Backlands

by Michael McGarrity

  They reached the gate to the south cow pasture just as Vernon arrived on his way back from putting out the salt blocks. He told them there were about twenty head of cattle at the dirt tank over the next rise two miles distant.

  “Turn the wagon around and follow us,” Patrick said. The idea of Vernon at the ranch house alone with three women just didn’t sit right.

  “You got something else you need me to do out here?” Vernon asked cantankerously.

  “I’ll let you know if I do,” Patrick said evenly. “Turn the wagon around.”

  Vernon shrugged. “You’re the boss.”

  Patrick turned to Matt. “Get on over to the tank and take a look. We’ll catch up.”

  Matt grinned and spurred Patches into a fast canter, heading up the rise, kicking up dust.

  Patrick slow-trotted along, accompanied by Miguel, Vernon rattling behind in the wagon.

  “I thought galloping was to be done only in an emergency,” Miguel said.

  “A boy on a fast pony might not agree with that notion,” Patrick said with a chuckle as Matt disappeared over the first rise.

  He spurred Calabaza into a fast lope and soon came upon Matt at the hilltop overlooking the dirt tank. Twenty-three cattle lounged nearby. A quarter mile away, two steers and a yearling were at one of the salt blocks Vernon had put out.

  Patrick knew every animal in the bunch. He’d cut each of them from the herd and thrown them into the south pasture, where they would stay until after spring works. None of them had wintered well. About a third were scrubby calves and yearlings abandoned by their mothers, another third were dry stock no longer fit for breeding, and the rest were a mixture of old steers and anemic half-wild heifers Patrick had chased out of their high-country hiding thickets.

  Spring works was for branding, not selling. Typically, Patrick would hold these animals over as feeders until fall, fatten them up, and sell them to the packers along with the rest of the beeves. But this year, with the grasses scant over the winter, a dry spring, and falling cattle prices, reducing the size of his herd now made sense. He’d rest some grassland and build the herd back up next year if the rains came.

  “What are we gonna do, Pa?” Matt asked impatiently, pulling Patrick back to the moment.

  “Walk Patches real slow down to the cows so as not to spook them.”

  “Then what?”

  “Ride him in and out of the bunch a couple times. Pick out a critter and see if Patches is interested in nudging it over to the salt block yonder.”

  “How do I do that?”

  “Keep Patches pointed right at the cow. That’s his target. Don’t let him lose sight of the animal. When it tries to scamper, move Patches sideways, turn him fast, back him up, or draw rein if you have to. The idea is to get Patches thinking it’s a game. If he likes what you’re asking him to do, he’ll catch on.”

  Matt looked uncertain.

  “You can do it,” Patrick said. “You’re a good rider.” Behind, he heard Miguel and Vernon approaching.

  Matt set his jaw, nodded, and walked Patches down to the tank. The bunch stirred, backed up, and scooted away when he got close. He rode a wide circle around the cows before urging Patches toward a small group of yearlings, which quickly scattered. His attempt to move a bellowing heifer toward the salt block ended in a draw when the heifer charged and Matt retreated. He drew rein and gave Patrick a frustrated look.

  “Is the cow dangerous?” Miguel asked Patrick in a whisper.

  “Any critter that big can hurt you if it has a mind to,” Patrick replied. He cupped his hands and called out to Matt. “Try again. Forget about the salt block. Pick one cow and follow it wherever it goes. Get as close to it as you can.”

  On the next try, Matt chased a gaunt yearling a good half mile around the dirt tank. Although he struggled some to stay in front of the bobbing animal, it was clear that both horse and rider liked the chase. With little urging on Matt’s part, Patches stopped and turned quickly, but when the yearling unexpectedly veered and darted away, Matt tried to cut it off by wheeling Patches too abruptly. The pony balked and dumped Matt into a fresh cow pie. He was on his feet and brushing himself off when Patrick and Miguel got to him.

  “Patches never did that to me before,” he said sheepishly. His pony stood quietly nearby.

  “Wasn’t his fault or yours,” Patrick replied as he slid off Calabaza. “Are you all right?”

  Matt nodded. “Yes, sir.”

