Hard Country (49 page)

He kept the team moving at a slow, steady pace. The wind died to a gentle breeze and a light mist rolled off the San Andres. He reached the first big arroyo late in the day and gave it a close look. It was shallow and wide, a good tenth of a mile across. There was no fresh debris or sign of recent erosion to signal a recent flash flood. He walked across it, stopping several times to dig into the sand with his hands. Only the top three inches were wet.

Once the runoff from the mountains reached the arroyo, he’d be stranded for a day before he could cross. Best to jingle his spurs, make camp on the other side, and worry about the next arroyo crossing in the morning. He started the team across and got his front wheels stuck less than fifty feet from the far side. One wheel was sunk down to the axle, making the wagon lean hard to the side.

He needed to get moving in a hurry. He brought his saddle pony forward and tried to break the wagon free using more horsepower. The wagon lurched forward a bit, stopped, and sank back into the sand. He tried again with no luck, got a shovel, trenched around the front wheels, piled mesquite branches and rocks in the trenches, and urged the horses forward. The wheels turned and caught firmer ground just as the skies opened up.

Safely across, George hurried the team away from the arroyo to a small hill near a stand of mesquite off the road. He put on his slicker, picketed the animals to keep them from straying, and fed them some oats before grabbing a tarp and ducking under the wagon for shelter. He spread the tarp on the ground and went back out into the storm to get his saddle, bedroll, and some food.

Lightning cracked overhead as he settled in under the wagon. He was stopped for the night, maybe longer. He shed his slicker, wrapped it around his bedroll to keep it dry, and ate hard tack, jerky, and a can of pears for his supper.

Finished, George drank the juice from the can and leaned against the rear axle. The arroyo was running full tilt, a dull roar growing louder above the sound of the thunder. Out on the desert he could see lightning strikes sparking and arcing into the ground.

His aches and twinges were back worse than ever, and he had a stabbing pain in his left arm all the way up to his shoulder he’d never felt before. He rubbed his arm hard to ease the discomfort, but it didn’t help at all.

The storm raged on, wind whipping the rain in every direction, including flat-out straight into his face. It was a humdinger of a blow, sure to be talked about for a long time to come. He figured to have a good time funnin’ Cal for staying warm and dry while he got the wagonload of supplies safely to the ranch through storm and flood.

The pain hit him hard again, so hard it made him gasp. It took a long time to pass, and he stayed tensed up until it did. Cold and wet, he was too tired to move. He stayed still, listening to the rain, the wind, the thunder, the torrent of water in the arroyo, until he fell asleep.

* * *

T
he storm rattled the windows and caused a dozen leaks in the dirt roof of Ignacio’s hacienda before it stopped a few hours before dawn. As Cal helped Ignacio and his oldest son, Juan, clean up and patch the leaks, he wondered how much damage had been caused at the ranch. The ranch house and casita had probably fared well on the higher ground, but the barn, outbuildings, and corrals were smack in the middle of a pasture cut by an arroyo that drained runoff from the mountains. He decided to figure on the worst amount of damage.

Yesterday, he’d left Alamogordo on his own hoping to catch up with George, but the bad weather kept him at Ignacio’s instead. Cal worried about the old boy. He was prone to sickness, had lost a step or two to gout, and seemed worn down more than usual. Cal kicked himself for letting George head home alone.

He left Tularosa under a pale blue peaceful sky and dancing light from the morning sun that made the rain-drenched village glitter. Adobe walls had melted, the narrow lanes were deeply rutted, the main road had turned into a mud bog, and water ran in gushing rivulets off the flat roofs. Men, women, and children were cleaning up dark pools of water lapping at their doors, hanging soaked garments and bedding out to dry, shoring up walls, and patching leaky roofs.

Every little arroyo, ditch, and gully had overflowed. The river had spilled its banks, and frothing white water rushed into the basin, spreading over the flats. Crop fields were flooded, and where the water had receded, a dead lamb, partially covered in mud, rested against a fence post.

Some of the old cottonwoods were shorn of leaves, with branches and limbs split off. A big tree had fallen into the river, snaring debris pushed downstream by the rapid current. A lone chicken perched on a branch, clucking pitifully.

