Backlands (38 page)

Matt laughed. “Relax. Tell me how you found the kitchen when you took over.”

“Everything was as it should be, the dining room and kitchen were spic-and-span, and all the foodstuffs were accounted for. The old cook left things in good shape.”

“Let's take a look,” Matt said.

The kitchen, mess hall, and food locker were in good order. Inventories and requisition orders were up-to-date. Camp cooks reimbursed their local suppliers with cash upon delivery through a special mess account. “Let me see your mess cash account,” Matt said.

Nelson shook his head. “I don't have one. Everything gets paid by administration.”

Matt turned to Simmons. “How long has that been going on?”

“Since we lost our second-in-command six months ago. He used to supervise all the cash accounts for local vendors and suppliers. A replacement has been held up because Washington wants to have a civilian appointed and the army wants to keep it military. So for now, all cash disbursements go through administration.”

“All of them?” Matt asked.

Simmons nodded. “Including vehicle parts and supplies for my shop.”

“Let's visit your shop next,” Matt said. On the way to the garage he asked Simmons about Vic Suter.

“He was a friend of mine,” Simmons said as he swung open a garage bay door. “I never figured him to leave.” He stood aside to let Matt enter. “You're gonna see a mess in here. But I keep our trucks running and teach the lads a thing or two about being good mechanics.”

Matt's eyes adjusted to the dimness. Simmons was right: The garage was a mess. Tools were scattered on the workbenches, truck tires were stacked in a haphazard pile against the wall, grease-stained coveralls were draped over truck fenders, a trunk engine sat on top of a grungy wood worktable, and a partially disassembled rear axle rested on a tarp on the floor. The smell of gasoline and oil hung in the air.

“Why did Vic leave?” Matt asked.

“Vic got crossways with another supervisor.”

“Who was that?”

“Porter Knox. He's king of the roost around here right now. The lieutenant's number one favorite and his acting second-in-command. In Gossing's eyes, Porter can do no wrong. I understand it. Knox has earned a lot of praise, what with the success of his woodworking and furniture-making program.”

“How did Vic get crossways with Knox?”

“I don't know; Vic wouldn't talk about it. But it happened soon after Knox took over as acting executive officer.”

“Let's visit the woodworking shop.”

“Knox keeps it locked when he's not around.”

“Has he always done that?”

“No, he used to let the fellows use it after hours and on weekends until he got made acting XO.”

“Is there a locked key box in the administration building?”

“There is,” Simmons said.

In the camp commander's office, Matt pried open the locked key box and found a spare key to the woodworking shop. With a worried Max Simmons trailing behind, Matt hurried to the shop, opened the door, and stepped inside to the smell of freshly sawed wood. Knowing Porter, Matt wasn't surprised to find the place orderly. All the hand tools hung on wall pegs, and the concrete floor was swept clean of sawdust, wood shavings, and litter. Furniture in various stages of construction filled a large work space. Off in a corner was a separate room used for staining and painting. A desk, two chairs, and a file cabinet were positioned at the back of the shop, away from the large table saws. Both the desk and file cabinet were locked.

Matt sat at Porter's desk wondering what the rift between Porter and Vic Suter had been about. What had Knox done to make Vic leave a job he obviously liked and enjoyed?

“Porter handles the cash payments to local suppliers now?” Matt asked.

“Yeah, like I said,” Simmons replied. “He's acting XO. He pays them right here.”

That meant Porter handled five cash accounts. Matt knew the maximum amount of money allowed in any one cash account was two hundred dollars. There could be a thousand dollars locked in Porter's desk.

“Can you open the desk?”

Simmons shook his head. “I don't have a key.”

The desk looked identical to the one in the garage. “Does your desk have a key?” Matt asked, wondering if the locks were universal.

“It does, but I never lock it.”

“Please go get the key.” Matt stared at Porter's desk. He hated the notion that Porter might be a thief. Maybe Vic Suter's gripe with Porter was simply personal.

Simmons's key opened the desk. One cash box was empty except for two dollars in change and receipts totaling fifty-seven dollars, which meant about one hundred forty-one dollars was missing. He opened the four other boxes and tallied the receipts and cash on hand. All were short in lesser amounts. He locked all the cash boxes, pocketed the keys, and left the boxes on top of the desk.

