Read Online Hard Country by Michael McGarrity - Free Book Online
Authors: Michael McGarrity
Tags: United States, Historical fiction, Historical, Literature & Fiction, Sagas, Action & Adventure, Genre Fiction, Family Saga, Westerns
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sip of whiskey from his cup, and told him in the morning he would be driving one of the wagons leaving for the army fort on the other side of the mountains.
It was a moment Ignacio had been dreaming about for years. At sixteen he was now considered a man. The days when he had ached to ride out to skirmish with the raiding Apaches were behind him. Now, not only would he continue to work in the fields, tend to the sheep and the cattle, cut wood, and do all of his ordinary chores, but he would also get to make the dangerous wagon trips reserved only for men of fighting age. Finally, he would get to travel through the high peaks of the Apache lands and see the army fort on the east side of the mountains. Soon he’d get to make the long, hard trek west across the basin to the villages of Las Cruces and Mesilla on the banks of the Rio Grande, where staples and supplies could be purchased, news of events in the world could be heard, and books could be found. He had hopes of having enough money someday to purchase one, perhaps even two books.
Henceforth, he’d be armed with a rifle and one of his father’s pistols and required to help guard the crops, the livestock, and the village against attacks by marauding Apaches.
With the arrival of the Texans a few years ago, danger from the Apaches had diminished, but there were still sporadic clashes. Now he’d be able to prove himself to be a man of courage.
“Starting tomorrow you can no longer act as a willful, spirited child,” Cesario Chávez admonished, “or spend hours reading. You must be reliable in all ways. No idling over the stories of the saints when you are a sentry, no visits to the americanos when you should be working, no stealing away to speak to Teresa when you have chores to do. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Father,” Ignacio replied solemnly as he handed back the cup of whiskey. The harsh taste of it burned his throat.
Cesario sipped from the cup and returned it to his son. “Let us have one more drink between us to celebrate the first night of your manhood. But when you kiss your mother good night, do not tell her it was I who gave you the whiskey.”
“On my honor, I promise not to tell her,” Ignacio replied, trying hard not to make a face as he swallowed.
Cesario looked into his son’s eyes. At sixteen he was already taller than Cesario by at least an inch and still growing. Someday Ignacio would be the tallest man in the village, almost as big as the americanos. Already he was the smartest, although Cesario had no plans to tell him so.
“Good,” Cesario said. “Now, go and dance with somebody other than Teresa Armijo so she won’t treat your attentions lightly when you are able to announce them to her.”
Surprised that he’d been found out, Ignacio opened his mouth to speak, saw the smile on his father’s face, blushed, and said nothing.
“Go,” Cesario repeated with a laugh as he pushed Ignacio toward the open granary doors. “And tell your mother I’ll be sharing a drink outside with your uncle José and will dance with her shortly.”
Inside the granary, Ignacio passed on his father’s message to his mother, who laughed and quickly returned to her conversation with María Romero, the village gossip. No secret was safe with her. Across the room, Patrick Coghlan, the big, red-faced, bearded Irishman who owned half of the vacant lots in Tularosa, was talking to Perfecto Armijo, Teresa’s father. Coghlan, who had bought his lots from Señor Armijo, spoke pretty good Spanish, so Ignacio wasn’t surprised to see the two men conversing.
Ignacio knew the four americanos with Señor Coghlan only by their first names. The Irishman was building a store on the main road through the village, and Ignacio had seen the vaqueros come and go many times. Dick, an older man, perhaps in his forties but certainly not as old as Señor Coghlan, had a nasty scar that ran from below his eye to his jaw. He seemed to be the jefe of the crew. The two
It was a moment Ignacio had been dreaming about for years. At sixteen he was now considered a man. The days when he had ached to ride out to skirmish with the raiding Apaches were behind him. Now, not only would he continue to work in the fields, tend to the sheep and the cattle, cut wood, and do all of his ordinary chores, but he would also get to make the dangerous wagon trips reserved only for men of fighting age. Finally, he would get to travel through the high peaks of the Apache lands and see the army fort on the east side of the mountains. Soon he’d get to make the long, hard trek west across the basin to the villages of Las Cruces and Mesilla on the banks of the Rio Grande, where staples and supplies could be purchased, news of events in the world could be heard, and books could be found. He had hopes of having enough money someday to purchase one, perhaps even two books.
Henceforth, he’d be armed with a rifle and one of his father’s pistols and required to help guard the crops, the livestock, and the village against attacks by marauding Apaches.
With the arrival of the Texans a few years ago, danger from the Apaches had diminished, but there were still sporadic clashes. Now he’d be able to prove himself to be a man of courage.
“Starting tomorrow you can no longer act as a willful, spirited child,” Cesario Chávez admonished, “or spend hours reading. You must be reliable in all ways. No idling over the stories of the saints when you are a sentry, no visits to the americanos when you should be working, no stealing away to speak to Teresa when you have chores to do. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Father,” Ignacio replied solemnly as he handed back the cup of whiskey. The harsh taste of it burned his throat.
Cesario sipped from the cup and returned it to his son. “Let us have one more drink between us to celebrate the first night of your manhood. But when you kiss your mother good night, do not tell her it was I who gave you the whiskey.”
“On my honor, I promise not to tell her,” Ignacio replied, trying hard not to make a face as he swallowed.
Cesario looked into his son’s eyes. At sixteen he was already taller than Cesario by at least an inch and still growing. Someday Ignacio would be the tallest man in the village, almost as big as the americanos. Already he was the smartest, although Cesario had no plans to tell him so.
“Good,” Cesario said. “Now, go and dance with somebody other than Teresa Armijo so she won’t treat your attentions lightly when you are able to announce them to her.”
Surprised that he’d been found out, Ignacio opened his mouth to speak, saw the smile on his father’s face, blushed, and said nothing.
“Go,” Cesario repeated with a laugh as he pushed Ignacio toward the open granary doors. “And tell your mother I’ll be sharing a drink outside with your uncle José and will dance with her shortly.”
Inside the granary, Ignacio passed on his father’s message to his mother, who laughed and quickly returned to her conversation with María Romero, the village gossip. No secret was safe with her. Across the room, Patrick Coghlan, the big, red-faced, bearded Irishman who owned half of the vacant lots in Tularosa, was talking to Perfecto Armijo, Teresa’s father. Coghlan, who had bought his lots from Señor Armijo, spoke pretty good Spanish, so Ignacio wasn’t surprised to see the two men conversing.
Ignacio knew the four americanos with Señor Coghlan only by their first names. The Irishman was building a store on the main road through the village, and Ignacio had seen the vaqueros come and go many times. Dick, an older man, perhaps in his forties but certainly not as old as Señor Coghlan, had a nasty scar that ran from below his eye to his jaw. He seemed to be the jefe of the crew. The two
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