Backlands Page 34

  The task of certifying that Forest Service CCC campsites were suitable for occupation fell to the U.S. Army. The officer assigned to oversee the Forest Service campsite selection, First Lieutenant John Cunningham, a cavalry officer and graduate of the Virginia Military Institute, wheeled onto the New Mexico A&M campus in a shiny new army staff car, ready to take charge. He was a spit-and-polish officer in a starched uniform with gleaming brass and a contemptuous glint in his eye. He had absolute veto power over any of the potential campsites that Hubert Roddy, the tall, lanky tobacco-chewing, easygoing Forest Service supervisor, had in mind.

  At six foot four, Roddy towered over Cunningham’s five-ten frame. Roddy’s work wardrobe consisted of a pair of scuffed, lace-up hiking boots, sturdy blue jeans, wrinkled long-sleeve shirts open at the collar, and an old Marine Corps campaign hat. His casual nature, unkempt appearance, and dislike for anything officious only served to fuel Lieutenant Cunningham’s by-the-book rigidity. The two men were like oil and water right from the get-go.

  In spite of Roddy and Cunningham’s endless squabbling, Matt loved his job. He was driver, wrangler, mechanic, camp cook, Spanish translator, bellhop, and recording secretary on a monthlong trek that took them deep into the forests of Arizona and New Mexico by truck, on foot, and on horseback. From Sitting Bull Falls in the rugged Guadalupe Mountains, to the Gila Wilderness backlands, to the Coronado and Apache National Forests in Arizona, Matt saw a wide, beautiful slice of the country.

  With Roddy guiding, Matt drove the expedition across magnificent untrammeled mountain ranges, through vast stands of virgin forests, over brown, thirsty, grassy hills outside of Bisbee, across a harsh, windswept sequoia landscape near Tucson. They hiked trails up barren mountains, rode horseback into hidden canyons, and climbed to the top of mesas filled with ancient pueblo ruins.

  Matt saw Santa Fe on a two-day stopover. It sat in a shallow river valley pressed against mountain foothills, quaint and foreign looking, with narrow, crooked streets and low-slung adobe buildings. At Taos Pueblo, while Roddy and Cunningham met with tribal elders, Matt wandered around the two- and three-story mud-plastered adobe buildings, stark against an azure sky, wondering what the place had been like before the first European trappers stumbled over the mountains.

  By the end of the month, Roddy and Cunningham had haggled, argued, debated, and finally compromised on where to establish the New Mexico and Arizona CCC campsites.

  As Matt saw it, there had been little need to butt heads. Every place they’d scouted needed a helping hand. Land had been overgrazed, creeks and streams polluted and degraded by overuse, stands of trees killed by bark beetles, soil ruined by forest fires, and mountainsides eroded by clear-cut logging. There were stock tanks to build, fences to put up, meadows to reseed, seedling trees to plant, check dams to build, and much more.

  Roddy wanted trails, fire lanes, and truck roads built, fire lookout towers thrown up, and electricity and telephone lines installed. In some locations he proposed permanent tourist campgrounds, ranger stations with a headquarters building and staff housing, district maintenance and mechanic sheds, and corrals and stables for saddle and packhorses. It all made sense to Matt.

  Roddy outgunned Cunningham in the brain department. He hung tough with the lieutenant, who wanted only what was easiest and most convenient for army logistics. As a result, Roddy got most of what he wanted.

  When they returned to Las Cruces and said adios to Cunningham, Matt was genuinely relieved to see him go. Cunningham seemed equally pleased to get away. Hubert Roddy grinned happily as Cunningham sped away in the army staff car.

  “That man’s a piece of work,” Roddy allowed, clamping a friendly hand on Matt’s shoulder. “Are you willing to help me with reports that have to go out pronto to the higher muckety-mucks?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Good. I need to set out exactly what each camp is supposed to accomplish. My bosses are gonna be real persnickety about the details. We’re gonna need maps, drawings, estimates on man-hours for each project, specific goals, camp location coordinates, side camp cost estimates—that sort of thing.”

  Matt beamed. “What’s a side camp?”