“Can you unlock the file cabinet?” Matt asked.

“It don't need a key,” Simmons said. “It's just like all the rest of them we got from the army. Give the top drawer a good yank. That'll spring the lock.”

Matt yanked and the lock sprung. He flipped through the labeled files, pulled the ones marked as accounts paid, and laid them out in order on a long workbench.

“What are you doing?” Simmons asked uneasily.

“Just looking,” Matt replied. “How long would it take Lieutenant Gossing to get here?”

“Two hours at the most.”

“Call him, and only him.” Matt looked up from the folder in his hand. “Tell him I'm here on a surprise inspection. Don't say anything more than that. Clear?”

Simmons nodded. “I got it.”

It took Matt until lunchtime to finish his review of the contents of Porter's file cabinet. He left most of the files out on the workbench, carried the petty cash boxes to his quarters, and locked the door. He ate a noontime meal in the mess hall with a group of talkative enrollees who answered his questions about their work projects, their experiences at the side camps, how they liked the food, and how they were treated by staff. Their gripes consisted of being worked too hard, being fed too much of the same old grub, and being too far from any place with girls.

He was about to leave the mess hall when the camp commander, Lieutenant Erik Gossing, burst through the door. Of medium build, with a blocky jaw and small ears that lay tight against his head, he came straight at Matt.

Matt stood and met Gossing with a smile. “Hello, Lieutenant.”

Gossing returned a forced smile. “I'm sorry I wasn't here to greet you. How can I be of assistance?”

Matt scraped his plate at the dirty-dish station. “Let's talk in the woodworking shop,” he suggested, out of range of his tablemates.

The shop door was open, the electric lights were on, and Porter Knox was at his desk, a worried frown plastered across his brow.

He managed a shaky smile. “Matt, what's this all about, for chrissake?”

“Yes, indeed,” Gossing snapped. “What is going on here?”

Matt stared at Gossing. “Nothing I'm happy about, Lieutenant. Porter has been stealing petty cash from the camp for some time now. He's forged receipts, padded bills of sale from local suppliers, and created phony inventories of some of the milled lumber. There may be more, but that's what I've uncovered so far.”

“That's a lie,” Porter blustered.

Matt stayed focused on Gossing. “Your old cook, Vic Suter, was on to him. But I'm guessing he couldn't prove it. Maybe out of loyalty to you or the camp, he chose to leave rather than report his suspicions.”

“You have proof?” Gossing demanded.

Matt patted a thick file he'd carried with him from the mess hall. “I do.”

Gossing held out his hand. “Let me see it.”

“Not yet.” Matt turned his attention to Porter, who stared at the desktop, hands tightly clenched. “If I've got it figured right, you have a hundred and forty-one dollars that belongs in one of the petty cash boxes. You didn't even bother to leave a receipt for the money. That wasn't very smart.”

“I took that money and bought hardware supplies needed for a furniture order,” Knox puffed. “It will be delivered on Monday. The bill of sale is at home.”

Matt pulled a receipt from the file and waved it at Knox. “Are you talking about
this
receipt for hardware dated today from an Alamogordo store that I found in your cabinet?”

Porter dropped his head.

Matt looked at Gossing. “Four other cash accounts are short as well. A full audit will be required to produce an exact accounting.”

Matt put his hands on the desk and stared at Porter. “Were you hoping to return the money to petty cash?”

Defeated, Porter nodded. “You don't understand . . .”

Matt held up hand to stop him. “How much did you bring?”

“Two hundred and sixteen dollars.”

“Hand it over.”

Matt took the money and turned to Gossing. “Because Porter Knox is my kid brother's stepfather, Mr. Roddy will be here shortly to relieve me. He's flying up from El Paso. Until he arrives, take Knox to one of the guest quarters and stay with him. Is that understood?”

Gossing nodded grimly. “Of course. What's going to happen to him?”

