Backlands

by Michael McGarrity

  “I’m therefore happy to report that new earnings have erased all expenses paid to date on Matthew’s behalf and added a nice profit to the trust,” Hale concluded.

  From the chair behind his desk, Patrick simply nodded and said nothing.

  Wallace turned to Matthew, who sat next to him on the couch. “Your mother would be pleased. If we continue to see such satisfying results from Mr. Bowman’s investments, you’ll be handsomely provided for well beyond your eighteenth birthday.”

  “Is there enough now for Pa to hire help so I can go to high school?” Matt asked.

  “There certainly is,” Wallace replied.

  “High school ain’t gonna teach you how to run this ranch,” Patrick said sharply to Matt. “And that’s what’s important. You get along to bed now.”

  Matt didn’t move from the couch.

  “Go on,” Patrick ordered.

  Matt stood with his back straight, his eyes locked on Patrick, and with only the slightest quaver in his voice said, “Yes, sir, I’m going. But I’ve been looking forward to high school and maybe college afterward for a long time, and I’m not being sassy about it. It’s what I want to do and what Ma wanted for me.”

  He took a deep breath, turned to Wallace, and said, “Good night, Mr. Hale.”

  “Good night, Matthew,” Wallace said, admiring his gumption.

  Patrick waited to speak until he heard Matt’s bedroom door close. “Like I wrote in my letter, Matt stays here, and that’s the end of it.”

  “Not quite, Mr. Kerney,” Wallace replied amiably. “When you married Evangelina, the trust ceased paying her a salary, but at your request it agreed to send the same monthly allotment directly to you for Matthew’s upkeep.”

  “What’s your point?”

  “These past three years, we’ve not asked for an accounting of those expenses from you,” Hale replied. “Legally, the trust is entitled to such an accounting and can, if it is found to be reasonable, demand the repayment of any funds you’ve received that were not specifically spent for Matthew’s benefit.”

  “I’ve put a roof over his head and food on the table for him,” Patrick blustered.

  “Which the state and the law expects of you as his father,” Hale noted without rancor. “Certainly you can’t think that Matthew’s trust should reimburse you for doing what every responsible parent does for a child.”

  “Of course not,” Patrick said, glaring at Hale.

  “I didn’t think so. Should I request an accounting?”

  Patrick leaned forward in his chair. “You do that and I’ll hire a lawyer to ask the court to put me in charge of Matt’s trust. I’m the boy’s pa, and by thunder that counts for something in the eyes of the law.”

  Hale nodded. “That’s true enough. But if you choose to take such action, I will do my very best to convince a judge to be sympathetic about a dying mother’s last wishes for her son and unsparing in his censure of a father who misused money she left specifically for that child.”

  “You’re bluffing.”

  Wallace smiled engagingly. “No, Mr. Kerney, I welcome the challenge.”

  Patrick snorted and leaned back in his chair.

  “Perhaps we can compromise,” Hale suggested. “If you allow Matthew to attend high school in Las Cruces, the trust will increase the monthly stipend you receive to cover the additional expenses incurred for you to visit him regularly and ensure his well-being. I’ll make all the arrangements for the trust to hire suitable adult supervision for Matthew during the school year. He’ll stay at the Griggs Avenue house. I’ll have the renters vacate and make sure it is furnished and in good order for Matthew before he arrives.”

  “How much of an increase?” Patrick asked.

  “The trust will send you sixty dollars a month starting when Matthew begins school.” It was a generous offer. Over the course of a year, Patrick would receive seven hundred and twenty dollars, nearly twice what a typical ranch hand earned.

  Patrick stared at Hale hard for a full minute, working his jaw as though he was chewing over the offer. Finally, he said, “Okay.”

  Hale got to his feet. “Excellent. I’ll put our agreement in writing and have it for you to sign in the morning. Good night, Mr. Kerney.”

  “Good night.” Happy with the outcome, Patrick watched Hale leave before he allowed himself a smile. He needed the money and Matt wanted more schooling, so they both would profit. It was a good deal all the way around.

