Hard Country (14 page)

In the chilly early morning, the family went to the church the villagers had built to fulfill their promise to God for their victory over the Apaches at the battle of Round Mountain. Together they knelt in front of the altar and prayed for Ignacio’s protection during his journey and for his safe return.

Back home, his father presented Ignacio with the pistol he’d owned for many years, wrapped in an old piece of oilcloth. He also gave him two dollars in silver coins. His mother gave him a small cross on a chain to wear around his neck.

On foot, carrying his parcels and bedroll, Ignacio set out for La Luz. The sun cast the mild light of early winter across the basin, rolling back the darkness of the distant mountains to the west. The day would warm but remain comfortable, unlike the searing heat of summer, and by evening he would be at his cousin Manuel’s house.

With the village no longer in sight, in the vastness of the basin, along the lonely wagon road, a stab of apprehension gripped Ignacio, and for a brief moment he considered returning home. He slowed his pace until pride overcame misgivings, and then he walked on without looking back.

* * *

T
he once tranquil village of Tularosa had changed during Kerney’s absence. The hitching posts outside of Coghlan’s newly opened saloon and store were crowded with horses, and the wagon yard was full up with high-sided wagons and harnessed teams of docile oxen flapping their tails. There were more people along the road through the village than Kerney had ever seen before, most of them Texans and soldiers, and somebody had thrown up a huge house that towered over a nearby adobe casita. Kerney didn’t doubt for a moment that the palatial residence belonged to Pat Coghlan.

They stopped first at the store, where they found a message waiting for Cal Doran and nothing for Kerney. He masked his disappointment by pretending to study the vast array of merchandise and goods stocked on the shelves and floor. No longer would the villagers need to trek once a year to El Paso or Las Cruces to stock up on salt, axes, powder and lead, matches, bolts of cloth, coffee and tobacco, or iron and steel. It was all here, including saddles, pistols, long guns, hard candy and trinkets for the children, and brightly colored ribbons for the women.

Cal read his message, tucked it away in a pocket, and told Kerney they would have to part company for a time.

“Seems some Texas boys shot up the streets of Lincoln, lit out, but promised to return soon to continue their jamboree,” he explained. “The sheriff wants me over there pronto to help keep the peace.”

“Has the feuding started up there again?” Kerney asked.

Folks in Lincoln had been outright killing each other with some regularity over the last several years and getting away with it scot-free. It had gotten so bad that soldiers from the fort had been called in more than once to settle folks down. A young cowboy known as Billy the Kid seemed to be smack-dab in the middle of the quarrel right from the start. Kerney had met Billy during the time he’d worked for Coghlan, and he seemed a likeable sort, although some thought him a cold-blooded killer.

Cal shook his head. “No, seems this is a fresh bunch of ruffians. But I’ve got no squabble about heading over there. Fact is it works out perfect. My reward money is locked in the sheriff’s safe and I’m gonna need it if you want me to put up my share of our ranch.”

“Are you done being a lawman?” Kerney asked.

Cal grinned. “Yep, I believe I’m just not suited to the job. Besides, sooner or later, I’d have to arrest some of my friends, and that just doesn’t sit well with me.”

“Then, let’s celebrate you being done with the law,” Kerney said with a smile. “I’m buying.”

“I like that notion,” Cal replied.

They stepped to the nearby saloon and pushed through the swinging doors into a busy, smoke-filled room. Although the day was no more than half gone, the place was doing a lively business in anticipation of the evening performance of a play,
The Union Spy
, announced by a poster on the wall and scheduled to start at eight o’clock. Admission cost a dollar and two bits, and the troupe would be performing nightly for only one week. A few pretty hurdy-gurdy girls were working the customers at the gaming tables. Kerney figured they’d either followed the thespians to town or were part of the troupe.

At the bar, Kerney ordered shots, asked the bartender the whereabouts of Charlie Gambel, and learned he was on a trail drive west. Over drinks, Cal agreed to meet up with Kerney three weeks hence in Tularosa. Kerney would use the time to scout the east side of the San Andres in hopes of finding good land and a reliable source of water. But first, he’d visit John Good to settle up for the back pay owed him.

“Be careful of that red-eyed wife of his,” Cal cautioned as they left the saloon. “She’s a true daughter of the devil, guaranteed.”

