Backlands Page 31

  “What kind of a big mess?”

  “Losing the Double K. I’m past due on my taxes, and the little money I get from my monthly pension ain’t gonna cover what’s owed by a long shot.”

  “How past due are we?”

  “A year come this November, when the next tax bill arrives that I also can’t pay.”

  Pa’s owing two years’ taxes and saying nothing about it riled Matt. “Why didn’t you mention this to me before?” he snapped.

  “I didn’t see a need to.”

  Matt shook his head in disgust. “I’m not your hired hand, old man, and I’m tired of you treating me like I’ve got no stake in this outfit.”

  “I’ve already told you the Double K is yours when I pass on. I’ve got it all written down on paper and put away in my desk.”

  “It’s a proper signed and sealed will, right?”

  Pa hesitated before shaking his head.

  Matt laughed bitterly. “Now, why isn’t that a big surprise? What in the hell did you do with all that money you took from my trust?”

  Pa got hard-eyed. “You know damn well what I did with it. I put it into the Double K and then had to sell just about everything to pay the bank when those Wall Street idiots made folks like us dirt-scratching poor.”

  “You gambled some of it in stocks. You told me so yourself. How much did you lose?”

  “Enough, dammit. Your trust would have lost it anyway when everything went to hell.”

  “It could’ve been used to pay taxes,” Matt grumbled.

  “Looking back, you can sure see how thickheaded I was,” Pa snapped. “I did what I did and that’s that. It was better to pay off the loan. We’d be squatters just like other folks if I hadn’t. The county assessor can’t just up and take the ranch. There’s a whole legal rigmarole the government has to go through before a man’s property can go on the auction block for back taxes. I bought some time.”

  “Well, I’ll give you that.” Matt eyed the mustangs. The remount officers were right to reject them. They were saddle broke and gentled to a point but much too high-spirited and aggressive to serve as cavalry mounts. Also, most were barely fifteen hands high, and Matt figured those spit-and-polish army boys liked to sit astride their horses as high up as they could for the whole world to see.

  In a fit of unbridled optimism, they’d miscalculated. These mustangs weren’t ranch breed stock with quarter horse bloodlines that could be easily worked into good ranch ponies. There was no way they could be put up for sale before tax time, if ever. They’d been sweating hard with these critters for long, weary weeks with their eyes closed to reality. Hell, the critters were so wild it took almost a month after each roundup before any of them acted interested in the hay trucked out to them. At first, they hadn’t taken at all to drinking from the stock tank, and they sure didn’t cotton to the high fences that had been put up to keep them penned.

  Until now, Matt had never doubted Pa’s savvy when it came to ranching and horses. But this scheme to turn mustangs into working cow ponies was plain wrongheaded. “This isn’t gonna work,” he said, expecting Pa to bluster and argue.

  “You’re right,” Pa replied mildly, without hesitation. “It took those fancy army fellas for me to see it. We’ve been wasting our time. Don’t look so shocked. Ain’t you the one that’s been telling me all these years I ain’t perfect?”

  Matt couldn’t help but burst out laughing. “That’s not quite the way I’ve put it. Now what do we do?”

  Pa scanned the basin and the Sacramentos beyond as if he was searching for something or someone. “Pack it in, I guess. Let the tax man have it. I sure can’t get any money from a bank with land that ain’t producing and taxes owed to boot.”

  Hearing Pa talk of quitting flabbergasted Matt. “What else can we do besides that?”

  Pa turned his gaze to the mustangs. They were amazingly fast ponies, and some of bigger ones had fleshed out to near sixteen hundred pounds. In smaller proportions, they had the same heads, necks, bodies, and rumps of workhorses. “They’re strong and can learn to pull weight, I reckon,” he speculated. “Not like a draft horse can, but buggies and the smaller wagons folks around here still use. We won’t get near half what a good ranch pony can fetch, but it would be better than nothing.”

  “It’s not near half the work either, I reckon,” Matt added, wondering if that was just more wishful thinking on his part about the half-wild critters. “If we could sell them all, would that get us out of the hole with the county assessor?”

