The Last Ranch
Page 12
James shook hands and said, “I am James Kaytennae. My young nephew is Jasper Daklugie. I have brought him here at his grandmother’s request so he can work for you. You do not need to pay him. He has almost sixteen summers and is strong for his age. He wishes to fight in the war but is too young. I have told him he must wait for the next war, which will come when he has twenty summers.”
Jasper Daklugie smiled at the prospect of becoming a warrior as he slid out of his saddle and stood by his pony.
Rendered speechless, Matt nodded a greeting in the boy’s direction and returned his attention to James Kaytennae. He was Patrick’s age, maybe a few years older. He wore his long hair in braids under his hat and was thick through the chest with a narrow waist cinched by a belt with a turquoise-and-silver buckle. Kaytennae had called Patrick by an Apache name Matt had never heard before, and had announced he’d brought his young nephew to the ranch to work for free, while offhandedly predicting with great certainty that another war would start in about five years. It was a hell of a lot of information to take in all at once.
After chewing on his choices for a moment, Matt picked the easiest topic to question. “You want Jasper to work here for free?”
James nodded. “Yes, for room and board.”
Matt looked over his shoulder for Patrick. Where was he? Probably in the outhouse, where he seems to be spending more and more time the older he gets. He returned his attention to James Kaytennae. “What kind of trouble is the boy in?”
“No trouble,” James replied calmly. “He has been chosen by tribal leaders to study cattle ranching. We need our young men to gain experience from ranchers like you and your father to help improve our herd.”
“How do you know my father?” Matt asked.
Patrick’s voice boomed from the veranda. “Don’t answer that!”
Matt turned in time to see him adjusting his suspenders.
James Kaytennae smiled. “Ah, Walks Alone.”
“Don’t call me that,” Patrick thundered.
“It is a good name,” James countered. “You should be honored to have it.”
Patrick thudded down the veranda steps on his bad leg. “I don’t see why.”
“Because not many White Eyes are given an Apache name,” James answered.
Patrick stopped a nose short of Kaytennae’s face. “It was you that gave me that damn handle.”
James didn’t budge. “That’s even more of a reason for you to be happy with it.”
“You’re still uppity,” Patrick said, breaking into a smile. “How long has it been?”
“Too long, Walks Alone,” Kaytennae replied.
Still flummoxed, Matt turned to Jasper Daklugie. “Do you know what this is all about?”
Jasper nodded. “Yes, Uncle has often told me the story.”
“Well, then I guess it’s my turn to hear it,” Matt said.
“He will do so if you ask,” Jasper replied.
***
Over coffee in the kitchen, James recounted the story he’d obviously enjoyed telling many times. As a boy during the wars with the White Eyes, he’d hidden on the ranch with his sister, who was about to have a baby and had suffered a badly broken leg. Unable to continue their travels and without any food, James stole a chicken from the ranch house, only to be tracked down and captured by Matt’s grandfather, John Kerney, and his partner, Cal Doran.
His sister went into labor before they could be taken to the ranch headquarters, and in spite of John Kerney’s attempt during a raging thunderstorm to save the infant, it died in childbirth. Under watchful eyes, they were made prisoners at the ranch, although well treated and cared for, until his sister had recovered enough to travel home. While at the ranch, James, who knew no English, gave Patrick the name Walks Alone—although he kept it to himself during his captivity.
Accompanied by Patrick, John Kerney drove James and his sister in a wagon across the Tularosa and high into the forest to the reservation near the sacred mountain. As they approached the fort they were met by more than thirty Apache warriors who showed their silent gratitude for sparing James and his sister by accompanying the wagon to the post headquarters. It had been an honor conferred upon few White Eyes.
Years later, after John Kerney’s death, James became a tribal police officer. Ordered to guide Patrick and Cal Doran to Pine Tree Canyon, where they were to deliver a hundred and fifty head of cattle purchased for the tribe, James had kept silent about his identity until the journey was almost over. Only then did he reveal himself and tell Patrick how he’d come to give him an Apache name so many years ago. Insulted to be called Walks Alone, Patrick had ridden off in a huff.