  “Are you willing to try again?” Patrick asked.

  Matt dusted his hands and nodded bravely. “Yes, sir.”

  “Let’s put you on Calabaza this time,” Patrick added. “He’ll give you a real good idea of what a top cow pony can do.”

  Matt looked uncertain but game. “Okay.”

  “Once you’ve got your critter picked out, all you’ll need to do is give Calabaza a hint of what you want to do. A light touch of the rein will tell him direction. If you want him to run hard, raise the reins.”

  He put Matt’s saddle on Calabaza and gave him a leg up. “Ready?” The bunch, including the sorry-looking yearling that had caused Matt’s wreck, had carelessly reassembled halfway between the dirt tank and the salt block.

  Matt smiled and touched spur to Calabaza. The pony broke into a fast lope and Matt headed him at the largest steer, closing fast. The steer snorted, ducked, twirled like a whirligig, and darted away. Calabaza spun, drew even, and nipped the steer’s shoulder. Angry, it blew snot and turned. Calabaza cut it off. Three more attempts to elude Calabaza left it head down, panting and motionless.

  Matt rode back to the watching men with a grin a mile wide. “Jeepers, that was aces.”

  “You ride real good,” Miguel said admiringly. “Better than me, cabrón.”

  “Thanks.”

  “You’ll make a hand,” Patrick said with a smile.

  “But Ma wants me to go to college,” Matt replied, relishing the compliments.

  “A man can be book smart and still make a hand,” Patrick replied. “We’ll give those critters a rest for a spell while we have our lunch. Then you can take a couple more cracks at that steer before we head home.”

  Matt dropped out of the saddle. “Do you think Patches can be as good as Calabaza?”

  “He’s got the makings, if you’re willing to work with him,” Patrick replied.

  “I am,” Matt said as he stroked Patches’ neck. “I sure am.”

  ***

  After lunch, Patrick and Matt mounted up and worked the steer together while Miguel and Vernon watched the show from the top of the rise. Patrick hazed to keep the steer running straight so Matt could cut the animal from the bunch without difficulty. After three rounds, Matt was getting good at using Patches to pester the critter into submission, and pride of accomplishment shone on his face. The boy looked so downright happy, Patrick didn’t think it necessary to mention that the poor, bedraggled steer was just plum wore out.

  They watered and rested their ponies before starting for home. On the way, Matt asked how long it would take to get Patches trained.

  “It depends on how much time we have to work with him,” Patrick answered. “If you stay at the ranch this summer, we could get it done before school starts.”

  “All summer?” Matt asked.

  Patrick nodded. “His true test as a cow pony will come at fall works, when we gather for market. Then we’ll know how good a job we did with him.”

  “Ma won’t want me to miss the start of school.”

  “She’s persnickety about your schooling; that’s for certain,” Patrick agreed. “But if Patches is gonna be your top pony, you have to be the one to ride and work him. Besides, you haven’t come out for fall works yet. Best you see what gathering a herd is like before motorcars, trucks, filling stations, and paved highways change the world forever.”

  “I’l
l ask her right away.”

  “Wait a spell,” Patrick suggested. “Let her first see how serious you are about doing this.”

  Matt nodded. “That’s a good idea. I had fun today.”

  “Me too,” Patrick replied, wondering if he had finally found a way to make friends with his son. It was a cheerful thought. Over his shoulder Vernon and Miguel lagged a quarter mile back. To the west, the sun signaled plenty of time left to get home for supper. Half a mile up ahead, the gate to the horse pasture marked a thirty-minute ride to the ranch house.

  “I’m dusty and hot,” Patrick announced. “How about you?”

  “Me too,” Matt said.

  “Let’s make for the stock tank in the horse pasture and take a cool dip while the sun is still high.”

  Matt grinned. “That sounds swell. What about Miguel and your hired man?”

  “They can do as they like.”

  “Race you to the gate,” Matt said, spurring Patches forward, giving him his head.

  Patrick kept Calabaza in check, stayed behind, and ate dust all the way to the finish. Matt bragged on his pony all the way to the stock tank.

