Backlands

by Michael McGarrity

“Are you the law?” Matt asked.

  “I used to be the sheriff of Lincoln County,” Jake replied. “Now I do private detecting work. Mind telling me who the lady is?”

  “Evangelina, my Pa’s wife,” Matt answered. “She was here when Vernon quit and left.”

  “Mind if I water and rest my horses?”

  “Go ahead. There’s coffee on the stove when you’re done.”

  “Thank you kindly.”

  Matt returned to cleaning the chicken coop and pen, a job he truly despised, wondering what was so dang important about finding a man who left the Double K five years ago. From what he recalled about Vernon, he couldn’t think of one good reason anyone would want him found in the first place.

  He’d read novels about private detectives but had never met a real one before. As he watched Mr. Owen water his ponies, tie them to the hitching post, loosen their cinches, and climb the stairs to the veranda, Matt determined to find out more about this mystery.

  ***

  Based on his recent travels, Jake decided the Double K was one of the nicest-looking outfits on the western slope of the Tularosa. The well-built, large house sat on the shelf of a hill overlooking the basin, with a barn, a windmill, a water tank, several outbuildings, and the corral below near a narrow streambed. A small, mud-plastered adobe casita sat behind the main house, enclosed by a courtyard wall connected to the house. The barn was weathered but bigger and more solidly constructed than any Jake had recently seen, and everything, including an old chuck wagon parked beside the barn, appeared to be in apple-pie order. Beyond the house, higher up on the hill, a small family graveyard surrounded by a low picket fence looked out on the Tularosa. It was about the prettiest resting place Jake had caught sight of on the basin.

  With the kitchen door open, a cooling breeze coursed through the room. Over a cup of good, hot coffee, Jake spoke to Evangelina about Vernon. She attested to what the boy had said.

  “He wasn’t a nice man,” Evangelina added. “I was happy when he left.”

  “Wasn’t nice?” Jake echoed, trying not to let the pale birthmark that covered most of her cheek and part of her forehead distract him. It didn’t hide her prettiness. Under the table at his feet, the little button was playing with a miniature cast-iron horse on wheels and a toy Model T Ford coupe. A boy of two with blue eyes, he didn’t look one bit Mexican. He pushed his toys back and forth on the floor, scooting along behind, making motorcar and pony noises and talking to himself in Spanish.

  “How so?” Jake asked.

  Evangelina shrugged. “Just with the looks he gave me and the way he smiled. I think he would like to do mean things to women. Why do you search for him?”

  “His sister in Texas wants to find him. Where did he bunk when he worked here?”

  “In the tack room in the barn.”

  “Mind if I take a look?”

  “There’s nothing of his there, not even the bunk, but you can look if you wish.”

  Jake drained his coffee and stood. “Much obliged. What’s your little boy’s name?”

  “Juan Ignacio Kerney,” Evangelina replied, smiling with obvious pride, “but we call him Johnny. Will you stay for dinner?”

  “I will, and thank you kindly.” On the veranda he came upon Matt. “Mind showing me the tack room?” he asked.

  “Why do you need to see it?” Matt asked.

  “Maybe Vernon left something behind that will help me find him.”

  “I doubt it,” Matt said as he opened the barn door. “Things get lost around here and never found.”

  “Why do you say that?” Jake asked.

  “Pa’s been looking for some papers he misplaced years ago. I think he’s been through every nook and cranny on the ranch. He hasn’t found them yet.”

  Jake held his tongue as he stood in the middle of the tack room, although he was suddenly mighty interested in knowing what Patrick Kerney had been searching for over such a long time and if it had anything to do with Vernon Clagett. He took a quick look around. Saddles, bridles, halters, and ropes were all in their proper places, neatly put away. A big old Mexican cabinet stood against a wall next to a large chest. The boy sat on the chest watching Jake closely.

  “Are you looking for a corpus delicti?” Matt asked jokingly.

  “No, I’m not,” Jake answered. “But you’re a smart young fella to know what that is.”

  “I’m moving to town when school starts so I can go to high school,” Matt replied with a touch of self-conscious pride.

