Hard Country Page 34

  * * *

  Upon Patrick and Emma’s return to the ranch, they found that Cal and George had turned the casita into a bunkhouse, moved Emma out, and moved themselves in. Emma set about giving the main house a woman’s touch, and by the time winter arrived there were curtains in the windows, pictures on the walls, shelves in the kitchen, and in the sitting room some new furniture Patrick had bought in Las Cruces.

  Everything was dandy until February, when Emma lost the baby she was carrying. Although she kept up with her cooking and daily chores, it threw her into a black mood for a month, making her near unapproachable. Except for mealtimes, Cal and George hid out in the casita bunkhouse to avoid the glumness, leaving Patrick to sit alone and silent in the front room, with Emma closeted behind her bedroom door. He took to sleeping in his old room, which Emma had planned to turn into a nursery.

  Cal had just about given up on expecting any improvement to the situation when one morning Emma emerged from the bedroom rosy cheeked, smiling, and wearing a pretty dress.

  “You look tolerable well,” he said.

  “I have decided not to brood anymore.”

  “Is that a promise to yourself?” he asked.

  “I don’t know,” Emma replied.

  With spring works about to start, her recovery couldn’t have come at a better time. For the next two weeks the whole outfit went out gathering and branding on the flats and in the high country, with Emma handling the chuck wagon chores.

  Gene Rhodes came over from the horse camp that he’d proved up next to his father’s homestead to lend a hand, and the Bar Cross and Diamond A ranches sent stray men to trim the herd and throw their stock over to the home range.

  Twice during the roundup, Cal, George, and Patrick saw the brindle longhorn at a distance. They reined in and watched the old bull until it shook its head, gave a bellow, and loped away. George swore the longhorn was just saying howdy.

  When the gathering was complete, Cal tallied the herd. A goodly number of healthy calves had been born. It augured a nice profit down the road if on-the-hoof prices stayed steady.

  They turned the steers, yearlings, and barren cows loose in the high pastures, brought the mothers and their babies down closer to the ranch where the grass had come back in the sandy soil, and celebrated with a cookout and some good whiskey to thank the boys who’d come to lend a hand.

  Over steaks cut from a maverick steer nobody had claimed during the roundup, Patrick sat with Gene Rhodes at the long table where the cowboys were sawing into meat and eyeing Emma appreciatively as she served platters of vegetables, potatoes, and beans.

  One of the best bronc riders on the basin, Gene was a mite undersized and weighed no more than a hundred and fifty pounds, but he was all muscle and sinew. He had bright blue eyes, a cowlick he kept hidden under his hat, and a slight cleft palate that gave him a peculiar way of speaking, although it didn’t spoil his looks. He’d studied at a California college for two years, working odd jobs to do it, and after coming home had taught school for a spell before starting up his spread.

  The two men talked horses and books for a time, until Gene brought up the Fountain murders. Lincoln County had dropped the indictments against Oliver Lee and Bill McNew, and Gene, a good and true friend of Lee, wanted to know if Pat Garrett had come around asking Cal to sign on as a deputy.

  “He paid a visit,” Patrick replied. “He wanted Cal to help round up some witnesses who may have heard Oliver and McNew plotting to kill Fountain in ’95. He’s mule headed about getting another indictment.”

  “It’s a damn ugly and dangerous feud,” Gene replied, lighting a cigarette. “I plan to shun the politicians who have caused it for the rest of my days. Either that, or I mean to fisticuff a few of them.”

  Patrick laughed. Gene was known as the scrappiest boxer around, taking on all comers, no matter how big they were.

  “I’m heading home,” Gene said as he stood.

  “Stop by anytime,” Patrick said.

  “I may have to do that,” Gene said. “The Double K is about the only place on the Tularosa where a body can avoid getting into a gunfight over this sorry business.”