Kerney laughed as he climbed into the saddle. “I will if you make sure those fun-loving Texas boys in Lincoln don’t shoot too many holes in you. I’d hate to lose a partner. Adios.”

“So long,” Cal replied as he walked back to the saloon in search of another drink and some attention from one of the hurdy-gurdy girls.

John Kerney gigged his horse and trotted south, mulling on how long it would take before he heard from Dr. Lyon. He had no way of knowing, but he was anxious to go get Patrick. At the same time, he was vexed that he didn’t even have a roof to put over the boy’s head. Besides all that, how would he manage to raise him without help? He was a greenhorn when it came to children, about as ignorant as they came.

It was a tight spot with no surefire answers, but he was determined to make it work. In Cal he had a good partner, and between them they had enough money to get an outfit started and stocked, so it was best to keep thinking on the sunny side.

He raised La Luz before nightfall and found it sporting a new cantina, a new livery, and a passel of tough-looking pilgrims. He stabled his horse for the night, paid for a bed of fresh straw to sleep on next to a haystack, and in the faint light of dusk walked toward the cantina, hoping for a decent meal. He turned the corner and almost stumbled over a Mexican lying at the side of the road.

“Help me,” the man said in English.

Kerney recognized the voice and bent down. “Ignacio?”

“
Sí.
Yes.”

Kerney bent down. Ignacio had a bloody gash on his temple and his right eye was red and swollen. He helped the boy sit up. “What happened?”

“I’ve been robbed.” Ignacio pointed in the direction of the creek behind the livery. “Where I was camping. One hombre, a Texan, maybe. He took my money, my father’s
pistola.
Even the book you gave me. He hit me two times with his gun. When I tried to follow I fell here.
Desvanecido.
” He made a circular motion at his head.

“Dizzy,” Kerney guessed.

“
Sí.
”

“Do you know the man that robbed you?”

Ignacio shook his head.

“Can you stand up?”

“I think yes.”

Kerney got Ignacio to his feet, walked him back to the livery, and cleaned his wound with water from the trough. It wasn’t a deep gash, and when the bleeding stopped, he applied a mud plaster to it. The eye had shut completely, so Kerney used his neckerchief to make a wet compress and had Ignacio hold it against the swelling.

“You’ll live,” he said. “Now, tell me what you’re doing alone in La Luz.”

Ignacio told John Kerney everything: Teresa’s infatuation with Charlie Gambel, his decision to leave home, coming to La Luz only to find his cousin had moved away, his hopes to go to Las Cruces now smashed, as he had no money to get there, and the shame he felt about his humiliation.

“Tomorrow I will go back home to my family in disgrace,” he said, head bowed in shame.

“Don’t worry about tomorrow,” Kerney replied as he took Ignacio into the stables and had him stretch out on a bed of straw. “Rest here. I’ll go rustle up some grub at the cantina and bring you a plate. Some food, some rest, and you’ll be good as new come morning.”

After Ignacio ate, Kerney questioned him about the holdup. Five dollars had been taken along with the book of stories and his father’s old pistol. From Ignacio’s description, the revolver was likely a black-powder Colt Dragoon revolver that shot a ball. Probably an early model a good thirty years old, it had Cesario’s initials carved into the stock. Somebody toting the sidearm should be easy to spot, although Kerney doubted anyone would want to carry such a relic for self-protection.

Soon, Ignacio slept. Kerney left him just long enough to gather up the boy’s remaining possessions at the creek bed and tote them back to the stable. He covered Ignacio with a blanket and sat in the darkness listening to the boy’s breathing. Near moonrise a storm came waltzing up from the southwest, bringing nothing but a lazy cold wind until a gentle rain started. Inside, warm and out of the weather, with the soft sound of raindrops on the roof of the stable, Kerney fell asleep.

* * *

A
t dawn, John Kerney examined Ignacio’s face. His eye was still swollen shut, and the cheek below had puffed up and blackened a bit. Gently he rinsed away the mud plaster covering the gash at Ignacio’s temple, cleaned it with water, and wrapped an improvised bandage around his head.

“You look considerable better,” he lied as he helped Ignacio to his feet. “How about I make us some breakfast?”

