Hard Country

by Michael McGarrity

  She fully expected them to try to pester her into talking, but so far they were ignoring her. That suited her just fine. She passed the morning hours silently, listening to the sounds of clattering hooves and creaking leather, her thoughts straying over and over again to the moment she found Molly’s lifeless body in the crib.

  With the noon sun high above and the day warming, they entered a large pasture that stretched for several miles to the base of a mountain that looked like a gigantic fortress carved out of rock. Stone turrets, battlements, towers, and parapets rose and stretched in colossal proportions across the summit as the sun washed the mountain golden.

  Emma caught her breath. She had never seen anything like it. For weeks since Molly’s death, she’d cried each night into her pillow. Sometimes tears of sadness, sometimes tears of anger, but always tears for the emptiness inside that cut into her heart like a two-edged sword. How she missed that sweet child.

  She gazed at the mountain with the sun warm on her face. Knowing Molly would never see such a sight, she felt like crying again. Instead, she lowered her gaze, sniffled, and held back the tears.

  They drew near a spring concealed at the base of the mountain by a small stand of wispy desert willow and feathery bushes. On the sheer cliffs above, a small herd of mountain sheep looked down on them suspiciously before scurrying away, bounding over boulders.

  When they stopped for a meal, Emma found herself surprised once again by her captors. No orders were given for her to cook or do anything at all. Instead, George started a campfire, Patrick made coffee, and Cal put strips of beef and canned corn in a skillet.

  “Dinner now, supper this evening,” he explained, without waiting for her to ask. “There’s rough country ahead and we’ll need to make tracks until nightfall.”

  “How far?” Emma asked, astonished that the question had tumbled out of her mouth so easily.

  “A tidy step,” Cal replied.

  Emma winced. She’d been in the saddle a good six hours and didn’t look forward to spending the rest of the day on horseback. Her body already ached, especially her back.

  By the time they ate and moved on, she felt somewhat better. Cal led them around the fortress mountain across another large pasture that ran against a mountain range cut by dozens of narrow slot canyons, which drained the east slopes. Some of them burrowed deep into the tumbled rocks at the base of the peaks; others ran like long fingers down impossibly steep inclines. Cal pointed them toward a canyon, and soon they were climbing single file up a rocky trail, sunlight blocked by the towering walls. The ponies moved slowly through twists and turns, and as they gained each ridge, another appeared above in an endless progression.

  Throughout the day, Patrick had been in front of her, and with his broad back and square shoulders, she had to admit he cut a handsome figure in the saddle.

  They came out of the dim light into gathering dusk and picked their way cautiously along a narrow ledge that looked over a hundred-foot crevice. By the time they got off the ledge into a high meadow of tall pine trees, night had fallen.

  Sore, exhausted, and cold, Emma dismounted slowly. Her nerves were stretched thin from the final harrowing ride up the mountain. It was all she could do to pull the saddle off her pony and picket it with the others. George had a small fire going, with coffee heating up, and Patrick had set out some hardtack and jerked beef for supper. Cal was with the pack animals, removing their heavy loads. A half-moon hung in the sky, and through the trees a million stars filled the heavens like specks of diamond dust.

  She warmed herself by the fire before spreading out her bedroll on a cushion of pine needles some distance from the men. She stretched out just for a minute to ease her weary bones and listened to George and Patrick’s chatter, the crackling fire, and the soft whinnying of the ponies.

  She was almost asleep when she heard footsteps. She sat bolt upright.

  “Easy, Emma,” Cal said gently, hunkering down to see her face. “There’s something I think it’s time for you to hear. Thomas Dunphy is dead, shot in the head some months back. Nobody knows who did it, but I think it was James Kaytennae.”

  He paused for a second to let her take it in. “One more thing: Your sister is dead. She hung herself in the barn before Dunphy was murdered.”

  Emma took a deep breath.

  “It’s over and done, Emma, whenever you want it to be,” Cal said. “You savvy?”

  Emma looked at Cal and nodded.

  “Good.” Cal rose up. “You want supper?”

