Backlands (5 page)

“That's more than most ranchers earn,” Patrick said, taken aback. “The boy won't need near that amount to get by on.”

“Then with luck there will be money left to give him a good start on his own. Will you stop calling him
the boy
?”

“I meant Matt,” Patrick amended. “So if Matt needs something, I go hat in hand to the banker fella and your lawyer and ask for it, correct?”

“It will only seem humiliating if you take it that way,” Emma said sharply.

“But that's the way it is.”

“I don't care one smidgen about your wounded pride. Matthew's trust will be managed in confidence by two men I have full faith in. I warn you not to raise a stink about it.”

Patrick shrugged, galled by her attitude. “It's your hand to play.”

“Yes, it is,” Emma replied firmly.

Patrick pointed at the trust papers in Emma's hands and shook his head. “How did we get to such a sorry state with all of this rigmarole between us?”

Emma frowned at him, glared at him. “You know what I lived through as a girl. You saw it with your own eyes. Before we married, I made you promise never to raise a hand against me or take me against my will. Never, never, never, and still you did.”

Patrick looked away. “Does Matt know?”

Emma's eyes widened in surprise at the question. “Heavens no, and he never will.”

“Well, that's something, I reckon. Maybe he'll warm up to me in time.”

“Promise me you'll do your best by Matthew.”

“I swear to it,” Patrick replied. “But I'd rather have you stay around to raise him up. That would be best.”

Emma glanced warily at him. “I think you actually mean that.”

“I do, in more ways than you know.”

It earned him a genuinely agreeable smile, one he hadn't seen on Emma's face in years. It was too dangerous to say more; he might start begging for forgiveness. He reached for his hat. “I'll be going.”

He said good-bye at the front door, heard it close slowly behind him, and walked down the street without looking back. He'd never felt so alone, not since he was a miserable young child in the gold-mining camps of northern New Mexico, virtually abandoned by his lunatic aunt and her drunken lover. He'd survived by trusting no one, caring for no one, believing in no one.

Only with Emma had he come close to breaking free of the suspicious, doubting nature entrenched in him since those harsh early days—but never for very long and never completely.

It pained him, angered him, to still love the woman who'd walked away from him, and it pained and angered him even more to relive time and again his shameful drunken idiocy that had caused it.

He walked down Main Street toward his hotel wondering how long it would be before a rider came to the ranch to report Emma's death. Or would he find out at the Engle post office the next time or two he collected the mail? Or maybe Matt would just show up one day in a Tin Lizzie accompanied by the lawyer and the banker with a copy of Emma's legal trust document in hand.

He had no doubt Emma wouldn't want him to know she was dying until the dying had been done. And he knew her well enough to know she was fixing to die. He could see the strain of staying alive etched on her face. It gave him a shiver, and a great thirst for a whiskey or two came over him. Hell, maybe he needed a whole bottle.

***

I
n his hotel room, Patrick changed out of the new duds he'd bought for the funeral service and went out for a meal. He found a Mexican cantina in a small adobe house off Main Street, walked quickly past the long bar, lined with customers, sat in the back dining room, and ordered a meal of enchiladas, beans, and tortillas. He stopped short of asking for a whiskey.

Although Prohibition had recently become the law of the land, it hadn't changed the behavior of hard-drinking New Mexicans much. They still frequented the saloons and cantinas, where bartenders now splashed liquor into coffee cups instead of glasses and kept the booze bottles out of sight so as not to rile any Anti-Saloon League members who might appear and cause a ruckus.

With truckloads of high-quality liquor smuggled day and night across the nearby Mexican border and nary an Internal Revenue agent in sight, customers and connoisseurs with a taste for good whiskey didn't have to settle for hundred-proof moonshine or rotgut. Many establishments were quickly transformed into private clubs, and most customers practiced good behavior in order to keep from drawing attention to their God-given right to engage in the illicit consumption of alcohol. It got so civilized in bars that drinking became mostly a genteel pastime. In appreciation of improved community tranquility and fewer drunken brawls, local sheriffs and town marshals tended to look the other way.