“Nothing good,” Matt predicted, thinking Gossing was probably in for some rough sledding as well. He watched Gossing march a trembling Porter Knox out the door. What Knox had done would have a terrible impact on Evangelina, Juan Ignacio, and Juan's little sister. Matt wanted to grab Porter and give him a good thrashing. Instead, he counted the money Knox had given him, put it in his folder, and went to wait for Hubert Roddy.

H
ubert Roddy made sure Porter Knox's dismissal caused no scandal, and a small ripple of local gossip occurred but quickly faded away. Officially, nothing was said about the two thousand dollars in total Porter had embezzled from the camp. He simply lost his job due to insubordination and was barred from future U.S. government employment. The punishment was far less than the prison sentence Porter richly deserved, but it prevented an embarrassing blemish from marring the sterling reputation of the Civilian Conservation Corps. That kept the Washington bosses happy.

Faced with Roddy's strong recommendation that he step down, Lieutenant Gossing applied for a transfer. His request was quickly approved and he was sent off to be a regimental supply officer at a National Guard fort in Wisconsin. To replace Gossing, Roddy brought in an experienced CCC commanding officer from another camp, hired a Hispanic cabinet maker from Santa Fe to fill Porter's position, and appointed one of his foresters who held a reserve commission in the army to serve as the acting executive officer. His swift and decisive action earned him some well-deserved recognition from his immediate boss and a temporary posting to the Rocky Mountain Region with orders to clean up a number of disasters brewing in the Wyoming camps. As a result of his absence, offers for Matt to take on additional temporary Forest Service assignments dried up completely.

The lull in temporary work couldn't have come at a better time. Matt's campaign to drum up interest in his ponies had started to pay off. Fifteen ranchers and eight rodeo cowboys had sent notice they planned to attend a fall auction at the 7-Bar-K. Encouraged, Matt buckled down to finish the ponies and get them in tip-top shape before the sale.

He was as nervous as a cat on auction day, both hopeful and scared. Pa had enlisted Al Jennings, his wife, Dolly, and Al Jr. to come over and lend a hand. They set up a long picnic table full of eats for guests to munch on, filled tubs of cool water with beer and soda pop, and spruced up the grounds, barn, and corral.

The Hightowers also came early and pitched in. Addie made a sweep through the house and gave it a lick and a promise while Earl helped Matt and Pa curry and brush the ponies until their coats glistened like fancy show horses'. Earl made an offer for a calico gelding he favored and Matt pulled the pony from the auction and sold it to him on the spot with a handshake.

Matt had hired Merlin Lane, the best auctioneer on the basin, to run the sale, and with luck, he'd wisecrack, joke, cajole, and browbeat the crowd into a buying frenzy. With his comedian's flair and rapid-fire bid calling, he'd put on an entertaining show. Dolly Jennings had volunteered to be Merlin's bid spotter, Pa would record the winning bids, and Al and Al Jr. would saddle and bring the ponies one by one to the corral.

Matt had decided on a scheme to put each pony through its paces so potential buyers could see what they were getting. He was nervous the ponies would do a better job of it than he could.

Fifteen minutes after the auctioneer arrived, a long line of cars and trucks came down the ranch road, throwing up dust. When the glad-handing and jawboning ended, the horseflesh had been looked over, the trays of food devoured, and the tubs of beer and soda pop emptied, it was time to start. More than fifty people congregated at the corral, where Merlin Lane, dressed in his pressed white shirt, string tie, and white cowboy hat, waited to start the proceedings.

Al Jr. brought out the first pony, and Matt's nervousness dissolved as he threw a leg over the saddle. He forgot about the rodeo cowboys with their fifty-dollar hats pushed back, the ranch managers and owners in their hand-tooled hundred-dollar boots, and everyone else who'd come just for the socializing and entertainment. All that mattered was the horse under him and what they would do together.

One by one he worked the ponies, showing off their speed and quick reactions, how they stopped, turned, and responded to commands. When the final gavel fell, he'd sold all but two, all for higher than hoped-for prices.

Hot, sweaty, and tired, Matt grinned from ear to ear as folks congratulated him and thanked him for his hospitality and such a fine horse show.

That night after everyone left, he sat with Pa and went over the proceeds. Combined with the 7-Bar-K share of profits from beef sold to area butchers and Matt's past earnings from his Forest Service work, the net gain from the auction put the ranch in the black, with a decent reserve.

