Beverly Byrne (20 page)

"Bunkhouse
out back." He pointed to yet another delapidated adobe hovel.

"Very
well. We have an agreement, then. You can begin by telling me how we find these
cattle that are supposed to be ours."

He
went away and came back with a long-handled branding iron. He stamped it into
the sandy earth, and Amy studied the imprint. "That's your mark,"
Diego said.

The
brand consisted of the letters SD, enclosed in a circle of punctated dots.

"Your
cows are marked on the right hip," Diego explained. "And their right
ear is notched."

"But
where are they?"

He
looked exasperated. "I told you. On the range. Have to have a roundup if
you want to get 'em counted. Take a lot of men."

The
enormity of it depressed her. Maybe Tommy would have some success with Mr.
Lopez. "Where did you get the water to fill the butt?" she asked,
changing the subject.

"There's
a well 'bout a hundred yards away. Mr. DeAngeles's pa drilled it a long time
ago. I ain't never seen it dry. This is the best place for water between here
and the Pecos river. No cause to complain 'bout that. "

***

Tommy
reported a similar reaction from the lawyer in Santa Fe. He told her about it
as he stood near the small fire she'd made against the evening chill, drinking
her terrible coffee. "Lopez practically laughed me out of his office when
I mentioned complaining to the bar. According to him he told Uncle Donald the
exact truth. Plenty of water, three thousand plus cattle at the
last
official counting
and structures in need of repair due to Mr. DeAngeles's
recent illness. Lopez still insists we got a bargain."

"Diego
said the same about the water. We're lucky in that respect apparently."

"I
take it he came back."

She
told him the story and motioned to the bunk-house where Diego slept. "We need
help. And he knows the place. Mayas well keep him on."

"Yeah,
I guess so. Particularly now he's so impressed with your skill as a
horsewoman."

She
felt a moment's regret at having told him that part of the story. "I'll
help you unload," she said, starting for the car.

"Don't
bother, I'll do it."

She
insisted on helping. When they'd transferred the flour and bacon and canned
goods Amy saw another box at the rear. She dragged it toward the car door. It
was three cases of pure malt whiskey.

16

TOMMY
TOOK TO SITTING AT THE FAR EDGE OF THE ranch buildings, his back propped
against an adobe wall, and silently staring at the land from dawn to dusk. He
kept a bottle of whiskey by his side, but he was never reeling drunk. When Amy
asked him about the future all he said was, "Leave it to me. I'm thinking
about it."

That
first week Amy began clearing the debris from the main house. She wanted to
believe that when she removed the crumbling clay, the vermin droppings, the
discarded nests of creatures long grown and gone, and the tin and paper and
glass rubbish of former human occupation, then there would be a transformation.

Diego
provided old burlap feed sacks rescued from one of the outbuildings. After she
filled them with refuse, he hauled them away. Lizards and snakes and nameless
insects scurried ahead of her onslaught. Diego warned her about scorpions. She
listened gravely and made him describe in detail the appearance of the poisonous
ones.

"What
about snakes?" she asked.

"Most
of 'em won't harm you none. Course, if you see a rattler, you'll know it. You
just stand real still and ..."

"I
know how to deal with snakes," she interrupted. "It's just the local
varieties I'm unfamiliar with."

He
looked at her speculatively and watched with disbelief her exhausting attack on
the house. It remained as much a ruin clean as it had been dirty.

A
few times Amy discovered some entrancing architectural detail of carved wood or
inlaid tile that indicated what once had been. She ran to call Tommy. Each time
he came slowly, looked, and said little.

On
the fourth day Tommy announced that he was going again to Santa Fe. He put a
bottle of whiskey in the car and drove off with no further explanation.

That
day Amy worked more rapidly as an antidote to anxiety and despair. The effort
made her arms and legs leaden with fatigue, but it didn't divert her. Tommy
returned at nightfall, no more inebriated than usual, and still offered no
excuse for his journey.

He
brought with him a letter from Lil, collected at the Santa Fe post office. It
was full of chatter about relatives, including Luke, who was said to be well
and happy in his priory.

Lil
added that there was yet no sign of a buyer for the Eighty-third Street house.
Amy knew that; they'd also had a letter from Donald Varley. She thought Tommy
had received one from Luke, but he didn't offer to let her read it.

