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  * * *

  In White Oaks, Cal took a room at a two-story brick hotel that offered the best accommodations in town. Most of the old gold and silver mines had shut down, but White Oaks still remained a center of commerce and banking as well as the major stage and mail stop from San Antonio on the Rio Grande to Lincoln. Sawmills and coal mines in the nearby mountains operated at full capacity, and the Old Abe, the richest and most productive mine, continued to produce vast quantities of high-grade ore. The prosperous town sported an athletic club, a fine schoolhouse, a variety of stores, and several churches.

  He made the rounds asking about Wilson, Jones, and Chávez y Chávez, drew a busted flush, and left the next day, trailing east toward San Antonio along a rough road that crossed the dangerous lava flow on the north side of the Tularosa Basin.

  He stopped overnight at the Ozanne Springs stage stop in the Oscura Mountains and learned that Wilson and Jones had stayed there the day Colonel Fountain and his son Henry were murdered at Chalk Hill. The station manager described the two men to Cal’s satisfaction, which left only José Chávez y Chávez as a suspect, unless the rumors about the Socorro Gang held any truth.

  Morning came and he rode on, past the site of Carthage, a company-owned coal-mining town that had been moved lock, stock, and barrel to coal fields south of Santa Fe. All the spur-line tracks, coal chutes, and machinery had been ripped up or dismantled, and the dwelling houses and stores taken down, so that only a small cemetery, the barren strip dumps, and a few melting adobe structures remained.

  At San Antonio, he paid for a room at a boardinghouse, and after a bath, a good meal, and a night in a soft bed, he decided to head to Socorro early the next day and meet personally with Mr. Wilson and Mr. Jones to satisfy any doubts he might have as to their innocence. He found them at the Santa Fe Railroad offices, where they were employed to survey a proposed spur line planned to run from the cow town of Magdalena, west of Socorro, across the San Agustin Plains to a mining town in the Mogollon Mountains.

  After a brief conversation, he wished them luck in their endeavors and went to see Holm Bursum, the county sheriff. Bursum advised him that Slick Miller and most of the Socorro Gang Colonel Fountain had prosecuted were still in the territorial penitentiary, except for Doc Evans and Lee Williams, who had served their time and were out. He hadn’t seen either of them since their release, but both were known to work at some of the smaller spreads along the Rio Grande valley when not engaged in stock stealing. The sheriff held an outstanding warrant for their arrest on a charge of altering brands.

  Bursum also gave Cal a look-see at a thick report by a Pinkerton agent that detailed an assassination plot hatched two years earlier to kill Fountain. Supposedly, the Socorro Gang had been in cahoots with Bill Carr to exterminate the colonel and dispose of his body in the San Andres.

  “If you see Evans and Williams,” Bursum said, “send them my way so I can lock them up.”

  “I might want to lock them up myself,” Cal replied.

  He left Socorro looking for four men: José Chávez y Chávez, Doc Evans, Lee Williams, and One-Eye Bill Carr, who had become interesting once again. He knew all four, having met each hombre a number of times over the years. He was convinced they would not have risked the Fountain murders on their own say-so.

  For several days he worked his way slowly from ranch to ranch, making inquiries, talking to the hired hands, and getting nowhere. His only accomplishments consisted of filling his belly with some fine home-cooked meals served up by the ranchers’ wives and resting his head on comfortable beds in warm bunkhouses.

  He rode into Engle on a bright, sunny day, the sky crowded with towering clouds more reminiscent of summer than of winter, debating whether to telegraph his resignation to Sheriff Ascarate and head for home or continue the search. At the train station he decided to ask around town about his four suspects and then send a report of his findings, such as they were, to Ascarate. He stopped at all the saloons, the small brothel, where a lone, weary-looking whore greeted him with a thin smile, and the hotel.

  He spied Doc Evans and Lee Williams in the hotel dining room about to dig into large mounds of food heaped on their plates. Although both men were thieves and not shootists, he approached them cautiously nonetheless.

  “What are you boys doing down this way?” Cal asked pleasantly, his gun hand close to his six-shooter.

  Doc Evans dropped his fork on his plate and gave Cal a disgusted look. “Well, if you ain’t the ruination of my day.”

