TAKING STOCK
Raquel had been home two weeks. It had been, as luck would have it, a
busy time from the minute of Dad’s going. Jami had driven Mr. Daniels
and Jimmy into town and had come roaring back within an hour and a half
at nearly sixty miles an hour, so that even with the handicap of the
arroyo to cross he had to brake the Pathfinder down with a skidding of
tires that brought Russell and Raquel running from the corrals.
Jami, heady with the freedom of the car, swung carelessly out and,
without a backward glance at the steaming radiator, strode off toward
the bunkhouse.
Raquel went quickly up to the car. The engine was fairly smoking. The
tires were hot and showed the wear of the sudden braking down and
skidding. The back tires were gouged with bad stone bruises, and as she
and Russell stood there suddenly one went flat. It had been perforated
by a sharp rock.
Raquel was furious. She followed quickly down towards the bunkhouse.
“Jami,” she called softly, “Jami. Come here a minute, will you?” And to
Russell, “You go on in and take Mom these packages, will you, Russ?”
“Jami,” as he came up sheepishly, sensing something wrong, “do you think
that’s the way to treat property, the minute Dad’s back is turned? Look
at the radiator. Not a drop left in it. And on a winter’s day at that.
Look at the tires. Six months’ wear taken out of them so you can ’ride
’em, cowboy, ride ’em.”
“Engine smoking, rear tire flat, got to have a shoe. No need in it. Now,
Jami,” looking at him severely, “it isn’t as though you hadn’t been
through this before, and been warned and respectfully requested.”
Which was all too true. Jami, crestfallen, dejectedly started to tote
water for the engine now that it was too late.
Jami was a good mechanic, but he simply couldn’t be trusted to run the
car, Raquel thought, a bit discouraged. And there was no one else but
herself now to drive.
When she went down with Russ to inspect the garage she found that the
lavish supply of oils which had been there when she left for school was
almost gone. A couple of spare tires were also missing.
Raquel was aghast. “Why, Russ, where--what’s happened to the supply
shop?”
“Well, ma’am, you know how the old man is. Every one comes along, ocean
to ocean tin-tourer, shorthorn sports, grub-line riders, hunters,
politicians, friends, give ’em what they want. Sure, stranger, help
yourself. An’ then after they’ve filled up on our gas an’ your ma’s
cookin’ they’re off. An’ when the ladies have cold-creamed the dust of
Los Ranchos off their faces and the hombres have wiped it off their
boots, that’s the last of us.”
Raquel could not help but laugh at Russell’s rage. “But, Russ, you ought
not to fuss that way about strangers eating here. Where else would they
eat within fifteen or twenty miles?”
“Well, you Westerners is open-handed, but I’m a Yankee, come from
Kansas, an’ we don’t believe in scatterin’. Let ’em tank up before they
come.”
“Well, we’re going to save every penny from now on, and we ship a
thousand head March first, remember, or not later than the seventh.”
“We’ll need it,” said Russ. “So little seed this year, an’ the quail et
up a lot.... I’ve got Angel and Pancho going over all the leather on the
place this week, and Jami makin’ the rounds of the windmills. Catamounts
and coyotes been pretty bad this year, an’ that angora goat you set such
store by, Raquel, a mountain cat got her an’ her summer’s kids--le’s
see, last month it was.”
“Oh, Russ, she was such a beauty! What did you do with the pelts?”
“Well, the kids was sort o’ spoiled, but Angel made a right purty rug
for your ma’s sittin’ room o’ the old she. I got near enough lobo skins
for a new carriage robe for you, curin’ down back o’ the coolin’ house
now.”
They went down so that Raquel could see the thick, lustrous pelts,
tawny, with flecks of black.
“You know,” said Russ, “we been losin’ too many cattle this winter.” He
looked ominous.
“What do you mean, Russ? Wild animals?”
Russ nodded. “An’ more’n that, I’d guess. Last spring I made sure I
counted at least two hundred calves over on that plain yonder alone.
This fall I can’t see more’n half that. Coyotes didn’t get ’em all.”
Raquel laughed. “Why, there’s nobody in this country would rustle a calf
off Los Ranchos. Come on, Russ, I want to show you how I want the grove
cleaned up. If it’s goin’ to be a dry spring we’ll need the reservoir
there.”
The cottonwood grove down in the glen southeast of the house was an
oasis in a desert of grass, the heavy white trunks towering up against
the blue sky. In summer it was a green-lighted refuge from the
brilliance of the sun, and in the autumn a golden glory, as though the
leaves had been marvelously hammered out of beaten gold.
But now the grove was a welter of brushwood, old iron and ranch junk: an
old plow, an old buggy, an ancient cart with wooden wheels. And the
great reservoir in the center was filled with leaves and twigs. When the
rainy season was on, the tiny stream that ran through the glade from the
mountains behind it would fill the reservoir. There had been a time when
the boys used this tank as a swimming hole, to which the cattle did not
seem to object.
