Hard Country Page 11

  It was a tight spot with no surefire answers, but he was determined to make it work. In Cal he had a good partner, and between them they had enough money to get an outfit started and stocked, so it was best to keep thinking on the sunny side.

  He raised La Luz before nightfall and found it sporting a new cantina, a new livery, and a passel of tough-looking pilgrims. He stabled his horse for the night, paid for a bed of fresh straw to sleep on next to a haystack, and in the faint light of dusk walked toward the cantina, hoping for a decent meal. He turned the corner and almost stumbled over a Mexican lying at the side of the road.

  “Help me,” the man said in English.

  Kerney recognized the voice and bent down. “Ignacio?”

  “Sí. Yes.”

  Kerney bent down. Ignacio had a bloody gash on his temple and his right eye was red and swollen. He helped the boy sit up. “What happened?”

  “I’ve been robbed.” Ignacio pointed in the direction of the creek behind the livery. “Where I was camping. One hombre, a Texan, maybe. He took my money, my father’s pistola. Even the book you gave me. He hit me two times with his gun. When I tried to follow I fell here. Desvanecido.” He made a circular motion at his head.

  “Dizzy,” Kerney guessed.

  “Sí.”

  “Do you know the man that robbed you?”

  Ignacio shook his head.

  “Can you stand up?”

  “I think yes.”

  Kerney got Ignacio to his feet, walked him back to the livery, and cleaned his wound with water from the trough. It wasn’t a deep gash, and when the bleeding stopped, he applied a mud plaster to it. The eye had shut completely, so Kerney used his neckerchief to make a wet compress and had Ignacio hold it against the swelling.

  “You’ll live,” he said. “Now, tell me what you’re doing alone in La Luz.”

  Ignacio told John Kerney everything: Teresa’s infatuation with Charlie Gambel, his decision to leave home, coming to La Luz only to find his cousin had moved away, his hopes to go to Las Cruces now smashed, as he had no money to get there, and the shame he felt about his humiliation.

  “Tomorrow I will go back home to my family in disgrace,” he said, head bowed in shame.

  “Don’t worry about tomorrow,” Kerney replied as he took Ignacio into the stables and had him stretch out on a bed of straw. “Rest here. I’ll go rustle up some grub at the cantina and bring you a plate. Some food, some rest, and you’ll be good as new come morning.”

  After Ignacio ate, Kerney questioned him about the holdup. Five dollars had been taken along with the book of stories and his father’s old pistol. From Ignacio’s description, the revolver was likely a black-powder Colt Dragoon revolver that shot a ball. Probably an early model a good thirty years old, it had Cesario’s initials carved into the stock. Somebody toting the sidearm should be easy to spot, although Kerney doubted anyone would want to carry such a relic for self-protection.

  Soon, Ignacio slept. Kerney left him just long enough to gather up the boy’s remaining possessions at the creek bed and tote them back to the stable. He covered Ignacio with a blanket and sat in the darkness listening to the boy’s breathing. Near moonrise a storm came waltzing up from the southwest, bringing nothing but a lazy cold wind until a gentle rain started. Inside, warm and out of the weather, with the soft sound of raindrops on the roof of the stable, Kerney fell asleep.

  * * *

  At dawn, John Kerney examined Ignacio’s face. His eye was still swollen shut, and the cheek below had puffed up and blackened a bit. Gently he rinsed away the mud plaster covering the gash at Ignacio’s temple, cleaned it with water, and wrapped an improvised bandage around his head.

  “You look considerable better,” he lied as he helped Ignacio to his feet. “How about I make us some breakfast?”

  “Yes, I’m very hungry.”

  Kerney moved everything to the creek bed, got Ignacio covered with a blanket and comfortable under a tree, made a fire, and cooked a breakfast of coffee, eggs he’d bought last night at the cantina, and beans he’d found in Ignacio’s food bundle. They ate in silence as the sun winked above the brow of the mountains.

  “You have been kind to me,” Ignacio said after wolfing down the last of his eggs. “Gracias.”

  “No need for that,” John Kerney replied. “I just lent a helping hand. Can you ride a horse?”

  “Yes, a little bit. Maybe not like a vaquero, but I can ride.”

