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  He stopped staring at the dark-haired girl and glanced at Díaz, who grinned at him.

  “The señoritas in the room are already engaged for the evening,” he said, reading Patrick’s mind. “However, as you walk down the hall to your room, you may see one you like through an open doorway.”

  Patrick nodded as if to signal that he knew exactly how to behave and kept puffing on his cigar. He waited until Díaz and Cal returned to their conversation before pushing back from the table and leaving the dining room. In the hallway, Martin Cardenas gestured at the several open doors.

  “Any one, señor,” he said softly. “Your room is through the passageway at the end of the hall. Señor Cal has already paid for your señorita.”

  “Gracias,” Patrick replied as he headed for the hallway, eager to see if there was a tiny, dark-haired whore in any of the rooms with open doors. He wanted a tiny one.

  Cal watched him go, and after a few minutes of jawboning, Díaz excused himself and left Cal alone at the table. He was about to get up and say howdy to Pat Garrett, who’d hired him as one of his deputies during the Lincoln County War, when he heard a woman’s high-pitched cry and saw Martin Cardenas barrel down the hallway past the open dining room door.

  Curious about the commotion, Cal stepped into the hallway in time to see Cardenas fling Patrick out of one of the rooms, pound him with his fists, and drag him past the barroom into the courtyard. The patrons emptied the bar to watch the fight, and Cal pushed his way through in time to see Patrick take a powerful body blow that doubled him over. He dropped his guard, and Cardenas quickly drove a combination of punches into Patrick’s face, raked his knuckles across his cheeks, and hammered a hard left hook into his left ear. Patrick tried to backtrack. Cardenas grabbed a handful of Patrick’s shirt and drove a fist into his mouth that buckled his knees. He gave him a hard push, and Patrick fell, his head bouncing on the ground. Someone in the crowd hollered bravo. Cal had to admit that Martin had put on one hell of an exhibition. He wasn’t even breathing heavy.

  “You have no part of this, señor,” he warned Cal. “Take him out of here and do not bring him back.”

  “I’ll surely do that if you tell me what caused the whipping you just dished out,” Cal said evenly, inspecting Patrick’s face. One ear was slightly torn, his face was skinned, both eyes were swollen, and his lower lip was mangled.

  “He beat the señorita, so I beat him,” Cardenas replied.

  “Fair enough. Do you know why he hit the señorita?”

  “Does it matter, señor?”

  “I guess not.” The courtyard had emptied. “When he comes around, I’ll walk him out the courtyard gate.”

  “Bueno. Tell him never to come here again.”

  Cardenas left and returned quickly with Patrick’s hat, boots, and money. Cal hunkered down next to Patrick and waited. When the young man woke up, Cal lifted Patrick to his feet, stuck his hat on his head, and walked him slowly out to the street toward the little hotel.

  “What happened with the girl?” Cal asked.

  “It’s none of your business,” Patrick slurred through his busted mouth.

  “Was she trying to kill you, steal your money?”

  “No.”

  “Then you had no cause to hit her.”

  “When is hitting a whore bad?”

  “No woman deserves a beating because of what she does for a living.” Cal stopped in front of the hotel. “Martin Cardenas will kill you if you go back to the hacienda. You savvy?”

  Patrick nodded.

  Cal handed him his boots. “Your money is in your boots. Get a room.”

  Patrick rocked, unsteady, on his heels. One eye was closed and he could barely see out of the other. “I’ll see you mañana.”

  Cal sadly shook his head. “Nope, we’re quits.”

  He turned back toward the hacienda. He needed another drink to help him get over the anger he felt toward Patrick. Had he really failed him that badly?

  26

  Patrick woke up with a splitting headache, his mouth dry with caked blood. He forced one eye open. He was on a bed jammed up against the wall of a tiny room. His hat hung on a wall peg and his clothes were on the floor next to a washstand with a water pitcher and a basin. His face felt like a bull had stomped on it. The memory of the beating coursed through his aching head.

  At the washstand, he filled the basin, splashed water on his face, and squinted into the mirror. He had two black eyes, red welts on his cheeks, puffy lips, a loose tooth, and a gash above his right eye. A small chunk of his left earlobe dangled like a glob of fat.

