EXCERPT : THE LONG CANYON MOUNTAINS

Former prospector Buck Ford walked into the government land office in Socorro and stepped to the wall map. Tracing a rectangle with his finger, he looked over at the man behind the counter and enquired, “Anybody own this spot?”

The bespectacled land clerk, deep in a book, was at first irritated by the interruption. But after seeing the location indicated by the obvious newcomer, his expression changed to one of surprise. “Not unless you like trouble.”

Buck raised an eyebrow. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Means nobody owns it legal, but somebody does in another way.”

“What other way is there?”

The book-reader frowned. “New around these parts?”

“Maybe. How about answering the question.”

Irritation creased the man’s face and he closed the book with a snap. “Alright. Man by the name of Myron Grafton uses it of a summer. Rafter H Ranch, down there at the bottom of Long Canyon. Powerful man with a bad temper. Got madder’n hell at me when I wouldn’t let him file on this very piece of property.” He reached out, tapping his finger on a smaller map he’d produced to emphasize the words.

Buck’s face was even. “That explains the old droppin‘s I saw up there. Why didn’t you let him have it?”

“He’s got too much free land already. Can’t claim no more, that’s the law.”

“So he’s using pasture he doesn’t own…”

“Well, no, he doesn’t own it legal…”

The clerk was going to say more, but Buck cut him off. “Then I’m laying claim.”

“You want to risk your life for a piece of ground?”

“Risked it for less than that before.”

With a warning look, the man said, “Grafton cuts a mighty big swath up there.”

Buck’s look was stern. “Get the papers ready.”

Clerk shrugged like the man was a fool. “Your life, friend.”

“That it is.”

The clerk was a bureaucrat. In other words, they were thirty minutes going about the forms.

An electric shock wiggled through Buck’s nerves as he put his John Hancock to the bottom of the filing papers. Neil Ford, for that was his name. The nickname come by way of compliment, years ago.

The clerk, in spite of his years of federal service—which amounted to on-the-job arrogance training—and despite the obvious foolishness of this stranger—still occasionally got a feeling of satisfaction to see people light up like that. Besides, this might take care of the problem that piece of ground had been for so long. Almost cracking his own face with what marginally could be considered a smile, he handed the papers to the new owner.

Buck said, “So. You think I’ll have trouble with him.”

In typical safe-behind-my-government-desk and not-my-problem fashion, Clerk deflected the question with a wave of his hand. “I wouldn’t know, mister, but the land’s yours now. Good luck.” Reaching over, he retrieved the book he’d been reading.

* * *

The waitress in the no-name cafe (in fact, the only cafe in Horse Springs) looked up when the bell jingled on the door—that is to say, Eleanor Lassen looked up. A tall, dusty stranger stood, looking around. When his dark eyes settled on her, his faced changed noticeably. Removing his hat, he attempted to straighten his black hair by running fingers through it.

She almost laughed. Here comes another one. Yes, he’s got ‘that look’. But my, he is a tall man…

Nodding, Buck said pleasantly, “Ma’am.” Then he stood there trying—unsuccessfully—not to gawk.

What he saw was a light-haired, green-eyed lady of great beauty, charm, class, and dignity. Slim, and very well dressed, her clothes did little to hide her incredibly attractive figure. Unbeknownst to him, she was the recipient of an offer from damned-near every cowboy within a hundred miles, yet she wore no ring.

Curiously, she returned his evaluative look. From his clothes, it couldn’t be determined what he did for a living, but she guessed it to be hard work, whatever it was. He’d combined items from several various outfits, but none was descript enough to discern its origin. Jeans, boots, hat, gun. The usual, they just seemed different, somehow.

But his face, now, that was a different matter. Tanned smoothly but clean-shaven, it looked like he did that everyday, which, in fact, he did. She noticed his dark features, but the thing that got her was the big-sky smile, bright as the day.

Smiles, of course, being generally contagious, the dust-covered stranger soon found himself on the return end of one. A special smile, and a person usually knows what that’s about. Some people call it chemistry. Others say it’s Cupid’s Arrow, or even love at first sight.

This guy, he wondered if he wasn’t having a heart attack, because suddenly there was a great pressure in his chest, constricting his breathing. From there, it spread, tumbling his stomach, vacuuming his head, deadening his limbs. Sweaty hands, pounding heart, dry mouth, stuck tongue. Perspiration dripped from his armpits, tickling his sides.

