Backlands (27 page)

“How would that work?”

“I'm sure we can think of something if you'll remove your wandering hand from my leg and put your scheming, devious mind to work.”

By the time they arrived at the hacienda, they'd polished their plan. Over dinner Matt explained that he would soon be taking Patches to the ranch and put forward the idea that the Mertons take a weekend jaunt and visit him there. Gus was less than enthusiastic, but Consuelo liked the idea of getting away from all the gloom and doom about the economy for a while. Beth pleaded with her uncle to accept the invitation, arguing with a pout that she'd seen virtually nothing of the state since her arrival. Matt proposed to meet them in Engle and guide them to the ranch to make sure they didn't lose their way.

“It's a far piece to the ranch,” he added, “and you might want to stock up on extra cans of gas and water for the trip.”

Gus raised an eyebrow. “Are we going on safari or to the Double K?”

Matt laughed. “It's the backlands, and folks have been known to get turned around every which way in the mountains and canyons. You'll have a separate casita all to yourselves, and there's beautiful scenery most folks never get to see.”

“I'm all in favor,” Consuelo said.

Gus glanced from his wife to his niece, who beamed a dazzling smile at him. “Very well, we'll go. I'll cancel next Friday's classes and we'll leave early for the Double K, which I'm told once harbored notorious outlaws. I hope they are long gone.”

“Most of them are dead,” Matt remarked with a delighted grin.

“That's reassuring. We must be home by Sunday night.”

Beth clapped her hands, scooted to her uncle's side, and gave him a kiss. “Thank you, thank you.”

Gus patted her cheek. “I'm putting you and your aunt in charge of packing provisions. I have no intention of eating overcooked beefsteak and pinto beans morning, noon, and night.”

When the evening ended, Beth walked Matt to his car, pressed against him, and gave him a long, lingering smooch.

“How did you get Consuelo to go along with us?” he asked when the kiss ended.

Beth smiled slyly. “She's partial to you. All I had to do was ask.”

“I hope I can get my pa to mind his manners and behave.”

“That's up to you.” She kissed him again and said, “Well, at least one of us will be spending the night in the hotel in Engle. Doesn't that mean you've made it to second base with me?”

“And I thought I was heading for home.”

“Well, you are, in a way.”

Matt laughed. “You're mean. It wasn't exactly what I had in mind.”

She nibbled his ear and whispered, “Be patient.”

***

M
r. Roybal's donkey, blind, barely able to stand, and perhaps the oldest living donkey on the planet, still announced each new morning to the neighborhood with its mournful bray. The honking sound woke Matt with a start, and he sat up in bed, stunned by the sudden realization he'd let his dumb, regrettable plan to seduce Beth spin out of control. What was he thinking inviting them all to the ranch? It was plain
loco
. He hadn't been to the Double K since Tía Teresa's funeral more than a year ago, and he had no idea what shape it was in. How would Pa react to his inviting guests to stay there without his say-so? He felt like a fool for behaving as though he was some sort of swell. Could he call the whole thing off without looking even more ridiculous? Would Beth think him a complete imbecile? Consuelo and Gus too?

No, by George, he would make it work. After all, they'd only be staying overnight. Besides, Ma had taught him everything about cleaning and putting a house in order. Hadn't he taken care of her when she was sick and mostly bedridden? If he got started to the ranch pronto and went right at what needed doing, full bore, he'd have the place fixed up and whistle clean before they arrived.

He slipped into his jeans and pulled on his boots. He had six days to get it done. He pocketed all his remaining money, drank yesterday's coffee for breakfast, bundled enough clothes to see him through a week, and wrote a note to Beth telling her he was on his way to the Double K with Patches and would meet her next Saturday morning in Engle.

At the depot, he bought a coach ticket, hurried Patches into a livestock car, dropped the note to Beth in the mailbox, and soon was on his way, the train whistle and the click-clack of the wheels drowning out the bells of St. Genevieve's Church summoning the faithful to morning Mass.

