Hard Country (51 page)

Cal wondered if Emma had squawked in protest and decided she would never make her objections known publicly.

“I’d be obliged if you would do me a favor,” he said.

“If it’s within our power, certainly,” George Bowman replied.

“I want to write a letter to Emma and have you personally take it to her after Patrick leaves town for the ranch. Will you do that?”

“It would be our pleasure,” George Bowman said as he stood and glanced at Henry. “We have papers to file at the courthouse. Please use the office to write your letter.”

He placed pen, paper, and an envelope on the desk. “Just leave it here when you’re finished and I promise it will be delivered as you asked.”

“Again, I’m obliged.”

After George and Henry left, Cal scooted his chair close to the big walnut desk and started writing. He folded greenbacks into the letter, put her name on the envelope, sealed it, left it on the desk, and rode out of town.

He’d yet to tell Patrick or Emma about his new will and testament and didn’t plan to until he was permanently stove up, broke down, or plain feeble. He figured that was sometime off because except for some aches, pains, and a slower step or two, he still felt lively.

* * *

T
he night before Patrick left for the ranch, Emma could hardly contain her excitement. The prospect of living alone by herself in town and in her own house was beyond the scope of anything she’d ever imagined. The only drawback was being put on an allowance like a child and having to go ask George or Henry Bowman for money. She held her tongue about it for now but planned to demand full access to the account when Patrick next came to town.

His visits during the coming months wouldn’t be a bother at all. In fact, having him in the house and in her bed briefly every now and then was perfect. She looked forward to the freedom of living her own life for a while with some occasional satisfying sex, and without the unending chore of caring for a man.

Last night in bed Patrick had talked happily about another child after this one, and maybe a third. Such talk would have confused her if she hadn’t already concluded that he wanted children so she wouldn’t leave him. She doubted when the baby came he’d show any more interest in it than he had in Molly, and she wasn’t sure if she could tolerate that. She knew in her heart he loved her as best he could but would never stop expecting to be betrayed and abandoned. What the future held, Emma wasn’t sure, but she looked forward with great anticipation to her time in town on her own.

To contain her eagerness to see Patrick off to the ranch come morning, she quietly stitched new curtains for the windows by lamplight at the kitchen table. It was a wobbly table Patrick had repaired by bracing the legs with wood. The rest of the furniture they’d bought was of about the same quality, except for the brand-new bed. The secondhand kitchen chairs weren’t rickety, the old bedroom dresser lacked only a few drawer pulls, which Patrick had already replaced, and the used sofa in the front room sagged a little but was comfortable. There was still more furniture to buy, but it could wait.

After Patrick was on his way, Emma planned to spend the first week finishing the curtains, making the house look better with some elbow grease and paint, and shopping for some more of the supplies, sundries, and linens she needed. She relished the idea of wandering down Main Street, exploring all the stores, and watching the people in their carriages, buggies, and wagons driving up and down the long thoroughfare through town. On her list was a visit to Faulkner’s General Store, where she’d spotted a shelf full of books and magazines for sale. The mere thought of a day spent reading with no other care brought a smile to her face.

Her eyes grew tired and her fingers began to ache. She put the sewing aside and went to bed. Patrick was on his stomach, breathing softly. Through the open window she could hear the sounds of the town, so different from the silence of the ranch at night. She listened to the receding clatter of wagon wheels on Griggs Avenue, the distant laughter of people drifting over from Main Street, the whistle of an approaching train, the braying of a neighbor’s mule. She’d never felt happier.

* * *

P
atrick pushed aside his empty plate, patted his belly, and smiled at Emma. “A man could get fat and lazy eating your cooking and living in town,” he said.

“I’ll not have a fat, lazy man in my bed,” Emma said gaily as she poured him more coffee. “Best you get back to the ranch.”

“Can’t wait to see me off, can you?”

“I’ve got woman’s work to do here and you’d just get in the way.”

“Fix it up all you like, so I can make a fair profit from it when the time comes to sell.”

Emma’s smile faded. “It will take both of us to agree to that.”