James paused to smile at the memory of Patrick’s bluster. He had no humor then and probably very little now.
“While we were at Pine Tree Canyon, Patrick met the girl who was to become his wife and your mother,” he continued, looking directly at Matt. “She was living there with her sister and brother-in-law, but not happy. When we left, she came with us.”
James avoided mentioning the names of the woman and brother-in-law, long dead, to keep their spirits from becoming ghosts and spreading sickness.
Taken aback by information he’d never heard before, Matt held up his hand to stop James and quickly turned to Patrick. “I never knew how or where you met Ma, or about her living with a sister on the reservation and leaving with you and Cal.”
Patrick shrugged as he glanced pointedly at James. It would not do to tell Matt the whole truth. “It never crossed my mind to tell you. I guess your ma felt it wasn’t important either.”
James nodded to signal his understanding, but his enjoyment in telling the story had vanished. It was rude to interrupt a speaker, even more so a storyteller in the middle of his tale. Perhaps Matt and Patrick knew no better. He fell silent.
“Please tell me more,” Matt prodded.
To convey his displeasure James remained mute. He considered recounting how, some moons after helping Walks Alone rescue his future bride, he’d returned and killed the brother-in-law for stealing from his people and badly mistreating the young woman. It was a well-deserved killing that he’d relished then and still relished now. He’d never admitted the killing to anyone before and decided to say nothing of it, although he knew Walks Alone would be happy to know the truth.
He waited until Matt lowered his gaze before continuing. But since it no longer pleased him to continue the story in his usual great detail, he drastically shortened it. “Some time passed before I saw Cal Doran again, when he was the law hunting for the killers of Judge Fountain and his son,” he said. “More summers later, He Who Steals Horses told me of his dream that Cal Doran and Patrick needed me, so I came and worked here until I had money to buy enough ponies to get married.”
He pushed his empty coffee cup aside. “And that is the story of how we came to know each other over these many years.”
Jasper raised an eyebrow, as his uncle had left much unsaid, especially the part he liked best of how he had tracked two horse thieves who’d stolen ponies from the ranch and shot them out of their saddles dead.
The steely look in James’s eyes kept him silent.
Matt quietly mulled over what he’d heard. Though a firm believer in reality, he had a hard time shaking off the feeling that his grandfather’s long-ago act of human decency had created some sort of magic for his family. He sensed it more than knew it, but the Apache people—who continued to maintain a singular disdain for the white man—simply didn’t mysteriously show up twice at the ranch over a span of many decades offering their help when none had been asked for. Yet here sat James Kaytennae and Jasper Daklugie at his kitchen table at a time when Matt wanted nothing more than to find a way to go back to college. It was all very perplexing to his logical mind.
He waited, hoping for more from James, but the look on his face made it clear he had fin
ished. “Why do you call Patrick ‘Walks Alone’?” Matt asked. “You never explained.”
“Because it is who he is,” James replied, feeling no further need to elaborate.
This time, Patrick didn’t grouse about the moniker. He glanced at Jasper and without consulting Matt said, “The boy will get wages just like any other hand.” He figured to pay it out of his veteran’s pension if need be.
James nodded his approval.
The deal had been struck. Jasper beamed with pleasure.
As it was exactly what he’d intended to propose, Matt didn’t say a word. Instead, he thought it wise to shut up and pour James and Jasper another cup of coffee.
***
By the end of the week it was clear to Matt that Patrick and Jasper had hit it off. Jasper’s deference to elders was part of it, but mostly it was his easygoing nature and sly sense of humor that won Patrick over. As for Jasper, it was apparent that he held Patrick in the highest regard for his role in the legendary rescue of James Kaytennae and his sister during the wars with the White Eyes.