Pleased with his self-restraint, Patrick finished his meal, returned to his room, stretched out on the bed, and tried to not think about how pleasant it would be to wet his whistle with an after-dinner whiskey. The thought of it made him too restless to stay still, so he worked with pencil and paper, figuring exactly how much barbwire he needed to fence the two sections. To save money, he'd cut juniper in the high country for the fence posts.

He tallied the cost and realized he had more than enough reserve cash on hand to pay for the wire. All he needed was the time to cut the posts, haul them down from the high country, set them, and string wire. But with spring and fall works, routine ranch chores, caring for the cattle, and training the ponies, putting up the fence on his own could take several years.

More than once, the urge for a drink forced his mind to wander. Twice he almost stepped out to buy a bottle, reining in the impulse just short of putting on his coat. He shook off the desire by going over his calculations again, estimating how many fence posts he'd need to cut and how many wagon trips it would take to haul them down. He drew a map of the two sections from memory and sketched in areas where the fencing spanning a gully or running up the side of a hill would be more difficult to do.

Weary eyed and tired, he thought he'd licked the yen for a drink and was about to turn in for the night, when the craving came on stronger than ever. He tried to fight it off. Drinking a bottle of whiskey alone was a bad idea. Knowing that didn't keep his need for a whiskey at bay. He stopped and looked in the mirror above the washstand. He'd been sober for two years. Nursing one whiskey at the Mexican cantina bar wouldn't turn him into a drunk again. Reaching such a logical conclusion felt reasonable. He grabbed his coat and hat, jingled his spurs down the hotel stairs, and headed straight for the cantina.

***

P
atrick finished his third whiskey at the bar and called for another just as a short, stocky man sidled next to him and nodded a greeting. Although the dim light and thick tobacco smoke made it hard for Patrick to see the stranger clearly, he nodded back and reached for his refilled coffee cup.

“I know you,” the man said genially. “You're Pat Floyd.”

Stunned to hear that name, Patrick put his cup down and studied the stranger. He had a chubby face and a button nose and looked vaguely familiar, but Patrick couldn't place him. “You're mistaken, friend. That's not my name.”

The man smiled. “That may be, but I knew you in Yuma Prison as Pat Floyd. I guess that was your go-by name.”

Twenty-five—no, twenty-seven—years had passed since his time in Yuma Prison, just about long enough for Patrick to mostly forget about it. He had no need to be reminded. “I've never been in prison,” he said, “there or anywhere else.”

The man laughed. “Well, I ain't gonna argue with you, but I swear we were cell mates. You had a bunk high up and I slept on a straw-tick mattress on the ground with the centipedes and spiders. Eight, sometimes ten of us crammed into those damn tiny cells. Hot as hell they were, couldn't sleep a wink in the summertime. Everybody called me Squirrel. Remember?”

Patrick shook his head. “Sorry, but you've got the wrong man.”

The man shrugged. “Look, I ain't meaning to cause you any trouble or embarrassment. It was a long time ago and some things are best left behind.”

“In spite of mistaking me for someone else, there's truth to that,” Patrick replied, giving the man a closer look. His coat was ragged at the cuffs, his worn-down boots hand-patched with pieces of leather, and he needed a bath and a shave. “You said people called you Squirrel,” he ventured.

Squirrel smiled. “Real name is Vernon Clagett, but I answer to Squirrel as well, although I don't like the handle much. Maybe I was mistaken.”

“No harm done,” Patrick replied, finally recognizing the skinny kid inside the body of the stocky, beat-down man. He'd earned his nickname in prison by selling and bartering goods the inmates needed, like tobacco, soap, and liquor. “Let me buy you a drink, and you can tell me what brings you to these parts.”

Squirrel's smile widened. “I'd be obliged.”

Patrick called for a whiskey and placed more money on the bar. “Are you just passing through?” he asked.

“I am.” Squirrel eyed the bartender carefully as he poured the drink. He picked it up with a shaky hand and downed it in a gulp. “That's if I can earn some money. I need work so I can go back to Texas, where I've got some family.”

Patrick hid a smile as he motioned for the bartender to pour another. Squirrel was a drunk, no doubt about it, and when sober, drunks worked for whatever wages they could get. “Ever do any ranch work?” he asked.

