Backlands (37 page)

Matt threw his bag to the ground and climbed out of his seat. “Where's the camp?”

Franklin pointed at the back side of the mountains. “Up there, where I can't land. They'll send someone down to get you after I fly overhead and wiggle my wings at them to let them know you're here.”

“How long will that take?”

“Not long.” Franklin threw a half salute, turned his plane around, taxied, and took off.

Matt sat on a rock on the edge of the airstrip and watched as the plane became a speck in the sky, the sound of the engine fading to a distant buzz. Telltale cigarette butts ground into the dirt attested to the fact that he was not the first passenger to be kept waiting for transportation. But he wasn't a bit impatient. Instead, he used the time reliving his plane ride, trying to remember all that he'd seen from the sky. He'd be flying in Captain Franklin's Curtiss Falcon a whole lot more in the coming weeks, and the prospect pleased him. What a way to see the world.

An hour passed before a horseman trailing a saddled pony came into view. Matt grabbed his gear and walked briskly to meet his guide, who turned out to be none other than Nestor Lucero.

“Mateo, is that you?” Nestor asked.

“My old friend.” Smiling, Matt took the reins to the saddle pony from Nestor's hand. “Where have you been hiding?”

Nestor shrugged. “Working, not hiding, amigo. Come, we must hurry for supper.”

On the ride to the camp, Matt learned that Guadalupe had died two winters ago and that Nestor and his two boys, Roberto and Felipe, all had jobs with the Forest Service at different CCC camps. Both sons were now supervisors of roads and trail crews.

“This is my third camp,” Nestor said proudly. “I teach how to cut wood, log trees, build fences, and I make all the repairs for the camp. Most of the boys here are from faraway cities, some from Texas. Only a few are from here.”

“Well, they've got a good boss in you,” Matt said.

Nestor smiled. “I even teach some of them to speak a little Spanish.”

Matt fished out thirty dollars and handed it to Nestor. “I owe you this. How come you left the ranch in such a hurry?”

Nestor rubbed the bills between his fingers before pocketing the windfall. “Your father, he didn't want us to go, but Guadalupe was not happy there away from her grandchildren.”

“My Pa didn't drive you away?”

Nestor shook his head. “No, he said he'd get help, but I didn't think he would. He liked to be alone, I think. He was very sure he would always be a cripple. Is he still alive?”

“
Sí,
and doing better. I'd always thought he'd bullied the two of you into leaving.”

“No, it was Guadalupe's wish that we leave. She was too lonely for her family and the grandchildren.” Nestor shrugged. “Sometimes I think she knew she would not have a lot of time to be with them. Much like your
madre
knew.”

Matt nodded in agreement.

“I left a message with the lawyer Lipscomb to tell you we were leaving the ranch,” Nestor added. “Did you get it?”

“You spoke to Lipscomb personally?” Matt asked.

“No, I told a boy in his office. He said he would write it down and give it to Lipscomb.”

“I never got the message, but no harm done,” Matt said.

Nestor smiled with relief. “
Bueno.
Have you come to inspect the camp?”

“
Sí.
”

“You will find all is good here.”

“I hope so,” Matt replied, eager to see Forest Service Camp FS-34, also known as Beaverhead.

***

H
ubert Roddy had given Matt a mound of paperwork to study in preparation for his temporary position as a camp inspector. As a result, Matt learned that much had changed since the early days of the tent camps. Now there were wooden barracks that could be dismantled and moved as needed when camps closed and new ones opened. No longer were the cooks and supervisors soldiers. Only the officers who ran the show were military; the rest were local craftsmen, tradesmen, and supervisors. Most of the cooks were ex-military or had been trained by the army. Doctors and dentists rode the circuit from camp to camp to keep the boys healthy and treat the sick. Clergymen held services and preached moral values, and the teachers taught reading, writing, and arithmetic to students eager to improve themselves.

In some camps furniture making, carpentry, and cabinetmaking were taught by local craftsmen. Other camps offered typing classes, surveying courses, animal husbandry skills, and blacksmithing, depending on the skills of the staff.

All the camps were laid out in a precise, military order, with all the buildings arranged according to a prescribed plan. The placement of the barracks, the mess hall, the recreation center, the hospital, the administration building, and the classrooms and supervisors' quarters never varied from camp to camp.