“Yes, I’m very hungry.”

Kerney moved everything to the creek bed, got Ignacio covered with a blanket and comfortable under a tree, made a fire, and cooked a breakfast of coffee, eggs he’d bought last night at the cantina, and beans he’d found in Ignacio’s food bundle. They ate in silence as the sun winked above the brow of the mountains.

“You have been kind to me,” Ignacio said after wolfing down the last of his eggs. “
Gracias.
”

“No need for that,” John Kerney replied. “I just lent a helping hand. Can you ride a horse?”

“Yes, a little bit. Maybe not like a vaquero, but I can ride.”

“Good.” Kerney hunkered down next to Ignacio. “I already know you can drive a wagon. Seen you do it. Have you been west to the San Andres?”

“
Sí,
yes, with my father several times when our sheep wandered away, and once when some were stolen.”

“
Bueno,
” Kerney said.

“Why do you ask?”

“I’m thinking I need to hire a hand and maybe you’ll do.”

Ignacio’s good eye brightened. “You have work for me?”

Kerney nodded. “Hard work, lots of it, and not much
dinero
to start with.”

“Doing what, Señor Kerney?”

“Ranching,” John Kerney answered.

He gave Ignacio the lowdown on his plan to start a ranch with Cal Doran on the western slope of the basin below the San Andres peaks. Maybe under a ridgeline where the grass was thick and water ran in a clear spring, or in a shallow basin protected from the wind, with good grass and an underground stream that bubbled to the surface sweet and pure. He needed to get cracking and find just the right piece of country to lay claim to. After that would come the hard work.

“I’ll start you out at half wages until you make a hand,” Kerney proposed.

“How much is that?” Ignacio asked.

“Fifteen dollars a month, plus room and board,” Kerney replied. “If you stick, when you’re a hand, you’ll get a dollar a day. That’s thirty dollars a month.”

Even though his face hurt when he did it, Ignacio smiled lopsidedly. Fifteen dollars a month was a lot of money; thirty was almost a fortune. “I will work hard for you.”

Kerney stood. “Then it’s settled. I’ve got some business to take care of before we can light out. You stay here and I’ll be back by noon.”

Ignacio nodded. “I wait here,
jefe.
”

“It’s ‘boss’ in
americano,
” Kerney corrected with a smile.

“Okay, boss,” Ignacio replied with the lopsided grin still plastered on his face.

11

T
he smoke that drifted from the ranch-house chimney and the number of saddled horses in the corral told Kerney that John Good and his kin were home. Some good-looking ponies and a few mares grazed in the nearby open pasture, and Kerney slowed to give them a once-over before stopping at the porch to the house. John Good stepped outside, followed by his brothers and one of his sons. Tall at six-three, he was an arrogant man who expected people to do as he said, no questions asked.

Not knowing what to expect and with a nod to convention, Kerney stayed mounted. He could see Good’s wife glaring at him through the partially open front door, her arms folded across her chest.

“Are you here for your back wages?” Good asked.

“I am.”

“I hear you’ve been up north searching for your lost son. Is that true?”

“It is,” Kerney answered.

“Did you find him?” Good demanded.

Kerney shook his head. “I know he’s alive and living with an army surgeon and his wife, but I haven’t been able to find them yet. I wrote them a letter and I’m hoping to hear back.”

“How old is your button?”

“He’s four.”

Good nodded. “How much wages do I owe you?”

“Three weeks’ worth,” Kerney answered, somewhat surprised by Good’s accommodating tone. “But I’ll take it in horseflesh if it’s all the same to you. That blue roan in the pasture will do.”

Kerney had saddle broke the pony when he’d worked at the ranch and knew it to have a gentle disposition and an easy gait.

Good pointed at the roan. “That pony?”

“Yep.” Kerney pulled out some folding money. “And I’d like to buy that sorrel mare.”

“That mare ain’t a cow pony,” Good said.

“I know it,” Kerney replied. “But she’ll make a good pack animal. How much?”

Good named a price. Kerney shook his head and put his money in his shirt pocket. “Just the blue roan, then,” he said.

Good squinted hard at Kerney. The mare was past her prime and barren. “Give me ten dollars for the mare and I’ll throw in two halters, free.”