“Yes, sir,” Vernon replied, his eyes fixed on the bartender as he poured whiskey in the cup. “Farm work, mostly,” he corrected as he reached for the drink. “I'm a fair handyman, not good at everything, but I can drive a wagon, mend fences, cut wood, tend to chickens, hoe a field, and shoe a horse—whatever is needed around a place.”

“Where did you last work?” Patrick asked.

“I was a barn boy over in Willcox on a horse ranch.”

Vernon knocked back his drink and kept talking. Patrick only half listened; he'd already decided to offer Squirrel work fencing the two sections. If the man agreed, and there was no reason to think he wouldn't, Patrick figured it would serve two purposes: The fence would get built and his prison record wouldn't get spread around town.

Three whiskeys had made Patrick light-headed but far from drunk. He'd made a point of not telling Squirrel his real name. He looked around the room and didn't see a soul who knew him. That was good. He looked back at Squirrel, who had stopped talking. Drunks were notoriously unreliable hands and required watching, but the risk was worth it. “I just may have some work for you,” he said.

Vernon grinned. “I'd be much obliged if you did. I'll work hard, I promise you that.”

Patrick clasped Squirrel's shoulder. “I believe you will. Meet me at the Engle train station the day after tomorrow at noon. It's a town northeast of here a ways on the main line. Not that far. If you show up, you have a job.”

“I'll be there.”

“Good, I'll see you then. Have another drink on me.” He flipped a half-dollar tip to the bartender, put enough money on the bar to pay for two drinks, and left the cantina, happy with the turn of events. Squirrel would either show up in Engle or not. If he did, Patrick would stock the shepherd's shack with vitals, let Squirrel live in it while he built the fence, and send him on his way when the work was done. If Squirrel didn't show, Patrick figured he'd move on before too long and that would be the end of it. He doubted there was much of a chance his prison record and go-by name of Pat Floyd would catch up with him.

***

P
atrick slept poorly and woke up early with a dry mouth and dull ache in his head reminiscent of his drinking days. Fully sober, he had no longing for a morning whiskey to chase away the cobwebs, and that was a good sign. Maybe he could have a few drinks every now and then without backsliding into being a drunk again. He also had a clear memory of meeting Squirrel and offering him a job. In thinking it over, he liked how he'd handled the whole situation.

The hotel boasted indoor plumbing, with a tub and hot water in the communal bathroom, and he made full, leisurely use of it, until a knock at the door made him get out and get a move on. He dried off, dressed quickly, shaved in his room, went to breakfast, and was the first customer to be served in the empty dining room. Over coffee, the dull headache receded and by the time he finished breakfast, he felt full of energy and ready to go.

A hardware store by the depot, no more than a few minutes' walk from the hotel, always opened early and stocked the barbwire he needed. In no hurry, he paid the check, settled the bill for the room, packed his gear, left it with the desk clerk, and walked to Emma's house. Lights were on in the kitchen and smoke drifted from the chimney. He heard the back door slam and Matt's pony whinny, and walked behind the house to the small horse barn. The pony was in the corral eating a bag of oats while Matt mucked out the stall.

Matt heard Patrick's footsteps and looked out. “Ma's in the house,” he said tonelessly.

“I came to see you and find out how you're doing,” Patrick said.

“Fine,” Matt replied before disappearing inside the stall.

Patrick gave Patches a careful look. “You take good care of your pony. I admire a man who does that.”

Matt's movement inside the stall stopped.

“You can learn a lot about a man by his horse,” Patrick continued. “Your pony tells me you'd be a good man to ride the river with.”

Matt appeared in the stall doorway.

“I ever tell you about a man named Cal Doran?”

“Nope, but Ma has told me some about him. She says he was a good and generous man.”

“That he was. He raised me up after my pa, your grandpa, died, and he had a pony named Patches.”

“He did?”

“Yep, and he truly loved that horse. Sometimes a man's pony can be his best friend, the most important critter in a cowboy's life. You can never own a pony like that. They just kind of pick you out and let you join up with them.”