Hard Country (43 page)

The pony went down, screaming and thrashing, blood pouring from the wound. The bull pulled free and headed for the trees, with Cal and George in pursuit.

Cuidado rolled on his side, kicking his legs, lifting his head, his eyes wide and wild, screaming an unworldly sound. Patrick stumbled over to him. He knelt, rubbed Cuidado’s neck, patted his forehead, and whispered in his ear.

Cuidado’s breathing slowed, and he nickered softly. Patrick shot him with his six-gun, the sound echoing through the canyon.

Off in the distance he heard Cal and George hooting and hollering as they chased the old bull. He turned and looked at Emma as she came down the trail with the pack animals, her face a mask of worry.

“It’s all right,” he called, trying to believe it himself. “It’s all right.”

* * *

T
he rocky canyon soil made it impossible to bury Cuidado deep. But with Emma’s help, Patrick scratched out a shallow depression and used one of the packhorses to snake Cuidado into it. Together they covered him with a layer of dirt, large rocks, and some small boulders Patrick managed to roll on top of the makeshift grave.

“Wolves will be here feeding come night,” Patrick said, “but I couldn’t just leave him lying there.”

“I know,” Emma said.

“He was the best pony a man could ever want.”

“I know,” Emma said, studying Patrick’s sad eyes. She’d never seen him so solemn before.

At the mouth of the canyon, Cal and George appeared, loped over to them, reined in, and said nothing as they looked at the mound covering Cuidado.

Patrick hoisted his saddle. “I’ll ride one of the packhorses home.”

“We’ve got that brindle bull snubbed to a tree down yonder a ways.” Cal slid to the ground and held out the reins. “You can take my pony and go shoot him.”

Patrick reached for his long gun, hesitated, and then slowly shook his head. “No, let him go.”

“You certain?” Cal asked.

“Yep, I’m certain.”

“I’ll cut him loose,” George said. He turned his pony and trotted away.

Cal picked up Patrick’s bedroll and his sheathed rifle. “Let’s get you mounted.”

Emma watched Patrick and Cal walk to the packhorses, thinking that they and George were the best men she’d ever met—and that included her father, God rest his drunken, tortured soul. She had all but given up on life, and they had pulled her back into the world. And with the loss of Cuidado, Patrick had paid a terrible price to do it. Wasn’t that true affection?

Emma believed it was.

44

A
s the early days of summer passed quickly, Emma slowly regained her good nature and vibrant spirit. With her health restored she seemed even more comely than before, so much so that she took Patrick’s breath away.

Before Molly’s death, Patrick always felt that she took no genuine pleasure in his company. Now she was more comfortable and lighthearted with him, although she’d yet to invite him to move back into the casita. He figured she just needed more time to heal up from all her past misery, so he waited patiently, spending his free time training his new honey-colored pony he’d named Jefe.

Occasionally he took Emma horseback riding in the cool of the evening after supper. They headed up one of the nearby canyons or out onto the basin and watched the fading light soften the harsh, sun-scorched, sandblasted land. They didn’t talk much or ride far, but it didn’t matter to Patrick. It was the best part of his day.

Emma had taken to studying Patrick on their evening rides. He hadn’t once tried to kiss her, even though she felt ready for that and more.

During their trips to town they got the latest news about the Fountain murder investigation. After the court decided that Sheriff Ascarate’s opponent, Numa Reymond, had won the election, the political shenanigans began. Reymond took office, appointed Pat Garrett chief deputy, and promptly left town for an extended tour of Italy, paid for, as rumor had it, by those who wanted to give Garrett a free hand hunting down Oliver Lee and his partners.

To the disgust of his supporters, Garrett had done nothing so far. The investigation dragged on, with Lee proclaiming to all who would listen that Garrett planned to shoot him in the back and collect the huge reward as soon as he could get a judge to sign an arrest warrant against him.

Late in the summer, Numa Reymond resigned and Pat Garrett became sheriff. From a reliable source, Cal heard that Albert Fall had argued against Garrett’s appointment. Since he’d always believed Fall had lied to him about wanting Garrett to be sheriff, it didn’t surprise him none.