“I'm gonna buy some breeding ponies and enlarge our cowherd,” Matt announced.

“Ponies first, I reckon,” Pa said.

“That's right,” Matt said.

“You've done a helluva job,” Pa said.

Matt put the paperwork aside. “If we can shake off a bit more of this drought, the outlook for next year might be just rosy.”

“I wouldn't count on Mother Nature to oblige us,” Pa said.

“We'll keep the belt cinched tight.”

Pa nodded his approval.

“But not too tight,” Matt added. “I'm hankering to do a little celebrating in town. Want to come along?”

Pa shook his head. “I'll stay put. I've got nowhere I need to go and no one I need to see. Besides, I'm at my best when I'm not around people all that much.”

Matt laughed.

“What's funny?”

“I think you're finally getting a handle on yourself, old-timer,” Matt replied.

Pa grumbled and stood. “I'm going to bed.”

“Before you go, answer me one thing: Who is Pat Floyd?”

Pa glared at Matt before settling back down in his chair. “Damn, you're persistent; I'll give you that.” He pressed his lips together before continuing. “I'm Pat Floyd.”

“I figured as much. You don't have to say more, if you don't want to.”

“What else do you want to know?”

“What happened to Vernon Clagett?”

“He was in Yuma Prison with me. The night of your ma's fiesta, he broke into my footlocker, found the pardon, and hid it. When I braced him about it, he tried to shoot me. I killed him dead with a ball-peen hammer and buried his body miles from here.”

For a long minute Matt was speechless. “I'll be,” he finally managed.

Pa got to his feet. “I told Jake Owen all about it and we went together to the district attorney, who cleared me. Called it justified. Except for them two hombres and Tom Sullivan, you're the only other person who knows. You got any more questions?”

“Why did Ma divorce you?”

Pa took a deep breath and paused before answering. “I didn't figure you to ask that. It's none of your business. But it shames me each time I think about it. Now I'm going to bed.”

Thunderstruck, Matt stayed up late into the night, long-ago memories whirling through his head.

***

A
week before the auction, Matt had hired a man to smooth out the ranch road with a grader and spread gravel where needed to accommodate the folks traveling to the sale in their automobiles and trucks. When the fellow came for his money, Matt was busy with the ponies and sent Pa out to look the job over before paying. Pa returned and reported that the road was much improved, so Matt paid the man and thought no more about it. Riding Patches over the road on his way to town, he was surprised by how much better it was. It was in such good shape he thought maybe it was time to get a truck. If he could find a good used one in Alamogordo at the right price—maybe one that needed some work done to it—he'd stay over in town for a day or two to fix it up and drive it back to the ranch.

He decided to stable Patches at a livery in Tularosa and hitch a ride to Alamogordo. If he wound up buying something, he'd hire a stable boy to bring Patches back to the ranch.

As he loped Patches along, his thoughts turned to Porter Knox. While they were currying the ponies before the auction, Earl Hightower told him he'd heard Porter had abandoned his family and left Tularosa. Evangelina and the children were back living with her parents. Word was that Knox had stolen the money from the camp to wager on cockfights held at an arena on a small farm near Three Rivers.

Matt wondered if he knocked on Flaviano and Cristina's door, would he be welcomed or turned away? Would they blame him for not turning a blind eye to Porter's wrongdoing? Would it matter if they knew how much it grieved him to bring ruin down on Evangelina, his own younger brother, and little María Teresa?

Matt hadn't seen anyone from the family since the day Knox had confessed to his crime at the Mayhill Camp. Surely they knew the part Matt had played in Porter's downfall. He decided not visit the Armijos. He didn't owe them an explanation for what had happened. There was no way to explain doing your duty instead of not doing it.

The coming of dusk brought heavy clouds that darkened the sky early, but a short string of brand-new streetlights on Main Street, courtesy of a new federal program to bring electricity to rural places, cast a bright white glare that bounced off store windows and illuminated empty sidewalks. He settled Patches in at the livery and walked down Main Street to the filling station on the south side of town, which stayed open late to serve stray travelers passing through. He hunkered down on a stool by the soda-pop cooler, hoping for a motorist to stop for gas so he could thumb a ride.

