The Last Ranch (12 page)

Gus raised an eyebrow at the mention of the ranch. “The army didn't force you off the land for the air corps bombing range?”

“No, except for a small slice on the Alkali Flats, most of the 7-Bar-K is in the high country on the fringe of the bombing range.
Besides, thanks to my savvy grandfather and his partner, I own title to most of the land, unlike the other ranchers, who only held title to a section and leased the rest for grazing. The army would have a hard time forcing me out or offering only to pay a paltry amount.”

Gus nodded in approval. “That's a definite advantage, although there is always the threat of eminent domain proceedings, which I'm sure won't happen. I've heard a number of the displaced ranchers are planning to return after the war ends.”

Matt leaned forward in his chair. “I hope they can, but let me tell you it's not just a bombing range out there anymore.”

He launched into the strange army doings he'd witnessed at the McDonald ranch, and the topic was carried into the dining room, where, over an excellent meal of tacos, salad, and melon, they speculated about the hush-hush military enterprise on the Jornada. The only conclusion they reached echoed Patrick's observation that armies, by their nature, specialized in blowing people up.

It was only then that Consuelo asked about Matt's war wound. He kept his reply brief, but it still brought tears to her eyes.

In the cool of the high-walled courtyard at twilight, Matt asked Gus and Consuelo about their son, Lorenzo, a West Point graduate who'd been a serving officer at the onset of the war. He learned Lorenzo was now a highly decorated brigadier general at the Pentagon after serving in North Africa, Italy, and France. He'd married before the war. Gus fetched snapshots of Lorenzo, his wife, and their three children. In the lamplight of the patio table, Matt declared them to be a handsome bunch.

As the evening wore down, Consuelo advanced the notion that Matt could live at the hacienda as their guest when he returned to school.

“Even when Lorenzo and his family visit, there will be empty bedrooms gathering dust,” she added. “Although I will never give it up, this place is much too big for the two of us and we'd love your company.”

Gus heartily endorsed her offer.

Matt thanked them and said he would give it some thought. Only then did Beth's presence briefly hover over them.

He left soon after, filled with renewed affection for Gus and Consuelo. Their good company and lively conversation made him realize all that had been missing in his life since the day Anna Lynn left for California. He'd been semi-comatose and hadn't even noticed it.

Just as Consuelo would never give up her hacienda, Matt could never let go of the 7-Bar-K. He'd worked too hard for too long to save it. Yet he needed more than ranching in his life. Without any clear idea of what to study other than range management or animal husbandry, he resolved to go back to school as soon as possible.

Matt returned home to find a package on his desk sent from an army post office in Europe. Inside was an inscribed copy of Bill Mauldin's book
Up Front
, along with the two original cartoons Bill had done about Matt's exploits in Sicily. A typewritten letter read:

Matt:

Just about the time the Nazis threw in the towel I got the Pulitzer Prize for my first book of cartoons. Hell, I didn't even know what a Pulitzer Prize was until my publisher explained it all to me earlier in the year. I sure didn't expect to get it but I'm glad I did. My book is selling like hotcakes and my publisher says that I'm gonna be rich and famous, so you'd better hold on to all those drawings I peddled to you when I was a kid in Mountain Park. They're gonna be worth a lot of money someday.

I thought you'd like to have the original cartoons I did about you in Sicily, so I've signed them and sent them along in this package as well.

Anyway, I've got to run now because some journalist from the States wants to interview me for his Chicago newspaper. (There's a bird colonel assigned full-time to handle all my publicity and such. How's them apples for a lowly buck sergeant from New Mexico?)

Your pal,
Bill

Matt showed the letter to Patrick, and thinking it might be wise to find a better place to keep Bill's drawings—a bank safe-deposit box, perhaps—he went to the small blanket chest in the casita where he'd tucked them away before leaving for the army. They were all gone—two dozen drawings—along with Anna Lynn's letters he'd added after returning home.

Steamed, he stomped around the house calling for Patrick and found him in the corral with a pained expression on his face, shoveling horse apples into a wheelbarrow. It was not a chore he took to willingly—further evidence of his guilt.

“What did you do with them, old man?” Matt demanded.

“I don't know what you're talking about,” Patrick mumbled, his face averted, hidden by the brim of his cowboy hat.

“Yes, you do: Bill Mauldin's drawings, Anna Lynn's letters.”

Patrick dropped his shovel into the wheelbarrow. “When Anna Lynn and Ginny quit us, I burned all of it. Jesus, they were just some kid's drawings. How was I to know?”

“They weren't yours to burn, dammit,” Matt snapped.

“I was mad at what she'd done to you.”

“What she did to
me
?” Matt queried sarcastically.

A sad look flickered across his face. “To both of us, I reckon.”

Matt almost felt sympathy for the old man. He'd watched Anna
Lynn win him over by the strength of her personality, and lovable little Ginny burrow her way into his heart. But he did not have the goodwill to grant him forgiveness, at least not yet. “You are the most inconsiderate person I know.”