The Double K finished fall works with a tidy profit from the sale of their cattle. They also sold a dozen top cow ponies to the Diamond A outfit, one of the biggest spreads in the territory. In Engle, Patrick and Cal turned the ponies over to the Diamond A wrangler, spent the night in the hotel, and did some shopping the following day, with Patrick coming away with a fancy saddle for Emma.

“Are you gonna propose?” Cal asked as they lugged their purchases back to the hotel.

“Not yet.”

“Why not?”

“Because I don’t want her to turn me down again.”

“That ain’t gonna happen,” Cal said as they climbed the stairs to their room. “Buy her a ring, give her the saddle, and ask her to marry you. Then we’ll all go to town, get you two hitched, and have a party.”

Patrick dropped the saddle on the bed. “You got it all figured, do you?”

Cal tied the new bandanna he’d bought around his neck and studied himself in the mirror. “I reckon I do. We’re her family now, and she’s gonna stay right where she is. She’s been keeping you at bay to see what you’ll do, and you’ve done right to not pester her for a time until she got her legs back under her.”

Cal adjusted the bandanna and turned to face Patrick. “Tell the little lady you propose to marry her and you have my blessings.”

“You aren’t her father,” Patrick said.

Cal chortled. “I’m about the closest thing to a pa either one of you has.”

The truth of Cal’s words struck home. “Will you stand up for me?” Patrick asked.

“I will gladly,” Cal replied, looking Patrick straight in the eyes, “if you promise to stick by her, never raise a hand against her, and love her the best that you can.”

Patrick laughed. “You have my word, but damn if you don’t sound like a preacher.”

Cal grinned and slapped Patrick on the back. “First time I’ve ever been called that, old son. Let’s head on home.”

* * *

C
al’s calculation that Emma would accept Patrick’s marriage proposal proved accurate, and within days the Double K outfit decamped to Tularosa to get the couple hitched. In town, Emma stayed with Ignacio and Teresa while the men took rooms at the hotel. After a whirlwind three days of shopping, finding a preacher, and making arrangements, the evening ceremony was held in the Chávez hacienda courtyard. Patrick wore his new sack suit, and Emma was gussied up in a pretty dark blue dress with a touch of white crepe at the collar and flowers in her hair. George gave Emma away, Teresa was matron of honor, and Cal served as Patrick’s best man. The invited guests consisted of all of Ignacio and Teresa’s children and relatives, who filled the courtyard to capacity.

After the vows were exchanged, Cal gave Emma a whirl to the music before turning her over to Patrick, and the
fiesta de boda
officially began. There was dancing, a lavish feast, and much drinking as the evening wore on. After a final round of toasts to the bride and groom, Ignacio drove them to the hotel in his wagon, which had been festooned with flowers by his children.

In the morning, Cal and George headed home to the Double K, leaving the newlyweds behind. They rode silently past the green fields and tall shade trees of the village into the sandy desert of the immense basin that stretched before them.

“That was a fine party,” George said, bleary-eyed and hungover.

“As drunk as you were, I’m amazed you remember it,” Cal replied with a smile.

“Don’t you vex me none about it,” George grumped. “Man’s got a right to enjoy himself now and again.”

“I’ve got no sermon for you,” Cal said. “In fact I was glad to see it. You ain’t had a good drunk for nigh on a year.”

George trotted his pony alongside Cal and gave him a serious once-over. “How come you look like the cat that licked up all the cream? You’ve been acting like that since yesterday.”

“There was a time I had doubts I’d ever get that boy raised up right. Now that the job is done I’m feeling tolerable good about it.”

“Does that mean you’re gonna sit on the veranda with your feet up and leave all the work to me and that newlywed fella we left at the hotel in town?”

Cal laughed. “I may not kick up my heels like a colt anymore, but not yet, old-timer, not yet.”

* * *

U
pon Patrick and Emma’s return to the ranch, they found that Cal and George had turned the casita into a bunkhouse, moved Emma out, and moved themselves in. Emma set about giving the main house a woman’s touch, and by the time winter arrived there were curtains in the windows, pictures on the walls, shelves in the kitchen, and in the sitting room some new furniture Patrick had bought in Las Cruces.

