest. Patrick didn’t believe it and hoped Luke and Jeannie didn’t either. But if they did, he’d stand behind Matt come what may, no matter where the balance of truth fell. Emma would rightly expect no less from him. The boy had to be hurting miserably over seeing his friend die before his very eyes. Patrick knew that feeling all too well from his experiences with the Rough Riders in Cuba.

  Patrick couldn’t tell how Emma was faring through the tragedy. He knew she’d been mighty sick until recently, with the folks in town who knew her best worrying about her and fearing the worst. But last week, his lawyer had sent a copy of the registered deed for two sections of homesteaded land in the San Andres Mountains backlands Patrick had bought from a hardscrabble sheep rancher. In a note inside it, the lawyer wrote that Emma was much improve
d and back to her old self again.

  He didn’t doubt it, looking at her straight back and square shoulders. She’d always been slender, but now she looked frail. He wondered if her latest recovery would hold true for long. So many times during their marriage, he’d seen her recover from a bad spell only to decline again into poor health. So many times, he’d heard the doctors warn her to take better care of herself or accept the inevitable that someday she’d become a bedridden invalid. So many times he’d gone to sleep next to her wondering if he’d wake up in the morning to find her dead.

  He’d never stopped worrying about her. In spite of their breakup, all the harsh, bitter words that passed between them, and the times she’d driven him half loco with her ways, he’d never loved anybody more. He studied the line of her long neck, just visible above her collar, and yearned for their happier days together.

  As the pastor read a lengthy passage of scripture, Patrick shook off his glum thoughts and mulled over what he planned to do with his newly bought two sections. The twelve hundred eighty acres were some distance away from his ranch holdings and mostly surrounded by marginal government land that drew few pilgrims willing to stake a homestead claim. It had been overgrazed by the sheep rancher but not chewed down to the roots. If the wet weather held through spring, the grasses would start to come back.

  With the war over these last two years, the Brits no longer buying American beef to feed their army, and on-the-hoof prices falling, he had no intention of buying more cattle to pasture on his new acreage. After spring works, when his steers, the barren cows, and some of the culled yearlings sold, he’d pay his outstanding bills, fence the two sections, knock down the small shepherd’s shack, sink a well near the live water source, and hold it in reserve for the next drought, which would surely come; of that he was certain. And when it came, a rested, high-country pasture with live water and good browse might mean the difference between the survival and the failure of the Double K.