Free Backlands by Michael McGarrity

warned, there’s no liquor to be found on my spread. I don’t allow it. A man with a big thirst has a far piece to go for a drink, and when he leaves he isn’t welcomed back.”
    Vernon considered his options. The headaches, sweats, and shakes were gone and he felt better than he had in years. Plus, he’d been told in Las Cruces that Patrick had one of the best outfits on the Tularosa, and he wanted to see it for himself.
    Vernon put the folding money in his pocket. “I’ll trail along,”
    â€œI’ll be back from town by early afternoon,” Patrick said as he mounted his pony. “Be ready then.”
    â€œYou sure go to town more than any other country folk I know,” Vernon said with a friendly smile.
    Patrick stared him down. “Putting your nose into other folks’ business will get you sent down the road in a hurry,” he snapped. “You get my drift, Squirrel?”
    Vernon blinked and backtracked. “I didn’t mean nothing by it. But I’d appreciate it if you didn’t call me Squirrel anymore.”
    Patrick nodded. “Fair enough. See you after noon.”
    â€œI’ll be ready,” Vernon replied. He watched Patrick ride away, thinking the man sure seemed to have more to hide than a go-by name and a prison record. It made Vernon all the more curious about him.
    ***
    S tarted back in the territorial days by Patrick’s father, John Kerney, and his partner, Cal Doran, the Double K was the oldest and most remote outfit on the east side of the San Andres Mountains. It was twenty miles to the nearest state road and about the same distance to Patrick’s closest neighbor. The ranch boundaries encompassed high-country meadows and foothill pastures that spread onto the Tularosa Basin. The basin, an expanse that filled the eye, stretched beyond blindingly brilliant sand dunes to the south and dangerous, ink-black malpais to the north. Most days the basin shimmered under crystal-clear skies, with mountains looming and lurking in all directions.
    Tucked into a shelf along the hillside of a meandering valley that dipped and rolled into soft foothills, the ranch headquarters was watered by a spring-fed pond and an intermittent stream that coursed to the basin and disappeared underground. The ranch house faced east, with a view of Sierra Blanca Peak towering over the Mescalero Apache Reservation in the forested uplift of the Sacramento Mountains forty miles distant. Most mornings brought brilliant sunrises that flung rainbow colors over the alkali flats bordering the Double K. Windbreaks and stands of cottonwood trees planted in the early days of the ranch gave it an inviting, comfortable feel, in stark contrast to the harsh desert landscape, ravaged by years of overgrazing and perpetual cycles of punishing drought.
    Because of the location, the ranch had no electricity or indoor plumbing, telephone service was years away, and although the government promised rural free mail delivery, it was spotty at best, given frequent washouts, rockslides, bad weather, and the breakdowns of the mail car.
    Every backcountry rancher with a motorcar or truck fastened cans of gasoline, oil, and water to their vehicles’ running boards as a precaution against inevitable disasters. Patrick knew the automobile had come west to stay but refused to own one until the roads were safer and filling stations more numerous. Until then, a horse and wagon were much more reliable in the unforgiving, treacherous mountains and desert of southern New Mexico.
    Patrick’s weekly trip to Engle was the only consistent way to stay in touch with Emma. Sometimes she sent a note to his post office box, but most times not. When he didn’t hear from her for a spell, he’d call her house from the Engle train station or send a telegraph wire asking about her health. She sounded chipper and fine when they talked, and she sent short, reassuring replies to his inquiries, but