  Emma shook her head.

  “Good night.”

  After Cal moved away, Emma stuck her fist in her mouth and sobbed into her blanket, letting all the pent-up rage she had about her sister and Tom Dunphy come out. She was glad Ruth had died by her own hand, happy Tom Dunphy had been shot down like the dog he was. For the first time since her escape from Dunphy’s cabin, she fell into a dreamless sleep.

  43

  On the afternoon of the second day, they spotted the longhorn in the clearing of a deep, rock-strewn, heavily treed canyon. They reined in upwind a good half mile from the brindle, and the old bull raised his head and shook it in their direction.

  “Now, that’s a sight,” George said.

  “He knows we’re here,” Patrick said.

  “The spread of them horns is at least a good six feet,” George said admiringly, “and he looks sleek and well fed.”

  Cal studied the trail down the canyon to where the longhorn stood. “There’s only one way in from here,” he said, “and he’ll probably bolt before we’re halfway down.”

  Emma switched her attention away from the powerful beast to the three riders lined up in a row studying the animal. She wondered how in the blazes they planned to catch it.

  Beyond the longhorn and the canyon, the boundless tablelands of the Jornada del Muerto, flat and desolate in the midday sun, sparkled clear in sharp relief. Miles away a dust devil rose from the desert floor and whirled into oblivion on the western horizon. Here the San Andres were a thick forest of piñon and juniper trees, the mountains sloping gently down to sandy, waterless, flats.

  All morning they had ridden through rugged wilderness on faint game trails and climbed boulder-strewn ridges, sometimes cresting to breathtaking vistas embracing a hundred miles of broken mountain ranges stacked against the horizon. Even though she’d had her first good sleep since Molly’s passing, Emma was saddle sore and bone weary again. Yet she felt less fatigued in her mind than she had in days.

  “I don’t cotton to wasting time trying to circle around that old brindle,” George said. “It would be a long, tiresome ride for nothing.”

  “I reckon you’re right,” Cal said.

  “Let’s just ride down the trail and see what he does,” Patrick said. “If he spooks we can track him.”

  Cal raised an eyebrow. “That old mossy-horn can run twenty miles between now and sunset.”

  “Or he’ll hunker down somewhere in the brush and we’ll never spot him,” George added.

  “Don’t make me do this by myself,” Patrick replied with a laugh as he started down the trail. “Come on, old-timers, we’ve got him outgunned. If he charges, one of us will snare him.”

  As the riders walked their ponies single file down the canyon, the brindle stood his ground, head raised, tail slowly swishing. A hundred yards away, they stopped on a wide, level shelf and the bull shook his horns at them.

  George gave Emma the reins to the pack animals. “You stay here, missy,” he whispered. “All right?”

  Emma nodded, stared at the bull, and glanced at Cal. “Can you really catch him?” she asked.

  Cal, lariat in hand, shrugged. “We’ll see. That old brindle is wily and fleet.” He glanced at Patrick and George. “Ready?”

  Both men nodded.

  In unison, the three men spurred their ponies to a gallop. Cal and George fanned out in a flanking maneuver as Patrick rode straight at the old bull. At fifty yards the longhorn dropped his head, pawed t
he ground, bellowed, and with the coarse hair on his back standing straight up, charged straight for Patrick.

  Cal and George closed in from both sides, hollering like banshees, ropes low. The longhorn stopped and whirled at the fast-approaching riders. Spooked, George’s pony reared back on hind legs as George grabbed leather. Cal closed but his rope missed, the lasso sliding off the brindle’s shoulder. The old bull spun back toward Patrick, who made a perfect throw, the loop settling over the head and one horn.

  He looped the rope around his saddle horn and turned Cuidado away from the charging bull. Before the brindle could swing around, Cuidado dug in his hooves and squatted. The rope tightened and the saddle cinch broke, pulling the saddle and Patrick over Cuidado’s head. He landed still straddling his saddle and tumbled head over heels into the dirt. As he struggled to get on his feet, the brindle spun, thundered past him, and hooked a horn into Cuidado’s breast.