Patrick bit his lip before forcing out the words. “If I've done wrong to you I'm sorry.”

Matt stared at his father trying to remember if he'd ever heard such an admission before. As far as he could recall, it was a first. He could either accept the apology or simply acknowledge it. “Let's leave it at that,” he said sharply, walking away.

At his desk, he put Bill Mauldin's book, the cartoons, and his letter in a locked drawer along with the framed drawing of Patches, Matt's pony. It was the first sketch he'd ever bought from young Billy and he'd paid a whole dollar for it. The next time he went to town, he'd rent a safe-deposit box.

***

B
reakfast the next morning was a silent affair, with Patrick dour-looking and Matt not quite ready to let him off the hook for his misdeed. After finishing his bowl of hot oatmeal, he left Patrick with the dirty dishes, loaded a salt lick in the pickup, and drove up the canyon where he'd hazed his cattle that were scheduled for market into a pasture near a clear water stream. They'd laze and fatten there for a week before he moved them up higher to the north pasture.

The monsoons were past due and there wasn't a cloud in the sky. Every day, he ranched hoping for moisture while keeping a watchful eye on the parched land. To avoid overgrazing, he routinely threw the cattle from pasture to pasture to let the grasses
recover. Most times, he did it on his own and it was downright exhausting work.

He put out the salt lick and rattled back down the poor excuse of a ranch road in time to see two riders approaching the corral leading a packhorse. He sounded the truck horn to announce his pending arrival and the riders drew rein and waited.

Wondering who his unexpected visitors were, Matt punched the accelerator.

***

J
ames Kaytennae sat on his pony, watched the truck slow to a stop, and studied the man who approached on foot. He was tall, broad-shouldered, blue-eyed, with the same features he remembered. But he was much too young to be Patrick Kerney. Perhaps he was a son. He scanned the ranch house, saw no movement, and softly in Apache told his young nephew, Jasper Daklugie, that their journey may have been in vain.

From the shoulder of Kaytennae's pony, the man looked up at him. Expecting a cool reception from the White Eyes, Kaytennae inwardly tensed.

Instead the man nodded a pleasant greeting, smiled, and said, “You gents are a far piece off the highway. Light and come in for some coffee.”

Relieved by the neighborly reception, James swung off his pony. “Thank you. But first, I must ask, has Walks Alone gone to the Happy Place?”

“Who?”

James gazed up at the ranch house, which he remembered clearly. “Patrick Kerney—is he dead?”

Matt laughed and extended his hand. “No, he's too contrary to die. I'm his son, Matt.”

James shook hands and said, “I am James Kaytennae. My young nephew is Jasper Daklugie. I have brought him here at his grandmother's request so he can work for you. You do not need to pay him. He has almost sixteen summers and is strong for his age. He wishes to fight in the war but is too young. I have told him he must wait for the next war, which will come when he has twenty summers.”

Jasper Daklugie smiled at the prospect of becoming a warrior as he slid out of his saddle and stood by his pony.

Rendered speechless, Matt nodded a greeting in the boy's direction and returned his attention to James Kaytennae. He was Patrick's age, maybe a few years older. He wore his long hair in braids under his hat and was thick through the chest with a narrow waist cinched by a belt with a turquoise-and-silver buckle. Kaytennae had called Patrick by an Apache name Matt had never heard before, and had announced he'd brought his young nephew to the ranch to work for free, while offhandedly predicting with great certainty that another war would start in about five years. It was a hell of a lot of information to take in all at once.

After chewing on his choices for a moment, Matt picked the easiest topic to question. “You want Jasper to work here for free?”

James nodded. “Yes, for room and board.”

Matt looked over his shoulder for Patrick.
Where was he?
Probably in the outhouse, where he seems to be spending more and more time the older he gets.
He returned his attention to James Kaytennae. “What kind of trouble is the boy in?”

“No trouble,” James replied calmly. “He has been chosen by tribal leaders to study cattle ranching. We need our young men to
gain experience from ranchers like you and your father to help improve our herd.”

“How do you know my father?” Matt asked.

Patrick's voice boomed from the veranda. “Don't answer that!”

Matt turned in time to see him adjusting his suspenders.

James Kaytennae smiled. “Ah, Walks Alone.”

“Don't call me that,” Patrick thundered.

“It is a good name,” James countered. “You should be honored to have it.”

Patrick thudded down the veranda steps on his bad leg. “I don't see why.”

“Because not many White Eyes are given an Apache name,” James answered.

Patrick stopped a nose short of Kaytennae's face. “It was you that gave me that damn handle.”

James didn't budge. “That's even more of a reason for you to be happy with it.”

“You're still uppity,” Patrick said, breaking into a smile. “How long has it been?”

“Too long, Walks Alone,” Kaytennae replied.