Cal slowed Bandit to a walk as they started across the floodplain on the flats. At times, Bandit’s legs sank above the fetlocks. Each time he pulled himself free, shook his head, snorted, and moved on. The road had washed out in places, but not badly enough to slow Cal down considerably, and by early afternoon he reached the first arroyo.

It had grown a good ten feet in width and deepened a foot in places. There were standing pools of water along the banks, and slow-moving eddies disappeared into the sandy bed. Tree trunks and boulders had washed down from the high country miles away. The storm had been as powerful out on the basin as it had been in town, which only made Cal worry more about George.

He dismounted, gave the arroyo a close look, and decided he couldn’t risk getting stuck in quicksand. He followed the arroyo south for a time, found a safe crossing, and doubled back to the road. Within minutes he saw the wagon and the animals in the distance. He spurred Bandit ahead and called out.

At the wagon, his feet hit the ground before Bandit came to a complete stop. It was tightly covered and securely lashed. He looked under it. George lay on a tarp, his eyes wide open, his face a frozen mask of surprise.

Cal crawled to him and gently closed his old friend’s eyes. “Dammit all, George,” he said. “Dammit.”

51

T
he storm had splintered the Double K saddle shed, chicken coop, and corrals into sticks scattered across the pasture and the flats. Floodwaters had cut a new channel through the pasture directly under the barn, collapsing it into a pile of debris. Nearby, the windmill tilted precariously over the rock rubble of what had been the stock tank. Saddles and bridles were waterlogged and ruined. Hand tools, wagon wheels, barrels, rolls of wire, and ladders lay partially buried in mud. Two cow ponies had been swept away, and all of Emma’s chickens drowned. Only the ranch house and casita, on higher ground, stood intact, but barely, with roofs in need of patching and several adobe walls in need of shoring. Bedding, linens, and clothing had to be aired and dried in order to be salvaged.

In the high country, rock slides had blocked trails to the pastures, and most of the dirt water tanks had either burst or filled with silt. Some of the big old willows in the seeps were uprooted, and several slot canyons were completely blocked by landslides. Six inches of mud had flowed into the line cabin, knocking down the stove and taking the door off its hinges. On the basin, the wagon road to Tularosa was washed out in half a dozen places.

After they put the ranch house in livable order and threw up some temporary corrals, Cal, Patrick, and Emma went looking for their livestock. For two weeks they trekked through the San Andres and the northern half of the basin, gathering animals. They trailed home seventy-six steers, cows, and calves, half a dozen yearlings, nine ponies, and eighteen strays. Counting the carcasses they found along the way, Cal figured half of their herd and six ponies had either been lost in the storm or drifted a good distance off the Tularosa.

That night at the dinner table, they talked about what needed to get fixed.

“The windmill, stock tank, and corrals right away,” Cal said. “We need to get all that done pronto.”

“You get no argument from me,” Patrick said as he started a list. “But first we should fence the pasture to keep our critters nearby while we rebuild. We’ll have to cut and haul a good amount of timber to do it.”

“At least the timber is free, so it won’t cost except for our labor,” Cal replied, pleased with Patrick’s reasoning. “Same for the windmill and the stock tank.”

“I say we take out a bank loan to get it all done in one swoop,” Patrick announced, putting the list aside. “We can rebuild the barn, fix the line cabin, throw up a new chicken coop, and restock the herd. Do the whole caboodle and make this place better than it was before. It might take the good part of a year, but we could hire a hand to help out.”

He looked at Cal and Emma expectantly, awaiting their approval.

“I’m not partial to borrowing against the ranch,” Cal replied quietly, wondering how Patrick’s good thinking could drift astray so easily. “We built our brand slowly, and I reckon it’s best to put the outfit back together the same way.”

“The bank will loan us the money sure enough,” Patrick said, trying to gather support, “and now’s the time to do it, with cattle prices strong. We can pay it back in a year or two.”

Cal and Emma said nothing.

“Why are y’all locking horns with me on this?” he asked.

“I’ve seen many a stockman owe everybody he could owe when the hard times came,” Cal said, “and I damn sure don’t want to have us end up like that.”

“This outfit has always paid its creditors, merchants and bankers alike,” Patrick replied.