  “High school,” Jake repeated, raising an eyebrow. “That sure is ambitious. I bet your pa is proud.”

  “Not so much,” Matt said. “He’d rather keep me on the ranch helping out.”

  “That’s what most boys your age do, I reckon.”

  “I know, but I’m not ready to quit my schooling. Do you know my Pa?”

  It intrigued Jake that such a young lad would stand so openly against a father’s wishes, but it wasn’t any of his business. “I’ve made his acquaintance a time or two,” he answered.

  “Aren’t you gonna search for evidence?”

  “I don’t see a need to. Where would you look?”

  “Anywhere that isn’t obvious, like behind and under things.”

  “That’s good thinking,” Jake replied as he turned to the door.

  “Why do you want to find Vernon?” Matt asked.

  “His sister needs him at home in Texas,” Jake answered. “Family business and such. Think your pa will let me bunk here for the night?”

  Matt nodded. “But the casita is a lot nicer. It even has a chamber pot and a washbasin.”

  “This will do me fine,” Jake replied, eager to take a closer look at the tack room without any company.

  ***

  Several miles from home, Patrick was intercepted by Matt, who’d ridden out on Patches to bring exciting news that a private detective named Jake Owen was at the house looking for Vernon Clagett.

  Patrick’s pulse quickened. “What did you tell him?” he asked as indifferently as possible.

  “That he’d worked here for a little while,” Matt replied as he rode alongside.

  “It was so long ago, I’d almost forgotten about Vernon,” Patrick lied. “Why is Jake looking for him?”

  “Because Vernon’s sister hired Mr. Owen to find him.”

  Patrick forced a laugh. “Why would anyone want to find that no-account?”

  “He didn’t say.”

  “Well, no matter. I’ll tell Jake what I know and he’ll be on his way. Has he been invited for dinner and to spend the night?”

  “Yep,” Matt replied. “Evangelina’s holding supper until you get home, and I’m plenty hungry.”

  “That won’t do.” Patrick spurred his pony to a trot, his head racing with all the possibilities of what Jake Owen’s visit meant.

  ***

  As soon as Patrick arrived, put away his pony, and washed up, he greeted Jake and sat down for dinner. “My boy says you’re searching for Vernon Clagett,” he said after his first mouthful.

  “I am,” Jake said. The aroma of Evangelina’s enchiladas had his mouth watering in anticipation. “But I’m not about to get up from this plate of good food to go find him.”

  Patrick laughed. “And I sure ain’t about to go with you.”

  Although anxious to know what Jake knew, Patrick stuck to small talk throughout the meal. It wasn’t until they were alone at the kitchen table that Jake returned to the subject of Vernon Clagett.

  “I heard from your wife and boy that Vernon didn’t work for you long,” he said.

  “About a month all told, maybe a few days more,” Patrick answered. “I’d hired him for a temporary job of work, and truth be told I planned to let him go anyway. He quit me before I could fire him.”

  Jake scratched his head.
“But why did he leave by shank’s mare at night?”

  Patrick shrugged. “I don’t know what was in his mind. He wanted to leave right away, so I gave him his wages; he packed up and left. If you ask me, that old boy was a little weak between the ears.”

  “Did he leave anything behind?”

  “I don’t think so. Why do you ask?”

  Jake smiled. “Drifters like Vernon land someplace for a while and often squirrel away what few valuables and private papers they have. Sometimes they forget when they move on. If Vernon got scatterbrained and did that, whatever he left behind might help me find him.”

  “If he did, I would have kept it for him in case he came back looking for his property. He left nothing here as far as I know.”

  “He didn’t steal from you?” Jake asked, probing around Matt’s statement that his pa had been searching for some lost papers for years.

  “Not a dime,” Patrick answered. “He was just an unreliable, hard-drinking man.”

  “How did you come to hire him in the first place?”

  Patrick grimaced. “Jake, you’re plumb wearing me out with these questions and I was tired already. Now, Matt says you want to bunk in the tack room, and I won’t hear of it. Evangelina has the casita all made up for you. If you have more to ask me, we can finish this up in the morning.”

  “You’re right.” Jake pushed back from the table and stood. “That’s mighty kind of you and the missus. I’ll get my bedroll. Buenas noches.”