Still flummoxed, Matt turned to Jasper Daklugie. “Do you know what this is all about?”

Jasper nodded. “Yes, Uncle has often told me the story.”

“Well, then I guess it's my turn to hear it,” Matt said.

“He will do so if you ask,” Jasper replied.

***

O
ver coffee in the kitchen, James recounted the story he'd obviously enjoyed telling many times. As a boy during the wars with
the White Eyes, he'd hidden on the ranch with his sister, who was about to have a baby and had suffered a badly broken leg. Unable to continue their travels and without any food, James stole a chicken from the ranch house, only to be tracked down and captured by Matt's grandfather, John Kerney, and his partner, Cal Doran.

His sister went into labor before they could be taken to the ranch headquarters, and in spite of John Kerney's attempt during a raging thunderstorm to save the infant, it died in childbirth. Under watchful eyes, they were made prisoners at the ranch, although well treated and cared for, until his sister had recovered enough to travel home. While at the ranch, James, who knew no English, gave Patrick the name Walks Alone—although he kept it to himself during his captivity.

Accompanied by Patrick, John Kerney drove James and his sister in a wagon across the Tularosa and high into the forest to the reservation near the sacred mountain. As they approached the fort they were met by more than thirty Apache warriors who showed their silent gratitude for sparing James and his sister by accompanying the wagon to the post headquarters. It had been an honor conferred upon few White Eyes.

Years later, after John Kerney's death, James became a tribal police officer. Ordered to guide Patrick and Cal Doran to Pine Tree Canyon, where they were to deliver a hundred and fifty head of cattle purchased for the tribe, James had kept silent about his identity until the journey was almost over. Only then did he reveal himself and tell Patrick how he'd come to give him an Apache name so many years ago. Insulted to be called Walks Alone, Patrick had ridden off in a huff.

James paused to smile at the memory of Patrick's bluster. He had no humor then and probably very little now.

“While we were at Pine Tree Canyon, Patrick met the girl who was to become his wife and your mother,” he continued, looking directly at Matt. “She was living there with her sister and brother-in-law, but not happy. When we left, she came with us.”

James avoided mentioning the names of the woman and brother-in-law, long dead, to keep their spirits from becoming ghosts and spreading sickness.

Taken aback by information he'd never heard before, Matt held up his hand to stop James and quickly turned to Patrick. “I never knew how or where you met Ma, or about her living with a sister on the reservation and leaving with you and Cal.”

Patrick shrugged as he glanced pointedly at James. It would not do to tell Matt the whole truth. “It never crossed my mind to tell you. I guess your ma felt it wasn't important either.”

James nodded to signal his understanding, but his enjoyment in telling the story had vanished. It was rude to interrupt a speaker, even more so a storyteller in the middle of his tale. Perhaps Matt and Patrick knew no better. He fell silent.

“Please tell me more,” Matt prodded.

To convey his displeasure James remained mute. He considered recounting how, some moons after helping Walks Alone rescue his future bride, he'd returned and killed the brother-in-law for stealing from his people and badly mistreating the young woman. It was a well-deserved killing that he'd relished then and still relished now. He'd never admitted the killing to anyone before and decided to say nothing of it, although he knew Walks Alone would be happy to know the truth.

He waited until Matt lowered his gaze before continuing. But since it no longer pleased him to continue the story in his usual great detail, he drastically shortened it. “Some time passed before I saw Cal Doran again, when he was the law hunting for the killers
of Judge Fountain and his son,” he said. “More summers later, He Who Steals Horses told me of his dream that Cal Doran and Patrick needed me, so I came and worked here until I had money to buy enough ponies to get married.”

He pushed his empty coffee cup aside. “And that is the story of how we came to know each other over these many years.”

Jasper raised an eyebrow, as his uncle had left much unsaid, especially the part he liked best of how he had tracked two horse thieves who'd stolen ponies from the ranch and shot them out of their saddles dead.

The steely look in James's eyes kept him silent.

Matt quietly mulled over what he'd heard. Though a firm believer in reality, he had a hard time shaking off the feeling that his grandfather's long-ago act of human decency had created some sort of magic for his family. He sensed it more than knew it, but the Apache people—who continued to maintain a singular disdain for the white man—simply didn't mysteriously show up twice at the ranch over a span of many decades offering their help when none had been asked for. Yet here sat James Kaytennae and Jasper Daklugie at his kitchen table at a time when Matt wanted nothing more than to find a way to go back to college. It was all very perplexing to his logical mind.

He waited, hoping for more from James, but the look on his face made it clear he had finished. “Why do you call Patrick ‘Walks Alone'?” Matt asked. “You never explained.”

“Because it is who he is,” James replied, feeling no further need to elaborate.

This time, Patrick didn't grouse about the moniker. He glanced at Jasper and without consulting Matt said, “The boy will get wages just like any other hand.” He figured to pay it out of his veteran's pension if need be.