  ***

  Invited by Patrick to join everyone in the kitchen for dinner, Vernon ate in silence as the young button talked about his afternoon adventure with his pa chasing cows on his pony. The boy’s ma and the older Mexican woman carried on like sisters, and Vernon took to wondering if Patrick’s ex-wife was Mexican herself or maybe a half-breed.

  Although the food was good and he was plenty hungry, he turned down a second helping. Eating with Mexicans just didn’t sit right with him. He eyed the young housekeeper with the big birthmark on her face, wondering if she’d give him a poke if he showed up at the casita real quiet-like later on. The way she moved sure told him it would likely be a good poke, and he sorely needed one. Vernon gave her a big smile as he pushed away from the table, stood, and made his thanks for the meal. The bitch ignored him.

  “Before you call it a day, chop some wood for the cookstove,” Patrick said.

  “Can’t it wait until morning?” Vernon asked.

  “Nope, and we’re low on kindling too.”

  Vernon nodded. “Okay.”

  He went to the tack room first, removed the governor’s pardon from the mattress, and hid it in a space behind the thick plank nailed to the wall that supported the saddle racks.

  Vernon didn’t think Patrick was on to him, but there was no reason to take any chances. He had cogitated on a plan of blackmail and decided if Patrick wanted the pardon back, it would cost him wages due, the fifty dollars locked in his desk, one good saddle horse, and two ponies.

  That was more than enough to get him to his sister’s place in Texas.

  Tomorrow after the two Mexicans left, he’d get Patrick alone and play his hand, and if he turned him down, he’d kill them all. Maybe not the housekeeper; leastways, not right away.

  At the woodpile, he sharpened the ax, split logs, and carried enough firewood to fill the big woodbox in the courtyard. Then he cut a big bundle of kindling and brought it to the kitchen, where the three women yapped away in Spanish as they washed the dishes.

  He gave the Mexican housekeeper another big smile as he left, and again the bitch ignored him. Riled by her swellheaded ways, he pondered dropping the blackmail scheme, killing them all on the spot, and taking whatever he wanted.

  He warmed quickly to the idea. In Arizona he’d murdered two nesters asleep in their bed for a mule, a wagon, and two silver dollars. He could leave here tonight with a hell of a lot more in his pocket than that. He’d get his pistol from the tack room, find and shoot dead Patrick first, and then hunt the rest of them down.

  With moonrise yet to come, he crossed from the house to the barn in the darkening night. He lit the lantern that hung just inside the barn door and carried it to the tack room, where he found Patrick waiting for him, an angry look on his face and a ball-peen hammer in his hand.

  “Where is it?” Patrick demanded.

  “What are you looking for?” Vernon asked, sounding as confused and innocent as possible. “Didn’t I put something away like I should have?”

  “You sorry son of a bitch,” Patrick replied through clenched teeth. “You broke into my army locker. Now, where the hell is the pardon?”

  Vernon smiled meekly, dropped his shoulders, and turned his empty hands palms up. “Look, I was just gonna fun with you; that’s all. Torment you a bit about the fiddle-faddle you tried to pull. I knew you was Pat Floyd from first we met, but I just wanted to prove it for sure. I meant no harm by it.” He could see Patrick wasn’t buying it.

  “What else of mine have you been pawing through?”

  “Nothing.” Vernon raised a hand skyward. “I swear to God.”

  “Give me the damn pardon.”

  “Sure,” Vernon said, sidestepping around Patrick to the head of the bed, where he kept his gunnysack. “Let me get it for you right now. Like I said, I was just funnin’.” He could either take a beating and get sent away afoot and flat busted or leave with money, guns, and ponies.

  With his back to Patrick, Vernon pulled the pistol from the gunnysack, turned, and felt his head explode. He fell to the floor dead.

  Patrick dropped the ball-peen hammer. He’d smashed Vernon’s skull wide open and done murder. There was blood everywhere: on the saddles, the wall, the old Mexican cabinet, the dirt floor, and the bed. He could feel blood on his face, see the splatter on his hand.