M
att was alone at the ranch for three days before Patrick appeared. He took one look at the spic-and-span house and asked Matt if he was moving back in. Half expecting a tongue-lashing, Matt explained what he was up to. Pa shook his head without saying another word, returned to his truck, and started unloading hay bales, tossing them one by one into the barn through the open door. When he finished, he stomped into the kitchen for a cup of coffee.

“The place ain't been this tidy in years,” he said, pouring a cup. “I'd hire you on as my housekeeper, except I ain't got the money.”

“Is that an insult or a compliment?” Matt demanded.

“Take it any way you want. Just don't expect me to lend a hand; I've got men's work to do.”

Matt's temper flared. “Why do you always have to dig your spurs in my side? You're a sorry excuse for a father.”

“I know it,” Pa replied. “I always have been. Even when I tried to do better with CJ and you I made a mess of it. Best I can say is it ain't your fault. I'm just built this way and there's no changing it. Tell you what; I'll skedaddle up to the cabin before this gal and her relatives show up, so as not to embarrass you.”

“That would be mighty civilized of you,” Matt drawled.

Pa drained his coffee and guffawed. “Well, who has the sharp tongue now?”

“Runs in the family, I reckon.”

“Reckon so.” Pa put the coffee cup in the wash pan. “I'll be heading over to the Rocking J in the morning to help Al Jennings shoe some of his ponies.”

“I'll surely miss your company.”

Pa snorted and adjusted his upper plate of sparkling white false teeth with a thumb. “There goes that sassiness again. Remember, you got a job here if you want it. I won't offer it again.”

“I'll keep it in mind.”

“Is this gal you're trying to impress ornamental or useful?”

“Both.”

“That's good.” Pa gazed at the scrubbed-clean kitchen table, the polished windows, the scoured-spotless cookstove. “Because I figure you must have a powerful itch for her to go to all this trouble.”

The truth of Pa's words made Matt stiffen. “I don't plan to embarrass myself.”

Pa grunted. “Chase that notion out of your head. When it comes to womenfolk, we're always gonna make fools of ourselves now and then, no matter how hard we try not to.”

“I guess you'd know something about that.”

Pa paused at the kitchen door and looked Matt up and down. He'd filled out, gained an inch or two, and wasn't a kid anymore. “Hobble your lip and stop trying to rile me. I declare a truce between us right here and now. I bought fresh victuals in town and tonight I'm fixing Franco-American spaghetti with meatballs straight out of the can. Join me if you've a mind to.”

“I'll see you at dinnertime.”

***

F
or some reason, Pa had completely emptied the casita and stored all the furniture in Matt's old bedroom. Over the next two days, after getting rid of the black widows, mice, and centipedes that had taken up residence in the casita, Matt cleaned the corner fireplace and chimney, whitewashed the adobe walls, and scrubbed the oxblood dirt floors before moving the furniture back in. In the small front room he set up his old twin bed for Beth, figuring Gus and Consuelo would want her sleeping close by. He'd much rather have her sleeping with him, but since he'd be bunking on the living room couch, he figured that daydream was doomed.

In two of Ma's old chests he found bed linens, blankets, and towels, which he washed and dried on the clothesline. When he finally had the casita shipshape, he turned to the last and worst of his chores, cleaning the outhouse. Whitewash, bleach, elbow grease, and a bag of lime that he found in the barn made it tolerably clean and no longer stinky. Afterward he soaked and scrubbed in a tub of hot water to get the smell off.

In the kitchen Pa had sliced a canned ham and had spuds boiling on the stove. “You've done an ace-high job on this place,” he said.

“Thanks. I thought you were fixing spaghetti.”

“Changed my mind. The casita's yours to use whenever you want it.”

“I'm obliged.”

“Sit. Supper's about ready.”

Pa poked a fork in the potatoes, declared them done, put the pot aside, quick-seared ham steaks in a hot fry pan, and served up supper along with fresh cups of Arbuckle's. Matt dug right in.

“I figured I owed you at least a decent meal for all the work you've done,” Pa said as he sawed at his ham steak. “Your ma schooled you well. Are you sparking this young lady that's coming here?”