From a distance Matt could tell that Beaverhead Camp had prepared in advance for his inspection. All the pathways were lined with rocks freshly painted white. Not a piece of litter or junk was in sight. In the middle of the assembly field, Old Glory fluttered at the top of a flagpole. Having read the last inspection report, Matt knew that a nearby field was to have been cleared and made into a baseball diamond. Now finished, the field boasted sturdy bleachers behind home plate, a scoreboard in center field, and dugouts for visiting and home teams.

Nestor led him past a long line of unusually quiet enrollees waiting outside the mess hall for the supper bell to ring and drew rein at the administration building. All the camp trucks were parked out front in a neat row. Behind the building, a dirt road ran through a lovely grove of pruned, old-growth pine trees and down a series of switchbacks to the canyon below.

Nestor stopped in front of the camp commander's door just as it opened to reveal First Lieutenant Marcel Gustav Dobak, a middle-aged reserve ordnance officer from Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, on his third tour with the CCC.

“You'll see, Mateo,” Nestor predicted as Matt dismounted. “Good camp, no problems, I promise.”

M
att's inspection of the Beaverhead Camp proved Nestor Lucero right. Everything was in order except for a few misfiled documents, some missing automotive parts and supplies, and shortages in clothing for new enrollees due to a delay in shipping. Matt flew away in Captain Cornelius Franklin's biplane wondering if he'd really done a good job of the inspection or been bamboozled for being the greenhorn he was. Either way, it had certainly been exhausting.

Back at the Fort Bliss Forest Service offices, he debriefed Hubert Roddy, who skimmed Matt's paperwork, pronounced it satisfactory, and gave him hints on language to use in the narrative report. Through his open office door, he pointed at a vacant desk and told Matt to get to work on it pronto. Late that afternoon, Matt dropped his report on Roddy's desk; Roddy shooed him out and read it behind closed doors while Matt dawdled and waited.

Roddy finally emerged hat in hand, in a hurry to get somewhere, and said, “Now write a summary and leave it on my desk.”

“Was it okay?” Matt asked.

“You did a good job,” Roddy answered. “But I gave you an easy one. Tomorrow morning you'll fly out to inspect a new camp near Mimbres. Captain Franklin will pick you up at the BOQ. This next one won't be so easy.”

He was gone before Matt could ask any questions.

***

W
hen Matt and Cornelius Franklin flew over the Mimbres Camp, two hundred enrollees were lined up on both sides of the airstrip waiting to greet them. On landing, they were met by a young marine officer, Lieutenant Morrison, who said he'd delayed sending the work details out because most of the boys had never seen an airplane up close. He figured it would be a big boost for morale since many of them were from back East and already homesick.

Matt thought it was a smart thing to do. He watched as Franklin talked about his aircraft to the wide-eyed boys clustered around the Curtiss Falcon. When all their questions were answered, they were ordered onto waiting trucks and rode off to their work assignments laughing and joking.

Because it was a new camp and had been operating for less than six weeks, Matt's visit was an initial inspection, and as such it had been announced to the staff in advance. He'd expected to find everything still in disarray. Instead, the camp appeared shipshape. Four barracks, a bathhouse, latrine, mess hall, infirmary, recreation hall, supply building, and several garages comprised the core camp buildings. There was a general assembly area in front of the administrative headquarters, which also contained two private rooms for guests. After settling in, Matt and Captain Franklin, who was spending the night, toured the buildings and grounds with Morrison. The lieutenant was on his first CCC camp posting and eager to do a good job of it. Over coffee in the mess hall, Matt gave him a thick folder of materials Roddy had prepared on side camps he wanted set up and operating as soon as possible. Cornelius Franklin consulted a map, located the sites, and offered to take the lieutenant up in the Curtiss Falcon and fly him over the sites. Morrison grinned in delight at the offer, and Matt was soon abandoned in the mess hall, listening to the sound of the biplane taking off from the airstrip.

The camp cook, an older man with a chipped front tooth, cauliflower ears, and a pair of boxing gloves tattooed on his right forearm, refilled his coffee cup.

He put the pot down and sat. “I ain't seen you inspecting before.”

“I'm filling in,” Matt replied. “Have you worked at other Forest Service camps?”

The cook nodded. “I was at the Mayhill camp over by Cloudcroft for two years. Name's Vic Suter. The army taught me how to cook. I boxed some in the service, won the regimental title twice. I teach the boys the sport that wants to learn.”

“I bet they enjoy that. Why did you leave Mayhill?”

Suter hesitated, then shrugged. “It was time to move on. Here I get to do things my way in the kitchen.”