  * * *

  Gene’s reckoning of the tension between the Lee and Garrett factions proved to be near perfect. On his next visit to Las Cruces, Patrick found that some old boys were on the prod for misguided citizens sitting on the wrong side of the political aisle, opposing newspapers had gone to war in print, and just about everybody in the town was holding their breath waiting for the lead to start flying. At the mercantile store, he picked out some trees Emma had asked him to buy for the courtyard and left for home with a load of supplies and the saplings wrapped in damp paper, glad to be leaving the uneasiness in town behind.

  With the passing of summer into fall, Patrick became more and more convinced that Emma’s bad moods were a thing of the past. But when she miscarried in the early days of another pregnancy, anger and grief took hold of her once again and she would have nothing to do with him at all.

  Unwilling to put up with her damnable silence and brooding, he bundled her in blankets and took her against her will to see a doctor in Las Cruces, who examined her in private. When he finished, he told Patrick there was nothing physically wrong with Emma, and during her next pregnancy she was to repose in bed and avoid all mental and physical effort during the first two to three months.

  “Should she show signs of fever, chill, nausea, or indisposition, she must rest,” the doctor said. “If the symptoms worsen to pains in the lower back or abdomen and a discharge, you must call for me to come right away.”

  “Our ranch is out a ways in the San Andres east of Engle,” Patrick said.

  The doctor peered at the couple over his eyeglasses. “I see. This is her second miscarriage, which means she will very likely have difficulty again. If that is the case, you would be wise to rent a place here in town as soon as it is apparent she is pregnant so that she can have proper care.”

  “I don’t want to get pregnant again,” Emma said bluntly. “Ever.”

  The doctor smiled sympathetically. “You’re excessively distressed right now, but that will pass.”

  Emma shook her head. “I can’t bear the thought of losing another baby.”

  “Then we’ll just have to make sure that you don’t,” he replied. “The most dangerous time to lose a baby is from the tenth to the twentieth week.”

  He turned to Patrick. “Bring her to see me as soon as she misses a menstrual cycle, so that I can arrest any possibility of expulsion and quiet the womb.”

  “I will,” Patrick said. “I’m obliged.”

  He settled up with the doctor and walked with Emma down the street to the hotel where they were staying for the night.

  “I’ll never have another baby,” Emma snapped angrily as she moved rapidly away from Patrick.

  He caught up and grabbed her arm. “Of course we’re gonna have children. It’ll be all right. I’ll rent us a house here in town like the doctor said. It will be all right.”

  “Let go of me.” She jerked free, stormed into the hotel, and didn’t say another word for hours.

  That night, Patrick drank whiskey at a bar until he was sure Emma was asleep before he returned to their room. He stretched out on the creaky bed and listened to her breathing, wondering how long she’d be cantankerous this time before it wore off. He was certain that she wanted children, and he’d taken to the idea for her sake, although he doubted he would make much of a father.

  45

  In the spring of 1898, about the same time Pat Garrett was fixing to do battle with Oliver Lee, the government decided to go to war with Spain over the sinking of the battleship Maine in the Havana Harbor. A call was made to raise three volunteer cavalry regiments authorized by Congress, and Patrick decided to sign up.

  He was more eager to get away from Emma and her unsettled ways than he was to fight the Spaniards. Most of the time she seemed fine, but then out of nowhere she’d snap at him witho
ut cause, or start a fight over something he’d said that didn’t amount to spit. When that happened, she took to leaving the house in a huff, being gone for hours on her pony, with Patrick out chasing her down to get her home before nightfall.

  She hadn’t kicked him out of her bed, but she hadn’t gotten pregnant again either. Patrick took to thinking she was wishing herself not to have a baby and succeeding at it, although he didn’t exactly know how.

  Cal told him war wouldn’t be the glory he expected it to be, but Patrick would hear none of it. On a sunny morning in late April he arrived in Las Cruces and presented himself to William Llewellyn, the speaker of the territorial House of Representatives, who had been asked by the governor to recruit volunteers. He signed up, passed a physical examination, got mustered in, and was assigned to Troop G, commanded by Llewellyn, who’d been made a captain.

  Within a few days the troop’s quota had been filled, and the men marched down to the depot for the trip to San Antonio, where the First United States Volunteer Cavalry would be assembled and trained. As the train left the station, the citizens of Las Cruces gave them a big send-off.