  Pa climbed into the truck and fired it up. “Nope.”

  “Hold on,” Matt said. “Let me think a minute.”

  Pa killed the engine. “About what?”

  In the last two rent checks Lipscomb had sent, he’d included a note that the new Railway Express agent was interested in buying Matt’s house. Both times, Matt had dismissed the idea of selling, but Pa’s predicament now gave him pause, so he began to rethink it. “How much tax do you owe for this year and last?” Matt asked.

  “Why do you need to know?”

  “If I can pay off what’s owed, would you sign the Double K over to me?”

  “Make you the sole owner?”

  “That’s right.”

  “And I’d be what, the hired hand?”

  Matt stared Pa squarely in the eyes and said, “I’ll write out a paper that gives the outfit back to you should I die, and put it away handy in your desk in case you need it.”

  Pa’s jaw muscles bulged in anger. “You’re some piece of work.”

  Matt smiled, tight-lipped, in return. “That I am. Like father, like son, I reckon.”

  Muttering, Pa glared at him, cranked the engine, and drove away, the tires kicking up a cloud of dust in Matt’s face. He waited until it settled before starting out afoot for home, wondering if Ma would approve of him selling the house she loved to bail out Pa and save the Double K. He decided she would. She’d loved the Double K and the Tularosa as much as anyone could.

  ***

  Two weeks after Franklin Roosevelt won the election for president, not one mustang had sold. On a chilly, blustery November afternoon, Matt loped Patches to the mailbox, where he found two property tax bills from the county assessor, one stamped due and one stamped past due. He looked them over, rode home, and stuck them under Pa’s nose as he came out of the barn.

  “Shit,” Pa said eyeing the official government envelopes.

  Matt waved the envelopes at him. “They raised the taxes for this year. I guess they figure every landowner has to pay more to help the government end the Depression.”

  “Let me see those.” He snatched the letters and with his head bowed started reading as he walked slowly away.

  On the way back from the mailbox, Matt had shot a large black-tailed jackrabbit. He dressed it for a stew for dinner, and it made a welcome break from beef. Matt ate dinner eagerly and in silence, and Pa matched him.

  After sopping up the stew juice with a crust of bread, Pa pushed his empty plate aside. “I’m guessing that offer you made to pay the taxes means you would sell the house in town to do it,” he said.

  “That’s right. And the offer still holds.”

  “How long would it take to sell it?”

  “I’ve got a ready buyer. It could be done by the end of the year, I reckon.”

  “Would you see enough cash to get us even on the taxes?”

  “And then some, I’m hoping.”

  “And you want sole ownership of the Double K in return?”

  “Yep.”

  “I’d be working for you?”

  “I don’t see it that way. Except for borrowing money against the ranch or selling it, you’ll still have a big say in running the spread. I don’t plan to stay here forever. I still want to finish college. After that, I don’t know what I’ll do.”

  �
�I don’t hanker on the idea of needing to come running to you to buy livestock, pay bills, or get credit at stores.”

  “Would it embarrass you to have folks know you’ve turned the Double K over to me?” Matt asked pointedly.

  Pa swallowed hard. “I guess it ain’t fair of me to think of it that way. If you’re willing to save the only place I’ve ever called home, I’ll be proud to tell folks you’re the ramrod and owner of the Double K.”

  Pa’s words stunned Matt into silence. He offered his hand across the table and Pa shook it. “We have a deal, with one minor condition,” he said.

  “What’s that?”

  “If Juan Ignacio ever wants to be part of the Double K, you’ll welcome him back as your son and treat him as a partner.”

  Pa bit his lip and fell silent.

  “It’s right and you know it.”

  Pa nodded in agreement. “You have my word on it.”

  They shook hands again.

  By the middle of December the deal was done. The house on Griggs Avenue sold for two-thirds of what it was worth before the crash but still produced enough money to pay all the taxes, leave enough to cover two more years, and have some extra for operating expenses.