  The pony went down, screaming and thrashing, blood pouring from the wound. The bull pulled free and headed for the trees, with Cal and George in pursuit.

  Cuidado rolled on his side, kicking his legs, lifting his head, his eyes wide and wild, screaming an unworldly sound. Patrick stumbled over to him. He knelt, rubbed Cuidado’s neck, patted his forehead, and whispered in his ear.

  Cuidado’s breathing slowed, and he nickered softly. Patrick shot him with his six-gun, the sound echoing through the canyon.

  Off in the distance he heard Cal and George hooting and hollering as they chased the old bull. He turned and looked at Emma as she came down the trail with the pack animals, her face a mask of worry.

  “It’s all right,” he called, trying to believe it himself. “It’s all right.”

  * * *

  The rocky canyon soil made it impossible to bury Cuidado deep. But with Emma’s help, Patrick scratched out a shallow depression and used one of the packhorses to snake Cuidado into it. Together they covered him with a layer of dirt, large rocks, and some small boulders Patrick managed to roll on top of the makeshift grave.

  “Wolves will be here feeding come night,” Patrick said, “but I couldn’t just leave him lying there.”

  “I know,” Emma said.

  “He was the best pony a man could ever want.”

  “I know,” Emma said, studying Patrick’s sad eyes. She’d never seen him so solemn before.

  At the mouth of the canyon, Cal and George appeared, loped over to them, reined in, and said nothing as they looked at the mound covering Cuidado.

  Patrick hoisted his saddle. “I’ll ride one of the packhorses home.”

  “We’ve got that brindle bull snubbed to a tree down yonder a ways.” Cal slid to the ground and held out the reins. “You can take my pony and go shoot him.”

  Patrick reached for his long gun, hesitated, and then slowly shook his head. “No, let him go.”

  “You certain?” Cal asked.

  “Yep, I’m certain.”

  “I’ll cut him loose,” George said. He turned his pony and trotted away.

  Cal picked up Patrick’s bedroll and his sheathed rifle. “Let’s get you mounted.”

  Emma watched Patrick and Cal walk to the packhorses, thinking that they and George were the best men she’d ever met—and that included her father, God rest his drunken, tortured soul. She had all but given up on life, and they had pulled her back into the world. And with the loss of Cuidado, Patrick had paid a terrible price to do it. Wasn’t that true affection?

  Emma believed it was.

  44

  As the early days of summer passed quickly, Emma slowly regained her good nature and vibrant spirit. With her health restored she seemed even more comely than before, so much so that she took Patrick’s breath away.

  Before Molly’s death, Patrick always felt that she took no genuine pleasure in his company. Now she was more comfortable and lighthearted with him, although she’d yet to invite him to move back into the casita. He figured she just needed more time to heal up from all her past misery, so he waited patiently, spending his free time training his new honey-colored pony he’d named Jefe.

  Occasionally he took Emma horseback riding in the cool of the evening after supper. They headed up one of the nearby canyons or out onto the basin and watched the fading light soften the harsh, sun-scorched, sandblasted land. They didn’t talk much or ride far, but it didn’t matter to Patrick. It was the best part of his day.

  Emma had taken to studying Patrick on their evening rides. He hadn’t once tried to kiss her, even though she felt ready for that and more.

  During their trips to town they got the latest news about the Fountain murder investigation. After the court decided that Sheriff Ascarate’s opponent, Numa Reymond, had won the election, the political shenanigans began. Reymond took office, appointed Pat Garrett chief deputy, and promptly left town for an extended tour of Italy, paid for, as rumor had it, by those who wanted to give Garrett a free hand hunting down Oliver Lee and his partners.

  To the disgust of his supporters, Garrett had done nothing so far. The investigation dragged on, with Lee proclaiming to all who would listen that Garrett planned to shoot him in the back and collect the huge reward as soon as he could get a judge to sign an arrest warrant against him.