  Although Patrick kept mostly to himself, there was a lot of laughter, jawboning, drinking, and card playing on the train ride to San Antonio. Very few of Patrick’s fellow troopers were complete strangers to him. Most he’d either met or seen in passing here or there, and just about all were cowboys, hardened to the saddle. By the time the train pulled into San Antonio, the eighty men of Troop G all knew one another by their given names or favorite handles.

  They unloaded at the fairgrounds southwest of town, where earlier arriving troops had set up camp. They got tents raised and equipment stowed, which took the rest of the day, ate supper, and turned in for the night. Come morning, Captain Llewellyn sent Patrick and five other riders over to Fort Sam Houston to bring back horses for the troopers. The detail brought back a remuda of tough, half-wild Texas and Mexican ponies that needed to be shod, and the captain set the boys to the task.

  Once the training started, Patrick fell easily into the military routine. It wasn’t much different than the life he’d always known of getting up early and working hard throughout the day. The regiment drilled on horseback and on foot, and by the end of a week most of the ponies had been gentled enough to ride. Somehow the senior officers, Colonel Wood and Colonel Roosevelt, had managed to equip and supply the regiment with first-rate Krag-Jørgenson carbines, which the men took to with ease. About the only things Patrick didn’t like were the sticky weather, which made him sweat, and the low horizon of thick forest that had him constantly looking for mountains that weren’t there.

  By the end of the second week, the troop had lost five men to accidents, illness, and one death, when a fella got thrown by an outlaw bronc that stomped on him before he could get up.

  Replacements were sent to bring the troop up to full strength, and one of the new boys was Jake Jacobi, who came over from one of the Arizona outfits.

  “Pat Kerney,” Jake said, looking Patrick over with a grin as the men lined up for chow, which most days consisted of hard bread and corned beef. “Now, ain’t you a sight.”

  Patrick grinned back at the one man who’d been a true friend during his time at the Wilcox ranch. “Howdy, Jake,” he said. “Did you shuck California?”

  Jake shook his head. “Hell no, I stuck there permanent like. But when the Spaniards blew up the Maine this old sailor couldn’t stand the thought of missing out on the fight. I hightailed it back to Arizona just in time to sign on.”

  “Well, I ain’t sorry to see you,” Patrick said. “Captain has me working with the ponies and I’ve got a passel more that needs gentling. You’re just the old boy to help me do it.”

  “Just like old times,” Jake said.

  “That might be so,” Patrick replied.

  Excused from drilling with the regiment, Patrick and Jake spent long hours breaking horses. Because time was short, they were forced to use the quirt and handle the animals a bit rougher than usual. Together they made dozens of cavalry horses out of pitching, snorting, wild-eyed ponies without ever spoiling one.

  At night Patrick fell asleep in his tent too tired, sore, and bruised to think about the Double K or Emma. After enough ponies had been saddle broke, Patrick and Jake began drilling again with the regiment, which they allowed was a whole lot easier than starting horses.

  On a morning in late May, Captain Llewellyn assembled the troopers and told them they would be leaving soon for Tampa, Florida, where they would embark for Cuba.

  “If you have letters to write, do it now,” he said, before dismissing the men.

  Patrick went back to his tent, sat down with paper and pen, and wrote to Emma.

  Dear Emma,

  Our captain says we’ll be on our way to Florida soon and we best write home. Here in Texas we’ve been busy getting ready for the fight, training ponies, doing maneuvers, and drilling on horseback. Our commanding officer of the whole shebang is Col. Wood, who told us New Mexico boys we were a right smart outfit. They got us outfitted in new uniforms with leggings and equipped with new rifles and six-shooters that will sure take care of those Spaniards.