“Because we’ve never owed much and have made do with less when times were tight,” Cal said evenly. “I say we stay on that same trail now.”

Emma nodded. “Cal’s right, Patrick.”

Patrick glared at her. “Why do you always side with Cal over me?” he snapped.

“That’s not true,” Emma said, stiffening in her chair.

“Maybe so, but just remember, you’re my wife, not a partner in this outfit, so what you say about how we run things don’t mean spit.”

Emma clamped her jaw shut, pushed her chair back, and stomped outside.

Patrick shook his head as he watched her go. “That woman,” he grumbled.

“You had no cause to barrel into her like that,” Cal said. “Best go make amends.”

Patrick shook his head. “Not this old boy, and I don’t need you giving me advice.”

“Yes, you do, and I’ll say my piece whenever it suits me.”

“Someday I’m gonna run this outfit as I see fit, old man, without you meddling in my marriage.”

“Can’t see that I’m meddling when you spat with her in front of me.”

“How come you back her up the way you do?”

“That gal has earned the right to have a say,” Cal replied, “and you know it.”

“Maybe so, maybe not,” Patrick snapped. He stood and walked out of the kitchen.

Cal heard the bedroom door close, leaned back in his chair, and lit a cigar, thinking Emma would return shortly. When she didn’t, he went looking and found her on the hill standing over Molly’s grave.

“I miss her,” she said softly as he came near.

“I know it.”

“Just like you miss George. I miss him too.”

In the moonlight Cal stared at George’s grave, covered in fresh dirt from the hole he’d dug with Patrick’s help. Next to it was John Kerney’s grave, now a grassy mound. “I miss all three of the folks buried here.”

They stood in the silence of the night for a moment.

“I’m pregnant,” Emma said softly.

“Does Patrick know?”

“Not yet, and I don’t want him to if it means we have to borrow money for me to live in town until the baby comes.”

“You’d risk your life and losing the child to save this outfit from taking on some debt?”

“I would.”

Cal shook his head. “Earlier, I thought it was just Patrick who had stopped thinking straight. How far along are you?”

“Two months.”

“You go tell your husband right now,” Cal said gruffly. “It should’ve been him to know first. Wake him up if you have to. When he asks if I know, lie to him. Otherwise it will start a ruckus.”

“Then what?”

“Patrick will want to find out if I knew before him. When he comes, I’ll ease his mind. Then we’ll palaver and make plans.”

“I’ll not be left out of it,” Emma snipped.

“This time you will do as I say,” Cal replied. “Now, git.”

The angry look on Cal’s face hurried Emma along.

A half hour passed before Patrick banged on Cal’s door. He opened it to a worried-looking man.

“Do you know?” Patrick demanded.

“Know what?” Cal asked, hoping Emma had done as she’d been told.

Patrick studied him close before replying. “Emma’s pregnant.”

“Well, I’ll be,” Cal said, smiling big. “It’s high time, old son. Let’s have a drink on it to celebrate.”

He got a bottle out of the dresser and handed it to Patrick, who took a long swig.

“I ain’t gonna let her lose this one,” he said, passing the bottle over.

“Of course you ain’t.” Cal paused to drink. “I’ll go along with whatever you and Emma decide needs doing.”

“We’re leaving for town come morning to see the doctor, and she’ll stay there until the baby’s born, just like he said she needed to the last time we talked to him. I told her straight out she had no choice in the matter.”

“Good for you,” Cal said.

“We’ll find a place to rent and fix it up some.”

“I’ll ride along,” Cal said, “and we’ll borrow the money to get her set up in town.”

“You ain’t opposed to the idea?”

“Hell no.”

Patrick looked relieved. “I’m obliged.”

“No call for that,” Cal replied. “It about time the Double K raised more than just cows and ponies.”

52

I
n Las Cruces, Cal met up with Patrick and Emma at the hotel after their appointment with the doctor.

“What did the sawbones say?” Cal asked.

“I’m fine,” Emma replied, “but because I lost the last two after the third month, I’m not to do heavy physical work and must rest frequently.”

“No riding your pony either,” Patrick reminded her. “She’s to see the doctor every two weeks until the baby comes.”