Patrick basked in the boy’s respect and seemed rejuvenated by it. Matt noticed a lot more energy in the old boy when it came to doing his share of the chores. Additionally, he’d taken on the role of schooling Jasper in the finer points of ranching, and when it was his turn to cook, suppertime meals improved vastly.
Matt got to thinking that Patrick seemed to get along better with folks who weren’t his blood kin. That sure had been true with little Ginny, Anna Lynn, and now with Jasper. He made that observation to Patrick one night after Jasper turned in.
From his seat on the living room couch, Patrick frowned and turned off the radio. “Why are you licking at old wounds?”
“That’s not what I’m doing,” Matt replied as he scanned the bank statement that had come in the mail. “I’m glad to see you taking an interest in Jasper, that’s all.”
“I know I weren’t much of a pa to you, but I thought we had a truce about that.”
“We do,” Matt slipped the current bank statement into the top desk drawer and leaned back in his chair.
“Then what in the blazes are you saying?”
“Haul in your horns; I’m not looking to argue with you. Maybe it’s just that you’re less ornery in your dotage.” Matt smiled to signal he meant no offense.
“That’s a hell of a thing to say to me,” Patrick replied in an injured voice. He’d turned seventy earlier in the year and with his bum leg, his old war wound, and his worn-down body, he wasn’t enjoying getting older one damn bit.
Matt laughed. “I take it back. Are you game for riding along when I take Jasper on a tour of the ranch? There’s a lot of backcountry for him to get familiar with. I figure we’ll be three days in the saddle camping out.”
“Hell yes, I’m game,” Patrick said with gusto. “Just try to leave me behind and see what happens.”
Matt rose from his desk chair and stretched. “I wouldn’t dare want to rile you. Get a good night’s sleep. We leave after breakfast.”
***
They left in the morning on horseback, heading south with Patrick in the lead and a pack animal carrying victuals and supplies trotting alongside Jasper.
Matt hung back with Jasper to point out some of the prominent ranch landmarks, the hidden canyons where live streams ran year-round, the pastures where the grass was scant and short in the spring, where deeded land gave way to leased land owned by the state, and the western boundary to the southern section of the Army Air Corps bombing range.
They skirted the desolate Alkali Flats and paralleled the state road westward toward Rhodes Canyon before veering north into higher country in the direction of the 7-Bar-K line cabin, where they would spend the night.
Jasper asked a lot of good questions about the land, and Matt liked that. Tall, lanky, and smart, he had high cheekbones and a narrow nose reminiscent of his uncle’s, and thick, almost perfectly straight eyelashes above dark, oval eyes that gave his face a serious cast and made him look older than his years. It was easy to forget he was only approaching sixteen.
They ate their noon meal of hardtack and beef jerky in their saddles, stopping only to give their ponies a good blow after hard climbs up rocky trails. At sunset, they arrived at the cabin pleasantly cloistered in an oval clearing. Built by Cal Doran while Patrick was fighting with the Rough Riders in Cuba, it had a stove; two cots; a small table with two chairs; a pantry stocked with emergency provisions; and a cord of split, seasoned, and stacked firewood convenient to the front door. A sturdy corral a few steps away enclosed a small hay shed with a barrel of oats. Fresh water flowed to a galvanized metal trough, gravity-fed by a pipe from a nearby stream. It was always agreeable in late spring and summer to leave the searing heat of the basin for the relative coolness of the cabin.
Matt set about fixing supper while Jasper and Patrick tended to the ponies. He cut up and sautéed potatoes, onions, and a small can of green chilies in bacon drippings; mixed in a large tin of corned-beef hash; added salt, pepper, and garlic salt; let it simmer for a time; and served it up. After supper, while Jasper did KP, Matt and Patrick wandered over to the corral and checked the ponies for any sores or bruises. To the west, through a gap in the mountains, clouds hovered above the distant Blank Range, burning bright orange in the sunset.
