Hard Country (41 page)

At Fort Stanton, Cal found the army post mostly shuttered, the silent quadrangle under a blanket of melting snow, and the buildings empty except for two small units of soldiers. He met with Lieutenant Wright, the commanding officer, who told him José Chávez y Chávez rode through on his way to Tularosa before Colonel Fountain had passed by, and that the fort would officially close in August. A caretaker detachment of soldiers would remain behind to protect the property from vandalism. Neither Lieutenant Wright nor his quartermaster recalled seeing Mr. Wilson and Mr. Jones traveling through on their way to Socorro.

Since Cal figured to be in the saddle a good two weeks or more, he decided to buy a pack animal at Seaborn Gray’s ranch and get provisions for the trip at the store. The letter of credit Sheriff Ascarate had given him would cover the expense.

He made it to the ranch in good time and bargained with Seaborn for a surefooted gelding, which he got at a fair price. At the store, he bought a fourteen-dollar packsaddle along with all the victuals and supplies he needed, charged again to the sheriff, and set out on the road to White Oaks, a good thirty miles distant. The road crossed the Nogal Divide to the flats and wound around the Carrizo Mountain before turning north to White Oaks. Except for a few large spreads along the route, it was that big, wondrous country of high mountains and vast rangeland he’d first seen with John Kerney during his quest to find Patrick so many years ago.

After several days of constant jawboning with the good citizens of Lincoln, Cal looked forward to having as much time to himself as the remainder of the trip allowed. He would camp under the fast-approaching starry night sky and happily not mutter another word, except to his pony, until he reached White Oaks.

* * *

I
n White Oaks, Cal took a room at a two-story brick hotel that offered the best accommodations in town. Most of the old gold and silver mines had shut down, but White Oaks still remained a center of commerce and banking as well as the major stage and mail stop from San Antonio on the Rio Grande to Lincoln. Sawmills and coal mines in the nearby mountains operated at full capacity, and the Old Abe, the richest and most productive mine, continued to produce vast quantities of high-grade ore. The prosperous town sported an athletic club, a fine schoolhouse, a variety of stores, and several churches.

He made the rounds asking about Wilson, Jones, and Chávez y Chávez, drew a busted flush, and left the next day, trailing east toward San Antonio along a rough road that crossed the dangerous lava flow on the north side of the Tularosa Basin.

He stopped overnight at the Ozanne Springs stage stop in the Oscura Mountains and learned that Wilson and Jones had stayed there the day Colonel Fountain and his son Henry were murdered at Chalk Hill. The station manager described the two men to Cal’s satisfaction, which left only José Chávez y Chávez as a suspect, unless the rumors about the Socorro Gang held any truth.

Morning came and he rode on, past the site of Carthage, a company-owned coal-mining town that had been moved lock, stock, and barrel to coal fields south of Santa Fe. All the spur-line tracks, coal chutes, and machinery had been ripped up or dismantled, and the dwelling houses and stores taken down, so that only a small cemetery, the barren strip dumps, and a few melting adobe structures remained.

At San Antonio, he paid for a room at a boardinghouse, and after a bath, a good meal, and a night in a soft bed, he decided to head to Socorro early the next day and meet personally with Mr. Wilson and Mr. Jones to satisfy any doubts he might have as to their innocence. He found them at the Santa Fe Railroad offices, where they were employed to survey a proposed spur line planned to run from the cow town of Magdalena, west of Socorro, across the San Agustin Plains to a mining town in the Mogollon Mountains.

After a brief conversation, he wished them luck in their endeavors and went to see Holm Bursum, the county sheriff. Bursum advised him that Slick Miller and most of the Socorro Gang Colonel Fountain had prosecuted were still in the territorial penitentiary, except for Doc Evans and Lee Williams, who had served their time and were out. He hadn’t seen either of them since their release, but both were known to work at some of the smaller spreads along the Rio Grande valley when not engaged in stock stealing. The sheriff held an outstanding warrant for their arrest on a charge of altering brands.

Bursum also gave Cal a look-see at a thick report by a Pinkerton agent that detailed an assassination plot hatched two years earlier to kill Fountain. Supposedly, the Socorro Gang had been in cahoots with Bill Carr to exterminate the colonel and dispose of his body in the San Andres.

“If you see Evans and Williams,” Bursum said, “send them my way so I can lock them up.”

“I might want to lock them up myself,” Cal replied.

