Patrick nodded to keep from grinning. “One more thing: Lee said we had five cows in that herd we trailed to town and put to pasture. I counted seven.”
“Did you say anything to him?” Cal asked.
Patrick shook his head. “I’ll tally up with him tomorrow.”
“Good enough,” Cal said.
Ignacio slapped Patrick on the back. “We must celebrate your good work. I’ll buy drinks at the cantina. Come.”
Teresa glanced pointedly from Ignacio to Cal to Patrick. “Do not come back into my house borracho,” she cautioned.
All three men nodded solemnly as they pushed back from the table. Ignacio kissed Teresa, hugged Bernardo and Sofia, and rubbed Juan’s head before following Cal and Patrick outside.
Sand hung in the evening air, the remains of a brief windstorm that had rolled across the basin and drifted eastward into town. It had cooled some but was too dry to make much difference. Every track their ponies laid down raised puffs of dust, the leaves on the cottonwood trees were caked with grit, and the horses hitched outside the cantina were listless from the heat.
The cantina was on the outskirts of town along the White Sands road. It was nothing more than the front room of a small house, crammed with tables and chairs occupied by villagers, cowboys, teamsters, Buffalo Soldiers from the fort, and a sin-busting preacher who had passed out on his Bible at a table near the front door, an empty whiskey glass close at hand. At the back of the room the owner stood behind a waist-high counter pouring straight shots of whiskey carefully delivered to customers by an old woman. A sign nailed to the wall behind the counter listed the house drinks. The cantina served rye and bourbon whiskey, nothing more.
While Ignacio ordered drinks from the owner, Patrick sat with Cal at a table and studied all the cowboys in the room.
“You looking for someone?” Cal asked.
Patrick nodded. “Whoever rides the sorrel gelding outside is the rustler who got away from Oliver Lee and his brother. It has a cracked shoe near the toe on its right foreleg. I noticed its horse tracks as we came in.”
Cal scanned the customers. Two cowboys at a table at the back of the room caught his attention. The gringo cowboy wore his six-gun low and tied down, and he’d seen the Mexican vaquero a time or two with Francisco Olivares, one of the cattle thieves Lee had shot dead.
Ignacio came back carrying a full glass, which he put down in front of Patrick. “Just one, my friend. Drink it straight down and try not to make a face.”
The old woman came along behind him with two more drinks, plunked them down, and waddled away.
Ignacio sat, smiled, and raised his glass. “Salud!”
Patrick drained the glass and choked back a gasp.
Ignacio kept a straight face and smiled approvingly at his young friend. “Bueno.”
Cal put his empty glass on the table and nodded at the two cowboys. “You know those fellas, Ignacio?”
Ignacio studied the two men. The gringo looked vaguely familiar but he couldn’t remember from where, and the vaquero he’d seen in the village once or twice but didn’t know. He shook his head. “Why do you ask?”
“They may be rustlers,” Cal replied. “One of them, at least. Stay here while I find out who they are.” He walked over to the owner and spoke to him before moving on to the cowboys.
Patrick tensed up. Over the din, he couldn’t make out what was being said, but it looked tame enough, with everybody smiling. Although he didn’t want to be left out of any play Cal made, he suddenly wasn’t sure if he had the grit for a gunfight. After a minute or two, Cal returned.
“Those old boys are loyal and industrious employees of Pat Coghlan,” he said as he sat. “Both work at Coghlan’s Three Rivers spread.”
“That’s where they were driving those cows, I bet ya,” Patrick said. “Who rides the sorrel?”
“The fella with the scar on his cheek. Goes by the name Sam Nash.”
Ignacio sat bolt upright in his chair. Sam Nash was the man who’d robbed and beaten him in La Luz after he’d left his father’s house to strike out on his own. John Kerney had caught Nash trying to sell the old Colt Dragoon pistola Ignacio’s father had given him and had raked it across Nash’s face to teach him a lesson.
Ignacio always felt that he, not John Kerney, should have stood up to Sam Nash and felt shame for not doing so. Now he could do something about it. “A la bueno de Dios,” he said.
