Backlands

by Michael McGarrity

  In the kitchen Pa had sliced a canned ham and had spuds boiling on the stove. “You’ve done an ace-high job on this place,” he said.

  “Thanks. I thought you were fixing spaghetti.”

  “Changed my mind. The casita’s yours to use whenever you want it.”

  “I’m obliged.”

  “Sit. Supper’s about ready.”

  Pa poked a fork in the potatoes, declared them done, put the pot aside, quick-seared ham steaks in a hot fry pan, and served up supper along with fresh cups of Arbuckle’s. Matt dug right in.

  “I figured I owed you at least a decent meal for all the work you’ve done,” Pa said as he sawed at his ham steak. “Your ma schooled you well. Are you sparking this young lady that’s coming here?”

  “I’m trying to, but she’s making me wait until she gets better,” Matt replied.

  “What wrong with her?”

  “Tuberculosis.”

  Pa stopped sawing. “She’s a lunger?”

  Matt nodded.

  “Ain’t life taught you nothing?”

  “It’s not the same as with Ma,” Matt replied hotly. “Lots of folks with TB get cured. Beth is doing just fine with her treatments and all.”

  Pa chewed a bite. “Ain’t none of my business. When do you go fetch her?”

  “In the morning from Engle.”

  “Take the truck; you’ll save some time.”

  “I’m obliged. The grub’s good.”

  Pa smiled. “Glad you like it. There are store-bought cookies for dessert. You got dirty-dish duty ’cause I’m leaving for the cabin after we eat.”

  “Fair enough,” Matt said between bites.

  It was getting dark when Pa set off on Calabaza for the cabin. The pony had been up and down the mountain so many times, Pa could fall asleep in the saddle and still arrive there safely. After the dishes were done, Matt turned in early, hoping to get some shut-eye, but he was too wound up and eager to leave for Engle and fetch Beth back to the ranch, especially now that it wasn’t such a shoddy mess.

  For a couple of hours he dozed on and off, with light dreams that flitted through his head and then evaporated each time he shook off the threat of real sleep. Finally he gave up and got out of bed. Fortified with hot, bitter leftover coffee, he started out for Engle in the truck, headlights cutting through the predawn darkness under a star-studded sky.

  Dawn broke as he began the downslope out of Rhodes Canyon, daylight not yet cresting the San Andres and the Jornada slate gray and fading into a pitch-black western horizon. Only a light or two flickered in the slowly vanishing village of Engle, kept barely alive by the railroad, the hotel, the livery, and a few mercantile stores that catered to the surrounding ranchers. He pulled up in front of the hotel expecting to see Gus’s car parked nearby, but it wasn’t there. He circled the block and still didn’t see it. Inside, there was no one on duty at the registration desk and the dining room had just opened. He asked a waitress who was wiping down tables if Professor Merton and his wife and niece were checked in. The woman shrugged and said she didn’t know. At the desk he rang the bell until a sleepy-eyed old man emerged from a back room.

  The man yawned and scratched his beard. “You need a room?”

  “I’m here to meet Professor Merton, his wife, and niece.”

  “Are you Matthew Kerney?”

  “I am.” Matt held his breath.

  “Hold on, there’s a telegram for you.” He thumbed through some papers and put it on the counter. Matt grabbed it. Dated Friday morning, it read:

  MATTHEW KERNEY

  C/O ENGLE HOTEL

  ENGLE, NM

  BETH RELAPSED YESTERDAY.

  CONDITION UNKNOWN.

  CONFINED TO SANATORIUM.

  DOCTORS HOPEFUL.

  TRIP REGRETTABLY CANCELED.

  SEE US WHEN YOU ARRIVE BACK HOME.

  GUS

  Matt read it twice. “Dammit.” He turned away from the room clerk before he choked up. Outside, he thought hard on what to do with Pa’s truck. He damn sure wasn’t going to drive all the way back to the Double K and lope Patches here to catch a train to Las Cruces. That would waste an entire day. At the livery, he paid Ken Mayers, the owner, to store it until Pa showed up, went back to the hotel and wrote a note to Pa to go in the mail explaining what had happened, and caught the first southbound train.