“I'm trying to, but she's making me wait until she gets better,” Matt replied.

“What wrong with her?”

“Tuberculosis.”

Pa stopped sawing. “She's a lunger?”

Matt nodded.

“Ain't life taught you nothing?”

“It's not the same as with Ma,” Matt replied hotly. “Lots of folks with TB get cured. Beth is doing just fine with her treatments and all.”

Pa chewed a bite. “Ain't none of my business. When do you go fetch her?”

“In the morning from Engle.”

“Take the truck; you'll save some time.”

“I'm obliged. The grub's good.”

Pa smiled. “Glad you like it. There are store-bought cookies for dessert. You got dirty-dish duty 'cause I'm leaving for the cabin after we eat.”

“Fair enough,” Matt said between bites.

It was getting dark when Pa set off on Calabaza for the cabin. The pony had been up and down the mountain so many times, Pa could fall asleep in the saddle and still arrive there safely. After the dishes were done, Matt turned in early, hoping to get some shut-eye, but he was too wound up and eager to leave for Engle and fetch Beth back to the ranch, especially now that it wasn't such a shoddy mess.

For a couple of hours he dozed on and off, with light dreams that flitted through his head and then evaporated each time he shook off the threat of real sleep. Finally he gave up and got out of bed. Fortified with hot, bitter leftover coffee, he started out for Engle in the truck, headlights cutting through the predawn darkness under a star-studded sky.

Dawn broke as he began the downslope out of Rhodes Canyon, daylight not yet cresting the San Andres and the Jornada slate gray and fading into a pitch-black western horizon. Only a light or two flickered in the slowly vanishing village of Engle, kept barely alive by the railroad, the hotel, the livery, and a few mercantile stores that catered to the surrounding ranchers. He pulled up in front of the hotel expecting to see Gus's car parked nearby, but it wasn't there. He circled the block and still didn't see it. Inside, there was no one on duty at the registration desk and the dining room had just opened. He asked a waitress who was wiping down tables if Professor Merton and his wife and niece were checked in. The woman shrugged and said she didn't know. At the desk he rang the bell until a sleepy-eyed old man emerged from a back room.

The man yawned and scratched his beard. “You need a room?”

“I'm here to meet Professor Merton, his wife, and niece.”

“Are you Matthew Kerney?”

“I am.” Matt held his breath.

“Hold on, there's a telegram for you.” He thumbed through some papers and put it on the counter. Matt grabbed it. Dated Friday morning, it read:

MATTHEW KERNEY

C/O ENGLE HOTEL

ENGLE, NM

BETH RELAPSED YESTERDAY.

CONDITION UNKNOWN.

CONFINED TO SANATORIUM.

DOCTORS HOPEFUL.

TRIP REGRETTABLY CANCELED.

SEE US WHEN YOU ARRIVE BACK HOME.

GUS

Matt read it twice. “Dammit.” He turned away from the room clerk before he choked up. Outside, he thought hard on what to do with Pa's truck. He damn sure wasn't going to drive all the way back to the Double K and lope Patches here to catch a train to Las Cruces. That would waste an entire day. At the livery, he paid Ken Mayers, the owner, to store it until Pa showed up, went back to the hotel and wrote a note to Pa to go in the mail explaining what had happened, and caught the first southbound train.

He didn't realize until he sat down in the almost empty coach car that he was sweating, his hands were shaking, and his heart was pounding in his chest.

A
week passed before Matt saw Beth again. Propped up in bed, she smiled cheerfully at him as he joined Gus and Consuelo at her side.

“I'm fine,” she said before Matt could question her about her condition.

Matt smiled broadly to hide the shock of seeing her so thin and pale. “You look great.”

“Liar.” She covered her mouth with a handkerchief and coughed. It sounded rough and thick. “Sorry.”

Consuelo patted her hand. “Are you eating enough?”

Beth wrinkled her nose, but her eyes never left Matt as she said, “They're drowning me in milk. I hate milk.”

“The doctor says it's of great benefit,” Gus noted.

“What does he know? He doesn't have to drink it.”