He hoped no one would notice his predicament, especially the one standing before him.

Yeah, right. And people in Hell want icewater, too…

Eleanor motioned calmly. “You can sit anywhere you’d like.”

“Thank you.” He stumbled into a chair while she brought him a menu.

Boy-oh-boy, look at the way she walks…

“Our special today is steak.”

And listen to that beautiful voice.

“It’s served with your choice of potatoes and bread. I’m sorry, we’re out of vegetables. But we do have apple pie for desert.”

“Where’d you get apples from this time of year?”

“We canned them last year.”

He just sat there, eyes locked on hers. She didn’t look away.

He laughed; she joined him.

“What would you like?”

Behave yourself now, boy. “That.”

“What?”

“Everything you just said.” And you, too…

“How would you like your steak cooked?”

“Medium.”

“What kind of potatoes?”

“Surprise me.”

She was taken back, and her face showed it. “What did you say?”

“I said, ‘surprise me.’”

She giggled. I think I already have.

Turning, she sashayed to the counter.

Buck watched her go, eyes glued to the back of her fine shape.

Oh yeah, she’s gettin’ a real big tip…

* * *

Yup, plans changed considerable when Buck Ford walked into the cafe in Old Horse Springs. Changed for the better, all because of the green-eyed lady he met there. Like the hundred cowboys before him, he was struck with her. Smitten might be a better word.

* * *

It wasn’t until after he’d left that the café owner, Ma Barker, working at the stove, ventured a remark to a motionless Eleanor, who simply stood looking at the empty door, not moving.

“Handsome man…” She let it sink in.

Coming to her senses, Eleanor turned around, surprised and embarrassed by her own reaction to the man. “Just a drifter,” was all she managed, dropping a china plate to shatter on the floor. The crash set them both to looking.

Spatula in-hand, Ma chastised, “Careful, girl! I paid good money fer that dinnerware!” Then, after a moment’s silence, she stooped to help Eleanor pick up the broken shards. Losing the scowl, she added, “That feller’s more’n that. He’s gone an’ filed on the park at the head of Long Canyon. Plannin’ on buildin’ a ranch, he is, and that place’ll sure make a fine one.”

Eleanor looked at her suspiciously. “And how would you know that?”

“Frederick was in Socorro day before yesterday—you know his brother’s the land clerk over there. Told him so.” She grabbed a broom, speculating, “He’s got nerve, that one. Myron Grafton uses that park for summer pasture.”

The bell jingled on the door. Ma watched, entertained as Eleanor looked around expectantly. But it was only a pair of cowboys clomping in. Of course, they pulled their hats at the sight of Lovely Miss Lassen. She hurriedly poured them coffee and took their order, more-or-less ignoring their attempts at chatter.

Back at the kitchen window, Eleanor did something working women will do in a situation like this: she gave Ma the order, then picked up the conversation at the same time, as if there were no break in it at all:

“Ham and fried potatoes; steak and fried, two eggs over—How come Grafton didn’t file on it?”

“‘Cause he’s already got the full amount of land the law allows—want toast?”

“Cornbread — can he legally get it, then?”

“He’s got it, but he’ll play hell with Myron. Grafton’s a hot-head.”

Eleanor took napkins and silverware to the cowboys. They didn’t give up; neither did she.

Back at the food counter again, Ma continued while she threw on the meat. “Myron pushes his cattle up there in the spring. That allows the grass to grow unfettered on the Plains, exceptin’ what his good horses eat — he keeps ‘em down there on the ranch so’s he can keep an eye on ‘em. By the time the snow flies up in the park, that pasture’s pretty well eaten up, so he brings his cows back down to a full summer’s growth on the Plains. Lasts ‘em the winter.”

“And he can keep a lot more cattle that way,” Eleanor figured.

“Uh-huh.”

Several more people came in, and the two women went about their work. It wasn’t until later that Ma gave an off-hand remark. “His name’s Neil Ford. Likes to be called Buck, as I recall hearin’.”

There was silence for a moment as Eleanor tried to appear like she didn’t know what her co-worker was talking about. Innocently, she asked, “Who? Whose name?”

Sternly, Ma wagged her finger. “Don’t you play dumb with me, girl. You know darned good and well who I’m talkin’ about.” Hands-on-hips, she made a glancing, downward motion with her head. “The man ‘at put them butterflies in your stomach!”