Patrick nodded. “I suppose so.” He drank his coffee and looked out the window. The sky had begun to lighten. It had been three days since Cal had left for the ranch, and he wanted to be on the road by sunrise. Out on the street, the team was hitched to the wagon and ready to go. “I’m gonna jingle my spurs out of here.”

“When will you be back?” Emma asked.

“I figure three weeks.” He finished his coffee and stood. “We should have the corrals up and the windmill working by then. If Cal has hired a hand, it’ll go even faster.”

“Three weeks,” Emma said, barely containing a smile. She gave him a kiss and a swift hug.

“You be careful with all that woman’s work,” Patrick cautioned. “Rest every day like the doctor said.”

“Making curtains is restful enough,” Emma answered.

She went outside with Patrick and stayed there until his wagon disappeared from sight. Back in the kitchen she whirled around in a happy little dance, quickly washed the breakfast dishes, and began working on the kitchen curtains so she could hang them before the morning passed.

She was carefully hemming the final border to the last curtain when a knock came at the door. Wondering who it could possibly be, she opened it to find Henry Bowman on the front step.

“Mr. Bowman.”

“Ma’am.” Henry tipped his hat, smiled, and handed Emma an envelope.

“What’s this?” she asked.

“A letter from Cal Doran,” Henry replied.

Emma’s eyes widened in surprise. “Why would Cal write me?”

“I don’t know.”

She put the envelope in her apron pocket. “Would you like to come in for a cup of coffee?”

Henry shook his head. “I regret I must get back to the office. Good day.”

“Good day, and thank you,” Emma called out as Bowman hurried away.

At the kitchen table, she opened the envelope, took out a letter and some folding money, and read what Cal had written.

Emma,

Long before you came to the Double K, Patrick sold his half of the outfit to me and set out on his own. I don’t know if he ever told you about the time he was gone, but I figure he didn’t because he don’t talk about it much. Anyway, to shorten this tale up a mite, he came home after a long spell and bought back into the spread with this dinero I’ve held on to all this time. I’ve decided to give it to you. I’d appreciate it if you’d put it to the care of yourself and your unborn baby, but use it as you see fit. I’ll come visit when I can, and don’t you worry about the Double K. We’ll get it whipped back into shape all right.

Cal

She counted the money. Four hundred dollars; a year’s wages for a good hand. It was a fortune to her. She read the letter again and burst into tears.

54

B
y the start of his third day back at the ranch, Cal was kicking himself for not hiring help in Las Cruces. He wasn’t worn down by the work, just beleaguered by all that needed to get done. On top of that, with no water at the ranch headquarters and nobody left behind to watch the critters, the animals had drifted. Since there was no pen built to hold them yet, he hadn’t bothered trailing after them.

Cutting and hauling timber for the corrals, pasture fence, and damaged windmill tower would take at least two hands, so he was stuck waiting on Patrick’s return before those jobs could get started. While he waited, he turned his attention to the stock tank, digging out two feet of dried mud and buried rocks. He figured to lay a rock-and-mortar foundation and build a shallow dirt tank above it as a stopgap measure until something more substantial could be put up.

He was on his knees sorting rocks by size when he heard a horse snort at his back. He turned quickly to see James Kaytennae no more than five feet away, looking down at him from the back of a thrifty pinto.

“Big storm come here too,” James said, looking around at the wreckage.

“What are you doing sneaking up on me like that?” Cal asked, getting to his feet.

“He Who Steals Horses said you asked me to come here,” James answered.

“Who?”

“The old man you spoke to in Las Cruces.”

“I just asked after you and told him to say howdy.”

James shrugged. “That’s not what he says.”

“He Who Steals Horses,” Cal said. “That’s a name that tells you a lot about a fella.”

James shrugged again.

“So who is he?”

James shrugged a third time.

Cal tried a different tack. “What brings you here?”

“You have plenty of work. I need work.”

“You’re not a tribal policeman anymore?”

