Free Hard Country by Michael McGarrity Page B

cattle drive that brought Kerney from Texas to the Tularosa, Cal Doran had become a good companion on the trail, and over the past year their friendship had deepened.
    “Haven’t seen you since I quit Pat Coghlan,” Kerney said as Doran pulled up and dismounted.
    “I quit him myself soon after. I can’t abide a man who expects loyalty without earning it.” A rangy man with intelligent and watchful eyes, Cal took off his gloves, slapped some dust from his chaps, and looked over Kerney’s shoulder. “Who’s the woman standing at the door inside the house?”
    “Mrs. Jewel Good, the rancher’s wife, I imagine,” Kerney answered. “She seems to think she needs to keep an eye on me. Dick Turknet is working for Coghlan now.”
    “Now, that’s disturbing news,” Doran replied with a rueful smile. He’d shaved off his mustache since last Kerney saw him and now looked even more boyish. “I heard that Charlie Gambel is riding with Dick and the cousins,” he added. “That’s a group of compañeros to stay shy of.”
    “Too late for me,” Kerney replied. “I met up with those bright lads gone bad earlier today. Charlie promised to see me again real soon.”
    Cal laughed. “So Charlie’s a hard case, is he?”
    “He’d have me believe so,” Kerney replied. “What brings you up the canyon? Looking for work?”
    “Nope,” Cal said. “I’ve got something for you.” He took an envelope from his shirt pocket and handed it to Kerney. “A mule skinner down in El Paso was asking around about you. When I allowed I might know you, he gave me this to pass along.”
    Kerney’s name on the grease-stained envelope was misspelled and barely legible. “What else did he say?”
    “Said this fellow in a mining camp up north was asking anyone heading south if they knew you.”
    Soon after arriving on the Tularosa, Kerney had sent a letter to Ida’s shopkeeper brother in Dodge City with money to settle the account for the care of his son. He’d also enclosed a letter to Ida asking that it be forwarded if her whereabouts were known.
    Quickly he tore open the envelope and read the note:
Ida dead eight weks ago come Sunday. I cain’t care your boy no more myself. Come get him or I give him away to someone who can.
Virgil Peters
     
     
    Kerney’s expression hardened. “Did he say where he met this man?”
    “Arroyo Hondo, north of Taos,” Cal replied. “You look like something bit down on you terrible.”
    “I need to get up there pronto.” Kerney stepped off hurriedly toward the corral.
    Cal kept pace. “Mind telling me why?”
    Kerney handed Doran the letter as he got his saddle and entered the corral.
    Cal read it quickly and gave it back. “How old is the boy?”
    “Coming on four years.” Kerney heaved the saddle over his horse’s back and tightened the girth strap. “His name is Patrick.”
    “What in blazes are you gonna do with a four-year-old boy?”
    “Be his pa, which I haven’t been for one damn day of his wretched life so far.”
    “That’s a heavy load for a hired hand on horseback,” Cal said. “You’re going to need some considerable help to raise up that pup.”
    “If I don’t go get him, then I’m the sorriest man who ever forked a horse.” Kerney led his mount out of the corral, looped the reins loosely over a railing, and turned for the barn. “I’ll get my gear and bedroll.”
    “Better hold up there, horse,” Cal said with a nod at the ranch house. A woman came toward them at a hurried pace. “Seems your leaving has raised some curiosity. Is that rancher Good’s wife?”
    “It is.” Kerney touched the brim of his hat when she drew near. “Ma’am.”
    “Where are you going?” she demanded indignantly, dismissing Cal Doran with a stern look.
    “Mrs. Good,” Kerney said. “I don’t like leaving you short, but I need to draw my pay and be on my way.”
    “Draw your pay?” Jewel Good snapped. “You know my husband’s rule. No wages paid until the end of the