Raquel had in mind to pipe the overflow from the windmill tank at the
house down to the glen, and to rely on wind and rain to keep the
reservoir water fresh and renewed. She had been wanting to clean the
place out for several years, but while Dad spent lavishly on cars,
musical instruments and upkeep, he had little use for improvements that
were out of sight of the house.
The house itself had been newly whitewashed in the early fall and the
patio wall given a fresh layer of pink plaster, mixed from a pink silica
outcrop in the mountains back of the ranch. Everything else was in
excellent shape--pumps, windmills, sheds.
Mom had always tended the patio, a small velvet oasis, shut away from
desert winds by the pink wall, against which stood vivid hollyhocks. A
square of “onhealthy” grass, the boys considered it, because it was so
soft and fine; here, too, were beds of old-fashioned flowers, with
honeysuckle and bougainvillea hanging thick over the cloistered porches.
Mom had a _gracia_ in her fingers that made things grow, just as it made
bread rise, Raquel often thought, looking disgustedly at a sickly vine
of her own planting.
“But Raquel can sew beautiful. Her seams and hems’re so fine you can
hardly see ’em,” Mom would defend.
“But I can’t _make_ anything a-sewing, Mom! Look at the fit of this darn
dress!” They always seemed to turn out very queerly, it was true.
So after that Raquel bought what dresses she had in town. They hadn’t
been many, for she was only seven when Ole Hossfoot had brought her down
a tiny pair of woolies to wear over her ginghams, and before she was in
her teens she rode on the roundups always in her cowboy rig. It was so
that Jimmy was used to seeing her, like a slim boy, with clustering dark
hair, wearing a sombrero, a bright neckerchief, a leather jacket.
Raquel had ridden bareback at three, and before she was five had
clambered aboard a cowboy saddle, clinging to the pommel, hard, bare
feet thrust into the straps above the stirrups, dark hair flying, eyes
round with daring. Dad had forbidden her to ride bareback as she grew
older. He was afraid she would climb on a bad broncho some day. She had
done so, but not to be thrown. That, however, is a story all to itself.
By the time she was fourteen her gift for “gentling” horses had become
known throughout the county. There were times when Raquel took the place
of a grown man, and in some kinds of work she was better than a man. Her
lithe, tireless body could be carried over more ground without wearing
out her horse than the heavy weight of a man; and whether the animal was
a biter or a bucker, if it had the qualifications of a good cowhorse,
Raquel could have it behaving when she rode it.
Sometimes she stayed home and helped Mom cook for the hands, and
sometimes Mom had a Chinaman out from town to help. Sometimes, as now,
she got on with the little Mexican girls, for during the shipping and
branding seasons it took all hands to look after the cattle.
The Daniels had not long had so much money. There had been years and
years when Mom did everything at the ranch house, and carried all her
water in from the windmill when the men folks were out on the range and
Dad was his own riding boss, in the saddle sometimes for twenty hours
out of the twenty-four.
And then one autumn Dad said, “Mom, we got seventy-five thousand dollars
reposin’ in the bank. Let’s all take a trip to Chiny or Californy.” So
he had drawn five thousand dollars from the bank and they stayed in
California until it was spent.
* * * * *
The Boss of Los Ranchos was not up to ring the rising bell herself the
morning after Dad’s departure. Dad or one of the boys always rang it
every morning, at six o’clock in winter and five in summer.
Now it was the crackling of the fire on her hearth that roused Raquel.
Panchito Esquibal was slipping quietly out as she opened her eyes. The
fires were Georgie’s job, but he was now doing the milking and the young
milch cow would give down her milk to no one else.
Raquel remembered in a flash, and in a flash came wide awake, with the
glorious aliveness of the healthy young. Jumping up she crossed to the
sheepskin rug before the open fire. The crackling tulas gave out an
extraordinary amount of heat and yet over in the corner by her washstand
she could have seen her breath.
Tingling with an exhilaration that she had not felt at sea level, she
splashed herself with the icy water and five minutes later was pulling
on her boots before the fire. Not such riding boots as are found in
smart city booteries but a cowboy’s pair, elaborately stitched, and
perhaps a trifle quaint as to cut about the toe, but nevertheless
beautiful.
Breakfast was already on the table when she opened the dining-room door.
Hot bread, yellow corn meal and salt pork, stewed dried peaches and
coffee. At Raquel’s place was a little pitcher of cream.
“It’s from Ruth,” explained Georgie proudly. “I’m goin’ to let her sleep
in the shed off the summer kitchen from now on. It’s gettin’ too cold
for her.”
“You certainly are not,” said Raquel with a grin. “From there it would
be just a step into the kitchen. You’ll be wanting to put Old Whitey
into the patio next.”
Georgie clanked out in disgust, his leather chaps concealing the fact
that as yet his legs were unbowed in the manner befitting a real cowman.
At his heels rattled a murderous-looking pair of spurs, which were in
reality so blunt that at best they could only massage Old Whitey’s hide.