He left Socorro looking for four men: José Chávez y Chávez, Doc Evans, Lee Williams, and One-Eye Bill Carr, who had become interesting once again. He knew all four, having met each hombre a number of times over the years. He was convinced they would not have risked the Fountain murders on their own say-so.

For several days he worked his way slowly from ranch to ranch, making inquiries, talking to the hired hands, and getting nowhere. His only accomplishments consisted of filling his belly with some fine home-cooked meals served up by the ranchers’ wives and resting his head on comfortable beds in warm bunkhouses.

He rode into Engle on a bright, sunny day, the sky crowded with towering clouds more reminiscent of summer than of winter, debating whether to telegraph his resignation to Sheriff Ascarate and head for home or continue the search. At the train station he decided to ask around town about his four suspects and then send a report of his findings, such as they were, to Ascarate. He stopped at all the saloons, the small brothel, where a lone, weary-looking whore greeted him with a thin smile, and the hotel.

He spied Doc Evans and Lee Williams in the hotel dining room about to dig into large mounds of food heaped on their plates. Although both men were thieves and not shootists, he approached them cautiously nonetheless.

“What are you boys doing down this way?” Cal asked pleasantly, his gun hand close to his six-shooter.

Doc Evans dropped his fork on his plate and gave Cal a disgusted look. “Well, if you ain’t the ruination of my day.”

Short and scrawny, Evans had a pockmarked face and long, greasy hair that hung down over his ears.

“I asked you a polite question,” Cal said evenly.

Evans stabbed a piece of meat with his fork. “We was having a peaceful meal until you showed up.”

Lee Williams had his head lowered over this plate, shoveling food into his mouth, a good deal of it sticking to his mustache. Of the two, Williams was the slower thinker, and that wasn’t saying much for Evans.

“I don’t like that answer,” Cal said. “Try again.”

Evans curled his lip. “We’ve been riding the chuck line.”

From his stops at the ranches, Cal knew there wasn’t a lick of truth to Doc’s lie.

“The sheriff up in Socorro told me you were part of a scheme several years back to kill Albert Fountain,” he countered.

“Weren’t us,” Evans replied. “Don’t know anything about it.”

“If it weren’t you, who was it?” Cal demanded.

“I said I didn’t know.”

Evans looked at Williams, who burped, wiped his sleeve across his mouth, and nodded in agreement.

“Stand up, both of you,” Cal ordered.

“What for?” Evans asked.

“I’m arresting you for altering brands and stealing stock.”

“You don’t got a lick of proof about that,” Williams said, his mouth full of food.

“Shut up, Lee,” Evans barked.

Cal pulled his leg iron. “Let’s go, boys. Do it nice and easy so I don’t have to kill you both.”

“I ain’t finished eating,” Williams whined.

“Get up,” Cal said, gesturing with his six-gun, “and keep your hands on the table.”

* * *

W
ith the help of the train conductor and two willing citizens, Cal got Doc Evans and Lee Williams to Las Cruces without incident. Cal had notified Ascarate by telegraph of his impending arrival with prisoners, and the sheriff and Deputy Tito Barela were there to greet him when the train pulled into the station. He turned his prisoners over to Tito and went with Ascarate to the Arcade Saloon, where Judge Fall waited.

Fall flashed a friendly smile as Cal joined him at the table. “Sheriff Ascarate was kind enough to share the telegraph you sent him about your investigation. You’ve done a good piece of work.”

Cal reached for the whiskey bottle and a clean glass, poured a shot, and drank it. “All I’ve done is give you some bona fide desperados you can point to as possible suspects if Oliver Lee ever goes to trial for Fountain’s murder.”

Fall’s expression turned thoughtful. “You don’t think Doc Evans and Lee Williams are likely candidates?”

Cal shook his head. “I talked to those old boys on the train ride down here. They swear they didn’t kill Fountain and I believe them. Besides, they ain’t the kind someone would hire to do murder, and they ain’t bright enough to come up with a plan to do it on their own.”

“Do they have alibis?” Fall asked.

“Nope, they’ve been drifting.”

Fall smiled. “What about Chávez y Chávez?”

“I’ve been pondering what George Curry told me about José ever since I left Lincoln. It’s no secret George and Oliver have been on cordial terms for a long time. Could be, George was looking out for a friend.”

Fall showed his teeth. “Are you suggesting Sheriff Curry deliberately misled you?”