  Roddy chuckled. “That’s where we’re gonna put temporary work crews of forty to sixty men for a week or two in some of those places the lieutenant refused to certify because he didn’t want to get his boots dirty.”

  Matt grinned. “That’s downright crafty.”

  Roddy nodded. “I agree, but it ain’t my idea to claim. We’ve been planning from the start to spread out as far as we can reach with what the CCC gives us. There’s just too much to be done. Lord knows how long the politicians in Washington will fund the program before they pull the plug. Let’s get started.”

  “I’m your man,” Matt replied, excited by the possibilities.

  ***

  Eight more weeks of work and long hours kept Matt away from the Double K right up to the day he was let go from the job. From the start he knew it was only a temporary position, but he’d hoped by diligence and hard work to turn it into something more permanent. Instead, he got replaced by the nephew of an Arizona congressman who was friends with the bigwigs running the whole shebang out of an office at Fort Sam Houston in Texas. Matt was given a termination notice by an office clerk and told to pack up and move out of the men’s dorm pronto.

  An embarrassed Hubert Roddy caught up with Matt as he was leaving the campus. “This wasn’t my doing,” he said. “If they’d foisted that dolt on me a month ago, I could have found a place for you here. But now all the jobs are filled. Best I can do is sign you up as an enrollee.”

  Matt shook his head. “I appreciate the offer, but I got things that need doing at the ranch, and now’s a good time to head on home.”

  “I’ve got some friends in the Park Service. Let me ask around.”

  “I’d be obliged.”

  “Stay in touch.”

  “I surely will.”

  Matt cashed his check, bought a ticket to Engle, and waited at the station for the next northbound train. He refused to be too disappointed about his sudden reversal. Jobs had come and gone for him during the tough times, but at least he’d found work, while others went without. Maybe Hubert Roddy would find him something; maybe not. Gus Merton couldn’t help him. He was now working in Washington, on loan from the college, drafting legislation to get public funding to build courthouses, schools, and other community facilities nationwide. Matt had been lucky to have Gus’s helping hand in the past, but he couldn’t count on such good fortune in the future.

  He decided it was best to get back to the Double K for a spell. He hadn’t seen Pa since the day Nestor and Guadalupe had brought him to town to have his leg cast removed. With the cast off, Pa’s leg was a sight to behold. The skin was pasty white from a lack of sun and skinny from a lack of use. When Doc Stinson let the leg go, it dropped like rag-doll leg on the examination table, scaring the bejesus out of Matt and Pa. By now Pa should be up and walking. Matt hadn’t heard from him and had no idea how things were going. Okay, he hoped.

  He counted his money. There was enough to keep Nestor and Guadalupe on the payroll for two months, with some left over for essentials. After that, if he didn’t find work, he’d be forced to let Nestor and Guadalupe go. Then it would be just him and Pa trying to scratch out a living at the Double K. Suddenly he felt downright morose about being unemployed again.

  To save money, he slept on a bed of straw in the Engle livery and in the morning hitched a ride with the mailman, who dropped him at the Double K ranch road. He hoofed it home under a relentless late-summer sun with his gear in a bundle slung over his shoulder. In his back pocket he’d crammed a bunch of letters he’d found stuffed in the chock-full mailbox. One letter contained the paycheck Lawyer Lipscomb had mailed to Nestor and Guadalupe more than a week ago. It caused Matt some worry. Surely they would have gone to fetch it as soon as i
t was due to arrive.

  At the crest of the last rise in the pasture Matt paused to take in the ranch headquarters. All was quiet, and no one was in sight. Pa’s wagon stood next to the barn, but Nestor’s rig was missing. Stony, Patches, and Calabaza were in the corral, but Nestor’s pony was nowhere to be seen. Maybe they were all off to town for groceries and supplies.

  He stopped at the corral, and all three ponies came over to him, snorting their displeasure. They looked scrawny and uncared for. In the corral, the horse apples hadn’t been raked up and the water trough was empty. He gave them water, hay, and a promise to return as soon as he got settled. He climbed the stairs to the veranda next to the ramp he’d built for Pa’s wheelchair and called out at the closed kitchen door before entering. He found Pa in the dark, quiet living room, asleep in his wheelchair. He had a week-old beard, his false teeth were missing, his clothes were dirty, and he smelled bad.