Everything was dandy until February, when Emma lost the baby she was carrying. Although she kept up with her cooking and daily chores, it threw her into a black mood for a month, making her near unapproachable. Except for mealtimes, Cal and George hid out in the casita bunkhouse to avoid the glumness, leaving Patrick to sit alone and silent in the front room, with Emma closeted behind her bedroom door. He took to sleeping in his old room, which Emma had planned to turn into a nursery.

Cal had just about given up on expecting any improvement to the situation when one morning Emma emerged from the bedroom rosy cheeked, smiling, and wearing a pretty dress.

“You look tolerable well,” he said.

“I have decided not to brood anymore.”

“Is that a promise to yourself?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” Emma replied.

With spring works about to start, her recovery couldn’t have come at a better time. For the next two weeks the whole outfit went out gathering and branding on the flats and in the high country, with Emma handling the chuck wagon chores.

Gene Rhodes came over from the horse camp that he’d proved up next to his father’s homestead to lend a hand, and the Bar Cross and Diamond A ranches sent stray men to trim the herd and throw their stock over to the home range.

Twice during the roundup, Cal, George, and Patrick saw the brindle longhorn at a distance. They reined in and watched the old bull until it shook its head, gave a bellow, and loped away. George swore the longhorn was just saying howdy.

When the gathering was complete, Cal tallied the herd. A goodly number of healthy calves had been born. It augured a nice profit down the road if on-the-hoof prices stayed steady.

They turned the steers, yearlings, and barren cows loose in the high pastures, brought the mothers and their babies down closer to the ranch where the grass had come back in the sandy soil, and celebrated with a cookout and some good whiskey to thank the boys who’d come to lend a hand.

Over steaks cut from a maverick steer nobody had claimed during the roundup, Patrick sat with Gene Rhodes at the long table where the cowboys were sawing into meat and eyeing Emma appreciatively as she served platters of vegetables, potatoes, and beans.

One of the best bronc riders on the basin, Gene was a mite undersized and weighed no more than a hundred and fifty pounds, but he was all muscle and sinew. He had bright blue eyes, a cowlick he kept hidden under his hat, and a slight cleft palate that gave him a peculiar way of speaking, although it didn’t spoil his looks. He’d studied at a California college for two years, working odd jobs to do it, and after coming home had taught school for a spell before starting up his spread.

The two men talked horses and books for a time, until Gene brought up the Fountain murders. Lincoln County had dropped the indictments against Oliver Lee and Bill McNew, and Gene, a good and true friend of Lee, wanted to know if Pat Garrett had come around asking Cal to sign on as a deputy.

“He paid a visit,” Patrick replied. “He wanted Cal to help round up some witnesses who may have heard Oliver and McNew plotting to kill Fountain in ’95. He’s mule headed about getting another indictment.”

“It’s a damn ugly and dangerous feud,” Gene replied, lighting a cigarette. “I plan to shun the politicians who have caused it for the rest of my days. Either that, or I mean to fisticuff a few of them.”

Patrick laughed. Gene was known as the scrappiest boxer around, taking on all comers, no matter how big they were.

“I’m heading home,” Gene said as he stood.

“Stop by anytime,” Patrick said.

“I may have to do that,” Gene said. “The Double K is about the only place on the Tularosa where a body can avoid getting into a gunfight over this sorry business.”

* * *

G
ene’s reckoning of the tension between the Lee and Garrett factions proved to be near perfect. On his next visit to Las Cruces, Patrick found that some old boys were on the prod for misguided citizens sitting on the wrong side of the political aisle, opposing newspapers had gone to war in print, and just about everybody in the town was holding their breath waiting for the lead to start flying. At the mercantile store, he picked out some trees Emma had asked him to buy for the courtyard and left for home with a load of supplies and the saplings wrapped in damp paper, glad to be leaving the uneasiness in town behind.

With the passing of summer into fall, Patrick became more and more convinced that Emma’s bad moods were a thing of the past. But when she miscarried in the early days of another pregnancy, anger and grief took hold of her once again and she would have nothing to do with him at all.

Unwilling to put up with her damnable silence and brooding, he bundled her in blankets and took her against her will to see a doctor in Las Cruces, who examined her in private. When he finished, he told Patrick there was nothing physically wrong with Emma, and during her next pregnancy she was to repose in bed and avoid all mental and physical effort during the first two to three months.