  “Good.” Kerney hunkered down next to Ignacio. “I already know you can drive a wagon. Seen you do it. Have you been west to the San Andres?”

  “Sí, yes, with my father several times when our sheep wandered away, and once when some were stolen.”

  “Bueno,” Kerney said.

  “Why do you ask?”

  “I’m thinking I need to hire a hand and maybe you’ll do.”

  Ignacio’s good eye brightened. “You have work for me?”

  Kerney nodded. “Hard work, lots of it, and not much dinero to start with.”

  “Doing what, Señor Kerney?”

  “Ranching,” John Kerney answered.

  He gave Ignacio the lowdown on his plan to start a ranch with Cal Doran on the western slope of the basin below the San Andres peaks. Maybe under a ridgeline where the grass was thick and water ran in a clear spring, or in a shallow basin protected from the wind, with good grass and an underground stream that bubbled to the surface sweet and pure. He needed to get cracking and find just the right piece of country to lay claim to. After that would come the hard work.

  “I’ll start you out at half wages until you make a hand,” Kerney proposed.

  “How much is that?” Ignacio asked.

  “Fifteen dollars a month, plus room and board,” Kerney replied. “If you stick, when you’re a hand, you’ll get a dollar a day. That’s thirty dollars a month.”

  Even though his face hurt when he did it, Ignacio smiled lopsidedly. Fifteen dollars a month was a lot of money; thirty was almost a fortune. “I will work hard for you.”

  Kerney stood. “Then it’s settled. I’ve got some business to take care of before we can light out. You stay here and I’ll be back by noon.”

  Ignacio nodded. “I wait here, jefe.”

  “It’s ‘boss’ in americano,” Kerney corrected with a smile.

  “Okay, boss,” Ignacio replied with the lopsided grin still plastered on his face.

  11

  The smoke that drifted from the ranch-house chimney and the number of saddled horses in the corral told Kerney that John Good and his kin were home. Some good-looking ponies and a few mares grazed in the nearby open pasture, and Kerney slowed to give them a once-over before stopping at the porch to the house. John Good stepped outside, followed by his brothers and one of his sons. Tall at six-three, he was an arrogant man who expected people to do as he said, no questions asked.

  Not knowing what to expect and with a nod to convention, Kerney stayed mounted. He could see Good’s wife glaring at him through the partially open front door, her arms folded across her chest.

  “Are you here for your back wages?” Good asked.

  “I am.”

  “I hear you’ve been up north searching for your lost son. Is that true?”

  “It is,” Kerney answered.

  “Did you find him?” Good demanded.

  Kerney shook his head. “I know he’s alive and living with an army surgeon and his wife, but I haven’t been able to find them yet. I wrote them a letter and I’m hoping to hear back.”

  “How old is your button?”

  “He’s four.”

  Good nodded. “How much wages do I owe you?”

  “Three weeks’ worth,” Kerney answered, somewhat surprised by Good’s accommodating tone. “But I’ll take it in horseflesh if it’s all the same to you. That blue roan in the pasture will do.”

  Kerney had saddle broke the pony when he’d worked at the ranch and knew it to have a gentle disposition and an easy gait.


  Good pointed at the roan. “That pony?”

  “Yep.” Kerney pulled out some folding money. “And I’d like to buy that sorrel mare.”

  “That mare ain’t a cow pony,” Good said.

  “I know it,” Kerney replied. “But she’ll make a good pack animal. How much?”

  Good named a price. Kerney shook his head and put his money in his shirt pocket. “Just the blue roan, then,” he said.

  Good squinted hard at Kerney. The mare was past her prime and barren. “Give me ten dollars for the mare and I’ll throw in two halters, free.”

  “Done.” Kerney handed Good the money.

  Good examined the bills before folding them into his pocket. “I didn’t run you off today because you had reason enough to quit me and go looking for your son,” he said gruffly. “But the next time you come here I will run you off for causing my wife grief. My boy Ivan will cut out those horses and give you those halters. Then you git. I’ll have no further truck with you.”

  Kerney touched the tip of his hat. “As you wish.”

  Good and his brother turned and stomped silently back into the house as Ivan hurried to his horse to chase down the roan and sorrel. In ten minutes, Kerney was on his way down the canyon to the village. At the livery, he left the horses in the corral, paid the stable boy for their keep and oats, and went to the creek bed where Ignacio waited.