  He didn’t realize until he sat down in the almost empty coach car that he was sweating, his hands were shaking, and his heart was pounding in his chest.

  23

  A week passed before Matt saw Beth again. Propped up in bed, she smiled cheerfully at him as he joined Gus and Consuelo at her side.

  “I’m fine,” she said before Matt could question her about her condition.

  Matt smiled broadly to hide the shock of seeing her so thin and pale. “You look great.”

  “Liar.” She covered her mouth with a handkerchief and coughed. It sounded rough and thick. “Sorry.”

  Consuelo patted her hand. “Are you eating enough?”

  Beth wrinkled her nose, but her eyes never left Matt as she said, “They’re drowning me in milk. I hate milk.”

  “The doctor says it’s of great benefit,” Gus noted.

  “What does he know? He doesn’t have to drink it.”

  Gus laughed. “Your spunk hasn’t diminished one bit.”

  “Then I must be on the mend,” she replied, her gaze still fixed on Matt, who was paying attention only to her.

  Consuelo glanced at them, looked at her husband, and pointedly said, “Don’t we have a few questions for the doctor Beth’s parents want answered?”

  “Yes, of course.” Gus planted a kiss on Beth’s forehead. “We’ll be right back.” He followed Consuelo out the door.

  “I’m a mess,” Beth said apologetically, patting her hair.

  Matt moved close and took her hand. “You’re beautiful.”

  Beth laughed and started coughing again. She fought it off and said, “You’re looking at me with your heart, not your eyes.”

  “Is that bad?”

  “No, I love it. I’m sorry I ruined our weekend at the ranch.”

  “Don’t you worry about that. There will be lots more weekends.”

  Beth’s expression darkened. “I’m not so sure. Hasn’t Uncle Gus told you? My daddy can’t pay for me to stay here anymore.”

  Matt felt a pit open in his stomach. He grabbed her hand. “You can’t leave.”

  “Would you have me remain in this horrid jail?”

  “I didn’t mean that.”

  She smiled and rubbed his hand against her cheek. “I know. If I have to go home to Cleveland, I’ll just pack you in my trunk and take you with me.”

  “Why go at all? Stay here with me. I’ll take care of you.” What was he saying? He had no job, no money.

  Beth touched a finger to her lips as Augustus and Consuelo returned looking very cheery. “Am I cured?” she asked them.

  “Not quite yet,” Augustus replied from the foot of Beth’s bed. “Your father wanted us to find out when you could go home. Your doctor doesn’t believe the weather in Cleveland would be conducive to your health.”

  “So you’ll simply have to stay with us,” Consuelo added gaily, noting the big grin spreading across Matt’s face.

  “I’ll wire Darcy today,” Augustus said. “I’m sure he’ll agree.”

  Beth clapped her hands with glee. “Goody. How soon can you spring me from this place?”

  “On Friday,” Consuelo answered, turning to Matt. “Would you pick her up and bring her home?”

  Matt wanted to whoop with delight when Consuelo said home, but he nodded instead. “I surely will.”

  Augustus wagged a finger at Beth. “Your doctor wants you to gain at least a pound before Friday.”


  “I will,” Beth promised, beaming. “Bring me a quart of milk—two quarts.”

  “And you’re to have no visitors until then,” Consuelo added.

  Beth pouted. “What a spoilsport he is.”

  “Just get better,” Augustus ordered.

  “What’s the Spanish word for better?”

  “Mejorar,” Augustus, Consuelo, and Matt said in unison, which left them all laughing.

  Matt was last out the door. He turned to say good-bye one more time, and Beth threw him a kiss. Her dazzling smile lit him up, and in that instant he knew he would never love anyone more.

  ***

  Beth was discharged from the sanatorium with doctor’s orders to convalesce at home and avoid any unnecessary excitement for several weeks, which to Consuelo’s way of thinking meant limiting Matt to short, supervised visits. Both Augustus and Consuelo took seriously their responsibilities to get Beth healthy and well, so Matt didn’t mind being on his best behavior, although he yearned to have Beth all to himself, and soon. He was certain she was on the mend for good this time.