  As they completed all the paperwork with Lawyer Lipscomb, Patrick remembered back to the day Emma had forced him—in the very same office—to acknowledge Matt as his son. On that day, he’d been raging mad at her, never imagining that child would grow up to save his old bones and the Double K.

  He signed the special warranty deed giving Matthew title and sole possession of the ranch, shook his son’s hand, took him to dinner to celebrate the event, and raised a glass to toast him as the new owner of the Double K. In a way he’d never imagined, it felt like a burden lifted.

  Wondering what had gotten into the old man to make him so amicable under the circumstances, Matt was flabbergasted once again.

  28

  With taxes paid and a little extra in the kitty, Matt and Patrick doubled their efforts with the mustangs, only to meet with continued failure. Unless each pony was ridden daily, they reverted to blowing snot, pitching, bucking, and twisting as soon as Matt or Patrick stepped into the saddle. They were thrown so often, it soon became clear no amount of hard work or horse savvy would tame the critters enough to make them useful.

  In late winter they turned the mustangs loose and watched them gallop onto the flats, tails high and whinnying gleefully as they thundered through the mesquite and crossed the wide arroyo. Matt was happy to set them free.

  After dinner that night, they held a council. If they hunkered down, bought a few steers to fatten on the high-country pastures and slaughter for their own use, sold the truck, and bought harness ponies for the wagon, they could get through the year without much hardship. Patrick would take care of the ranch and use his pension money for feed, victuals, and whatever repairs they could afford while Matt looked for work. They put pencil to paper and figured if Matt found work at forty dollars a month, they might be able to survive until the drought ended, the economy improved, and on-the-hoof beef prices rose. Then they’d restock, Matt would get back to ranching full-time, and maybe they’d eke out a small profit. It was the best they could hope for.

  To get started, Patrick would sell the truck and buy the livestock while Matt made the rounds of the big outfits, looking for work. If nothing panned out, he’d scout for town jobs in Las Cruces, Alamogordo, Capitan, or Carrizozo. They’d part company in the morning, Matt heading east to the Three Rivers outfit to start searching for work, and Patrick west to Hot Springs to sell the truck, scout for harness ponies, and buy a couple of steers. Matt would send a note if he landed a job. If not, he’d be back at the Double K in two weeks.

  In the morning Matt left on horseback, packing all his cowboy gear, trying to imagine what the old-time Texas stockmen must have thought seeing the belly-high grasses of the Tularosa for the first time. They probably figured to have discovered paradise, not knowing that drought and overgrazing would turn it into a desert landscape in less than a generation.

  Patches set a steady pace and Matt’s thoughts roamed to Gene Rhodes’s story of Ma making a hand. Would he have made a hand in her eyes? He sure hoped so.

  Thoughts of Ma and the old days didn’t keep him from worrying if trying to save the Double K would cost him his dream of finishing college. If the Depression hadn’t struck the country like a tornado, he’d be an upperclassman now, with money in the bank, a steady income from the trust, a house free and clear, and prospects for a good life. The memory of Beth popped into his mind, and he shook off the what-ifs. It did no good to dwell on them.

  In Tularosa he stopped at the general store and was surprised and happy to learn that Porter Knox, Evangelina, and Juan Ignacio had returned and were temporarily staying with Evangelina’s parents until they could find a place to rent. Matt hadn’t seen them since Tía Teresa’s funeral, so he hurried over to Flaviano and Cristina’s casa to say hello. When he knocked on the door, Evangelina opened it, squealed in delight, and wrapped him in a bear hug.

  “Look at you,” she said after releasing him. “You are so grown-up and handsome.”

  Matt blushed as she pulled him by the hand into the warm, empty kitchen. It was late in the day but there was nothing cooking for dinner but a big pot of frijoles. The Depression and the drought had hit the Hispanic villages extra-hard.

  “None of that talk, now,” Matt joshed. “Where are my brother and your husband?”

  “Sit first and have some coffee.”