  Had Cardenas done all that damage with just his fists? He hadn’t even thrown a punch at the hombre. He must have looked like a sissy getting whipped like that.

  He sank back on the bed and glanced out the narrow window. It was light outside, but he didn’t know what day it was. His head wasn’t working too good, but he recalled Cal walking him down the street to the hotel, handing him his boots, and saying something about his money. He sat up and looked at his pile of clothes. His boots weren’t there. On his hands and knees he searched under the bed and pulled out the boots. In one of them he found his money jammed against the toe. He got dressed, stuffing his bloodstained, torn shirt into his pants and his greenbacks into a pocket. He pulled his hat down low and left the hotel, hoping not to be seen. Fortunately there was no one in the lobby. He stepped outside and looked skyward. Best he could tell with his fuzzy vision, it was getting on to midday. He walked to the livery stable, where the old man who looked after the horses glanced at him and pointed to a stall. There he found his horse, along with his saddle, rifle, six-gun, and all his gear.

  “The americano you came with gave me money to keep an eye on your things,” the old man said.

  “When was that?”

  “Last night, very late. He woke me up.”

  “Is his horse here?”

  The old man shook his head. “He left real early.”

  “Gracias.”

  “De nada.”

  He saddled his pony and rode out of Juárez, glad to be rid of the town, Cal Doran, and the Double K. He saw no need to return to the Tularosa ever again. The last dozen years had just been a wreck waiting to happen, and he’d been smart enough not to get trapped into believing it would last. He’d always figured that when push came to shove, no one would stand by him.

  He crossed into El Paso, stopped at a drugstore, and had the proprietor apply a poultice to his eyes, cut off the dangling bit of his earlobe, and put iodine on his cuts. He bought some patent medicine, stocked his saddlebags with grub at a general store, and headed west toward Arizona Territory, not north to Santa Fe.

  He didn’t want to get anywhere near the Double K. He had enough money to drift for a spell, and there would be more coming soon. He jigged his horse into a trot and followed the afternoon sun across a wide stretch of land, with mirage-like mountains shimmering on the horizon. Come nightfall, he hadn’t seen a homestead or a ranch all day, so he staked his horse, drank some elixir, bedded down under the stars, and fell asleep to the sound of a faraway passing train.

  An hour before dawn, he woke feeling much improved, and by first light he was drifting south and west along the Mexican border. He kept to that course for several days, stopping one night at an abandoned border-crossing station, where he stayed in an empty shack, and the next night in some hills that looked down on a wide, long valley that ran into southerly mountains.

  He hadn’t seen anyone since leaving El Paso and didn’t mind the lack of company, although he thought about Cal now and again. The old man had quit him for hitting a whore as if he had no respect for women, which wasn’t true. Except for Teresa, the women in her family, and Ignacio’s dead mother, he just hadn’t met a decent one yet, leastways not a decent unmarried white woman.

  As his scrapes and bruises healed, his spirits rose, and he took more careful notice of the land. He’d been passing through a chain of mountains separated by wide valleys,
and from every crest he could see more mountains beyond. In the valleys there were shallow lakes the Mexicans called playas, live streams in the high country, and numerous springs in swales by the low hills and in seeps where cottonwoods thrived. There was deer, bear, coyote, and wolf sign around watering spots, and the cattle on the land carried the Diamond A brand. While the grass wasn’t stirrup high in the pastures of the vast valleys, it hadn’t been eaten to a nub and was plentiful around the hilly ciénagas where cattle gathered.

  It reminded him of the Tularosa in a way: a whole string of Tularosa Valleys, each stretch of basin and hill country bounded by mountains. Except the mountains weren’t as grueling to cross and the flats were less hostile to man and beast. Patrick reckoned the country made tending cattle a whole lot easier.

  A bare grub bag and an empty stomach tempted him to shoot and slaughter a yearling. He was about to cut a critter out of a nearby bunch when he spied a distant horseman leading a pack animal entering the valley from the westerly mountains.

  On the Tularosa, outlaws sought remote places to hide or seek refuge from the law, and Patrick figured it was no different here. Some of them were lone wolves; others ran in small bands. Most all of them traveled well heeled and well supplied to outlast and outrun the law.