  When he was with her, he avoided his worries of no job and bleak prospects. But he was truly almost broke, the food in his cupboard was running low, and the Studebaker’s gas tank was on empty. With Sam Miller’s permission, he’d parked the car on Main Street in front of the store with a FOR SALE sign on the windshield asking one hundred dollars, but there was no interest so far. With no cash for gas, he’d taken to walking to Mesilla to see Beth.

  He found temporary work for a week unloading railroad freight cars at a warehouse from midnight to eight in the morning when an extra hand was needed. After his last shift, he walked home exhausted to a cold, dark house, but with the very good feeling of cash wages in his pocket and a grocery list in his head. Sadly, the warehouse boss had no more work for him the next week.

  He turned onto Griggs Avenue to see smoke curling from the kitchen chimney of his house and lamplight shining in the window. He figured Boone Mitchell had returned to claim the suitcase he’d left behind. Since his visit, Matt had gotten several letters from Boone. In the last one, he wrote that several possible jobs hadn’t panned out. Work was scarce and the competition fierce. He was on his way to San Francisco, where a ferry company owned by the railroad was hiring. If that fell through, he wasn’t sure where he’d go next.

  Just yesterday, Matt had received a note from Peggy wondering if Boone had been in touch. She hadn’t heard from him for three weeks. Matt smiled. If Boone was still unemployed and back in Las Cruces, it wasn’t all bad. At least Peggy could stop worrying about him.

  Matt bounded up the front step, opened the door, called out, and got no response. Inside, the man at the kitchen table wasn’t Boone. He was maybe thirty, thin, with an angular face, curly dark hair, a crooked mouth, and a long scar below his cheekbone.

  The smile on Matt’s face froze. “Who in the hell are you?” he demanded. On the table in front of the man were Matt’s last can of sardines and a jar of pickled beets, both empty. In the man’s hand was a cup of steaming-hot coffee from the pot boiling on the stove.

  The man put the cup down, pushed back from the table, and stood, showing empty hands. “Easy there, fella. I’ll pay you for the food I ate. Boone told me to come fetch his suitcase; that’s all. But I got hungry waiting on you. You must be Matt. Fred Tyler’s the name. I didn’t mean to give you a fright.”

  “You startled me; that’s all.”

  Tyler smiled. “Anybody would be troubled, finding a stranger in their home, unexpected and all. Coffee’s hot and fresh. I’ll pay you a nickel for my cup of Arbuckle’s as well, as long as I get a refill. Mind if I sit back down?”

  Matt shucked his coat. “Go ahead.”

  Tyler eased into his chair. “It’s mighty kind of you not to kick me out.”

  “I haven’t decided not to yet.” Matt went to the stove, got coffee, and turned to find Tyler pointing a pistol at him. He froze, with both hands on the cup to keep from dropping it.

  “Best you do as you’re told; otherwise, I’ll shoot you dead.” Tyler didn’t sound friendly anymore. “Walk on over here and empty your pockets.”

  Matt put the coffee cup down on the table and spilled his week’s wages of nineteen dollars and fifty cents on the table in front of Tyler.

  “Where’s the rest of your money?”

  Matt nodded at the empty coffee tin on top of the cupboard.

  “Get it.”

  The barrel of Tyler’s six-shooter followed Matt to the cupboard and back. Matt pushed the tin across the table, and when Tyler reached for it with his free hand, Matt threw his hot coffee in Tyler’s face. Tyler yelled and dropped the pistol, both hands flying to his eyes. Matt picked up the fork Tyler had used to eat his sardines and stabbed him in the arm. Tyler yelped, dropped his hands, and blindly started searching for the pistol, but before he could snare it, Matt slammed Tyler’s head against the table as hard as he could. Then he picked up a frying pan from the kitchen counter and hit Tyler again for good measure. Tyler went limp, his head on the table, blood squirting from his shattered nose.

  Matt grabbed the pistol, threw open the front door, and yelled for Nestor to come and help. He arrived within a few minutes, took one look at Tyler unconscious and bleeding, and turned to Matt.

  “What happened, Mateo?” he asked.

  “He tried to rob and kill me,” Matt explained, the pistol shaky in his hand.

  “Get me some rope,” Nestor said.