He got thinking it might be fun to show up at Anna Lynn's in a new truck and take her out to dinner in Alamogordo. Maybe surprise her with some chocolates as well. After dinner, they'd drive to White Sands National Monument and watch the moonrise over the dunes.

The sound of voices on the street drew Matt's attention. Four boys appeared, laughing and joking with each other in Spanish as they made a beeline for the soda pop cooler. One of them was Juan Ignacio, who stopped in his tracks as he drew near and glared at Matt. He was fifteen now and not a skinny kid anymore. He'd filled out in the chest some and towered over his companions.

Matt got to his feet as Juan approached. “Hello,
hermano.
”

“I ain't your brother,” Juan said as he balled his fists and barreled into Matt, flailing wildly at him.

Slammed against the filling station wall, Matt wrapped Juan in a bear hug. “Jesus, calm down, little brother.”

“Don't you call me that,” Juan hissed. “You ruined everything.”

Matt tightened his hold, eyeing Juan's three companions, who stood motionless, watching. “Porter did that, not me.”

Juan struggled in Matt's grip. “We've got nothing now because of you.”

“It wasn't me that did it,” Matt reiterated. “If I let you go, can we talk?”

After a long minute Juan nodded.

Matt released his hold. Juan punched him in the eye and danced back out of reach, his face flushed with anger.

“Hit him again,” one of Juan's buddies encouraged. His two companions hooted their approval.

“Don't try,” Matt cautioned. The commotion brought the filling station attendant to the open bay door holding a large wrench in his hand.

Juan hesitated before dropping his fists to his sides. “I spit on you. Stay away from me and my family.” He turned to his companions. “Let's go.”

Quietly and in unison the boys backed away.

“Are you all right, mister?” the attendant asked.

Matt's watery eye started to swell. “Yeah, thanks.”

Excited chatter and boisterous laugher from Juan and his buddies cut through the night air. Juan Ignacio paused and looked back at Matt one last time before disappearing into the darkness.

***

I
n the morning, Matt awoke in his Alamogordo hotel room with a beauty of a shiner and the sad memory of his encounter with Juan Ignacio. After breakfast, he did his banking and went looking for a truck from one end of town to the other, stopping at every garage and automobile dealership along the way. His black eye got a lot of attention, but no mention was made of it. A cowboy with a shiner was no rare sight.

He was halfway into his search when a helpful garage owner named Billy told Matt about some folks he knew who were trying to sell a truck he'd serviced for them since it was new. Billy vouched that the vehicle was in good shape.

He paid the owner a visit and struck a good deal for his 1934 Chevy half-ton pickup in need of a tune-up and a new starter. He drove it to Billy's garage and spent the remainder of the morning installing new spark plugs and a rebuilt starter and changing the oil and filter. He fired it up and let Billy take a look under the hood.

“You want a job?” Billy asked.

Matt laughed. “Nope, but thanks for the compliment.” He paid his bill for the parts and the oil and drove the Chevy out of the garage.

On New York Avenue, he stopped and bought a box of fancy chocolates at a drugstore. At a nearby barbershop he got a shave and a haircut before heading out to Anna Lynn's farm.

He'd kept his hotel room for another night, hoping to entice Anna Lynn back after dinner and a romantic moonlight stroll through the White Sands dunes. He glanced at his face in the truck's rearview mirror and had to laugh. There sure wasn't anything appealing about his battered mug. He hoped the idea of a night out would trump his bruised and beaten appearance.

He drove with the windows down and the wind blowing through the cab. The Chevy felt solid on the road. The engine hummed, with no worrisome rattles or shakes of the chassis. He turned off the pavement onto the gravel road that snaked up the foothills through High Rolls and Mountain Park, before the steep climb to Cloudcroft.

He was feeling good and his head had almost completely stopped aching. He couldn't think of a better way to celebrate his successful horse auction than in his new truck on a night out with his sweetheart.

At Anna Lynn's, Matt brought the truck to a stop and tooted the horn. He hopped out with the box of chocolates in hand, grinning in anticipation. She met him on the porch before he got halfway up the path, and she wasn't smiling.