  ***

  Matt crept quietly across the veranda, climbed through his open bedroom window, and stretched out on his bed. He’d heard every word between Mr. Hale and Pa and didn’t know whether to whoop for joy or blubber like a baby. Maybe both, he reckoned. He had to be worth more to Pa than money, didn’t he? They got along okay, mostly because Matt tried real hard to please him. And on Pa’s part, although earning praise from him was rare, he’d never raised a hand to Matt yet. They both shared a love of horses, and over time Matt had come to cherish ranch life, but other than that, he didn’t think Pa cared about him much at all.

  From what he could tell, Pa was the same with Johnny. He never really played with him or showed much interest in all the new things little kids learn at that age, no matter how much Johnny pestered him for attention. Pa was Pa and probably never would change.

  No matter, he was going to high school after fall works, and that was something to crow about! He couldn’t wait.

  11

  To Jake Owen’s way of thinking, the fact that Vernon Clagett walked away from the Double K five years ago, never to be seen again, meant he’d probably met with foul play. He reasoned that Vernon had to know the basin some from his time at the ranch and likely would have stayed on the public road that cut across the heart of the Tularosa or taken one of the ranch roads that wandered to canyon or high-country outfits and homesteads. In either case, if Clagett left the Double K alive, as Patrick Kerney said, and wasn’t laid low by some bandit, within twenty-four hours he would have showed up somewhere looking for a meal, a place to lay his head, a job—or maybe all three.

  Asking folks to remember something from five years back tested their recollection, but everyone Jake questioned swore that a stranger afoot at their door would have been impossible to forget no matter how long ago it had happened. Jake believed them simply because if he’d encountered anyone traveling shank’s mare through the remote backcountry of the Tularosa, it would have been a jaw-dropping experience etched firmly in his mind.

  The additional fact that Clagett had planned to travel home to Texas and never made it further fueled Jake’s reasoning that he got held up and killed. He sorely doubted Clagett had traveled cross-country through the badlands and lost his way. That would have made him dumber than a village idiot.

  Yet with all his deducing, Jake remained frustrated, with no answers. He’d visited ranches south of Rhodes Canyon, ridden the radius of a day’s hike from the Double K looking for bleached human bones along the way, asked about the mysterious Pat Floyd, and gained no advantage whatsoever for his efforts.

  Before starting out from his ranch on his second swing, Jake had written Edna Mae Bryan to report no progress. It sure looked like he’d be sending the same news to her in his next letter, and he didn’t like that notion one bit. There was one spread left on his list to visit, the Rocking J, owned by Al Jennings; then he’d drift homeward bound. He glanced quickly skyward; it was getting on to midmorning. He’d raise up the Rocking J long before dinnertime.

  ***

  He arrived at the Rocking J to find Al Jennings and a traveling blacksmith shoeing ponies outside a slat-board horse barn next to a squat windmill on a wooden tower that creaked as it whirled in a steady breeze. Sheltered in a forest meadow, the horse barn and a small, four-room ranch house of stone and mud-plastered adobe faced west, with a view through the trees of the dry, dusty Jornada tablelands below.r />
  While unexpected visitors were never obliged to lend a helping hand, it was always neighborly to do so. Jake pitched in, and well before dinnertime all Al’s ponies were freshly shod, and the blacksmith, who was due at a ranch on the Jornada early in the morning, had packed up his gear and gone on his way. Jake and Al loitered on the porch while Dolly and Al Jr. studied the Sears catalogue at the kitchen table in anticipation of an upcoming supply trip to town.

  Jake asked Al about Vernon Clagett.

  He slapped his knee and guffawed. “He was a piece of work, I’ll tell ya. I only met him a few times after Patrick hired him to fence his pasture. Last time was when we went to that surprise party Patrick threw for Emma at the ranch. He was an oily kind of fella, toadying around Patrick, but in a needling way. Patrick said if I wanted to get his dander up to call him Squirrel. It was a moniker he hated. He sort of looked like a squirrel too. Right off, I couldn’t understand why Kerney hired him.”