Gus laughed. “Your spunk hasn't diminished one bit.”

“Then I must be on the mend,” she replied, her gaze still fixed on Matt, who was paying attention only to her.

Consuelo glanced at them, looked at her husband, and pointedly said, “Don't we have a few questions for the doctor Beth's parents want answered?”

“Yes, of course.” Gus planted a kiss on Beth's forehead. “We'll be right back.” He followed Consuelo out the door.

“I'm a mess,” Beth said apologetically, patting her hair.

Matt moved close and took her hand. “You're beautiful.”

Beth laughed and started coughing again. She fought it off and said, “You're looking at me with your heart, not your eyes.”

“Is that bad?”

“No, I love it. I'm sorry I ruined our weekend at the ranch.”

“Don't you worry about that. There will be lots more weekends.”

Beth's expression darkened. “I'm not so sure. Hasn't Uncle Gus told you? My daddy can't pay for me to stay here anymore.”

Matt felt a pit open in his stomach. He grabbed her hand. “You can't leave.”

“Would you have me remain in this horrid jail?”

“I didn't mean that.”

She smiled and rubbed his hand against her cheek. “I know. If I have to go home to Cleveland, I'll just pack you in my trunk and take you with me.”

“Why go at all? Stay here with me. I'll take care of you.” What was he saying? He had no job, no money.

Beth touched a finger to her lips as Augustus and Consuelo returned looking very cheery. “Am I cured?” she asked them.

“Not quite yet,” Augustus replied from the foot of Beth's bed. “Your father wanted us to find out when you could go home. Your doctor doesn't believe the weather in Cleveland would be conducive to your health.”

“So you'll simply have to stay with us,” Consuelo added gaily, noting the big grin spreading across Matt's face.

“I'll wire Darcy today,” Augustus said. “I'm sure he'll agree.”

Beth clapped her hands with glee. “Goody. How soon can you spring me from this place?”

“On Friday,” Consuelo answered, turning to Matt. “Would you pick her up and bring her home?”

Matt wanted to whoop with delight when Consuelo said
home,
but he nodded instead. “I surely will.”

Augustus wagged a finger at Beth. “Your doctor wants you to gain at least a pound before Friday.”

“I will,” Beth promised, beaming. “Bring me a quart of milk—two quarts.”

“And you're to have no visitors until then,” Consuelo added.

Beth pouted. “What a spoilsport he is.”

“Just get better,” Augustus ordered.

“What's the Spanish word for
better?
”

“
Mejorar,
” Augustus, Consuelo, and Matt said in unison, which left them all laughing.

Matt was last out the door. He turned to say good-bye one more time, and Beth threw him a kiss. Her dazzling smile lit him up, and in that instant he knew he would never love anyone more.

***

B
eth was discharged from the sanatorium with doctor's orders to convalesce at home and avoid any unnecessary excitement for several weeks, which to Consuelo's way of thinking meant limiting Matt to short, supervised visits. Both Augustus and Consuelo took seriously their responsibilities to get Beth healthy and well, so Matt didn't mind being on his best behavior, although he yearned to have Beth all to himself, and soon. He was certain she was on the mend for good this time.

When he was with her, he avoided his worries of no job and bleak prospects. But he was truly almost broke, the food in his cupboard was running low, and the Studebaker's gas tank was on empty. With Sam Miller's permission, he'd parked the car on Main Street in front of the store with a
FOR SALE
sign on the windshield asking one hundred dollars, but there was no interest so far. With no cash for gas, he'd taken to walking to Mesilla to see Beth.

He found temporary work for a week unloading railroad freight cars at a warehouse from midnight to eight in the morning when an extra hand was needed. After his last shift, he walked home exhausted to a cold, dark house, but with the very good feeling of cash wages in his pocket and a grocery list in his head. Sadly, the warehouse boss had no more work for him the next week.