  Matt shook him awake. “Where are Nestor and Guadalupe?”

  “They’re gone.”

  “Did you fire them?”

  Pa shook his head. “They just up and left when their two boys came to fetch them.”

  “When was that?”

  Pa shrugged. “A week ago. The whole damn family was pulling up stakes and moving over to Silver City. Their boys had found jobs on some government project. They were sorry to go and would’ve stayed until I hired new help, but I told them I’d be all right.”

  “Have you been in the wheelchair ever since?”

  Pa nodded. “Mostly.”

  “Were you walking before they left?”

  “Some,” Pa replied.

  Matt glared at Pa. “Stand up!”

  “What for? The leg don’t work and it ain’t gonna.”

  “Stand up, dammit.”

  Looking cross, Patrick pulled himself upright on wobbly legs.

  Matt yanked the wheelchair away, rolled it onto the veranda, smashed it into pieces against a post, and threw the debris over the railing. He turned to find Pa dragging his way to the open kitchen door.

  “Why in the hell did you do that?” Pa snapped.

  “I don’t have time for some old man to carry on like a cripple on my ranch,” Matt answered. “I’ll help you just this once get cleaned up, shaved, in fresh duds, and on your crutches. After that, you stay on your own two feet and help out with the chores. You savvy?”

  Patrick lowered his head and nodded.

  “Good. You wait there while I get the cookstove fired up and water boiling for your bath.”

  “Just stay standing here?”

  “Yeah,” Matt said as he brushed by Pa. “Put some weight on that leg while you’re waiting. It’ll do it some good.”

  ***

  As the day passed, it was hard for Matt to keep from grumbling. But he kept his trap shut as he got Pa looking human again, gave the ponies a good brushing, put them in clean stalls, and shoveled the horse apples out of the corral. He took a long soak in the stock tank before fixing a dinner of canned beef stew with some peeled potatoes mixed in and a fresh pot of coffee. He served it up at the table and devoured his first meal since breakfast without saying a word to Pa.

  Bent over his plate of stew, Pa didn’t talk either, which helped Matt keep his resentment in check. After dinner, he made Pa help with the dishes, which didn’t sit well with him. Matt had no sympathy for Pa as he hobbled back and forth from the table to the washtub, using a crutch for his bad leg. Keeping Pa upright and moving was the best medicine Matt could think of.

  Matt couldn’t figure what had made Pa give up and become a crippled old man. He’d never seen quit in him before. Why now? He couldn’t imagine that Guadalupe and Nestor had coddled him. That wasn’t who they were.

  He’d known Nestor and Guadalupe for years, and they didn’t have any quit in them either. They never would have left if Pa had asked them to stay until he found a replacement. He wondered if Pa was lying to him. Did he drive them away? Matt vowed to find out the truth.

  The night was deep and Matt was wide-awake. He settled behind the desk in the living room, glad to be off his feet and have Pa quiet in his bedroom. The top desk drawer was stuffed with more unopened mail. He started sorting through it, looking first at what he’d carried home from the mailbox. There was a letter to Pa from Al Jennings asking to lease the Double K high pasture to run fifty cows. Al had written that he’d taken a careful look at the pasture and found enough browse and water for more than fifty head, but he had no more to run. He’d pay for the lease from the profits he made come fall selling beef to a butcher in Hot Springs who had a contract to supply the CCC camp at Elephant Butte.

  Matt appreciated Al’s smart strategy. If he had any Double K cattle and the grass and water were there to be used, he’d do the same thing.

  The army quartermaster at Fort Bliss had a list of merchants, grocers, butchers, and farmers who could supply CCC camps in southern New Mexico and Arizona with perishable food supplies such as milk, fresh vegetables, beef, pork, chicken, eggs, and fresh fruit, along with any other items the army couldn’t transport and supply in bulk because of spoilage. It was a program to put government money into the local economy and create some jobs.

  While working for the Forest Service, Matt had seen a new pamphlet from the quartermaster corps for use in the CCC camps. It listed more than five hundred required food items, set minimum daily meal portions for each enrollee, and outlined menus and recipes for camp cooks to use. The pamphlet called for a lot of beef to be served to those hundreds of hungry CCC boys just about every day.