James shook his head. “They want to make me a farmer, but I don’t like that. No Apache does. Someday, Mescaleros will kick the white eyes off our land, and I want to learn what you do with cattle so we can take over when they’re gone.”

“Is that a fact?” Cal asked with a smile.

“Sure. Maybe not soon, but someday whites eyes will go.”

“I meant do you really want to learn to cowboy?”

James nodded. “You give me a job?”

“Okay. Room, board, browse for your pony, and thirty dollars a month.”

“I start now?” James asked as he swung out of the saddle.

“Right now,” Cal replied.

* * *

B
y the first hard freeze in early December, the pasture fence had been thrown up and the corrals rebuilt, and the restored windmill pumped water into the new stock tank. Cal decided with the ponies close by under James Kaytennae’s watchful eye and the cattle fenced in at the North Canyon with water and grass, it was a good time to visit Emma.

Patrick had been riding into town twice a month and reporting back that all was going well and there were no problems with Emma’s pregnancy. He had left that morning for Las Cruces, and Cal planned to follow come sunup. He missed Emma’s company and wanted to see her at least once before the baby came.

After supper, he packed a few things in his saddlebags, put together his bedroll, and went to the kitchen, where James sat at the table working on a flute he had started making several months ago. He had cut a bloom stalk off an agave plant, hollowed out three holes, notched an end, covered it in leather, and etched a geometric pattern on it. Now he was attaching blue and white beads hung on leather strips to the bottom of the flute.

“I’ve been meaning to ask if you can play that thing,” Cal said as he joined James at the table.

James shook his head and blew on it, and only a squeak came out. “It is to be a gift.”

Cal sat and gave the flute in James’s hand a close look. “Well, that’s a right fine-looking gift. What’s the occasion?”

James looked confused.

“Is it for a birthday?” Cal asked.

James smiled. “No, it’s a courting flute. A marriage present.”

“Does it work?”

James tied off the last strand of beads and handed it to Cal. “Finished now. Try it.”

Cal blew through the notched end and only the sound of air came out.

James smiled. “You play bad as me.”

“Appears so. I hope who gets it can play it. Who’s getting married?”

James patted his chest with a finger.

“You?” Cal said with a grin. “Well, I’ll be. When?”

“When the sun travels to warm us again.”

“That’s real fine,” Cal said. “Will you stay on till spring?”

James nodded as he wrapped the flute in a cloth. “I have promised her father horses. I will buy some ponies from you before I leave.”

Cal smiled. “That’s a damn fine gift for anyone. I’ll give you a good price. Pick out the ones you want.”

“I have done that,” James replied.

Cal laughed. “That figures. I’m turning in. See you
mañana.
”

James nodded good night. After Cal left, James crossed the courtyard to the casita, tucked the flute away in the bedroom dresser, and prepared for bed, spreading his blankets and hides on the floor.

Before he returned to Mescalero, he would buy four good saddle ponies to give to his bride’s father. At home, he had two others He Who Steals Horses was keeping for him. That made six. He’d promised eight. He might have to raid a ranch or go to Texas with He Who Steals Horses for the other two, but he would keep his word.

Cal left before sunup next morning under a full moon in a clear sky. At first light, bundled in a blanket against the cold, James rode into the pasture and tracked the ponies several miles from the ranch house, where they had clustered near the fence line. The horses whinnied, snorted, and trotted away as he approached, their breath rising like smoke in the freezing air. He did a count. Six were missing, including a brown and a calico he’d picked out to buy.

He backtracked in a widening circle until he found sign that two riders had cut the six horses from the herd and driven them to the eastern edge of the pasture bordering the basin flats. Fence wires dangled to the ground.

He stopped, dismounted, and studied the riders’ horse tracks, fixing them in his mind. They were fresh and ran southeast across the basin toward the white sands, the stolen horses following strung together.

Tse-yahnka,
an old trail once used by his people, skirted the low edge of the vast dunes. As a young boy he’d traveled it with his family to gather salt in sack-shaped hides, late in the summer when the lake beds were dry. He doubted the rustlers knew of it.