  Short and scrawny, Evans had a pockmarked face and long, greasy hair that hung down over his ears.

  “I asked you a polite question,” Cal said evenly.

  Evans stabbed a piece of meat with his fork. “We was having a peaceful meal until you showed up.”

  Lee Williams had his head lowered over this plate, shoveling food into his mouth, a good deal of it sticking to his mustache. Of the two, Williams was the slower thinker, and that wasn’t saying much for Evans.

  “I don’t like that answer,” Cal said. “Try again.”

  Evans curled his lip. “We’ve been riding the chuck line.”

  From his stops at the ranches, Cal knew there wasn’t a lick of truth to Doc’s lie.

  “The sheriff up in Socorro told me you were part of a scheme several years back to kill Albert Fountain,” he countered.

  “Weren’t us,” Evans replied. “Don’t know anything about it.”

  “If it weren’t you, who was it?” Cal demanded.

  “I said I didn’t know.”

  Evans looked at Williams, who burped, wiped his sleeve across his mouth, and nodded in agreement.

  “Stand up, both of you,” Cal ordered.

  “What for?” Evans asked.

  “I’m arresting you for altering brands and stealing stock.”

  “You don’t got a lick of proof about that,” Williams said, his mouth full of food.

  “Shut up, Lee,” Evans barked.

  Cal pulled his leg iron. “Let’s go, boys. Do it nice and easy so I don’t have to kill you both.”

  “I ain’t finished eating,” Williams whined.

  “Get up,” Cal said, gesturing with his six-gun, “and keep your hands on the table.”

  * * *

  With the help of the train conductor and two willing citizens, Cal got Doc Evans and Lee Williams to Las Cruces without incident. Cal had notified Ascarate by telegraph of his impending arrival with prisoners, and the sheriff and Deputy Tito Barela were there to greet him when the train pulled into the station. He turned his prisoners over to Tito and went with Ascarate to the Arcade Saloon, where Judge Fall waited.

  Fall flashed a friendly smile as Cal joined him at the table. “Sheriff Ascarate was kind enough to share the telegraph you sent him about your investigation. You’ve done a good piece of work.”

  Cal reached for the whiskey bottle and a clean glass, poured a shot, and drank it. “All I’ve done is give you some bona fide desperados you can point to as possible suspects if Oliver Lee ever goes to trial for Fountain’s murder.”

  Fall’s expression turned thoughtful. “You don’t think Doc Evans and Lee Williams are likely candidates?”

  Cal shook his head. “I talked to those old boys on the train ride down here. They swear they didn’t kill Fountain and I believe them. Besides, they ain’t the kind someone would hire to do murder, and they ain’t bright enough to come up with a plan to do it on their own.”

  “Do they have alibis?” Fall asked.

  “Nope, they’ve been drifting.”

  Fall smiled. “What about Chávez y Chávez?”

  “I’ve been pondering what George Curry told me about José ever since I left Lincoln. It’s no secret George and Oliver have been on cordial terms for a long time. Could be, George was looking out for a friend.”

  Fall showed his teeth. “Are you suggesting Sheriff Curry deliberately misled you?”

  Cal smiled back at Fall. “I didn’t say that, Judge, but loyalty
can’t be scoffed at.”

  “Indeed not,” Fall replied. “I take it you haven’t crossed paths with Chávez y Chávez.”

  “I haven’t seen hide or hair of him,” Cal admitted. “Curry said he’d heard José was at Luna’s Well around the time of the murders, but that’s just talk, as far as I know.”

  “And Bill Carr?” Fall asked.

  “Bill will do whatever Oliver asks of him, including murder, I reckon. But I’ll bet you a dozen good men and true who side with Lee will step forward and give Bill an alibi if he needs one.”

  Fall nodded. “Once again, I admire your directness.” He turned to Guadalupe Ascarate. “Will you be needing Cal to stay on as a deputy?”

  Ascarate shook his head.

  Cal stood and put his star and the bill of sale for the gelding and supplies he’d bought from Seaborn Gray on the table in front of Ascarate. “You own a packhorse now, Sheriff. It’s a good, stout animal and comes with a saddle. I’ll hitch it outside the jail.”