On
the first day of their third week on the ranch Diego suggested that he and Amy
ride. "You should see the waterhole and some of the boundaries, so's you
know where they are," he said.

She
packed a lunch, and he stowed it in his saddle-bag. Then she mounted the gray,
and they rode off. Amy had told Tommy she was going, but she didn't think he
heard.

"What's
this beauty's name," Amy asked, patting the gray's neck with affection.

"Always
just called her the gray."

"I'm
going to call her Sheba. It's the name of a pony I had back home."

They
rode east. Amy wanted to see the Rio Grande, but it was seventy miles west of
the ranch, and not the area Diego wanted to show her. Gradually the vegetation
became thicker and greener. "Good grazing land here," Diego said.
"Up ahead is Pintada Creek."

Amy
searched for a sight of the cattle she purportedly owned, but only once did
they see the dust of a herd off in the distance. "Thought maybe I could
find a stray and show you the brand," Diego said, patting the rope at his
waist. "No luck. Take a couple of days if we set out to do it
purposeful-like."

The
waterhole was a broad hollow sump, filled with murky brackish liquid that
looked undrinkable. Amy's disappointment was plain on her face.

"It
ain't never been dry since I knowed it," Diego explained. "Maybe you
don't realize how important that is. Must be an underwater spring here. It
ain't a gusher, I'll grant you that, but it's steady."

She
nodded and looked again for cattle, but saw none. They rode back along a route
Diego identified as a portion of Santo Domingo's southern border. Amy sited the
landmarks carefully, but with a sense of despair tempered only by her delight
in the infinite horizon and the endless space.

"Where
the hell you been?" Tommy's speech was heavily slurred. He was crouched by
the gate of the corral, clutching an empty bottle.

"I
told you before we left. We went out to see the waterhole." Amy slid
quickly from her horse and tossed the reins to Diego. "I'm sorry if you
were worried. Come up to the house. I'll get some dinner ready."

He
pushed off the hand she laid on his shoulder and staggered to his feet.
"You told me nothing. And I want something ..." He faltered as if his
tongue were too thick to form the words. "Something clear. My wife doesn't
go off with any Indian. Never!" His voice rose to a shout. "Never,
you hear me?"

Amy
looked at neither him nor Diego, but walked toward the house. Tommy stumbled
after her. "I'm talking to you, lady! Don't you walk away from me!"

He
caught up with her and spun her around. "Where did you go?"

"I
told you. To see the waterhole."

"Waterhole?
Twelve miles due east of here? That's where it is, isn't it? Answer me, damn
you!"

"I
guess so," she murmured. "I didn't keep track of the miles."

Without
warning he slapped her hard across the face. Amy clutched her stinging cheek
and stared at him speechless. It was the first time he had ever struck her. In
all the terrible scenes of their nine months of marriage he had done nothing
like that.

"Don't
start showing your Indian blood, you bitch!" he hissed at her. "You
act like a decent white woman, and keep pretending you're a lady, or I'll kill
you!"

She
turned and ran for the shelter of the shed. She knew that she could outrun him,
and she had some half-formed idea of barricading herself in the room where they
slept. By the time she reached it, sobbing and panting, she realized that he
wasn't following. She heard the motor of the Model-T.

She
changed direction and ran to where the flivver was parked. "Tommy, for
God's sake! You're too drunk to drive. You'll kill yourself. Where are you going?"

"Get
out of my way, bitch. I'm going to see this famous waterhole. Going to take a
look myself, and see if it's worth fifty thousand dollars." He drove off
in a cloud of dust.

By
morning he had not returned. Amy was sick with worry and disgust and something
akin to hatred. It didn't prevent her from going toward the corral carrying
Sheba's saddle. She couldn't leave him alone out there, no matter what she
felt.

"I'll
go," Diego said, taking the saddle from her limp hands. "I know the
country better."

"He
said he was going to the waterhole. He seemed to know exactly where it
was."

"Yeah,
I heard." He didn't look at her. "Flivver probably got stuck
somewhere. I'll bring him back. Don't worry, just wait here."