  He couldn’t say a word about what had happened; it would ruin the best time Emma and Matt had ever had at the ranch and probably expose him as an ex-convict. He needed to hide Vernon’s body fast. He cleaned his hands and face, emptied the trunk, stuffed Vernon inside, and doused the lantern. After everybody went to bed, he’d come back, wipe up the blood, move Vernon’s body, and search for the pardon.

  Outside, Miguel, Teresa, Evangelina, Emma, and Matt were sitting on the veranda, the lamplight shining through the living room windows casting them in silhouette.

  “Join us,” Emma called merrily. “We’re telling Matt stories about the ranch, and it’s your turn.”

  “I’ll be there as soon as I clean up,” Patrick replied.

  7

  After midnight, when all fell quiet at the ranch, Patrick saddled Calabaza, tied Vernon’s body to a pack animal, and made rapid horse tracks for more than two hours. He stopped at a low mesa that jutted abruptly onto the barren alkali flats, remote and far away from any trail and road. He hid the body in a shallow cave at the foot of the mesa that he’d found years ago while tracking a marauding mountain lion that had been killing his calves.

  He returned home at first light to find Evangelina alone in the kitchen, starting breakfast. A fresh pot of coffee boiled on the stove. Dog tired from his all-night effort, he eased into a chair at the table.

  “Buenos días,” Evangelina said pleasantly. She handed him a cup of coffee and glanced at the kitchen door. “Does your hired man want breakfast?”

  “He quit me last night and left as soon as I paid him,” Patrick answered wearily.

  Evangelina shrugged and turned back to the pot of beans simmering on the stove.

  “No loss,” Kerney added, reading her reaction.

  Evangelina gave him a quick smile over her shoulder.

  “I didn’t like him much either,” Patrick added, and wished he’d held his tongue. Seeing as he’d killed Vernon, saying anything scornful about him wasn’t very smart. He didn’t need to talk himself into trouble.

  Evangelina laughed. “You will hire someone else?”

  “Eventually. When do we eat?”

  “I can make breakfast for you now, if you don’t want to wait for the others.”

  Patrick shook his head, finished his coffee, and stood. “Teresa and Miguel are leaving for home today, so I’ll wait and break bread with th
em. Give me a holler when it’s time.”

  “As you wish, señor,” Evangelina said gaily.

  Evangelina seemed downright pleased and happy to be cooking and caring for the place. It made Patrick wonder if her life in Tularosa wasn’t very agreeable.

  Back at the barn, he fed Calabaza some oats, gave him fresh water, rubbed him down, and put him in his stall. He did the same for the pack pony before turning it out in the horse pasture. He carried his saddle into the tack room, mulling over what still needed to be done to make all traces of Vernon disappear. He couldn’t risk the unlikely chance that some pilgrim lost on the basin might stumble upon Vernon’s body. He decided to return to the cave later in the day, bury Vernon deep, burn all his belongings, collapse the opening with dynamite, and make the rubble look like a natural rock fall. Once that was done, he doubted Vernon’s remains would ever be found.

  He had killed the man in self-defense, but if he reported it and got let off scot-free, the truth that he’d been a convicted felon was sure to come out. He couldn’t abide that, couldn’t stand the idea of neighbors and folks knowing he was once a common thief. He had only his good name and the Double K to take pride in, and he wasn’t about to lose either.

  He took his army locker out of the trunk, set it on the floor, wrapped up Vernon’s bedroll, mattress, and gunnysack in a horse blanket, stuffed the bundle in the trunk, and closed the lid. Calabaza’s soft whinny from his stall made him turn just as Matt stepped into the room.

  “Morning,” Patrick said.

  “Morning, Pa,” Matt said, glancing at the bare and empty bedframe. “What happened to the hired man?”

  “He didn’t like it here, so he quit me last night and struck out for Texas, where his sister lives.”

  “Ma said Tía Teresa didn’t like the look of him at all,” Matt said.

  “Well, Teresa always has had a good eye when it comes to reading folks. When did she take you on as a nephew?”

  Matt’s expression clouded at the thought that maybe Pa didn’t like the notion. “She said I should call her tía. Ma said it was okay; she said that Teresa was like a sister to her.”