Free Backlands by Michael McGarrity Page A

without seeing her face-to-face, Patrick continued to worry about her.
    This week a letter from Emma awaited him at the post office. She wrote that spring school recess started in two weeks and they would be arriving in Engle on the Friday evening train the day school got out. Patrick mailed back a note that he’d be waiting for them at the station, turned, and bumped into Albert Jennings on his way out the door.
    â€œCan’t say I’m glad to see you,” Al said dourly. Big-boned, with a jovial round face that matched his personality, Al was well liked by all his neighbors, except for Fermin Lucero, the sheep rancher who had sold out to Patrick. Al’s blue eyes and curly light brown hair concealed from strangers his Hispanic blood, a heritage from a grandparent on his mother’s side.
    â€œThat ain’t very neighborly of you,” Patrick said with a grin. Al owned a ranch on the west side of the San Andres, right next to the two sections that now belonged to Patrick.
    â€œI guess it ain’t,” Al said with a smile. “How did you find out before me that Lucero wanted to sell?”
    â€œYou tried to drive that old boy and his sheep off his property so many times, he was hell-bent not to sell to you,” Patrick replied. “So he came to me.”
    Al shook his head. “I should have known.”
    â€œThat’s what I mean about you not being neighborly, getting Fermin all riled up at you like that.”
    Al threw back his head, laughed, and slapped Patrick on the shoulder. “I’m about as neighborly as you are when it comes to sheep. Can’t stand the critters. Let me buy you a meal and talk you into selling me that land. Hell, it’s across the mountain and a far piece from your boundary. Too damn inconvenient for you to own, I’d say.”
    Patrick nodded in agreement, but only about the offer of a free meal. A sign outside the hotel advertised fresh eggs on the menu and the cook made a decent cup of coffee. “I’ll let you feed me,” he said, “but don’t expect anything to come of it other than you being two bits poorer. I’m not selling.”
    Al grinned as he stepped off in the direction of the hotel. “That figures. Leastways, I’m hoping you’ll tell me what you plan to do with that pasture. I’ve never known you to buy land for no purpose whatsoever.”
    â€œIt’s an insurance policy.”
    Al paused in front the general store. “Against what?”
    â€œLook up and down the street,” Patrick said. “What do you see?”
    â€œEngle,” Al replied, not bothering to look.
    â€œRootin’-tootin’ Engle,” Patrick said. “Right?”
    Al paused and looked around. A barbershop, a saloon, and a dry goods store had closed in the last year, and the buildings remained empty. “Well, it ain’t as rip-roaring as it once was back in the boom days when they were building the dam; I’ll give you that.”
    â€œSomeday when roads and cars replace trains, it’s gonna dry up and blow away,” Patrick predicted as he moved toward the hotel.
    â€œMaybe so, but what does that have to do with Lucero’s pasture?”
    â€œHis sheep eroded the soil but didn’t kill all the grass. I’m gonna fence it, rest it, sow seed in some places, bring the grasses back, put in a well, and keep live water running in the springs. Next time a bad drought hits, I plan to put my stock on it and maybe keep the Double K from going under.”
    â€œYou’ve got some good high-country meadows to graze cattle on in dry times,” Al countered.
    Patrick nodded. “So do you. Think there’s enough browse to get you through a two- or three-year drought?”
    Al shrugged as he stepped into the hotel dining room. “That’s doubtful. How long you figure it will take to green up enough to use?”
    â€œThree to five years,” Patrick