  Matt put Al’s letter aside. Tomorrow he’d ride up to the high pastures and take a look at the land. Although it was frustrating not to have Double K cattle grazing in the high country, if he agreed with Al’s assessment, he’d mosey over to the Rocking J and make the deal. He’d take Patches and trail Calabaza. Both ponies needed the exercise.

  He pawed through the rest of the mail and unearthed a letter from a Texas rancher that got his full attention. Mr. Kenneth Killebrew, owner of the Double K Ranch outside of San Angelo, had recently bought a second spread in the Cimarron to use for spring and summer grazing. Killebrew wanted to know if the Double K stock brand registered in New Mexico was for sale. If it was, he offered five hundred dollars.

  Matt crumpled up the offer to throw it away but stopped. Five hundred dollars was a huge windfall. It was enough to put some cattle back on the land, pay for feed, hire a hand, and get the critters fattened up in time to sell after fall works. With new CCC camps scheduled to open in Mayhill, Capitan, Carrizozo, Corona, and a dozen more spots near the basin, the market for beef would grow. Now was the time to restock and sign delivery contracts with the butchers who’d be supplying the beef to the camps. Producers were looking to unload their herds and were selling cheap. Maybe Al Jennings would be interested in throwing in with Matt on a larger scale.

  Pa wouldn’t like giving up the brand, but he didn’t have a say in it. Either sell the brand or lose the ranch. Matt pulled the brand book out of a bottom desk drawer and thumbed through it, looking for a brand to replace the Double K. As far as he could tell, the 7-Bar-K brand was available. If so, it would do nicely. Seven was a lucky number, and seven Kerneys had lived on the ranch since John Kerney staked his first claim to it.

  It was time to make a fresh start with a new brand. With five hundred dollars of Kenneth Killebrew’s money, he just might be able whip the god-awful Depression and the lingering drought, or at the least fight them to a draw.

  32

  Patrick Kerney reached down, carefully guided the foot of his bad leg into the stirrup, and told his new pony, Ribbon, to walk on. It was an hour past sunup, and out in the pasture Calabaza nuzzled Stony, ignoring Patrick completely. He turned up the trail that led to the high country, where Shorty Gibson, the cowboy Matt had hired two years ago for room, board, and twenty dollars a month, was encamped a
t the cabin for the summer.

  Calabaza and Stony were old ponies now and well past their prime, as was Patrick. Assuming he had the year of his birth right, he was sixty. At his age, he had no quarrel with putting those two ancient ponies out to pasture in spite of what it cost to feed them. It brightened his day to get up every morning and see those two old friends lazing and loitering together.

  At the top of the hill he paused at the family cemetery, where John, Emma, and Molly were buried along with Cal Doran, John Kerney’s partner, and George Rose, a top hand and old friend. Patrick had once told Emma that CJ belonged buried among his comrades in a military cemetery in France, but he’d changed his mind. CJ should be resting here with his family on Kerney land, with the wide, forever views of the Tularosa.

  Ribbon snorted in impatience and Patrick gave him rein. He was a sturdy eight-year-old gray gelding with a thin stripe that curled like a black ribbon on his right haunch, thus his moniker. He wasn’t the fastest pony, or the smartest, but he suited Patrick just fine. He had a nice steady gait, an abundance of endurance, and a calm personality.

  It was an unusually cool July morning by way of a cloudy sky. Although the drought hadn’t ended and the monsoons hadn’t arrived, a series of light rains over the past month had somewhat refreshed the high meadows and pasturelands. Up-country, eighty head of cattle grazed on the only good patch of grass on the entire eastern slope of the San Andres. The rest of the range was dust covered and sandblasted.

  Matthew had asked Patrick to spell Shorty for a long overdue promised weekend off. Patrick was glad to do it. In fact, he liked the fact that Matt ran the show, and although he’d never say so, it eased his mind considerably to have him in charge. Modern ranching required men with more smarts and education than he had, and Matt had plenty of both to spare, plus damn good horse sense.