  “Let’s mosey over to the store,” he said. “We need to get you outfitted.”

  Ignacio turned his hands palms up. “I have no money.”

  “I’ll pay and you’ll work it off at five dollars a month.”

  “But I still get some dollars each month?”

  “Yep, ten, and then fifteen when you’ve paid me back in full.”

  At the store, Kerney bought a used twenty-dollar double-rigged stock saddle, a bridle, a new fourteen-dollar packsaddle, a five-dollar pistol that came with a belt and holster, and a box of cartridges. He gave the pistol, belt, and holster to Ignacio and told him to pick out a pair of boots, a shirt, a rain slicker, and a hat to replace his straw sombrero. After Ignacio made his choices, Kerney paid the clerk and they carried everything back to the stables. He brought the blue roan out of the corral and told Ignacio to saddle it.

  “This horse is mine?” Ignacio asked.

  “Only to ride for now,” Kerney said. “Treat it right and I might sell it to you someday.”

  “And the saddle?”

  “That’s yours. No self-respecting vaquero would hire on as a hand using another man’s saddle.”

  Ignacio stroked the cantle. “It is very nice.”

  “Stop admiring it and put it on the pony. Tighten the front cinch first.”

  “Por qué?”

  “Because the horse requires you to do it that way.”

  “A joke—as you say—no?”

  “Not a joke. He’ll chuck you off if you don’t. It’s a matter of good horse sense.”

  Ignacio shrugged and saddled the horse as he’d been told.

  Kerney inspected the cinches, adjusted the stirrups, and handed Ignacio the reins. “Now ride it,” he ordered.

  As Ignacio swung into the saddle, Kerney slapped the roan hard on its flank and it took off at a gallop. Ignacio managed to keep his seat without grabbing leather, but it was nip and tuck for a while as he bounced around. He reined the horse to a stop in the middle of the road and came back to Kerney at a walk.

  “Well, you can ride, sort of,” he said. “A couple of months in the saddle every day should get the kinks out.”

  “What are kinks?” Ignacio asked.

  Kerney carefully considered his reply. “You need to learn to keep your seat and smooth out your ride.”

  “I’ll do better,” Ignacio promised.

  “I know you will.”

  He showed Ignacio how to put the packsaddle on the mare and told him to practice doing it several times, then change into his new duds and wait for him.

  Back at the general store, Kerney stocked up on two weeks’ worth of victuals, new blankets for the bedrolls, cartridges for his rifle and pistol, two good lengths of rope, two shovels, a spanking-new coffeepot, and some sturdy canvas sacks. He was settling his bill with the proprietor when a young man entered the store, unwrapped a Colt Dragoon revolver from a dirty oilcloth, and placed it on the counter.

  Kerney studied the man as the proprietor continued counting out the change due him. A smooth-faced lad, he dressed as a cowboy, but Kerney doubted the genuineness of his getup. Under his open woolen coat he wore a red miner’s shirt, a sure giveaway, and when he tilted his hat back there was no telltale white forehead above a tan face, which branded every true waddie that lived and worked in the out-of-doors. His six-shooter hung in a brand-new holster without a scratch on it, and his broad-brimmed hat showed no sweat stains at all.

  “Now, that’s some six-shooter,” Kerney commented cordially. “Looking to sell it?”

  The young man smiled and nodded. “I surely am.”

  “Mind if I give it a gander?”

  The tenderfoot handed Kerney the pistol. Over four pounds and more than twelve inches long, it was big and unwieldy. The initials CC were carved on the stock, and the cylinder had USMR stamped on it for United States Mounted Rifles. He smiled at the lad. “How did you come by this old gun?”

  “It was my pappy’s,” the pilgrim said.

  Kerney grabbed the pilgrim’s gun hand to keep him from clearing leather and raked the barrel of the Colt Dragoon hard across his cheekbone. “You’re a liar and a thief. Undo your gun belt or I’ll kill you where you stand.”

  With shaking hands and blood pouring down his face, the kid did as he was told.

  The storekeeper started to move away. Kerney told him to stand pat and poked the kid in the stomach with the Colt. “What’s your name?” he demanded.