“From what I see, he makes a hand,” Patrick ventured. “At least he knows his way around the ponies.”
“I agree,” Matt allowed. “He’ll do to help you run the spread.”
“You’re fixing to go back to college, aren’t you?”
Matt nodded. “As soon as I can.”
“You’re the boss of this outfit, so do what you want.”
Matt ignored the dig and kept silent.
Patrick scanned the sky. “Storm coming our way late tomorrow,” he predicted.
“Best we get an early start so we can hunker down when it hits,” Matt suggested.
They turned back to the cabin in time to see Jasper spreading his bedroll under the low branches of a nearby juniper tree.
“We wore the boy out some, I reckon,” Matt said.
“He’s no more worn-out than me,” Patrick said, yawning.
***
Throughout the following day, Patrick’s prediction of a storm appeared sadly farfetched. The three riders traveled the vast high desert tableland of the Jornada under a starkly blue cloudless sky in sweltering heat. By the time they’d turned east to enter the soft foothill trail through Mockingbird Gap, Matt had completely given up on any chance of rain.
They plodded along, men and ponies alike weary and thirsty. To the south, Salinas Peak signaled the northerly thrust of the San Andres Mountains, home to the 7-Bar-K Ranch. North lay the Oscura Mountains overlooking the bombing range, where the military had thrown up the mysterious army post in the middle of nowhere.
Matt had planned to take Patrick and Jasper into the Oscuras for a look-see at the military goings-on, but instead he veered toward a little-known spring in a half-forgotten slot canyon that cut into the westerly backside of the Little Burro Mountains.
Luckily, a trickle of live water from the springs filled a shallow pool in a polished stone crevice hidden by a leafy old desert willow. The narrow valley chute between the Little Burro and Mockingbird Mountains provided a clear nighttime view of the distant lights from the army encampment. Matt decided to make camp there so that Patrick and Jasper might have a glimpse, however remote, of what he’d seen.
After supper, clouds rolled in and hurried nighttime. Jasper made a small fire, more for enjoyment than for warmth. As the night deepened and the fire became a bed of glowing embers, the three men watched dozens of lights flickering and twinkling miles away at the old McDonald spread. Behind them deep, rolling thunder sounded the promise of rain but brought only a slight drizzle to the camp, barely enough to dampen their hats.
The drizzle continued. They turned in on bedrolls covered with their rain slicks, serenaded by distant thunder and an occasional bolt of lightning that danced across the sky. Long before morning the uneasiness of the ponies brought Matt out of a restless sleep. Low clouds hid the stars, but the promise of dawn eased the darkness.
Thinking Patrick and Jasper were still asleep, he sat up and quietly pulled on his boots, only to hear them moving about and shucking off their rain slicks. He was ten feet away from the ponies when the earth trembled, the wind roared, and the sun seemed to fall from the dark sky, exploding into a brilliant whiteness that rose up to become a massive, roiling, ravenous cloud.
He stood blinded, convinced he was consigned to permanent darkness, never to see again. He didn’t begin to breathe until his good eye—his only eye—began to register the image of an enormous mushroom-shaped cloud in the distance rising to the heavens.
Momentarily mesmerized by the spectacle, the three men quickly struck camp and silently rode away from the horrifying sight.
***
Back home, the event was reported on the radio as the explosion of a large munitions dump in a remote southern New Mexico desert that had caused no injuries and only negligible damage. That preposterous lie was laid bare mere days later when atomic bombs dropped by army flyboys destroyed the Japanese cities of Hiroshima and Nagasaki, ending the war.
10
Chief Petty Officer Mary Ralston, age twenty-four, the only daughter and youngest child of Clyde and Shirley Ralston of Santa Fe County, New Mexico, approached the Quonset hut Personnel Office at the Treasure Island US Naval Station carrying her duffel bag and small suitcase. With mixed emotions she was about to leave the navy after four years on active duty.