  Patrick dismounted, staked his pony to keep it from running, pulled his long gun, and waited. The rider headed straight for him at a leisurely pace. When he got within rifle range, Patrick put a bead on him. The rider stopped and raised his hands.

  “There’s no call for that rifle,” the man hollered.

  “Maybe so,” Patrick replied.

  The rider had scabbards strapped on either side of his saddle, one for a shotgun and the other for a repeating rifle. On his hip was a Colt .45, low and tied down, and he carried a sheathed knife on his belt. When Cal took to working as a deputy, he rode out of the Double K equipped the same way.

  “Are you the law?” Patrick asked.

  The cowboy grinned. “That line of work wouldn’t suit this old boy. I work for the Diamond A. I’m on my way to a cow camp. Can I light?”

  “Go ahead.” Patrick lowered the rifle but kept it cradled in his arm. He’d never seen a working hand packing so much hardware, and it made him suspicious.

  The cowboy slid out of the saddle.

  “You’re toting a lot of iron,” Patrick said.

  “Desperados have been raiding up from Mexico, renegade Apaches too. I’m not about to lose my hide or my scalp. Looks like you had a run in with a wildcat.”

  “Where’s the cow camp?” Patrick asked.

  “South a ways, right on the border at the old Lang ranch. You’re welcome to ride along.”

  Patrick nodded toward the mountains. “I’m heading west.”

  The cowboy shrugged and swung into his saddle. “Suit yourself.”

  “Any ranches nearby?”

  “Another day’s ride and you’ll reach the Fitzpatrick spread if you drift northwest from here.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Adios.”

  “Adios.”

  Patrick watched the horseman for a time before riding into the valley. On the off chance the waddie did work for the Diamond A, he decided not to shoot a yearling. Instead he stopped at a seep on the far side of the valley, shot a rabbit, and cooked it for his supper.

  Night had fallen by the time he finished eating, and the moon wouldn’t rise for hours. His campfire was a beacon that could draw the attention of anyone bent on banditry, and he still carried misgivings about the horseman who had passed by.

  Cal had taught him to be vigilant and cautious. He moved his saddle and bedroll out of the light, staked his pony in a grassy area where it could rest and graze, took his rifle, and moved to an old cottonwood tree at the edge of the seep. There he waited, listening to the night sounds and watching the fire burn down, his hands sweating as he clutched his rifle.

  Many times, Ignacio had told him how John Kerney saved his life by bushwhacking Charlie Gambel in Hembrillo Canyon. Patrick wasn’t sure if he could do the same and was almost convinced he wouldn’t have to when he heard soft footsteps approaching. The fire had died down to embers, casting a pale glow. He raised his rifle, held his breath, watched, and waited. A shadowy figure came out of the darkness, and Patrick fired. He heard the man grunt and saw him drop, but he didn’t move. There was a rustling of grass and the sound of receding footsteps, followed by horses cantering away. He waited a little longer before approaching the man on the ground. It was the rider he’d met earlier in the day. He was still alive.

  Patrick pointed his rifle barrel at the cowboy’s head and took the six-gun from his hand.

  “You sure are a sly one,” the cowboy wheezed.

  “Where did I hit you?” Patrick asked.

  “In the lung. I’m sure to die.”

  “What’s your name?”

  The cowboy coughed. “Matt Donavan. Bury me.”

  “I’ll leave that for your partner.”

  By the time Patrick doused the embers, saddled his horse, and rode off, Matt Donavan was dead.

  27

  Back at the Double K, Cal shook off feeling lonesome by keeping busy. Looking forward to the day when he could restock, he rebuilt some traps in the high-country pastures. Around the ranch house, he replaced rotting corral posts, cleaned accumulated gear out of the casita Ignacio had built for Teresa, and mended bridles, saddles, and his favorite pair of chaps. He patched the barn roof, hauled in enough firewood to last for two years, and made a new gate for the horse corral. He had half a mind to clean out Patrick’s room but decided to let it be.