  “Sam, Sam Nash.”

  “Turn out your pockets.”

  “I’ve got no money. I lost it all at faro.”

  Kerney poked him again. “Do as I say.”

  Nash turned out his pockets. Sure enough, he was busted.

  “You stole a book,” Kerney said. “Where is it?”

  “I burned it.”

  “Back up to the door,” Kerney ordered as he stuck the Colt Dragoon in his waistband and drew his pistol.

  “Don’t shoot me,” Nash begged as he raised his hands and inched backward.

  “I’m taking your gun belt and six-shooter as payment for the pistol, money, and book you stole from my hired hand. If you come looking for me or for him I will kill you.”

  “I won’t. Swear, I won’t.”

  Kerney waved his pistol. “Git.”

  Nash turned, crashed through the door, and ran helter-skelter down the street.

  Kerney holstered his revolver and turned to the shopkeeper. “Do you know if young Sam Nash has any kin hereabouts?”

  “None that I know of. He’s a newcomer out of Kansas, as I recall. Been here about a week.” He held out Kerney’s change.

  Kerney pocketed the money and scooped up the holstered pistol and gun belt. “I’ll be back for my victuals and supplies in a bit.”

  “Take your time,” the shopkeeper replied, his voice a bit shaky.

  * * *

  Ten days into his search for a homestead, Kerney had yet to find what he was looking for. He’d been in and out of canyons and flats along both sides of the San Andres, had trailed down draws and arroyos, traversed pastures twenty miles long, and climbed ridges and gaps in the high country. Nothing yet approached what he wanted, and he was starting to think that he might have to settle for less.

  After a hard, difficult ride into a wide canyon that coursed east toward the Tularosa, Kerney called a halt for the day. While Ignacio got busy caring for the horses and setting up camp, he grabbed his rifle and followed a footpath that led to a rock outcropping at the base of a ridgeline. There he found painted images of mounted warriors and miniature drawings of cougar, javelina, deer, and dragonfli
es. It was an Apache camping ground for certain, perhaps even a sacred site. A well-worn trail close to water from a spring at the foot of a peak to the north probably ran from the mountains west of the Rio Grande all the way east to the Apache lands and Fort Stanton. The canyon was thick with dormant bunchgrass that waved in a lazy breeze, and there were stands of scrub oak scattered about, but the soil was poor and rocky, not fit as a permanent livestock pasture.

  He returned to camp, where Ignacio had a fire going and the coffeepot on. He hunkered down, poured a cup, and drank it thinking that taking on Ignacio had been the smartest thing he’d done in a while. The boy made good coffee and was turning into a hand faster than Kerney thought possible.

  “Does this place have a name?” he asked Ignacio.

  “Hembrillo Canyon,” Ignacio replied. “It is a word for a seed or nut.”

  “What kind?”

  Ignacio shrugged. “I’m not sure.” He glanced around the broad canyon. “The only thing I see that bears a nut are the small oaks. Is this the place you pick for the ranchero?”

  “I’m not partial to it, although it’s a nice slice of outdoors.” Kerney picked up his rifle, mounted his horse, and gestured at the bald mountain to the north. “There’s enough daylight left for me to have a closer look at the source of the spring. Appears to be higher up in that crevice.”

  He followed a narrow ledge and reached the crevice where the water flowed, but it wasn’t the source of the water. The gap widened enough for a horse and rider to pass, and Kerney followed it to a pool that bubbled out of the hard rock on the mountainside.

  He knelt and sipped the water. It was cold and pure. Would the stream dry up in the summer? If he dug a well down on the canyon floor, would he hit bedrock before he reached water? Was there other water nearby that might be easier to get livestock to?

  He walked his horse to the gap and froze. Below, two riders were at the camp. One rider held a pistol on Ignacio while his partner watched off to the side like a spectator, hands resting on his saddle horn. The man with the pistol motioned to Ignacio, who slowly dropped to his knees, crossed himself, and lowered his head. Kerney didn’t wait to see more. He pulled his rifle from the scabbard, knelt, sighted carefully, and shot the cowboy with the six-gun out of his saddle. Quickly, he swung to fire on his partner, as the man’s hands jerked off the saddle horn and flew into the air.