  Matt fetched a lasso from his bedroom. Nestor hog-tied Tyler and dumped him on the floor. “He’s not going anywhere.”

  “Gracias.”

  “De nada.” Nestor took the pistol from Matt’s hand and put it on the table. “I get the sheriff, okay?”

  “Sí.” Matt went through the pockets of the winter coat Tyler had draped over a kitchen chair. It looked exactly like the one Boone had worn. In a pocket he found Boone’s hip flask and an unsent letter to Peggy telling her that he had run out of luck and money and was returning to Las Cruces.

  Matt searched Tyler’s pockets. In his wallet he found Boone’s union card from his job at the El Paso rail yards and a piece of paper in Boone’s handwriting with Matt’s name and address. There was also an expired Ohio driver’s license issued to Byron Boyd. The physical description on the license didn’t match Fred Tyler at all.

  Matt put the wallet and its contents on the kitchen table along with the pistol, whiskey flask, and Boone’s letter to Peggy. He stared glumly at the evidence and thought that no matter who Fred Tyler really was, he’d mostly likely murdered Boone. The notion of telling Peggy turned his stomach. He couldn’t do it unless he was absolutely sure.

  ***

  The investigation of the crime on Griggs Avenue fell to Deputy Sheriff Máximo Castaneda, known to all as Moe. A slow-moving, thorough man, Moe stood five foot six, carried two hundred fifty pounds on his bearlike frame, and had been known to fell rowdy drunks with one thunderous punch to the solar plexus. Drunks were his specialty, not suspected felons, so Moe took extra care to get all the facts straight. An hour after careful questioning and evidence gathering, Moe concluded that Matthew Kerney had acted within his right to protect his life and property and hauled a whimpering Fred Tyler off to jail.

  The next morning the local newspaper ran the following headline and story:

  MAN FOILS ATTEMPTED ROBBERY

  Early yesterday, Matthew Kerney of Griggs Ave. risked life and limb to protect himself from an armed intruder he found lurking in his home. With only a kitchen fork and a strong right arm Mr. Kerney severely wounded a transient named Mr. Fred Tyler who held the young man at gunpoint demanding money. Deputy Castaneda said to this reporter that the suspect, who is currently residing in jail awaiting his court appearance, should be grateful he wasn’t killed by his intended victim. Inmate Tyler suffered several hard blows t
o his head, a stab wound to his arm, and burns to his face. Mr. Kerney sustained no injuries. His commendable bravery should be applauded by all law-abiding citizens who have occasion to greet him on the streets of our fair city.

  That afternoon at the hacienda, Beth received him at the front door with a hug. “My brave hero.”

  Matt blushed. “Don’t say that.”

  She pulled him inside and closed the door against the cold. “And why not? I’m about to send the newspaper clipping of your heroic act to Daddy, who has been recently advised by Uncle Gus that you are my beau. Daddy has written back demanding to know your pedigree. He can be such an old stick-in-the-mud sometimes. Even Uncle Gus agrees.”

  “Well, if your father knows I’m your beau, I guess that makes it official.”

  Beth kissed him. “That makes it official. Now, come with me to the library. Uncle Gus wants a full report. And so do I.”

  ***

  Matt’s newfound reputation as an upstanding, commendable citizen brought him work. Tom Farnum, the warehouse foreman for Railway Express Agency who’d hired him temporarily, was so impressed by the newspaper account of Matt’s heroics that he offered him a job as an on-call worker to fill in for absent or sick employees on any of the three shifts. Some weeks Matt worked sixty hours; some weeks he worked ten hours; some none at all. But over the course of a month, he averaged enough wages to pay his bills, keep gas in the Studebaker, and get the electricity and phone turned back on at the house. He also gained ten pounds of muscle from loading and unloading freight cars and carried a special deputy sheriff commission because of the valuables and cash that were transported by rail.

  On the job, Matt got to know the railroad cops who worked the line from Texas to California. He told them what had happened with Fred Tyler and his suspicion that Boone had met with foul play. He gave them copies of Deputy Castaneda’s official report and asked them to ask around about Boone when they had a chance. Because Boone was a union brother and a railroad man, the cops took Matt’s request seriously.