  Half a dozen ponies and a few outlaw steers were the only livestock on the ranch. No cattle to tend gave Cal too much idle time. He turned his attention to the bits and pieces of the wagon John Kerney had been driving the day he died. For years, it had sat in a pile, untouched, weathering, rusting, and rotting. All along, Cal had wanted to fix it up into a hay wagon, but Patrick had resisted, although he never said why.

  He spread out all the unbroken parts and decided it would take two new wheels, a tongue, a rear axle, ribs, slats, and a hell of a lot more skill than he had to rebuild it. He gave the whole caboodle to Ignacio, who hauled it away after spending the night at the ranch with Cal, drinking, reminiscing, and fretting about Patrick. Cal said nothing about Patrick quitting the partnership or what had happened in Juárez.

  After Cal went back to the hacienda that night in Juárez, the whore had told him Patrick started hitting her when she coyly said she was a virgin, something many of her other customers liked to hear. Why it set him off made no sense to either Cal or the girl.

  Each month he made a trip to Tularosa, expecting a letter from Patrick, but none came. A banker in Las Cruces had agreed to make a loan against the ranch, but Cal wouldn’t sign the mortgage papers until Patrick asked for the money.

  He got back from a trip to town to find George Rose’s pony in the corral and George sitting on the veranda admiring the view, his bedroll spread out on the floor. Cal could smell beans cooking in the kitchen.

  “How long have you been here?” Cal asked as he rested his bones in a chair next to George.

  “Got here yesterday,” George replied.

  “Are you fixing supper?” Cal asked.

  “The bean pot is simmering and I’ve got a couple of beefsteaks ready to grill,” George said.

  The cowhide draped over the corral fence carried the Bar Cross brand. George had dressed the carcass, wrapped the meat in burlap, and hung it up high to dry in the barn.

  “Did that little dogie you butchered follow you all the way from the Bar Cross range?” Cal asked.

  “Now, ain’t that something?” George said with a sly grin.

  “It figures,” Cal said. “I don’t have a job for you, even if you did fix my supper.”

  “There ain’t no jobs hereabouts, so I ain’t asking. But I’ll work for keep and browse for my pony if you don’t mind the company.”

 
; Cal looked surprised. “I thought Oliver Lee was hiring guns.”

  “I’m feeling too peaceable in my old age for that kind of work. Where’s young Patrick?”

  “He struck out on his own some six months back.”

  “A bright lad needs to do that every now and then,” George said. “When’s he coming back?”

  “Can’t say.”

  “What about my proposition?”

  “I could use a hand building a water tank next to a spring that hasn’t dried up. I plan to run a pipe to it.”

  “The one up by Big Sheep?”

  “Yep.”

  “I’m your man.”

  “You can bunk in Patrick’s room,” Cal said, glad for George’s company. It had been too damn quiet at the ranch for too long.

  28

  The Yuma Territorial Prison sat on a bluff above the Colorado and Gila rivers in far western Arizona. Beyond the walls lay the town of Yuma and a thousand miles of bleak, sun-soaked desert and desolate mountains. The buildings were squat, surrounded by an adobe wall eight feet thick and eighteen feet high with guard towers on each corner. Inside, there were cell blocks, a mess hall, a recreation hall used for Sunday services, an exercise yard, a blacksmith shop, a tailor shop, stables, a library, a hospital ward, and a small ward to house women prisoners. Quarters for the superintendent and his assistant were outside the prison walls. So was the prisoners’ graveyard.

  Patrick Kerney arrived in the early summer of 1893, convicted of grand larceny in Cochise County for stealing a saddle from a livery in Tombstone. He had been sentenced to two years under the go-by name of Pat Floyd he’d given the law to hide his true identity.

  He’d packed a heavy load of bad luck into Tombstone from New Mexico, losing all his greenbacks at cards within a month. With the money gone, he had soured on the deal Cal had made with him to buy out his half of the Double K. The more he thought about it, the more he decided Cal had been too eager to see him gone from the ranch. Hadn’t Cal told him what to write down to make the sale legal, and now he had Patrick’s signed paper to prove it? Hadn’t Cal decided that four hundred dollars was enough money to give him? Had that been a fair shake? He sure would make it his business to find out from the bank how much he was owed come time to settle accounts.