  “You can keep it,” Ascarate said, pocketing the badge.

  “That wouldn’t be right,” Cal replied. “Adios.”

  Fall didn’t rise. “You’ve done the territory a great service.”

  Cal smiled at Fall’s disingenuous flattery. “Sowing doubt about who the killers might be isn’t gonna keep a whole passel of folks from believing Oliver Lee was behind the murders.”

  “Every little bit helps,” Fall replied. “Especially with no bodies to prove the foul deed.”

  “You’re right about that,” Cal said.

  Anxious to get home, he left the men to their palavering, bought a ticket to Engle, parked the pack animal at the jail, and returned to the depot to wait for the northbound freight, due in an hour. With his hat pulled low he sat hunched on a bench, hoping to be ignored and left alone. Approaching footsteps on the wooden platform made him look up to see Oliver Lee coming his way.

  He hadn’t seen Lee in a while, but the man hadn’t changed much. He had a purposeful stride and moved easily and with a certain grace. He was taller than average, slender and fit, with large black eyes. He stopped in front of Cal, pushed back his wide hat, revealing a broad forehead and coal black hair, and smiled pleasantly. A tin star was pinned to his coat.

  Cal got to his feet and looked Oliver level in the eye.

  “Did you find Fountain’s killers?” Lee asked with a smile.

  “I heard that when you were asked to help search for Fountain you said you didn’t care about the damned son of a bitch,” Cal answered. “Why start now?”

  Oliver Lee laughed. “I still don’t care a lick about him, but I don’t like being called a murderer.”

  “I can’t help you shed that handle,” Cal replied.

  “Are you standing against me?”

  “I didn’t the last time you asked me that question, and I’m not taking sides this time either.”

  Lee’s smile widened. “That’s good. It’s time for things to quiet down.”

  Cal nodded in agreement. “They will for a spell, I reckon. But I suspect you will be hunted if old Guadalupe gets booted out of office and Pat Garrett takes over.”

  “Maybe when that time comes, old Pat will take you on as a deputy.”

  “I want no part of gunning for you.”

  “So you think I’m innocent.”

  “I didn’t say that,” Cal replied.

  “I’ve never figured why you didn’t join with us to stand against the big outfits.”

  “I don’t give my loyalty to quarrelsome men.”

  Lee’s jaw tightened. He touched the brim of his hat. “Adios.”

  “So long,” Cal replied. Oliver Lee turned and walked away. In the distance came the sound of the train whistle. Cal went to fetch Bandit so he could load him on the stock car waiting at the siding.

  * * *

  Crossing the San Andres cleared Cal’s mind of thoughts of Albert Fountain and Oliver Lee. He was glad to see the first sign of grass in the high pastures and find several bunches of healthy-looking Double K cattle lounging at some watering holes. Fresh bear scat along the trails signaled the end of winter no matter what the calendar read, and the occasional springs coursing down the mountainsides were filled with gurgling runoff. If the days stayed mild for a while and the summer monsoons came on time, it might well be a good year.

  The weeks he’d been away felt like months, and he hurried his pony through the last canyon that hid the ranch from view, only to draw rein at the sight of a small group of people assembled on the hillside near John Kerney’s grave. He spurred ahead at a gallop, searching faces as he got closer. Ignacio, Teresa, and their children were there, George and Patrick also. And on her knees, bent over a small coffin near an open grave, was Emma.

  42

  Emma found Molly dead in her crib the morning after Ignacio, Teresa, and the children arrived for a visit. It happened suddenly for no apparent reason. As the next few days passed, the loss turned Emma empty eyed, wooden, and silent.

  She rebuffed all of Patrick’s attempts to console her. When he tried to talk to her, she turned away. When he touched her, she recoiled as though snakebit. She made it clear she wanted nothing to do with him, so he moved back into the ranch house, hoping time would ease her grief, but it got no better. She kept the house clean, washed the clothes, cooked the meals, ate alone, and retreated to her casita at night, where she stayed until morning. Each day, she emerged hollow eyed and listless. Each day, Patrick half expected to return to the ranch house to find she had run away, collapsed from exhaustion, or died by her own hand.