He
returned three hours later with an unconscious Tommy slung over the front of
his horse. "Car's stuck in the sand. He's all right, just passed
out." He carried his employer into the shed and dumped him on the cot.
"I'll go dig the car out and bring it back."

"Can
you drive?"

"If
I have to. You going to be all right?" He looked at Tommy.

"Yes.
Go ahead, I'll be fine."

 After
that Tommy was constantly drunk, too much so to pay her any attention, let
alone abuse her. Sometimes he stayed at the ranch, sitting in his customary
place until he passed out and fell over and Diego carried him back to the shed.
On other occasions he drove away. At first she thought he must be going to
Santa Fe, but later she found a matchbook with the address of an Albuquerque
bar in his pocket. Tommy often stayed away for days at a time, but she felt
better knowing that he wasn't in Santa Fe. Even an animal doesn't foul its own
nest, she told herself.

By
early April she was sure she was pregnant. She sat one night in the door of the
shed, unable to sleep, and stared out at the stars. They floated low in the blue
velvet sky. Amy remembered the hotel room and their first night in New Mexico.

Tommy
was gone at the moment, and she had no way of knowing when he'd be back. She
resolved to go into Santa Fe in the morning and see a doctor. John Lopez could
recommend someone. Dawn reddened the horizon by the time she pulled herself
wearily to her feet and started to make coffee. Then she heard the motor of the
car coming toward the ranch. "Oh, God," she muttered, "Why do you
come back, Tommy? Why don't you just disappear?"

Amy
brushed her tears away impatiently and added more water to the pot. The car
stopped some distance away. She waited a while, then walked out.

He
had parked by the corral and the gate was open. She saw it swinging on its
hinges and started to run. The last thing she needed now was runaway horses.
She thought of shouting for Diego, but he had heard the car. He appeared from
the direction of the bunk-house, casually hitching up his trousers. Then he too
saw the open corral gate, and broke into a run.

They
arrived at the enclosure at the same moment. In the half-light of dawn Amy and
Diego stared at the scene within. Tommy was on a horse. He had no saddle. He
merely lay along the animal's back, and clung fiercely to its neck, laughing
aloud like a madman.

He'd
chosen a black mare that neither Amy nor Diego ever rode. She was on the small
side, but fractious and difficult. The mare bobbed her head from side to side,
prancing and whinnying and trying to dislodge the annoyance plaguing her.

"You're
not going to throw me, horse!" Tommy shouted. "You're a lousy, dumb
animal, and I'm clever Tommy Westerman who knows all the answers. You're not
going to throw me!"

He
was roaring, raving drunk. His muscles, loose and flaccid, rolled with the
horse's motions. His buil-tup shoe slapped against the mare's flanks, and his
body kept to her rhythm in a wild improbable grace.

"Jesus,"
Diego said under his breath. "I ain't never seen anything like that. Never
thought no cripple could sit a horse."

"Shut
the gate," Amy said, "before the horses realizes it's open,
Diego."

He
jerked into motion and closed the three of them and the eight horses inside the
corral. Tommy continued his ride. Nearly two minutes passed before he noticed
his wife and the Indian watching him.

"Good
morning," he called as he passed by. "I'm learning to ride. Only way
to get around out here ...." His voice was lost in the neighing and
stomping of animals infected by the unhappiness of the black mare.

"Get
down!" Amy shouted. "We'll take her out of the corral and you can try
again. There's not enough room in here, Tommy. Too many other horses. Get
down!"

For
a long time he paid no attention, but finally he slid off at their feet,
laughing and gasping for breath. "Ok, that'll do for now, I guess."

Diego
helped him to his feet and half carried him to bed.

Amy
left Tommy sleeping and drove the buckboard to Santa Fe. It took her four hours
and was not an easy journey, and she realized that for her own good she must
learn to drive the Model-T. Her amber linen dress was crushed and dusty by the
time she stood outside the doctor's office, and she felt irritable and unsure
of herself.

Lopez's
secretary had told Amy how to find this low white complex of buildings perched
on the edge of a canyon north of the plaza. Amy went through a painted green
gate in a high white wall, and found herself in a courtyard filled with the
scents of spring and the sound of trickling water. In front of her was a
two-story house with carved wooden balconies fronting the upper windows.