“Why is that good luck?” Patrick asked, trying hard not to show his nervousness.
“Sam Nash beat and robbed me. In return, John Kerney gave him that scar on his face.” Ignacio studied the cowboy intently. “Sí, that is him, I’m sure. Now I will pay him back myself for his crime.”
“Best you let me handle this,” Cal said.
Ignacio grabbed Cal’s arm before he could rise. “It’s not your fight, amigo.”
“Like hell it’s not,” Cal said. “He cut our fence and stole our cattle.”
“First me,” Ignacio replied hotly. “Then you can have him.”
“You sure you want to do this?” Cal asked. He’d never seen Ignacio so riled.
Ignacio nodded.
“Then let’s make it an even fight.”
At Nash’s table, Cal pulled up an empty chair and leaned close. “My friend over there wants to fight you, fair and square,” he said. “Fisticuffs only.”
“Which one?” Nash asked cockily, glancing from the tense-looking young cowboy to the Mexican glaring at him across the room.
“Ignacio Chávez.”
Nash laughed as he studied Ignacio. “You’re funning with me now, right? I’ve seen this busted-up Mexican around. He doesn’t even have two good hands. What does he want to fight me for?”
“I’ll leave that for him to explain once he clips your horns,” Cal replied, looking Nash over. He was about the same size as Ignacio, a mite heavier, and looked sturdy. With two good hands, Ignacio would have been his match. But with only one, Cal wasn’t so sure. But Ignacio’s right arm was mighty powerful, so maybe it would even out.
“Before you get started, you and your pard put your lead chuckers on the table,” Cal added.
Nash smiled, stood, and put his six-gun on the table. The vaquero did the same.
“I’ll keep score,” Cal said as he turned to the vaquero. “You stay here with me.”
The man gave Cal a toothy smile, shrugged, and stayed seated.
Nash didn’t wait for another invitation to start brawling. He rushed and butted Ignacio in the gut as he started to rise. Ignacio and the chair skidded into a table of men, who scattered out of the way. As Ignacio got up, Nash threw a fist under Ignacio’s eye and slammed another into his nose. Cal winced when he heard the bone crack. The blow knocked Ignacio to the floor.
Every man in the room was on his feet, giving way to the fighters, hooting and hollering for more.
Ignacio scrambled upright, blood pouring from his nose, as Nash moved close and swung a haymaker. Ignacio leaned back and took the blow on his shoulder. He hit back with a pounding right to Nash’s head, missed with another punch that Nash ducked, and took a blow to his groin that put him on his knees.
The vaquero laughed. Cal told him to shut up.
Nash moved in for the kill, bent down, and cocked a hard left hand at Ignacio’s jaw. Ignacio caught it in midair with his good hand, squeezed, and twisted. Nash screamed as his wrist snapped. Holding it tight, Ignacio rose slowly from his knees, yanked Nash by the arm, and slammed him against the wall. Before Nash could turn, Ignacio pounded his face into the wall, once, twice, and again for good measure. Nash went limp and sank to the floor like a rag doll.
Rocking unsteadily back and forth on his feet, Ignacio dropped with a thud, grabbed his private parts, looked at Patrick, and grimaced. “Madre, it hurts.”
“You whipped him good,” Patrick said as he wiped blood off Ignacio’s face with his bandanna. “Can you stand?”
“Un momento.”
Secretly glad
he hadn’t gone up against Nash, who surely would have whipped him bad, Patrick reached under Ignacio’s arms to lift him. “Come on, we’ll get you home.”
“Teresa,” Ignacio sighed. “She won’t be happy.”
“Leastways, you aren’t borracho,” Cal said with a laugh as he stepped in to help.
Ignacio groaned as he stood unsteadily on his feet. “I better have one more drink,” he said.
Cal laughed again, steered him to an unoccupied table, bought a round from the owner, and paid for the damages. With drinks in hand, the trio sat and watched Sam Nash come around. Moaning and clutching his broken wrist, he looked like he’d been kicked in the face by a mule. His vaquero drinking partner was nowhere to be seen.