  Her black mood was so disagreeable, the three men took to avoiding her and the ranch house as much as possible. After a solid two weeks of gathering cattle and branding calves for the spring works, they set about shoeing all the horses, greasing the windmills, training the cow ponies, rebuilding the dirt stock tanks, patching saddles, fixing the leaky barn roof, and repairing corral fences. Within a month, every major job had been done and the ranch was in tiptop shape, while Emma remained mired in bitter despair.

  Late one afternoon as they finished the last of the barn chores and turned the ponies out in the pasture, Cal hooked a boot on the corral gate and looked at the house.

  “It ain’t natural,” he said as he rolled a smoke, “her holed up like that all the time.”

  “And she ain’t eating or sleeping right,” George added as he rolled one of his own. “There’s no meat on her bones at all, and she looks dead tired.”

  “What are we gonna do?” Patrick asked. “Last time I tried talking to her, she told me I’d never see her again if I said another word about how she’s been acting.”

  “We’re the gloomiest outfit in the whole damn valley,” Cal said, getting a light from George, “and I’m tired of tippy-toeing around while she wastes away to nothing.”

  “You try talking to her.” Patrick picked up a stick and cleaned some manure from his boots.

  “I have,” Cal said. “So has George. We need to figure something that’ll make her shake this off.”

  “Like what?” George asked.

  “We could put her in the wagon and take her to town,” Patrick answered. “Get her away from here for a spell.”

  “Busting her out of the house for a spell ain’t a half-bad idea,” Cal said. “We’ve been letting her run roughshod over us with her sulky ways.”

  “How about we go after that old brindle longhorn up-country and take her with us?” George suggested.

  “I thought you wanted to leave that critter be,” Patrick said.

  “Well, I do,” George replied. “But we need to corral him away from the cows. He’s just running them ragged. We could bring him back here and pen him. Besides, if we take her to town, she’ll just hide out with Teresa. That gal needs some clean mountain air and sunshine to get a fresh outlook.”

  Cal smiled. “George, I swear you’re a bright old boy. A good jolt to get her out of her vapors is just what’s called for, and some time in th
e saddle away from here just might do the trick. I say it’s worth a try.”

  Patrick nodded in agreement.

  At mealtime, when Emma put the food on the table, Cal pushed out a chair and told her to sit.

  With a wary glance at the men, she sat down slowly, her body as tight as a mainspring. From the looks on their faces, they were up to something, and she wanted none of it.

  “You’re coming with us to the high country tomorrow. Pack a bedroll, some clothes, put together enough victuals for four days, and be ready to ride at first light. We’ll need an early breakfast.”

  Emma shook her head forcefully and glared at Cal. “You can’t make me go.”

  “We’ll tie you across the saddle if we have to,” Cal answered, staring her down. “You’re going.”

  Emma glanced from Cal to Patrick to George. “Why are you doing this?”

  “Because sometimes a young’un will die before their time,” Cal answered. “It’s just the way of the world. There’s no reason for it and it’s nobody fault. We’re all tired of waiting on you to start showing some gumption about life again.”

  “You are mean, heartless men,” she said spitefully.

  “Think what you will.” Cal spooned food on his empty plate and pushed it in front of Emma. “And starting right now, you eat with us.”

  Patrick held out his fork, and she yanked it from his hand.

  * * *

  Emma had often ridden the lower canyons near the Double K headquarters, and during the first morning of her forced march on horseback, the familiar landscape was dreary and uninteresting to her. Not even the tall, graceful sotol and agave plants that peppered the rocky soil or the glistening silvery white sands on the basin below held her attention. As they passed along the trail they startled flocks of Gambel’s quail, which scattered into the sky, and frightened black-tailed jackrabbits, which scampered for safety. Once, the sight of the animals would have pleased her. Today, she cared not a lick.

  Cal led the expedition, with Patrick next, then Emma, and George in the rear trailing the pack animals. To avoid being lashed to the saddle, Emma had promised not to bolt or misbehave but had made no other concessions. Since they had threatened her with physical force to come along, she had no intention of talking to them or doing a smidgen of work during her abduction.