  Late in the summer, Numa Reymond resigned and Pat Garrett became sheriff. From a reliable source, Cal heard that Albert Fall had argued against Garrett’s appointment. Since he’d always believed Fall had lied to him about wanting Garrett to be sheriff, it didn’t surprise him none.

  The Double K finished fall works with a tidy profit from the sale of their cattle. They also sold a dozen top cow ponies to the Diamond A outfit, one of the biggest spreads in the territory. In Engle, Patrick and Cal turned the ponies over to the Diamond A wrangler, spent the night in the hotel, and did some shopping the following day, with Patrick coming away with a fancy saddle for Emma.

  “Are you gonna propose?” Cal asked as they lugged their purchases back to the hotel.

  “Not yet.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I don’t want her to turn me down again.”

  “That ain’t gonna happen,” Cal said as they climbed the stairs to their room. “Buy her a ring, give her the saddle, and ask her to marry you. Then we’ll all go to town, get you two hitched, and have a party.”

  Patrick dropped the saddle on the bed. “You got it all figured, do you?”

  Cal tied the new bandanna he’d bought around his neck and studied himself in the mirror. “I reckon I do. We’re her family now, and she’s gonna stay right where she is. She’s been keeping you at bay to see what you’ll do, and you’ve done right to not pester her for a time until she got her legs back under her.”

  Cal adjusted the bandanna and turned to face Patrick. “Tell the little lady you propose to marry her and you have my blessings.”

  “You aren’t her father,” Patrick said.

  Cal chortled. “I’m about the closest thing to a pa either one of you has.”

  The truth of Cal’s words struck home. “Will you stand up for me?” Patrick asked.

  “I will gladly,” Cal replied, looking Patrick straight in the eyes, “if you promise to stick by her, never raise a hand against her, and love her the best that you can.”

  Patrick laughed. “You have my word, but damn if you don’t sound like a preacher.”

  Cal grinned and slapped Patrick on the back. “First time I’ve ever been called that, old son. Let’s head on home.”

  * * *

  Cal’s calculation that Emma would accept Patrick’s marriage proposal proved accurate, and within days the Double K outfit decamped to Tularosa to get the couple hitched. In town, Emma stayed with Ignacio and Teresa while the men took rooms at the hotel. After a whirlwind three days of shopping, finding a preacher, and making arrangements, the evening ceremony was held in the Chávez hacienda courtyard. Patrick wore his new sack suit, and Emma was gussied up in a pretty dark blue dress with a touch of white crepe at the collar and
flowers in her hair. George gave Emma away, Teresa was matron of honor, and Cal served as Patrick’s best man. The invited guests consisted of all of Ignacio and Teresa’s children and relatives, who filled the courtyard to capacity.

  After the vows were exchanged, Cal gave Emma a whirl to the music before turning her over to Patrick, and the fiesta de boda officially began. There was dancing, a lavish feast, and much drinking as the evening wore on. After a final round of toasts to the bride and groom, Ignacio drove them to the hotel in his wagon, which had been festooned with flowers by his children.

  In the morning, Cal and George headed home to the Double K, leaving the newlyweds behind. They rode silently past the green fields and tall shade trees of the village into the sandy desert of the immense basin that stretched before them.

  “That was a fine party,” George said, bleary-eyed and hungover.

  “As drunk as you were, I’m amazed you remember it,” Cal replied with a smile.

  “Don’t you vex me none about it,” George grumped. “Man’s got a right to enjoy himself now and again.”

  “I’ve got no sermon for you,” Cal said. “In fact I was glad to see it. You ain’t had a good drunk for nigh on a year.”

  George trotted his pony alongside Cal and gave him a serious once-over. “How come you look like the cat that licked up all the cream? You’ve been acting like that since yesterday.”

  “There was a time I had doubts I’d ever get that boy raised up right. Now that the job is done I’m feeling tolerable good about it.”

  “Does that mean you’re gonna sit on the veranda with your feet up and leave all the work to me and that newlywed fella we left at the hotel in town?”

  Cal laughed. “I may not kick up my heels like a colt anymore, but not yet, old-timer, not yet.”