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  She wondered why Gene hadn’t left the territory to be with his family or found a way to bring them back to New Mexico. Did he miss them? Some men seemed careless about holding their families together, but Gene didn’t strike her that way. Maybe it was just that hard times had befallen him.

  Turning her attention to her next chore, Emma cleared off the table and moved it to the corner of the room. With the men gone for several days, she’d give the wood floor in the kitchen a good cleaning and polishing. She filled a wash pan with soapy water, got down on her hands and knees, and started scrubbing, trying not to worry about CJ. She knew he was safe with Cal and Patrick.

  57

  Cal’s favorite pony, Bandit, had come up lame a few weeks back and still favored his left rear leg, so he’d cut out Cactus, a bald-faced black, to take up to the cabin. Cactus had sharp teeth and a free and easy gait and liked to pitch a few times after being saddled in the morning. He was the last of the pure mustangs in the Double K remuda Cal and Patrick had gathered in Chihuahua some years back. He’d earned his name by pitching Patrick into a stand of chollas the first time he was ridden on the open range.

  More a range pony than a cow horse, Cactus did fine in among the more gentle ponies. But once he got free, his wild blood took over and he ran like the wind for the high country and was almost impossible to corral. He got sold to an outfit on the Jornada, but Cal had to take him back after he broke free on his way to his new home and took to the mountains. A month later, Patrick found him in the north pasture nipping at two old breeding mares in heat that had been separated from the herd.

  On level ground or on a rocky hillside, Cactus could change strides as smooth as silk. That made for an easy day in the saddle, so Cal didn’t mind if the pony did some casueying first thing. After one or two mild bucks to assert himself, Cactus settled down and did as asked without complaint.

  After reaching the cabin, unpacking their gear, and eating a quick cold dinner of jerky and biscuits, Cal, Patrick, and CJ went separate ways. Patrick and CJ rode north to grease the windmill, and Cal drifted west to check on a dirt tank in a high summer pasture. Near a stand of pine trees, the tank captured rainwater and snowmelt. Given the unusually dry winter they’d just had, it cheered Cal considerably to see the tank a little more than three-fourths full, thanks to some early spring storms that had parked over the mountains.

  But dirt tanks leaked no matter what, watered seeped into the ground no matter what, and water evaporated in the hot sun no matter what, so to save as much water as possible for livestock, the leaks needed to be plugged. He reckoned there was enough water to serve fifty to seventy-five head for a month if they didn’t dally moving them up to the pasture. The grass was blue grama, the best on the ranch, and cows thrived on it.

  He walked the perimeter. The tank was spoon shaped, with a gentle grade that descended to the water, which was held back by a five-foot earthen berm. Cal and John Kerney had built the tank years ago by hand and the berm was now covered with grasses and shrubs, which kept it firmly in place. At the base, water was leaking out in rivulets. Cattle had been moved off the pasture during fall works, but there was plenty of fresh sign of other critters drinking at the tank, including turkey, bear, cougar, and deer.

  Cal patched the leaks with rocks and dirt, slowing the water to a trickle. Then he piled mounds of dirt against the berm to stem the last of the flow, and tamped everything down. Although a cool breeze whispered through the pines, he’d worked up a sweat. He gave his efforts a quick inspection and rested against the trunk of a pine tree with a view of the Tularosa Basin, looking peaceful and empty as far as the eye could see. The gray, the brown, the stark black-and-white colors of the land, ebbed and flowed as clouds momentarily masked the sun, creating a pale yellow, billowy ivory sky. Except for Sierra Blanca peak thrusting toward the heavens, the Sacramentos melted into a single mysterious wall.

  He was bone weary. It was 1906 and he’d turned sixty-six years old. He’d slowed down more than just a step, and although he tried to hide it, Emma had taken to watching him with a careful eye when he came home sore and tired at the end of the day.

  He looked skyward. If he left now, he’d be back at the cabin fixing supper long before Patrick and CJ returned. He took a last swig of water from his canteen, climbed on Cactus, and started down the trail into the shadowy canyon. Cactus saw the black bear coming out of a shrub thicket before Cal did. He reared up on his hind legs, nostrils flared, snorting in fear.