“Isn't that the way it's supposed to be at all the camps?”

“Supposed to be is right,” Suter allowed.

“But not at Mayhill,” Matt ventured.

Suter pushed back his chair and stood. “Forget I said anything. I ain't there anymore, so it's none of my business.”

“If you've got a complaint, I'd like to hear it,” Matt prompted.

Suter waved the coffeepot at Matt's empty cup. “Nah, I ain't no rat. You want more java?”

“No, thanks. Are you sure you don't have something to tell me?”

“I got work to do in the kitchen. Steaks are on the dinner menu, special for you tonight. The boys sure do pack away the beef.”

“Sounds great,” Matt replied, wondering if he'd be eating 7-Bar-K beef at mealtime.

Vic scooped up Matt's coffee cup and returned to his kitchen, where the boys on KP were busy clanking pots and pans and razzing each other in loud voices. Vic had something on his mind about the Mayhill camp, that was for certain, but prying it out of him wouldn't be easy. Matt decided to make another attempt to get the cook to open up before he finished his inspection.

After Lieutenant Morrison returned from his aerial survey of side camp locations, Matt discovered why Roddy had told him the inspection wouldn't be easy. The problems at the camp had nothing to do with infractions and everything to do with getting a new camp with a novice commander fully operational. For two days, Matt was closeted with Morrison. They went over hiring practices for local tradesmen, wage and salary rates for employees, requisitions for bedsheets, blankets, and towels that had yet to arrive.

Morrison wanted to know why telephone service to the camp had been delayed. When would the three trucks he was short arrive? Did Matt know when he'd get a teacher assigned to the camp? Where was the medical equipment Morrison needed for the dispensary?

Matt left Mimbres with a huge list to pass on to Roddy. On a stopover in Tucson to refuel the plane, Matt telephoned Roddy and told him of Morrison's most pressing needs.

“I'll get on it,” Roddy said. “Anything else?”

“You were right about it being tougher,” Matt said. “But I wouldn't worry about Morrison. He'll do a good job.”

“I figured as much.”

Back in the air, Matt gawked at sprawling mountain ranges that seemed to stretch forever before tumbling into the desert. He did a final inspection to close one camp, which was a paperwork nightmare of endless forms, certifications, inventories, and shipping documents, including a camp disposition report that detailed every item to be salvaged. It took two extra days to finish, and the demolition crews were dismantling the buildings around Matt's head the day he left.

By the start of his fourth inspection, at a remote camp he reached on horseback, Matt was feeling almost like an old hand. Deep in the mountains east of Phoenix, the camp sat at the head of a serpentine canyon. Most of the staff and enrollees had been there for more than a year working on a dam and flood-control project designed to protect downstream settlements. It was a major undertaking, and the men and boys doing it were rightly proud of their work.

When he finished, he took the train from Phoenix to El Paso, and it was almost as much fun as soaring in an army biplane. He worked on his reports as he traveled, pausing frequently to rubberneck at the vast stretches of open range, the colorful desert landscapes, and the small railroad towns they passed through. Determined to have his paperwork finished before the journey ended, Matt continued to work at night in his sleeping compartment. He reached Fort Bliss well after dark and, bleary-eyed, checked into a room at the BOQ.

After breakfast the next morning, he walked to the Forest Service office only to discover that Roddy was at a CCC meeting in Albuquerque and out for the day. Matt dropped his reports on Roddy's desk, hitched a ride into town, and went shopping for a new pair of boots and a present for Anna Lynn. At a shop that sold handmade boots, he bought a sturdy pair that fit just right at a fair price. In a nearby Indian jewelry store, he picked out a silver-and-turquoise bracelet for Anna Lynn and had the clerk gift wrap it. Then he stopped at a Mexican cantina within sight of the Hotel Paso del Norte and had enchiladas smothered in green chili and a cold beer. As he pushed back from the table, he decided he needed to entice Anna Lynn to go on another getaway with him, maybe to Albuquerque this time.

He woke from a nap at the BOQ and went for a drink at the Officers' Club. It was after duty hours and Cornelius Franklin was at the bar.

He waved Matt over and asked, “When's our next trip?”

“There isn't one. I head home tomorrow.”

“Pity, I've enjoyed your company. Ever think about joining up? The army could use a man like you.” He waved the bartender over and ordered a beer for Matt.

“Do they offer commissions to cattlemen?” Matt asked.

