Backlands (15 page)

“That he'd worked here for a little while,” Matt replied as he rode alongside.

“It was so long ago, I'd almost forgotten about Vernon,” Patrick lied. “Why is Jake looking for him?”

“Because Vernon's sister hired Mr. Owen to find him.”

Patrick forced a laugh. “Why would anyone want to find that no-account?”

“He didn't say.”

“Well, no matter. I'll tell Jake what I know and he'll be on his way. Has he been invited for dinner and to spend the night?”

“Yep,” Matt replied. “Evangelina's holding supper until you get home, and I'm plenty hungry.”

“That won't do.” Patrick spurred his pony to a trot, his head racing with all the possibilities of what Jake Owen's visit meant.

***

A
s soon as Patrick arrived, put away his pony, and washed up, he greeted Jake and sat down for dinner. “My boy says you're searching for Vernon Clagett,” he said after his first mouthful.

“I am,” Jake said. The aroma of Evangelina's enchiladas had his mouth watering in anticipation. “But I'm not about to get up from this plate of good food to go find him.”

Patrick laughed. “And I sure ain't about to go with you.”

Although anxious to know what Jake knew, Patrick stuck to small talk throughout the meal. It wasn't until they were alone at the kitchen table that Jake returned to the subject of Vernon Clagett.

“I heard from your wife and boy that Vernon didn't work for you long,” he said.

“About a month all told, maybe a few days more,” Patrick answered. “I'd hired him for a temporary job of work, and truth be told I planned to let him go anyway. He quit me before I could fire him.”

Jake scratched his head. “But why did he leave by shank's mare at night?”

Patrick shrugged. “I don't know what was in his mind. He wanted to leave right away, so I gave him his wages; he packed up and left. If you ask me, that old boy was a little weak between the ears.”

“Did he leave anything behind?”

“I don't think so. Why do you ask?”

Jake smiled. “Drifters like Vernon land someplace for a while and often squirrel away what few valuables and private papers they have. Sometimes they forget when they move on. If Vernon got scatterbrained and did that, whatever he left behind might help me find him.”

“If he did, I would have kept it for him in case he came back looking for his property. He left nothing here as far as I know.”

“He didn't steal from you?” Jake asked, probing around Matt's statement that his pa had been searching for some lost papers for years.

“Not a dime,” Patrick answered. “He was just an unreliable, hard-drinking man.”

“How did you come to hire him in the first place?”

Patrick grimaced. “Jake, you're plumb wearing me out with these questions and I was tired already. Now, Matt says you want to bunk in the tack room, and I won't hear of it. Evangelina has the casita all made up for you. If you have more to ask me, we can finish this up in the morning.”

“You're right.” Jake pushed back from the table and stood. “That's mighty kind of you and the missus. I'll get my bedroll.
Buenas noches.
”

“Good night,” Patrick replied.

Jake stopped at the door. “Did Vernon ever mention a fella named Pat Floyd?”

The flickering lamplight couldn't hide the color that rose on Patrick's cheeks, and he swallowed hard before answering. “I never heard of the man.”

“I'll see you in the morning,” Jake said, wondering what soft spot he'd just niggled.

He got his bedroll from the tack room and ambled to the casita, feeling Patrick Kerney's eyes on him all the way.

In the morning after breakfast, Jake brought up Pat Floyd one more time. “Maybe I should be looking for this Pat Floyd fella in order to find Vernon Clagett.”

Patrick's jaw tightened and his back stiffened. “You're doing the detecting work, Jake, not me.”

Jake sighed as he walked to his saddled and waiting pony. “And I'm not getting anywhere with it; that's for certain. It's likely I ain't ever gonna find old Vernon. Maybe he fell off a cliff and broke his neck or got lost in the basin and died of thirst, his bones scattered by a mountain lion or coyotes. I've got half a mind to write his sister and advise her to call off my search.”

“Do what you think is best,” Patrick said, tension easing from his body.

“Thanks for making this old boy welcome,” Jake said as he put a leg up and eased into the saddle.

“Stop by any time.”

“I appreciate that,” Jake said, now more determined than ever to learn more about the mysterious Pat Floyd. But not yet; he had a few more outfits to visit south of Rhodes Canyon where Clagett might have sought a rancher's hospitality after quitting the Double K.

***

I
n the five years since Emma Kerney's death, Wallace Claiborne Hale and Henry Bowman, exercising their duly appointed responsibilities as trustees for Matthew's inheritance, made semiannual visits to the Double K ranch to check on the boy's welfare and progress. Always politely but never warmly received by Patrick Kerney, they left satisfied that Matt was content living on the ranch, got along quite well with his father, and excelled in his studies at the rural, one-room school he attended on a nearby ranch. Matt had also made it clear during their visits that he planned to continue his education after grade school, in keeping with his mother's wishes.

Today, a troubled Wallace Claiborne Hale traveled alone to make an unscheduled visit to the Double K. Three months past, a sudden heart attack had killed his good friend Henry Bowman, and Wallace's impromptu trip was provoked by a letter he'd just received from Patrick Kerney. In it, he wrote that Matt was needed at the ranch and would not be permitted to live in town to attend high school. Why Patrick had decided to go against Emma's express wishes, spelled out in the trust document, puzzled Hale. Until now he'd expressed no opposition to Matthew's desire to continue his education.

