Hard Country (27 page)

“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.”

Cal cut into his beefsteak, forked a bite, and chewed.

“Head north were they get rain more than twice a year,” Patrick added. “Do something else for a change. Maybe get some schooling like Gene Rhodes did when he went off to college in California.”

Patrick sounded more and more earnest as he gathered steam. It wasn’t unreasonable for a young man of eighteen to want to strike out on his own. Cal had left home even younger, leaving behind his parents, a kid brother, and a baby sister in East Texas, where his father preached the holy word and his mother taught school.

He decided to take Patrick seriously. “I’d like a say in who you decide to sell your half of the Double K to,” he said.

Patrick laughed. “I mean to sell it to you, if I do.”

Cal put his fork down. “You know darn well how much money I’ve got.”

“You can borrow. We own this outfit free and clear.”

“What a bank would give me for half of this place right now isn’t enough to spit at. Besides, I’m not looking to lose you as a partner.”

“I’m pretty much fixing to move on for a spell. I just need a stake to get started. I sure ain’t going back to driving a wagon for wages. Not this cowboy.”

Patrick’s jaw was set, a sure sign he wasn’t joking.

“Let me think on it for a while,” Cal replied.

“Until when?”

“Until we settle up for the cattle in Mexico.”

Patrick stood. “Fair enough. We need to shoe some horses before we start for Engle with those critters.”

“I know it. We’ll get it done tomorrow and hit the trail the day after. Think you’ll miss the old place once you’re gone?”

Patrick looked pensive for a moment. “Don’t know. I guess I’ve sort of got settled here since John Kerney fetched me to it, but I’ve never figured to stay forever.” He picked up his plate and put it in the sink. “See you
mañana.
”

“
Mañana,
” Cal replied.

He watched Patrick leave the room. He had John Kerney’s same square shoulders and carried himself just like his pa, but there was no humor to the lad, and he showed no gratitude for the kindnesses of others. Never once had Patrick uttered a word of thanks to Cal for taking him under his wing, making him a full partner, raising him up, teaching him to cowboy—nothing. For that matter, he’d never seen him show a lick of appreciation to Ignacio and Teresa for all of their kindnesses. It just wasn’t in him to be grateful or easy in his manners.

Once they left the ranch, Cal planned on being gone for no more than two weeks. He wondered if he’d really be trailing back to the Double K alone.

24

P
ushing hungry, thirsty cattle to Engle wore down the men and critters alike. Cal and Patrick spent thirty nonstop hours in the saddle driving the sore-footed animals through rocky canyons, over steep hills, and around wagon-size boulders. They lost two along the way, a sickly yearling and a weak old cow. In Engle, they herded the bawling, thirsty animals into the huge Bar Cross stock pen at the railroad siding, watered them down, and went to the station to hire cattle cars to ship the stock to El Paso. The stationmaster scheduled them for a southbound train leaving in six hours. After Cal paid the freight charges, the two men walked across the street for a meal at the hotel.

Over plates of eggs, bacon, and sourdough biscuits, they talked about what the cattle would bring upon delivery.

“I allow they’re scrawny critters,” Cal said, “but eyeballing them I figure I can put three hundred dollars in your pocket once we get paid, if you still want to hit the trail and shake off some Tularosa dust for a while.”

“By a long stretch, three hundred ain’t gonna buy my half of the outfit,” Patrick said.

“Didn’t say it would. But it might do until we can settle up.”

“Three hundred will suit until then,” Patrick said. “Once I settle, I’ll let you know where to send the rest of the money.”

Cal nodded at a couple of Bar Cross hands who’d entered the dining room. “Where do you plan to head first?” he asked.

“Maybe up to Santa Fe,” Patrick answered, ignoring the cowboys. “I’ve got a hankering to see that town. Then maybe into Colorado. Denver. Cheyenne. I’ll see how far the itch takes me.”

Cal pushed back from the table. “We’ll shake on it in Mexico.”

“In Mexico,” Patrick echoed as he rose to his feet. The last two times Cal had gone to buy ponies in Mexico, Patrick had stayed home. This time he’d get to go, and he was eager to see the country.

At the Bar Cross corral, they loaded the animals in the livestock cars at the siding and stretched out on their bedrolls in the shade. When the clanking and puffing of an approaching engine woke them, they put their horses in an empty stock car and rode with them all the way to El Paso, the sound of the wheels on the rails lulling them back to sleep.