Cornelius laughed. “No, but maybe we should. It might improve the quality of meals in our mess halls. However, we do make officers out of veterinarians. The one here on post even outranks me. I think he's about a hundred years old.”

The door opened and Roddy stepped over to the bar. “I've been looking for you.” He eyed Matt's full beer glass. “I didn't know you drank.”

“I started when I went to work for you,” Matt replied, lifting the glass to his lips.

Roddy shook his head in dismay at the wisecrack, plunked money on the bar, and ordered a round. “What's this note you left me about Mayhill?”

“The cook at Mimbres wanted to tell me that something fishy was going on at the Mayhill Camp but just couldn't bring himself to do it. He gave some powerful hints, though.”

“About what?”

Matt shrugged. “The conversation didn't get that far.”

“Who's the cook?”

“Vic Suter. He used to be at Mayhill.”

Roddy nodded. “I know Vic; he's a good man. I pulled the Mayhill inspection reports and there's nothing in the file indicating anything unusual going on there that warrants an investigation.”

“So everything is copacetic,” Matt ventured before draining his glass.

Roddy looked doubtful. “Vic was happy at Mayhill. He once said he planned to stay there for as long as they'd have him. So I think something might be up. A surprise inspection is in order. Will you do it?”

“Of course he will,” Cornelius said.

Roddy raised an eyebrow at Matt. “Well?”

“Okay.”

“Good. I had my clerk deliver the prior inspection reports to your room. Go through them tonight. In the morning we'll meet and put a plan together. Figure on three days at the camp and a day back here to debrief.”

“If I uncover a wrongdoer, what do you want me to do?”

“Fire his ass and kick him out of the camp.”

Cornelius drained his glass and stood. “Shall we say oh eight thirty hours at the airfield?”

“He'll be there,” Roddy said.

“Excuse me, but when did you guys decide to start talking for me?” Matt inquired. It got a guffaw from both men.

***

F
rom the material Roddy supplied, Matt knew in advance of his arrival that Juan Ignacio's stepfather, Porter Knox, was the supervisor of the Mayhill Camp woodworking shop. Enrollees in Porter's classes made furniture and cabinets for WPA public building projects throughout the state. It was a highly touted CCC enterprise that had earned national recognition from Washington as a model for teaching young men a skilled vocational craft.

Past inspectors had given the camp the highest marks possible for the condition of the buildings and grounds, and Matt understood why as soon as he saw it. The camp was nestled in a slender valley of the Sacramento Mountains surrounded by an old-growth pine forest. A wide, welcoming porch with sturdy chairs had been added along the front of the otherwise plain, rectangular administration building. His rooms in the nearby separate guest quarters contained finely crafted pine furnishings with hand-chiseled motifs. On the wall were attractive landscape paintings done by enrollees. Throughout the grounds, hand-carved signs on posts identified each building. Across a grassy field stood a huge barn, with a large corral and sturdy hay shed out back. Closer to the barracks but set apart was Porter Knox's woodworking shop and an adjacent lumberyard filled with sorted and stacked milled and rough lumber.

Max Simmons, the supervisor who greeted Matt and showed him to his quarters, was a little nonplussed about the surprise visit. It was the first Saturday after payday and the camp was mostly empty of staff and enrollees. Except for the cook, Simmons was the lone employee on duty.

“This is the first time anyone has flown in here,” Simmons said nervously as he walked at Matt's side around the compound. “That army plane sure had me looking skyward. Our camp commander, Lieutenant Gossing, and the other supervisors are gone for the weekend. We've got a telephone. I can call and get them back.”

Matt smiled reassuringly. “There's no need for that. I reckon the two of us can get through today without any problems at all. Tell me what you do.”

“I'm the garage and vehicle foreman. I keep the vehicles running and supervise transportation to the work sites and side camps.”

“Let's start in the mess hall first. I understand you've got a new cook.”

Simmons pointed at the gravel path to the mess hall. “Yeah, our old one left to go to a new camp.”

On the baseball field, several guys were in the outfield snagging fly balls hit by a burly fellow at home plate. They were yelling back and forth to each other in thick East Coast accents. Through the open door and windows of the recreation building Matt could hear the sound of a pool game, the chatter of some men playing cards, and the strumming of a guitar. In the mess hall kitchen, Simmons introduced Matt to Eddie Nelson, the new cook, a skinny man with a pointed chin and acne scars on his cheeks.

“Jeez, am I in trouble?” Nelson asked. “I ain't been inspected before.”