  “Good night,” Patrick replied.

  Jake stopped at the door. “Did Vernon ever mention a fella named Pat Floyd?”

  The flickering lamplight couldn’t hide the color that rose on Patrick’s cheeks, and he swallowed hard before answering. “I never heard of the man.”

  “I’ll see you in the morning,” Jake said, wondering what soft spot he’d just niggled.

  He got his bedroll from the tack room and ambled to the casita, feeling Patrick Kerney’s eyes on him all the way.

  In the morning after breakfast, Jake brought up Pat Floyd one more time. “Maybe I should be looking for this Pat Floyd fella in order to find Vernon Clagett.”

  Patrick’s jaw tightened and his back stiffened. “You’re doing the detecting work, Jake, not me.”

  Jake sighed as he walked to his saddled and waiting pony. “And I’m not getting anywhere with it; that’s for certain. It’s likely I ain’t ever gonna find old Vernon. Maybe he fell off a cliff and broke his neck or got lost in the basin and died of thirst, his bones scattered by a mountain lion or coyotes. I’ve got half a mind to write his sister and advise her to call off my search.”

  “Do what you think is best,” Patrick said, tension easing from his body.

  “Thanks for making this old boy welcome,” Jake said as he put a leg up and eased into the saddle.

  “Stop by any time.”

  “I appreciate that,” Jake said, now more determined than ever to learn more about the mysterious Pat Floyd. But not yet; he had a few more outfits to visit south of Rhodes Canyon where Clagett might have sought a rancher’s hospitality after quitting the Double K.

  ***

  In the five years since Emma Kerney’s death, Wallace Claiborne Hale and Henry Bowman, exercising their duly appointed responsibilities as trustees for Matthew’s inheritance, made semiannual visits to the Double K ranch to check on the boy’s welfare and progress. Always politely but never warmly received by Patrick Kerney, they left satisfied that Matt was content living on the ranch, got along quite well with his father, and excelled in his studies at the rural, one-room school he attended on a nearby ranch. Matt had also made it clear during their visits that he planned to continue his education after grade school, in keeping with his mother’s wishes.

  Today, a troubled Wallace Claiborne Hale traveled alone to make an unscheduled visit to the Double K. Three months past, a sudden heart attack had killed his good friend Henry Bowman, and Wallace’s impromptu trip was provoked by a letter he’d just received from Patrick Kerney. In it, he wrote that Matt was needed at the ranch and would not be permitted to live in town to attend high school. Why Patrick had decided to go against Emma’s express wishes, spelled out in the trust document, puzzled Hale. Until now he’d expressed no opposition to Matthew’s desire to continue his education.

  Prepared and willing to do battle with Patrick about his decidedly wrongheaded decision, Wallace kept the horse moving at a steady pace on the dreary ride from Engle. A city-raised boy from the East, he liked the comfort and orderliness of town life, loved driving his automobile, and actively lobbied the state legislature and county commission to build more highways. He found no aesthetic inspiration in the stark desert and desolate mountain landscapes of the Tularosa, and today he especially missed Henry’s congenial company and lively conversation, which had made the previous bone-jarring trips to the ranch tolerable.

  There were no clouds in the sky to temper the blistering, blinding sun. Gusting, swirling winds coming from every direction had coated his face and hands with fine dust and sand. Most creatures were wisely hiding from the noonday heat, except for a few stray cows, standing as stationary and silent as statues, and several large, dangerous-looking snakes stretched out like broomsticks in the middle of the road. Only once did he encounter another soul, an old cowboy with a bushy white mustache who mumbled howdy as he trotted by leading a packhorse.

  He arrived at the ranch parched and cranky but determined to put on a pleasant face and hear Patrick out before making his argument on Matt’s behalf, if indeed the boy hadn’t changed his mind about continuing his schooling.

  The Double K had a reputation for being one of the nicest outfits on the Tularosa, and in comparison to the hardscrabble ranches surrounding it, that was indeed the case. But in Wallace Claiborne Hale’s opinion, it still came up short, lacking the basic amenities of indoor plumbing, electricity, and telephone service. It was so primitive that water for household use had to be hauled by hand from a well, and so remote that an expedition had to be mounted to go to the mailbox.