Prepared and willing to do battle with Patrick about his decidedly wrongheaded decision, Wallace kept the horse moving at a steady pace on the dreary ride from Engle. A city-raised boy from the East, he liked the comfort and orderliness of town life, loved driving his automobile, and actively lobbied the state legislature and county commission to build more highways. He found no aesthetic inspiration in the stark desert and desolate mountain landscapes of the Tularosa, and today he especially missed Henry's congenial company and lively conversation, which had made the previous bone-jarring trips to the ranch tolerable.

There were no clouds in the sky to temper the blistering, blinding sun. Gusting, swirling winds coming from every direction had coated his face and hands with fine dust and sand. Most creatures were wisely hiding from the noonday heat, except for a few stray cows, standing as stationary and silent as statues, and several large, dangerous-looking snakes stretched out like broomsticks in the middle of the road. Only once did he encounter another soul, an old cowboy with a bushy white mustache who mumbled howdy as he trotted by leading a packhorse.

He arrived at the ranch parched and cranky but determined to put on a pleasant face and hear Patrick out before making his argument on Matt's behalf, if indeed the boy hadn't changed his mind about continuing his schooling.

The Double K had a reputation for being one of the nicest outfits on the Tularosa, and in comparison to the hardscrabble ranches surrounding it, that was indeed the case. But in Wallace Claiborne Hale's opinion, it still came up short, lacking the basic amenities of indoor plumbing, electricity, and telephone service. It was so primitive that water for household use had to be hauled by hand from a well, and so remote that an expedition had to be mounted to go to the mailbox.

Matt was at the corral watching his father riding a large horse that didn't seem too eager to cooperate. As Patrick tried to turn the animal to the left, it balked, snorted, bobbed its head, and kicked its rear legs. Each effort Patrick made to turn the beast caused the same aggressive behaviors.

Hale had never understood why anyone got pleasure sitting on the back of such potentially dangerous creatures. He saw nothing romantic about it whatsoever. He stepped down from the buggy and greeted Matt with a wave and a smile. The boy had sprouted since Hale's last visit. He was now a gangly juvenile, all arms and legs, with his father's square shoulders and his mother's blue eyes.

“Hello, Matthew,” he said as the boy drew near.

“Howdy, Mr. Hale. I got your letter about Mr. Bowman dying. Sorry to hear it. I liked him.”

“So did I, Matthew,” Hale replied. “He is missed by many folks.”

“What brings you to the Double K?”

“As the sole remaining trustee of your estate, I thought it best to give you and your father a complete report.”

“Have we run out of money?” Matt asked, worry creeping into his voice.

Hale chuckled. “On the contrary, Mr. Bowman made some wise stock investments on your behalf. I'll go over it in detail with you and your father. You haven't changed your mind about high school, have you?”

Matt glanced in his pa's direction. “Nope, but Pa has dug in his heels about me going. He wants me to stay put and help out here. Says I don't need more schooling.”

Wallace patted Matt's shoulder. “Let me see what I can work out with him.”

Matt smiled anxiously. “I sure hope you can do something.”

Wallace handed Matt a wrapped package. “I've brought you two books;
Babbitt
by Sinclair Lewis and
One of Ours
by Willa Cather.
One of Ours
is about a farm boy who goes off to fight in the Great War. It won a great literary prize. I hope you'll like both of them.”

Matt tore open the package and inspected the books. “That's swell of you. Thanks, Mr. Hale.”

“You're welcome,” Hale replied, grabbing his bag from the buggy. “Mind if I wash some of the dust off?”

“Shucks no,” Matt answered. “Pardon my manners. You go on and get settled in the casita. I'll take care of your pony.”

“Thank you.” Hale waved to Patrick Kerney in the corral, who'd dismounted and was now slowly walking the pony in circles, for whatever reason Wallace couldn't begin to imagine. Patrick nodded slightly in return.

Grateful to get out of the sun, Wallace went straight to the casita, drenched his face in the cool water of the washbasin, changed into a fresh shirt, and went to the kitchen, where Evangelina greeted him with a warm smile. She put a finger to her lips and pointed to her young son, asleep on a pile of blankets under the window. On the veranda, Hale asked how she was.

“We are all fine, Señor Hale. It is a nice surprise to see you here again so soon. How sad for you to lose your friend Señor Bowman.”

“Yes, very sad.” Wallace carefully studied Evangelina. He knew Patrick Kerney's mistreatment of Emma had caused her to divorce him; thus, he always looked for any visible sign that the same might be happening to Evangelina. She seemed in perfect health. “How is young Johnny?” he asked.

“Ah, such a handful,” she replied. “I chase him everywhere. Only when he sleeps do I rest.” She looked back into the kitchen. “Tonight I will fix a beef stew for you for dinner.”

“That sounds delicious,” Wallace said, not at all pleased at the prospect. “Are you happy and well?”

“Oh,
sí,
” she answered, but there was no joy in her voice or merriment in her eyes.

***

W
allace Claiborne Hale had practiced to perfection the ability to appear cordial and disarming in the most demanding circumstances, until he gauged it was time to strike on a client's behalf. At the dinner table, he kept the conversation centered on topics important to ranchers: the weather, range conditions, beef prices, and in Patrick's case, the weak market for cutting horses and cow ponies. After dinner, in the living room, he began with a straightforward recitation of the trust's financial particulars—what was devoted to real estate, bank deposits, stock—and the total current net worth, which showed a healthy growth in liquid assets.

“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.”