  The bear rose in reply, snarling and showing teeth. By the size and weight of it, it was male. Cal grabbed for his rifle as the bear bounded straight at him. Cactus dropped down to all fours and bared his teeth. The bear struck Cactus hard across the face with a paw. Cal fired point-blank, emptying his rifle into the beast as he fell astride Cactus, into a shallow defile off the trail. He dropped his rifle, grabbed for the horn, tumbled out of the saddle, and slammed his back hard against a boulder. Something snapped, and pain hit like a lightning bolt.

  Cactus rolled and stood, shaking in his tracks. Blood flowed from a deep claw cut on his face. Above him on the trail, the bear lay motionless.

  Cal hurt so much he didn’t want to move, but there was no time to waste. He had to get to Cactus before the pony bolted; otherwise, he’d be wrecked and afoot. He wiggled his hands and legs, gratified that all but his right arm worked. Whatever he’d busted was high up on the right side of his back, and each time he moved his arm it felt like a hot poker burning a hole in his chest. Pulling his arm close to his side, he stood very slowly and paused to let his head clear. He walked to Cactus, talking gentle and low to him, and grabbed the reins. He used his bandanna to clean the gash on the pony’s face as best he could. Then he hooked his boot in the stirrup and mounted. The pain made him dizzy.

  Cactus shivered and pawed the ground.

  “Let’s go, boy,” Cal said, turning the pony away from the dead bear. “Slow and easy.”

  Cactus settled into a faltering walk and picked his way carefully down the hillside on the switchback. Cal fought hard to stay alert, but his head kept dropping to his chest. On level ground, he got Cactus headed toward the cabin in an uneasy trot that sent needles of pain up and down his arm and through his body. He was breathing hard for no cause except shock, he reckoned. It took what seemed forever to raise the cabin. The wagon was parked out front, the team was in the corral, and a strange pony was hitched to a fence post. Smoke poured from the cabin chimney, and a fella was chopping kindling at the woodpile. Patrick and CJ’s ponies were nowhere in sight.

  Everything looked peaceful enough, but Cal took no chances. He wrapped the reins around the horn, fumbled across his waist for his six-shooter with his left hand, lifted it from the holster, and laid it in his lap. The man saw him coming, stopped chopping, and waved a greeting. Cal wasn’t seeing all that good and didn’t recognize the fellow until he reined in by the woodpile.

  “Why, Gene, I’m glad to see you,” he said as his leg iron slipped off his lap and fell to the ground. “I’ve been wrecked some and could use a hand.”

  Gene helped Cal down from his pony and walked him to the cabin. He was unsteady on his feet, and his ashen face was covered in sweat. He clutched his right arm to his side and with each step winced in pain.

  “Is it your arm that’s stove up?” Gene asked as he eased Cal down on the bed.

  “That and my back,” Cal said. “I think something broke off and got stuck inside. It sure feels that way. You’ll have to cut my vest and shirt off for a look-see. I ain’t about to try to move the arm.”

  “Stay still,” Gene said. He got a knife and cut off Cal’s vest and bloody shirt. Part of a bone stuck out of his upper arm, and his shoulder blade looked liked it had been crushed by a cannon ball. The skin was angry red and bloody.

  “You’re busted up all right and need a doctor, pronto,” Gene said. “I’m gonna clean you up some, carry you home in the wagon, and fetch one from town.”

  “I’m obliged,” Cal
said, nodding at the shelves where the supplies were kept. “Bring me that bottle of whiskey.”

  Gene used some of the whiskey on Cal’s arm before giving him the bottle, wrapped the arm tight against his side with some cut-up cloth, and put a light mud plaster over the broken bone.

  Cal had lapped up half the bottle by the time Gene finished.

  “I’ll get the team hitched,” Gene said.

  “I’ll be right here waiting on you,” Cal replied with a faint smile as he lifted the whiskey bottle. “If I was a critter, you would have already shot me.”

  “I don’t believe bullets can kill you, old son,” Gene replied.

  At the corral he made quick work of roping the team and hitching them to the wagon. He unsaddled Cal’s pony, put him in the corral, and went back to check on Cal. He was unconscious but breathing. Gene gathered up the bedrolls that were stowed against the wall, spread them out in the wagon, and woke Cal up.