  Matt was at the corral watching his father riding a large horse that didn’t seem too eager to cooperate. As Patrick tried to turn the animal to the left, it balked, snorted, bobbed its head, and kicked its rear legs. Each effort Patrick made to turn the beast caused the same aggressive behaviors.

  Hale had never understood why anyone got pleasure sitting on the back of such potentially dangerous creatures. He saw nothing romantic about it whatsoever. He stepped down from the buggy and greeted Matt with a wave and a smile. The boy had sprouted since Hale’s last visit. He was now a gangly juvenile, all arms and legs, with his father’s square shoulders and his mother’s blue eyes.

  “Hello, Matthew,” he said as the boy drew near.

  “Howdy, Mr. Hale. I got your letter about Mr. Bowman dying. Sorry to hear it. I liked him.”

  “So did I, Matthew,” Hale replied. “He is missed by many folks.”

  “What brings you to the Double K?”

  “As the sole remaining trustee of your estate, I thought it best to give you and your father a complete report.”

  “Have we run out of money?” Matt asked, worry creeping into his voice.

  Hale chuckled. “On the contrary, Mr. Bowman made some wise stock investments on your behalf. I’ll go over it in detail with you and your father. You haven’t changed your mind about high school, have you?”

  Matt glanced in his pa’s direction. “Nope, but Pa has dug in his heels about me going. He wants me to stay put and help out here. Says I don’t need more schooling.”

  Wallace patted Matt’s shoulder. “Let me see what I can work out with him.”

  Matt smiled anxiously. “I sure hope you can do something.”

  Wallace handed Matt a wrapped package. “I’ve brought you two books; Babbitt by Sinclair Lewis and One of Ours by Willa Cather. One of
Ours is about a farm boy who goes off to fight in the Great War. It won a great literary prize. I hope you’ll like both of them.”

  Matt tore open the package and inspected the books. “That’s swell of you. Thanks, Mr. Hale.”

  “You’re welcome,” Hale replied, grabbing his bag from the buggy. “Mind if I wash some of the dust off?”

  “Shucks no,” Matt answered. “Pardon my manners. You go on and get settled in the casita. I’ll take care of your pony.”

  “Thank you.” Hale waved to Patrick Kerney in the corral, who’d dismounted and was now slowly walking the pony in circles, for whatever reason Wallace couldn’t begin to imagine. Patrick nodded slightly in return.

  Grateful to get out of the sun, Wallace went straight to the casita, drenched his face in the cool water of the washbasin, changed into a fresh shirt, and went to the kitchen, where Evangelina greeted him with a warm smile. She put a finger to her lips and pointed to her young son, asleep on a pile of blankets under the window. On the veranda, Hale asked how she was.

  “We are all fine, Señor Hale. It is a nice surprise to see you here again so soon. How sad for you to lose your friend Señor Bowman.”

  “Yes, very sad.” Wallace carefully studied Evangelina. He knew Patrick Kerney’s mistreatment of Emma had caused her to divorce him; thus, he always looked for any visible sign that the same might be happening to Evangelina. She seemed in perfect health. “How is young Johnny?” he asked.

  “Ah, such a handful,” she replied. “I chase him everywhere. Only when he sleeps do I rest.” She looked back into the kitchen. “Tonight I will fix a beef stew for you for dinner.”

  “That sounds delicious,” Wallace said, not at all pleased at the prospect. “Are you happy and well?”

  “Oh, sí,” she answered, but there was no joy in her voice or merriment in her eyes.

  ***

  Wallace Claiborne Hale had practiced to perfection the ability to appear cordial and disarming in the most demanding circumstances, until he gauged it was time to strike on a client’s behalf. At the dinner table, he kept the conversation centered on topics important to ranchers: the weather, range conditions, beef prices, and in Patrick’s case, the weak market for cutting horses and cow ponies. After dinner, in the living room, he began with a straightforward recitation of the trust’s financial particulars—what was devoted to real estate, bank deposits, stock—and the total current net worth, which showed a healthy growth in liquid assets.