Cal smiled back at Fall. “I didn’t say that, Judge, but loyalty can’t be scoffed at.”

“Indeed not,” Fall replied. “I take it you haven’t crossed paths with Chávez y Chávez.”

“I haven’t seen hide or hair of him,” Cal admitted. “Curry said he’d heard José was at Luna’s Well around the time of the murders, but that’s just talk, as far as I know.”

“And Bill Carr?” Fall asked.

“Bill will do whatever Oliver asks of him, including murder, I reckon. But I’ll bet you a dozen good men and true who side with Lee will step forward and give Bill an alibi if he needs one.”

Fall nodded. “Once again, I admire your directness.” He turned to Guadalupe Ascarate. “Will you be needing Cal to stay on as a deputy?”

Ascarate shook his head.

Cal stood and put his star and the bill of sale for the gelding and supplies he’d bought from Seaborn Gray on the table in front of Ascarate. “You own a packhorse now, Sheriff. It’s a good, stout animal and comes with a saddle. I’ll hitch it outside the jail.”

“You can keep it,” Ascarate said, pocketing the badge.

“That wouldn’t be right,” Cal replied. “Adios.”

Fall didn’t rise. “You’ve done the territory a great service.”

Cal smiled at Fall’s disingenuous flattery. “Sowing doubt about who the killers might be isn’t gonna keep a whole passel of folks from believing Oliver Lee was behind the murders.”

“Every little bit helps,” Fall replied. “Especially with no bodies to prove the foul deed.”

“You’re right about that,” Cal said.

Anxious to get home, he left the men to their palavering, bought a ticket to Engle, parked the pack animal at the jail, and returned to the depot to wait for the northbound freight, due in an hour. With his hat pulled low he sat hunched on a bench, hoping to be ignored and left alone. Approaching footsteps on the wooden platform made him look up to see Oliver Lee coming his way.

He hadn’t seen Lee in a while, but the man hadn’t changed much. He had a purposeful stride and moved easily and with a certain grace. He was taller than average, slender and fit, with large black eyes. He stopped in front of Cal, pushed back his wide hat, revealing a broad forehead and coal black hair, and smiled pleasantly. A tin star was pinned to his coat.

Cal got to his feet and looked Oliver level in the eye.

“Did you find Fountain’s killers?” Lee asked with a smile.

“I heard that when you were asked to help search for Fountain you said you didn’t care about the damned son of a bitch,” Cal answered. “Why start now?”

Oliver Lee laughed. “I still don’t care a lick about him, but I don’t like being called a murderer.”

“I can’t help you shed that handle,” Cal replied.

“Are you standing against me?”

“I didn’t the last time you asked me that question, and I’m not taking sides this time either.”

Lee’s smile widened. “That’s good. It’s time for things to quiet down.”

Cal nodded in agreement. “They will for a spell, I reckon. But I suspect you will be hunted if old Guadalupe gets booted out of office and Pat Garrett takes over.”

“Maybe when that time comes, old Pat will take you on as a deputy.”

“I want no part of gunning for you.”

“So you think I’m innocent.”

“I didn’t say that,” Cal replied.

“I’ve never figured why you didn’t join with us to stand against the big outfits.”

“I don’t give my loyalty to quarrelsome men.”

Lee’s jaw tightened. He touched the brim of his hat. “Adios.”

“So long,” Cal replied. Oliver Lee turned and walked away. In the distance came the sound of the train whistle. Cal went to fetch Bandit so he could load him on the stock car waiting at the siding.

* * *

C
rossing the San Andres cleared Cal’s mind of thoughts of Albert Fountain and Oliver Lee. He was glad to see the first sign of grass in the high pastures and find several bunches of healthy-looking Double K cattle lounging at some watering holes. Fresh bear scat along the trails signaled the end of winter no matter what the calendar read, and the occasional springs coursing down the mountainsides were filled with gurgling runoff. If the days stayed mild for a while and the summer monsoons came on time, it might well be a good year.

The weeks he’d been away felt like months, and he hurried his pony through the last canyon that hid the ranch from view, only to draw rein at the sight of a small group of people assembled on the hillside near John Kerney’s grave. He spurred ahead at a gallop, searching faces as he got closer. Ignacio, Teresa, and their children were there, George and Patrick also. And on her knees, bent over a small coffin near an open grave, was Emma.