He turned onto Griggs Avenue to see smoke curling from the kitchen chimney of his house and lamplight shining in the window. He figured Boone Mitchell had returned to claim the suitcase he'd left behind. Since his visit, Matt had gotten several letters from Boone. In the last one, he wrote that several possible jobs hadn't panned out. Work was scarce and the competition fierce. He was on his way to San Francisco, where a ferry company owned by the railroad was hiring. If that fell through, he wasn't sure where he'd go next.

Just yesterday, Matt had received a note from Peggy wondering if Boone had been in touch. She hadn't heard from him for three weeks. Matt smiled. If Boone was still unemployed and back in Las Cruces, it wasn't all bad. At least Peggy could stop worrying about him.

Matt bounded up the front step, opened the door, called out, and got no response. Inside, the man at the kitchen table wasn't Boone. He was maybe thirty, thin, with an angular face, curly dark hair, a crooked mouth, and a long scar below his cheekbone.

The smile on Matt's face froze. “Who in the hell are you?” he demanded. On the table in front of the man were Matt's last can of sardines and a jar of pickled beets, both empty. In the man's hand was a cup of steaming-hot coffee from the pot boiling on the stove.

The man put the cup down, pushed back from the table, and stood, showing empty hands. “Easy there, fella. I'll pay you for the food I ate. Boone told me to come fetch his suitcase; that's all. But I got hungry waiting on you. You must be Matt. Fred Tyler's the name. I didn't mean to give you a fright.”

“You startled me; that's all.”

Tyler smiled. “Anybody would be troubled, finding a stranger in their home, unexpected and all. Coffee's hot and fresh. I'll pay you a nickel for my cup of Arbuckle's as well, as long as I get a refill. Mind if I sit back down?”

Matt shucked his coat. “Go ahead.”

Tyler eased into his chair. “It's mighty kind of you not to kick me out.”

“I haven't decided not to yet.” Matt went to the stove, got coffee, and turned to find Tyler pointing a pistol at him. He froze, with both hands on the cup to keep from dropping it.

“Best you do as you're told; otherwise, I'll shoot you dead.” Tyler didn't sound friendly anymore. “Walk on over here and empty your pockets.”

Matt put the coffee cup down on the table and spilled his week's wages of nineteen dollars and fifty cents on the table in front of Tyler.

“Where's the rest of your money?”

Matt nodded at the empty coffee tin on top of the cupboard.

“Get it.”

The barrel of Tyler's six-shooter followed Matt to the cupboard and back. Matt pushed the tin across the table, and when Tyler reached for it with his free hand, Matt threw his hot coffee in Tyler's face. Tyler yelled and dropped the pistol, both hands flying to his eyes. Matt picked up the fork Tyler had used to eat
his
sardines and stabbed him in the arm. Tyler yelped, dropped his hands, and blindly started searching for the pistol, but before he could snare it, Matt slammed Tyler's head against the table as hard as he could. Then he picked up a frying pan from the kitchen counter and hit Tyler again for good measure. Tyler went limp, his head on the table, blood squirting from his shattered nose.

Matt grabbed the pistol, threw open the front door, and yelled for Nestor to come and help. He arrived within a few minutes, took one look at Tyler unconscious and bleeding, and turned to Matt.

“What happened, Mateo?” he asked.

“He tried to rob and kill me,” Matt explained, the pistol shaky in his hand.

“Get me some rope,” Nestor said.

Matt fetched a lasso from his bedroom. Nestor hog-tied Tyler and dumped him on the floor. “He's not going anywhere.”

“
Gracias.
”

“
De nada.
” Nestor took the pistol from Matt's hand and put it on the table. “I get the sheriff, okay?”

“
Sí.
” Matt went through the pockets of the winter coat Tyler had draped over a kitchen chair. It looked exactly like the one Boone had worn. In a pocket he found Boone's hip flask and an unsent letter to Peggy telling her that he had run out of luck and money and was returning to Las Cruces.

Matt searched Tyler's pockets. In his wallet he found Boone's union card from his job at the El Paso rail yards and a piece of paper in Boone's handwriting with Matt's name and address. There was also an expired Ohio driver's license issued to Byron Boyd. The physical description on the license didn't match Fred Tyler at all.