  “He told you Clagett’s nickname was Squirrel?” Jake asked, thinking if Vernon disliked the handle that much, why disclose it? That made no sense, unless maybe Kerney knew Clagett from an earlier time and a different place.

  Al nodded affirmatively. “That old squirrely fella just mostly stayed to himself. He wasn’t a friendly sort.”

  “When did Kerney hire him to fence a pasture?” Jake asked.

  “I don’t recall exactly,” Al replied. “But it wasn’t long before the party. Patrick set him up at an old shepherd’s cabin for a time before he brought him over to the ranch to help out before spring works.”

  “Where might that cabin be?”

  “Head southeast from here about six miles on the ranch road,” Al directed. “You’ll see a gate on your left. The place is pretty much caved in. Why are you looking for him?”

  “Clagett just might become a Texas oil millionaire if I can find him,” Jake replied. “At least that’s what his sister hopes. He owns a quarter section next to a top-producing oil field.”

  “If that’s true, the Almighty sure works in mysterious ways,” Al remarked sardonically.

  “Amen to that, brother,” Jake chuckled.

  After they filled their bellies at dinner, Jake and Al traded stories, talking of livestock, bloodlines, and times of drought until it was time to turn in. Eager as he was to search the shepherd’s cabin come morning, Jake fell asleep quickly and slept soundly on a soft bed of straw in the horse barn.

  ***

  In a cool morning drizzle from a big cloud parked over the west slope of the mountains, Jake searched the ruins of the shepherd’s cabin. Finally he decided anything once hidden had long ago decayed to dust or been carried away by rats or crows. The rain cloud blew to the north, the sky cleared, and in the heat of the day he made tracks across the basin to the village of Tularosa, where he sent a telegram to the state of Arizona superintendent of prisons requesting additional information about ex-convict Vernon Clagett, including his nickname and known associates in prison, and a record search for a former inmate with the handle of Pat Floyd. He asked that the reply be sent to him care of the Lincoln County sheriff’s office in Carrizozo.

  He stabled his ponies, rented a hotel room, paid for a bath, and spent a good, long time soaking his bones in a tub before dressing and stepping out for a drink of whiskey at the best speakeasy in town, which also served up a good, thick beefsteak dinner. Inside the town’s grandest hotel, the speakeasy was a wide-open, walk-in establishment that had once been the most popular bar on the basin, with thespian companies staging popular plays of the day, dance hall girls putting on burlesque shows, and wagering tables filled with cowboys, tinhorns, and locals gambling away their money.

  He ordered a whiskey at the ornate bar, thinking maybe Prohibition was the law only in the other forty-seven states of the U.S. of A., because it sure didn’t seem that way in New Mexico. He ate a leisurely meal capped off with a piece of warm apple pie before strolling down a lane under tall, cool cottonwoods to a rambling adobe near the river.

  Jake had talked to everybody who’d been at the Double K the night Clagett disappeared, except the Chávez family members. He knocked at the open door and was greeted by a very pretty dark-eyed little girl no more than four years old who stared up at him and said nothing.

  Behind her, Teresa Chávez quickly appeared. She’d aged over the years since he’d last seen her but was still a handsome woman.

  Jake tipped his hat. “I’m Jake Owen, señora,” he said. “I don’t know if you remember me, but sometime back I was Lincoln County sheriff, and your husband’s cousin, Edmundo, was a deputy of mine. You were kind enough to feed and put us up a time or two when we were traveling through on official business.”

  Teresa smiled and stood aside. “Sí, Sheriff Owen, come in.”

  The large room, with a huge fireplace at one end, served as the kitchen, dining room, and family parlor. A long table stood squarely in the middle, surrounded by benches and chairs. Hand-carved cabinets and chests rested against a two-foot-thick outer adobe wall with three small windows that looked out on the courtyard.

  “Are you hungry?” Teresa asked as she picked up the little girl.

  “No, ma’am, but I appreciate the offer. I’m here to ask about a person I’m looking for, a fella by the name of Vernon Clagett. You met him some years back at the Double K.”