  As Evangelina scooted to the fireplace for the coffeepot, Matt noticed a big hole in the toe of one of her shoes and the threadbare shawl that covered her shoulders. She’d lost weight and her hair was streaked prematurely gray. She brought him a full cup and sat with him at the table. The black brew tasted more like chicory than coffee, but it was hot and Matt drank it gratefully.

  Evangelina said, “Porter and Juan Ignacio are in the fields with my father preparing for spring planting—God willing we get some rain. They should be back soon.” She forced a smile. “You’ll stay for dinner.”

  “That’s mighty kind,” Matt said, thinking he needed to contribute something to the supper pot, like a dressed chicken from the butcher shop. “I never expected you would leave Albuquerque,” he added. “I heard at the general store that you’ve moved back. Is it for good?”

  Evangelina shrugged, the bright smile frozen on her face. “Tal vez. Time will tell. Porter lost his job and we had to give up the house.” She paused to keep her composure. “He’ll find work; I know he will.” She patted his hand and changed the subject. “Are you still living in Las Cruces?”

  “I’m back at the Double K.”

  Evangelina’s expression clouded and she bit her lip to keep silent.

  Matt smiled reassuringly. “It’s okay. You don’t have to worry about me; I own the brand now.”

  Her eyes widened. “The ranch is yours? Patrick is dead?”

  “Not dead; he’s just not the boss anymore.”

  Evangelina laughed in pleased amazement. “I must hear how you did it. Emma always said you were going to be one smart hombre.”

  “I got my smarts from her. Do you think Juan Ignacio will remember me?”

  “Sí, he remembers you. I never let him forget who he is and where he comes from. He’ll be so happy to see you.”

  Evangelina’s mother, Cristina, entered the kitchen with a pretty little girl in her arms, whom she introduced as her granddaughter, María Teresa Armijo Knox. Released from Cristina’s arms, María smiled shyly, ran straight for her mother’s lap, and settled in. As Evangelina stroked her daughter’s hair, she told Matt with great pride all the wonderful things her María could do—so many he lost count.

  Cristina also insisted that Matt should stay for supper, adding that he must spend the night before traveling on to the Three Rivers Ranch. She’
d aged some and grown wide around the waist, but her eyes still sparkled as she talked about how happy she was to have Evangelina and her family home and not so far away in Albuquerque. Evangelina said nothing to contradict her mother, but her expression was resigned and much less enthusiastic.

  Flaviano, Porter, and Juan Ignacio arrived from the field, chilled by a dry, cold wind that had swept into the basin from the north. After warm greetings and handshakes all around, Matt sat with Juan Ignacio outside in the sunny courtyard, protected from a breeze that whistled through the trees.

  At ten, he was tall for his age, all arms and legs under a frayed sweater and blue jeans that stopped at his ankles.

  “You’re gonna be taller than me, I bet,” Matt predicted.

  “That’s what Madre says. She says we look alike también.”

  Matt studied Juan’s face carefully. “Maybe so—a little bit anyway. What do you think?”

  Juan stared at him for a moment and said, “Kind of, I guess.”

  “Is that all right with you?”

  “Well, at least you aren’t mucho ugly,” Juan said with a grin.

  “Ouch, that hurts,” Matt said. He punched him lightly on the arm and asked if he was happy to be back in Tularosa.

  Juan’s smile faded and his expression turned bitter. He spat out, “No.” Complaints tumbled out of him. All his friends were in Albuquerque, his school was better there, his teachers nicer, and until they moved they had their own house with a garden and a yard, electricity and a bathroom. He missed swimming and playing along the Rio Grande with his pals. Porter had sold his bicycle to a neighbor, and the radio too. There was no radio or even electricity in his abuelo’s house, and no money to go the movies or even buy a penny candy.

  His new school was boring and he hated it. The kids called him a coyote because he was only half-Spanish and teased him, saying he was a güero because of his lighter-colored hair. They laughed at the way he spoke Spanish in the northern style and said he was a maricón because he knew all the answers in class. He’d been getting into fights and never wanted to go back to school again. He just wanted Porter to move the family back to Albuquerque.