The town constable arrived and Patrick told him about the stolen cattle and Nash’s part in the crime. The constable asked Patrick to sign papers against Nash in the morning and set about organizing several men to help get his prisoner tied to the sorrel horse and carted off to the hoosegow.
On his way out, Nash asked Ignacio what had set him off.
“Years ago, you beat and robbed me at my camp in La Luz,” Ignacio said. “You took my pistola and my dinero.”
Nash shook off some cobwebs. “That was you?”
“Sí,” Ignacio replied.
“I’ll be damned. You were just a skinny Mexican kid back then.”
“Now we’re even,” Ignacio said.
With Nash safely on his way to jail, the three men celebrated with another drink before leaving. Ignacio took one look at his horse and decided it would be less painful to walk home. The trio slowly made their way up the road leading their ponies, Ignacio shuffling along.
Patrick’s head buzzed from the whiskey and he didn’t feel all that steady himself. “I bet that old boy never thought he’d get whipped by a Mexican,” he said.
Ignacio stopped and glared at Patrick. “Sometimes I think you’re not so smart.”
“What are you getting all riled about?” Patrick asked.
“The man thinks you have poor manners,” Cal explained.
“That ain’t so,” Patrick replied.
“Best you stop talking,” Cal said as he led Ignacio down the road, “before Ignacio decides to take you on.”
On a cool, cloudless night with stars filling the sky and the occasional bark of a lonesome dog on the other side of town, they unsaddled their horses in the pasture near Ignacio’s house, rubbed them down, and carried their tack to the courtyard.
As they approached the door, Juan came bursting out. “Papa, come quick,” he said. “Mama’s having the baby.”
23
In 1893 the drought eased just as the cattle market collapsed. According to the newspapers, it wasn’t just about cattle selling for less than a penny on the pound and stockmen going under. Across the land, banks closed, railroads went broke, and big companies shut down, throwing people into a fright. In New Mexico, most folks were already back on their heels, so the money panic spreading across the land was just another ripple of hard times in a hard country.
Even with a welcome string of spring showers, Cal didn’t trust the good weather to hold. Over the last three years, he’d seen too many stormy skies and soaring thunderheads drift over the basin without dropping a lick of rain to hope for a really wet season. Besides, a little rain wouldn’t do the grass any good because there wasn’t much of it left. The thick pastures that had grasses shoulder high to a horse when he first came to the Tularosa were long gone, eaten to the roots by starving animals or burned to a crisp by three years of unrelenting sun. In places, especially out on the flats, the ground was bare and barren. Still, with the drought slackened a bit, it was good to see some greening up of the land, even if it was mostly mesquite and greasewood.
In the ranch-house kitchen, Cal poured another cup of coffee and walked out on the veranda. First light was breaking over Sierra Blanca, and the sun’s rays touched the wispy clouds at the peak and for a brief moment lit them up like a halo. He took it as a good omen for the day. Below, near the barn, he heard Patrick’s horse snort and whinny. He looked down and saw Patrick saddling horses. Old Patches, the pony he’d ridden into New Mexico many years ago, had died during the winter, and Cal had buried him on the hilltop near John Kerney’s grave. His new horse, a red roan gelding fifteen hands high, was a fine animal he’d yet to name. He was thinking of calling it Bandit but hadn’t settled on it yet.
Patrick had cut out six more ponies they would need in the mountains and put them in the corral. Working in rugged, steep terrain taxed both horse and rider, and they would have to change horses frequently to gather the half-wild steers, a few mean old bulls, about three dozen dry cows, and six or so scrawny yearlings. Cal guessed there were no more than fifty or sixty head to be gathered. The rest had been sold off because of the drought. What remained he’d agreed to ship to a wealthy rancher in Juárez who would pay live weight, cash on delivery.
The Double K high-country pastures still had some grass but wouldn’t for long unless the cattle were moved and the land rested. With reliable water from the mountain springs and the canyon windmill, along with a few good seasons of rain, they’d be able to restock. And if the cattle market revived, the outfit just might survive.