  “Time to get along,” Gene said, helping Cal to his feet. He wrapped a blanket around him.

  Cal nodded but didn’t speak.

  He got Cal in the wagon, laid him on his side, covered him with another blanket, propped his head against some clean straw, tied his pony to the wagon, and started the team down the rutted trail toward the Double K headquarters.

  It would be dark long before he reached the ranch house, and there would be no moonlight on the trail. He hee-hawed the team along at a faster pace, hoping they knew the way home and Cal would still be alive when they got there.

  58

  The long day in the saddle had been hard on CJ, and he was plumb wore out by the time Patrick had greased the windmill, worked on the dirt tank, and repaired the barbwire fence at the mouth of the canyon. He hoisted CJ up with him, and leading his son’s little pony started back to the cabin at a slow pace. CJ fell asleep within minutes. Patrick figured Cal would have supper waiting and be fretting about where they were by the time they arrived.

  He reached the cabin with the sun dipping behind the San Andres. The cabin door was open, the wagon and team of horses were gone, and Cactus was alone in the corral. Patrick urged his horse forward in a gallop, jolting CJ awake.

  “What’s wrong?” CJ asked.

  “Be quiet now, boy,” Patrick snapped, wrapping an arm around CJ as he reached for his six-gun.

  * * *

  Hard pounding on the door brought Emma out of a sound sleep. She heard her name being called and footsteps inside the house. She quickly lit a lamp and rushed out of the bedroom to find Gene Rhodes holding Cal upright and dragging him to the couch.

  “Not there,” Emma snapped, turning toward the open bedroom door. “Bring him in here.”

  Gene followed Emma into the bedroom. “We can’t lay him on his back,” he said. “He’s hurt bad there and his right arm is fractured.”

  Emma helped Gene stretch Cal out on his side and peeled away the blanket. His right shoulder blade was shattered and the skin around it badly bruised. A bone protruded through the mud plaster on his upper arm. His face had lost all color and he was barely conscious.

  “Stoke up the fire in the cookstove and get some water boiling,” Emma said.

  Gene hesitated at the door. “He thinks something broke inside.”

  “Hurry with that water,” Emma said as she rushed past him for laudanum tonic and turpentine liniment from the kitchen cabinet.

  She grabbed a spoon, returned to Cal, made him swallow some tonic, and smiled when he opened his eyes.

  “What fool thing did you do?” she asked.

  “Tangled with a bear,” Cal replied in a thin voice. “Got the best of him too. Leastways for the time being.”

  “I’m sending Gene for a doctor.”

  Cal shook his head. “Don’t waste that cowboy’s time. I’ll be dead long before the doctor gets here and you’ll still have to pay him five cents a mile, coming and going for nothing.”

  “Don’t talk that way,” Emma scolded, holding back a sob.

  “I got a hole inside me sucking air out of my lungs,” Cal said with a grimace. “No sawbones is gonna fix it.”

  “Don’t be silly,” Emma said, stroking his face. “You’ll be fine. Where are Patrick and CJ?”

  Cal coughed, and blood foamed at his mouth. “Don’t know for certain, but I suspect on their way here.”

  He glanced up as Gene stepped into the bedroom and stood at the foot of the bed. “I’d be obliged if you’d let Ignacio Chávez and his family know of my passing. I’d like them to help lay me to rest, if they’ve a mind to.”

  “I’ll fetch them,” Gene said.

  Emma wiped the blood from the corner of Cal’s mouth. “Don’t talk nonsense.”

  Cal patted her hand. “Put me up on the hill next to John Kerney, Molly, and George. I’ve always liked that view.”

  “You stop that talk,” Emma snapped.

  Cal squeezed Emma’s hand. “Don’t you fret, now. There’s an old pistol box under my bed. Bring it here to me.”

  Emma shook her head. “I’m staying right by your side.”

  Cal smiled. “I ain’t quite ready to quit this world yet. Go get it, girl. It’s important.”

  Emma let go of his hand and hurried out of the room.

  “I’ll be heading out,” Gene said.

  “Don’t jingle your spurs on my account,” Cal replied. “Besides, you look plumb wore out.”