  Teresa sat with the little girl at the table and motioned for Jake to do the same. “The strange man Patrick hired years ago?”

  “That’s right,” Jake said as he removed his hat and took a seat across from Teresa.

  “I can tell you nothing about him.”

  “Do you remember him leaving the ranch?”

  Teresa nodded. “That is what Patrick told us. I did not see much of him.”

  “He quit and left the night of the fiesta.”

  “That is what I understand.”

  “Your son Miguel was with you at the ranch.”

  Teresa smiled and nodded. “Yes, as was my brother Flaviano and his wife, Cristina. They are in Albuquerque and won’t return until the end of the week.” She patted the little girl’s cheek. “This is Miguel’s daughter, Carmelia, my youngest grandchild. He and Bernadette are expecting another baby any day now.”

  “Well, that’s mighty fine,” Jake said. “Where is Miguel now?”

  Teresa nodded at the open door. “You’ll find him at the casita across the meadow waiting anxiously for the baby to come. Carmelia’s birth was difficult, so he hasn’t been in the fields for two days.”

  “Do you know a Pat Floyd?” Jake asked.

  Teresa’s smile faded. “Who?” she asked unconvincingly.

  “Pat Floyd,” Jack repeated.

  Teresa shook her head. “No, I do not. Do you seek him as well?”

  “I’m looking for anybody who may have known Vernon Clagett,” Jake replied. “Pat Floyd’s name came up.”

  Each time he’d said the name, Teresa seemed uncomfortable. Jake dropped the subject. “Last I heard, Edmundo was still living in White Oaks; is that right?”

  “Sí,” she answered with some relief. “Have you been to the Double K recently?”

  “I surely have.”

  “How are they?” Teresa asked. “How is Evangelina? Juan Ignacio? Matthew? It’s been months since I’ve seen them.”

  “They’re all doing just fine, as far as I can tell.”

  Teresa’s smile returned, but a bit forced. “Bueno.”

  “Have you ever known Patrick Kerney to use another name?” Jake asked.

  Teresa stiffened. “I have known him since he was a little boy, and he has always been Patrick Kerney. Why do you ask me such questions?”

  “Sorry, ma’am, to have made you uncomfortable,” Jake said as he stood. “But I think you know the name Pat Floyd, and it would be a boon to me if you’d answer truthfully. I ain’t looking to
cause the man trouble, just find out what he knows about Vernon Clagett.”

  Teresa walked Jake to the door. “Buenas noches, Sheriff.”

  Jake shook his head sadly. “This isn’t about the law, señora. Vernon’s family wants him found and sent home safe and sound if possible. They don’t know whether to grieve or continue to hope. They’re counting on me to help. It must break a body’s heart not to know the whereabouts or the fate of a loved one.”

  “Such pain that would bring,” Teresa said sympathetically. She touched her heart and took a deep breath. “I know nothing for certain, only an old rumor my husband once told me long ago. Speak to your former deputy, Edmundo. He may know more about this person you seek.”

  “Gracias, señora.” Jake tipped his hat and walked through the meadow, scattering a small herd of grazing sheep, wondering why worry was in her voice when she’d asked about Patrick Kerney’s family and why she had failed to mention him.

  He called out for Miguel Chávez at the lane in front the casita, under the branches of tall cottonwoods that concealed him in shadows. He moved closer to the house and was met by a nervous-looking man at the front door.

  “I’m Miguel Chávez,” Miguel said anxiously. “I saw you coming from my mother’s casa. Did she send you over here?”

  “Yes, she did. I’m Jake Owen and I’m looking to find Vernon Clagett.”

  “Ah, Sheriff Owen, I remember you from a long time ago when I was very small,” Miguel said.

  “I hear your wife is about to have a baby, so I won’t take much of your time.”

  “I have nothing but time,” Miguel said sheepishly. “I am banished to the kitchen while my wife’s mother and sisters are with her, with orders to race over and bring my madre when told to do so. The women say that is all I am good for right now. Who do you look for?”