Working a small bunch of cattle out on the flats wasn’t a big challenge, but mountain country required a whole different approach to gathering. It meant spending hours looking for fresh tracks, chasing the critters down after they had been spotted, and bunching and holding the gathered cows together while they scouted for more. Once all the critters were gathered, they’d push them along to the ranch and rest them for a few days before driving them to Engle for shipment to Mexico.
Cal sacked the grub and carried it outside, where Patrick waited with the pack animals. He tugged the breast collar on each packhorse before checking the breeching at the animal’s haunches. Patrick had also put breast collars on their horses to keep the saddles from slipping back on steep climbs. Cal checked those too, knowing full well Patrick didn’t appreciate the inspection. He rankled easily if he thought his abilities were being questioned, especially now that he’d reached full manhood.
“I don’t want you losing your saddle on some steep trail and breaking your neck,” Cal said. “We lost your pa to a bad wreck. Don’t need a repeat.”
“Don’t worry about me,” Patrick replied testily.
They loaded grub and supplies on one pack animal and horse feed and camp gear on the other, secured their long guns in scabbards, tied off their bedrolls, and mounted up.
Cal looked skyward. There were a fair number of clouds above. “I sure wouldn’t mind getting rained on,” he said.
Patrick nodded. “Me neither. This sure beats driving a Winona wagon for the Bar Cross.”
“It beats sheriffing too,” Cal said as he gave one last look around the ranch and the basin beyond. He never tired of the view.
Both men had hired out during the lean years, Patrick hauling supplies from Engle to the Bar Cross headquarters, Cal working as a deputy sheriff first in Lincoln County and for a time in Doña Ana. Their wages had kept the Double K afloat.
“You got a name for that pony yet?” Patrick asked.
“I’m thinking Bandit,” Cal replied.
Patrick nodded. “I like it.”
Bandit snorted and nodded his head.
“So does he, I reckon,” Cal replied. “Bandit it is, then.” He turned Bandit down the hill to the corral, where the string of horses waited. “Now, if you’ll get that old caballo of yours to move, we can start riding sign and corralling some critters. Day will be half gone before we get to chasing steers off their getaway trails.”
Experience had taught them the best way to work the gathering. They circled the rock-strewn mountainsides of each pasture, crossed the side canyons, and moved up and down the draws and arroyos until they busted the cows into the open. What they gathered each day they trailed to the fenced windmill canyon, where there was grass and water.
For five days they went from sunup to sundown, stopping only at noon for dinner or to switch horses. Each day they had to neck an outlaw steer or two to a tree with tie-down ropes while they popped cattle out of the brush and backcountry. When they returned and untied it, the reluctant critter tried to hook them with its horns and get away. But there was none better than Cal at getting an angry steer to come along. He necked each of the old outlaws to a docile cow and led the two along until the old steer calmed down enough to be cut free. Then he led it with a slack rope and put it with the bunch already in the pasture, where it stayed.
At dusk, with the cattle fenced, they unsaddled, checked the horses for sore backs and cuts, and watered them at the tank before fixing supper. Come morning on the last day, they rested the pony string, did one final scout high above the windmill canyon pasture, and brought in two cows they scared up on the getaway trails before heading the bunch home for the ranch.
Patrick led, keeping the cattle close, while Cal worked both wings to stop the outlaws from breaking away to freedom. Bandit kept all but one from escaping, and they got to the ranch after a waterless trek with eighty-seven critters, more than Cal had reckoned. Some were mavericks and a few he recognized as Bar Cross cows. But they were unbranded and Cal had no compunction about putting his iron on them.
After two days of rest in the cow pasture, they branded the cattle with the back-to-back Double K iron, fed them hay from the barn, and got ready for the trail drive to Engle. It would be a long journey with the slow-moving critters.
“I don’t like the notion of no cattle on the ranch,” Patrick said over supper. “Makes me feel downright useless.”
He’d been quiet all day, almost sulky. “Can’t be helped for now,” Cal replied.
“Maybe I should sell out my share of the outfit and move on.”
Cal studied Patrick carefully and said nothing.
“See something of the world,” Patrick continued. “Find a piece of land that isn’t all dust, sand, wind, and greasewood.”
Hard Country Page 20