Matt put the wallet and its contents on the kitchen table along with the pistol, whiskey flask, and Boone's letter to Peggy. He stared glumly at the evidence and thought that no matter who Fred Tyler really was, he'd mostly likely murdered Boone. The notion of telling Peggy turned his stomach. He couldn't do it unless he was absolutely sure.

***

T
he investigation of the crime on Griggs Avenue fell to Deputy Sheriff Máximo Castaneda, known to all as Moe. A slow-moving, thorough man, Moe stood five foot six, carried two hundred fifty pounds on his bearlike frame, and had been known to fell rowdy drunks with one thunderous punch to the solar plexus. Drunks were his specialty, not suspected felons, so Moe took extra care to get all the facts straight. An hour after careful questioning and evidence gathering, Moe concluded that Matthew Kerney had acted within his right to protect his life and property and hauled a whimpering Fred Tyler off to jail.

The next morning the local newspaper ran the following headline and story:

MAN FOILS ATTEMPTED ROBBERY

Early yesterday, Matthew Kerney of Griggs Ave. risked life and limb to protect himself from an armed intruder he found lurking in his home. With only a kitchen fork and a strong right arm Mr. Kerney severely wounded a transient named Mr. Fred Tyler who held the young man at gunpoint demanding money. Deputy Castaneda said to this reporter that the suspect, who is currently residing in jail awaiting his court appearance, should be grateful he wasn't killed by his intended victim. Inmate Tyler suffered several hard blows to his head, a stab wound to his arm, and burns to his face. Mr. Kerney sustained no injuries. His commendable bravery should be applauded by all law-abiding citizens who have occasion to greet him on the streets of our fair city.

That afternoon at the hacienda, Beth received him at the front door with a hug. “My brave hero.”

Matt blushed. “Don't say that.”

She pulled him inside and closed the door against the cold. “And why not? I'm about to send the newspaper clipping of your heroic act to Daddy, who has been recently advised by Uncle Gus that you are my beau. Daddy has written back demanding to know your pedigree. He can be such an old stick-in-the-mud sometimes. Even Uncle Gus agrees.”

“Well, if your father knows I'm your beau, I guess that makes it official.”

Beth kissed him. “
That
makes it official. Now, come with me to the library. Uncle Gus wants a full report. And so do I.”

***

M
att's newfound reputation as an upstanding, commendable citizen brought him work. Tom Farnum, the warehouse foreman for Railway Express Agency who'd hired him temporarily, was so impressed by the newspaper account of Matt's heroics that he offered him a job as an on-call worker to fill in for absent or sick employees on any of the three shifts. Some weeks Matt worked sixty hours; some weeks he worked ten hours; some none at all. But over the course of a month, he averaged enough wages to pay his bills, keep gas in the Studebaker, and get the electricity and phone turned back on at the house. He also gained ten pounds of muscle from loading and unloading freight cars and carried a special deputy sheriff commission because of the valuables and cash that were transported by rail.

On the job, Matt got to know the railroad cops who worked the line from Texas to California. He told them what had happened with Fred Tyler and his suspicion that Boone had met with foul play. He gave them copies of Deputy Castaneda's official report and asked them to ask around about Boone when they had a chance. Because Boone was a union brother and a railroad man, the cops took Matt's request seriously.

While he waited, hoping the railroad bulls would learn something, Peggy sent him frantic notes every week asking of word from Boone. Matt always wrote back that he hadn't heard from him and telling her not to worry; Boone could take care of himself. It pained him to do it, but without proof his friend was dead, suspicion was one thing and fact another.

When he wasn't working or sleeping, he spent as much time as he could with Beth, who continued to improve with each passing day, so much so, she'd enrolled in a chemistry course at the college, a prerequisite for medical school. Her course work coupled with Matt's erratic work schedule meant that their time together was less spur-of-the-moment but still intensely passionate. It proved impossible for them to keep their hands off each other. They'd started talking about trying to find ways to complete their degrees in a world of crumbling expectations. The likelihood that they'd be unable to finish college anytime soon was depressing.