  Gene stepped closer to Cal. “I can sleep in the saddle. Are you sure you don’t want a doctor?”

  Cal shook his head. “It would do me no good. I always figured I’d get shot down by some desperado, not killed by a bear. How’s my pony?”

  “I doctored him some and put him in the corral at the cabin. He’ll be fine.”

  “Good.” Cal winced and caught his breath.

  “I’ll be on my way,” Gene said.

  “Adios and thanks for getting me home,” Cal replied. “Much obliged. Don’t get old and busted up. It’s no damn fun.”

  Gene smiled at Cal’s sand. “Now, that’s a homily a man can take to heart. So long.”

  Gene left. Cal took a breath and held it against the pain that shot through his chest. He forced a smile when Emma returned, put the pistol box down on the chair, and set about washing his face with hot water. She sat him upright, leaned him forward, cleaned around his crushed shoulder blade, and bound his fractured arm tight against his side.

  “I told Gene to bring the doctor,” Emma said as she lowered him tenderly down to his side.

  “Foolish waste of his time and your money,” Cal replied. “That box contains my will. Don’t you read it until you fetch some whiskey for me.”

  She got a bottle from the bottom drawer of the desk, kneeled at the side of the bed, lifted his head, tilted the full glass to his lips, and watched him drink.

  “Give me two more just like that,” he said, “and keep the bottle handy.”

  When he’d finished drinking, she put the bottle on the floor and read the will. She would inherit half the ranch. Stunned, she looked at Cal in disbelief.

  “I was planning to tell you and Patrick both,” Cal said, “but just didn’t get around to it.”

  With tears in her eyes, Emma read the document again. “You didn’t need to do this.”

  “The Double K is my home, and you, Patrick, and CJ are the only family I’ve got. You’ve earned an equal say in this outfit, so fair is fair. Besides, there’s no man on this planet that can boss you around anyway.”

  Emma smiled. “Only you.”

  “When you’ve a mind to let me. I’m gonna rest now. I’m feeling wore out.”

  “Sleep.” Emma leaned over and kissed him. “I’ll be right here.”

  She covered him with a blanket, turned down the lamp, pulled her chair close to the bed, and watched him doze off. She couldn’t imagine the ranch without Cal, or what life without him might be. He was the kindest, best person she had ever known.

  59

  Cal lost consciousness before Pat
rick and CJ got home, and died two days later without waking. Leaving Patrick and CJ to fend on their own, Emma never left Cal’s side, sleeping in the chair next to the bed, holding his hand, wiping his feverish face, talking and reading to him in the hopes he would awake.

  Cal stopped breathing several hours after Gene Rhodes arrived with the doctor, who announced that nothing could be done, expressed his sympathies, collected his fee, and left.

  In Tularosa, Gene had spread the word about Cal’s bad wreck, and it got passed on by telegraph to people in Alamogordo, Las Cruces, and Engle. A number of folks rode out to the Double K to pay respects and say good-bye. Ignacio, Teresa, and their children were on hand, as were some of the boys and stockmen from other spreads on the Tularosa and Jornada. James Kaytennae came in alone from Mescalero, traveling day and night to get there in time, and former deputy sheriff Tito Barela from Las Cruces showed up. Adam Dieter, the shopkeeper in Tularosa, made the long trek, as did Oliver Lee and some other Texans Cal had known in the old days.

  Leland and Maude Carter and Earl and Addie Hightower, two couples who ranched on small spreads in the San Andres, showed up early with their children to help out. Leland and Earl slaughtered a maverick cow, and Maude and Addie helped Emma roast it on a spit over an open pit and prepare the rest of the fixings.

  They buried Cal next to John Kerney under a carved wooden cross Ignacio fashioned from mesquite wood. All the folks gathered around except James Kaytennae, who remained astride his pony on the adjacent hilltop to avoid getting ghost sickness from the dead. Gene Rhodes took off his hat and read the epitaph he’d written:

  In this hard country where coin is scarce and loyal friends pure gold,

  Here lies a man known to all as true and good and bold.

  He lived by his word, upheld the law, and tamed this desert land,

  Not many more will pass this way with his true grit and sand.