In fact the spurs were just a sort of friendly hint to Whitey as between
friends. And being a faithful cowhorse of many years’ standing, Whitey
always tried to oblige when Georgie gave the signal, and would break
into a run. Perhaps the run lasted only a few steps before subsiding
into an apologetic trot. But at a scratch of the spur Whitey was off
again.
“Georgie, you’re to ride with Angel over to the second windmill and see
if everything’s all right. Mom, why hasn’t Elena been up to the house? I
was down there yesterday and no one was at home. I’m going down there
right now. I want to see Pancho.”
Elena Esquibal, Pancho’s wife, had lived at Los Ranchos ever since she
was a girl. Somewhere there was a strain of proud Spanish blood, and her
father had owned his own rancho. He had been a friend of Old Man
Daniels, and when at his death it was found that the rancho, on which
Dad had already loaned him money, was lost on a mortgage, Dad brought
the girl back and gave her a home.
“I don’t know what’s come over Elena,” said Mom. “She’s sort of queer
these days. But the little girls’re sweet little old things, and
Panchito’s too young to be mean yet.
“I never did take much to Pancho Esquibal, though he’s got real purty
manners,” added Mom, “and it was sort of a pity that Elena couldn’t have
kept that rancho of her father’s; but it wasn’t your father’s fault that
the bank had to take it over for his debts. Seems like Esquibal didn’t
seem to sense that; he thinks Dad was to blame some way. They think
influence should do anything.”
“Well, I’m going down there now, Mom; I want to go over some things with
Pancho.”
The Esquibal _casita_, a flat-roofed adobe house, nestled down at the
foot of a hill below the corral, and faced the Alamos, the cottonwood
grove. There seemed to be no one at home, but back of the house Raquel
found Panchito asleep in the sun, his back to some empty oil cans.
As she stood looking at him Panchito awoke, rubbed his eyes, and stood
up, grinning shyly. His papa and mamma had gone in the wagon over to
visit a sick _tio_ [uncle]. They would be back tomorrow, tonight maybe.
“_Si Señorita._”
The _ranchito_ they had gone to? La Bolsa, they had called it, he
thought.
Raquel pushed one of the oil cans with the toe of her boot. “What does
your papa use these for, Panchito?”
“Oh, those are just the empty cans. He has sold already the oil,”
Panchito answered innocently. “Since the gate below the Alamos was
closed there come by our house many automovil-es.”
Raquel walked back to the big house thoughtfully. Pancho Esquibal was a
bad hombre all right. And going off like that without a word. He always
had an excuse. And there was nothing to do but shrug the shoulders at
the institution of a Latin-American family and the demands of relatives
upon the time of first, second and third cousins.
But this business of the oil--no wonder they couldn’t keep oil! What
else was Pancho selling? Passing by the bunk house, where Angel was
sweeping out with a tender regard for the broom, she called to him to
saddle the Alezan mare. The horse was a quivering, high-strung creature
which Raquel herself had cured of fright and which she would let no one
but herself or Jami ride. Jami was hard on a car but easy on a critter.
Raquel swung quickly into the saddle. It was a pretty thing to watch her
mount. There were times when she simply vaulted in, her feet seeming to
find the stirrup leathers by instinct. But now she did not wish to
startle the Alezan.
Left hand grasping the reins smoothly at the base of the horse’s neck,
left foot thrust under the stirrup hood, she made a quick upward flight
of her slim body, feet together, until the right foot swung quicker than
the eye over the saddle--it never seemed to sprawl over the horse’s
flank. She rode with a somewhat shorter stirrup than a good Panhandler
usually does, and didn’t lean back for a lope or a slow trot. This
morning the mare was off like the wind, down the road leading to the
pass.
Beyond the arroyo Raquel turned back to the right, and followed the road
that led past the cottonwood grove, round which ran a fork that joined
the main road again beyond the Alamos. The inner road had always been
closed with a gate, but now a new gate closed the main road, and the
inner road, which led past Pancho’s house, was open. Cars would have to
go this way now, and the detour could not be seen from the big house.
“Easy way to make a little money.” Raquel was angry as she loped back.
“But I wouldn’t have thought it of Elena.”
Pancho would never have been hired at Los Ranchos had it not been for
Elena. When she married, Dad took Esquibal on because of her, rather
than because he was an expert cowpuncher and brander.
Well, selling oil could be settled easily enough. But what else was
Pancho Esquibal up to?
At that moment Pancho was concluding a very satisfactory sale of La
Bolsa, the ranchito of Elena’s uncle, to “A. B.” Meyers for a sum
satisfactory to both parties, and terms that were most agreeable. The
ancient uncle and aunt were to continue to live there the remainder of
their lives, and Esquibal was to work the place for “A. B.” on shares.
La Bolsa was what the name implied, a pocket of land lying in a tiny
valley that ran down to the Daniels range and was entirely surrounded by
Los Ranchos property, except on the northwest corner.