  My captain is William Llewellyn, and he’s a good officer. Cal knows him for sure and I’m betting George does too. Lawyer Fall is here and so is George Curry. Both are captains in other troops of our squadron. The folks here in Texas have taken to calling us Rough Riders, so I guess that’s our new handle. Most of the men are from out of the West, but there are college boys and easterners here also, including Col. Wood’s second in command, Col. Roosevelt, who some say once bossed the police in New York City and had a ranch in the Dakota Territory for a time. He sure likes the way I work with the ponies and told me so. Said I did a bully job, and I had to ask someone what it meant.

  The officers make us drill on horseback every day, sometimes in close formation, other times wheeling and galloping our ponies in practice charges, or fanning out at a high lope in a flanking maneuver. All the boys like the horseback drills best.

  Can’t say much for the weather here. Hot and sticky at night, so it’s hard to sleep. And lots of mosquitoes, which us New Mexico boys just ain’t used to. We sure are a mixed bunch, cowboys, miners, storekeepers, lawyers, even a preacher who serves as a private, just like most of the rest of us. Didn’t think those eastern college boys would fit in, but they do and they’re a good sort. Surprised one of them by having read a book or two.

  Captain says there will be a post office in Tampa, so you can write to me there if you want. Hope the ranch is okay and the stock is healthy. Say howdy to Cal and George for me.

  Affectionately, your husband,

  Patrick Kerney

  He sealed the letter in an envelope and went to mail it, walking through a cloud of dust kicked up on the edge of the fairgrounds by a bunch of troopers racing their ponies. On the way back to his tent, he felt a touch of longing for Emma, the Double K, and even Cal and George.

  46

  On May 28, Patrick Kerney marched with more than a thousand men and more than twelve hundred animals out of their hot, dusty camp to the San Antonio train station for the trip to Tampa. It took the rest of the day and all night to get everything loaded. At dawn, the passenger trains arrived and the regiment finally got under way. The men spent four uncomfortable days in the cramped quarters of the train, the only relief coming with an occasional stop, where the men were given a few hours of leave. Aside from card games, idle chatter, and some illicit whiskey drinking, the only other distraction along the way came from folks who turned out to greet and cheer the regiment, bringing flowers, fruit, and pails of milk. There were pretty southern girls who waved flags and begged for mementos of buttons and cartridges. Many of the boys obliged.

  In Tampa, getting unloaded was no less of a disorganized mess, and when everything finally did get sorted out, the men were marched across pine-covered sand flats to a campground. The land struck Patrick as odd. There were no branches on t
he lower trunks of the pine trees for a good twenty feet or more, and the sand was as hot as the blistering dunes of the Tularosa.

  There wasn’t much to Tampa: a big hotel, some homes and boardinghouses, and a number of saloons, diners, and business establishments along dusty streets. A single railroad track led to a port some eight or nine miles away. The clammy weather was worse than San Antonio, with the temperature over a hundred degrees. But in spite of that, the town was packed with folks eager to cheer on the troops and see the flotilla anchored in the harbor.

  The officers kept the men busy practicing skirmish drills in the woods, and the regiment as a whole did several mounted drills, which were the most fun of all. On the regiment’s last evening in Tampa, Patrick went down to the harbor and looked out at the water. As pretty as it was, with the bay filled with all kinds of civilian and navy ships, the sea beyond the port seemed unnaturally endless to him. He wasn’t sure how he would like being on a boat. Jake had told him about how some people got seasick even when the water was fairly calm, but Patrick was more worried about not seeing land. He didn’t like the notion of that at all.

  He’d taken to smoking more since joining the volunteers. Away from the piers, where he could have some peace and quiet, he sat on the beach and rolled a smoke. After he finished, he wrote another letter to Emma.

  Dear Wife,

  I’m in Tampa now, ready to sail for Cuba tomorrow. I went to the post office hoping for a letter but there was none. I reckon you haven’t been to town lately so maybe my letter hasn’t gotten to you yet. I finally got paid, and the government gave me thirteen dollars in wages. Tell George I’m earning less than him now. It’ll bring a smile, I bet.

  Yesterday, our captain told us the horses are gonna stay behind, which means all that work I did with ponies for our troop in San Antonio is for naught. I guess you could call us the horseless Rough Riders.