In El Paso, Cal left Patrick with the cattle in a holding pen at the rail yards and went across the border to Juárez looking for their Mexican buyer, Emiliano Díaz, a Chihuahua cattleman. He found him in the bar of an old hacienda on a plaza across from a whitewashed church with a bell tower topped by a cross. Encircled by trees, the hacienda had three-foot-thick adobe walls and a dining room filled with men with long Spanish faces. The gaming rooms were alive with action at the tables, the gamblers surrounded by lovely señoritas who had private rooms along a long hallway that they used to entertain their guests.

“Ah, my old amigo,” Díaz said with a smile as Cal joined him at his corner table. “This time I buy, you sell.”

“That’s the way of it,” Cal said as he sat and shook Díaz’s hand. Twice he’d bought Mexican ponies from Emiliano to break to the saddle and sell as cavalry mounts to the army. He was a fair man to do business with.

A big man with a full mustache under a narrow nose, Díaz had thick eyebrows and blue-green eyes. He was pure Spanish, a descendant of the conquistadors, and proud of it.

“How many cows do you have for me?” Díaz asked.

Emiliano’s ranch manager, Makiah Whetten, a Mormon with three wives and nine kids who also ran his own small outfit adjacent to Díaz’s ranchero, had taught him English. Díaz spoke it well.

“Eighty-five,” Cal replied. “They’re mighty scrawny but should fatten up on the range.”

“No matter. Finally we have the grass. You’ll bring them across tomorrow.”

“I could use a hand,” Cal said. “There are only two of us.”

Díaz nodded. “Whetten is here with me. He’ll help you and tell me how much I paid. Not too much, I hope.” Díaz grinned. “You and your partner will stay here as my guests, no?”

Emiliano owned the hacienda. It had been in his family for two hundred years.

“
Gracias,
but not tonight,” Cal said. Unguarded, the cows might easily disappear across the border before he could deliver them to Díaz’s manager. He couldn’t risk it. “We’ll stay with the stock.”

“
Mañana
then. We will eat together and perhaps I will win some of my money back at the tables.”

“Not from me,” Cal said.

Díaz laughed. “From the señoritas, then.”

Cal smiled. “Could be.
Buenas noches.
”

* * *

M
akiah Whetten came at daybreak and sized up the stock. Rested, fed, and watered, the critters looked better than they had in days but were still pretty puny.

A slender man originally out of Utah, Makiah had a calm and easy way about him. He tallied the animals, estimated the total weight, and told Cal and Patrick what he’d pay. It was about what Cal had expected, plus fifty dollars.

“He needs these critters,” Makiah said. “He let about eighty percent of his stock die during the drought. I couldn’t get him to pay a penny for feed. Said he’d just as soon get some new bloodlines. He’s got Oliver Lee coming down next month with two hundred head.”

“I wish I had more to sell him,” Cal said.

Makiah smiled. “He still might be buying in a year or two. The Díaz ranch covers over half a million acres.”

They left the rail yard and pushed the cattle over some low hills with the stark Franklin Mountains at their backs and the town of El Paso nestled along the Rio Grande. Makiah took them along the riverbank to a spot where some cow tracks wound down to the water.

“No quicksand here,” he said as he signaled Cal and Patrick to start the cows across.

The mountain cows had never seen so much running water in their lives. They balked at the bank, mooing and backtracking at the frightening sound and sight of the river. Cal and Patrick roped a bull and a steer and drug them across, hoping the others would follow, but it was wasted effort. Let loose, the critters just splashed back across to the other side and rejoined the bunch.

“What are we gonna do?” Patrick asked, looking at the snorting, bellowing cattle on the riverbank.

“With the river running low and sluggish, we can mill them across,” Cal said. “I’ll prod the lead steer and start them turning. You and Makiah tighten the circle. Once they get their feet wet, it should be all right.”

Patrick gave Cal a dubious look. “If they stampede in the water you’ll be stove up or worse.”

“Then I reckon we’d better do it nice and slow,” Cal said as he pointed Bandit at the lead steer.

He got the lead steer in the middle of the river with a few of the cows trailing behind and started moving them in a slow circle while Patrick and Makiah prodded the rest of them into the water. They milled around Cal and pressed tight against Bandit as he moved them through the brown stream into Mexico.

Once the bunch was settled on the other side, Cal quickly turned them south, eager to avoid any customs agents wanting to see proof that duty had been paid on the critters. Makiah took the lead and they raised dust for five hours, pushing the slow-moving cows along, until they reached a fenced pasture in some low hills along a mountain range where three vaqueros waited. The grasslands looked better than the Tularosa flats, but not by much, and Cal wondered if Díaz was doing the right thing stocking so soon after the drought.

After they had the cattle in the pasture under the care of Díaz’s vaqueros, Makiah paid Cal in greenbacks and the three riders turned their horses toward Juárez.