The Vaquero

Alice Jones sat on her porch at her typewriter. A tear rolled down her cheek. She looked up at the desert, her inspiration, and patted her eyes with a handkerchief.  She remembered when she first came to this place from New York. She was recently widowed and on impulse…was it impulse? No, it was a decision to live, to feel.  She hopped the train to Nevada. She had purchased a piece of land before moving. It was 80 miles north of Reno with several springs, some being hot springs. The realtor had said it was good range land for cattle. She had hired M J Curtis, an architect and builder, on recommendation. She wasn’t too particular, so their correspondence was agreeable. She wanted something unassuming and not too large. The one feature that was required was a large covered porch with a fireplace. Mr Curtis tried to dissuade her from the outdoor fireplace saying it would attract all manner of rodent and wild animal, but she had insisted.  She trusted Mr Curtis as an architect to have a good eye and knowledge to consider light, wind, and whatever else one considered when building to choose the location for the home.  Mr Curtis hired an interior designer to select the furnishings with instructions that it be humble, comfortable, and western. A light touch here and there with something special like a rug or her bedding was acceptable. She needed a lot of bookshelves so the walls didn’t need decoration. If there were to be art, she wanted it from a local artist, nothing pompous or pretentious. When she arrived in Reno she had only four large trunks to be shipped to her new home. There had been China, art, and fine furnishings but she didn’t have an heir. She gave everything except a few sentimental items, clothing, and her collection of books to her husband’s younger brother William. She remembered the trip to her new home. She took the stage part of the way. Mr Curtis had met her where the stage turned west. They stayed on the McOrmie’s place. Mr Curtis had stopped at their homestead several times during the construction of Mrs Jones home. He always brought supplies or treats, anything he thought they might need. Mrs McOrmie was a kind and generous host. Alice remembered the most delicious biscuits and gravy she had ever eaten. Mrs McOrmie offered her own bed, but Mr Curtis had set up a cot for her in the main room and one for himself in their barn. Mrs McOrmie had breakfast and coffee ready before Alice had woken up. Mr Curtis got their horses ready. He had suggested a buggy, but Alice had insisted. She was an experienced equestrian and had always dreamt of riding a Mustang. They thanked the McOrmie’s and headed towards Alice’s new home. 

“What do you think of the desert country Mrs Jones?”

“It’s beyond my expectation Mr Curtis. I must say I am overwhelmed by the

wonderful bouquet of sage. I’m surprised that it isn’t written about more. 

Perhaps one gets accustomed to it as ocean dwellers do the scent of the sea.”

The stage had brought Mrs Jones two thirds of the way and so they had a full day of riding ahead of them with rests. Mr Jones had brought four strong Mustangs. 

“Can you see it Mrs Jones. Your home?”

Alice could see a white house in the distance on a small rise. When they arrived Mr Jones handed the horses to one of his workmen to take care of. 

“Ling has dinner ready for us.”

The porch was just as she imagined. They went inside and dinner was being set in front of four men. They stood when Alice entered. She immediately admired the antler chandelier that hung above the table.

“This is Mrs Jones.”

The men said hello. Alice told them to sit and eat before their food got cold. The workmen had spent the day moving in furniture and touching up final details before Mrs Jones arrived. Mr Curtis pulled a chair out at the head of the table for Alice and he sat at the other end. Ling brought out two more plates. 

“What do you plan to do with the property Mrs Jones, raise cattle.”

“I’m afraid not. I was told that it is ideal country for that purpose. I’m going to write Mr Curtis. I’ve always wanted to write a novel, set in the west with the vaquero as the hero.”

“Fascinating. I believe it would be a big hit back east.”

“Perhaps. That does not concern me. I just want to accomplish the task. It is inside me and I must get it out. Do you understand Mr Curtis.”

“I believe I have an idea. Sometimes, designing a building, something draws me in a direction that is outside of my intellectual directive. Perhaps it is an artistic force.”

“Indeed Mr Curtis. I believe you understand.”

“Will you miss the city Mrs Jones?” One of the workmen asked.

“I will not. Do not misunderstand me. I loved my life there with my husband, but that is gone now. I spent much of my time reading and dreaming of this wonderful country. No. I shan’t miss the city at all, Mr?”

“Jim. Jim ma’am!”

“Jim. And what about you? How do you feel about this place?”

“Well ma’am. I came over from Missouri in ‘49. Weren’t for no gold. I guess I was same as you. When I set eyes, I just knew I’d be buried here.” Alice nodded.

“Are you afraid of Injuns Mrs Jones?” Jim asked.

“People keep asking me that question. It has not crossed my mind in the least. In my experience people are afraid when they do not understand something. Perhaps I will learn, as some have said to me with dishonest intention, as if they might very well be happy if I learned in some painful or frightening manner.  To your question Jim, no I am not afraid.”

“Mrs Jones must be terribly tired from her journey. In the morning I’ll give you the tour. I think you’ll be pleased.”

“Thank you Mr Curtis. I look forward to it. Goodnight gentlemen.”

Ling had set Alice’s small bag in her room. The interior designer had listened to what had been asked. Alice could tell that she had an intuition, something that cannot be taught.  There was a small wood stove in a corner. Bookshelves lined an entire wall. There was a stuffed chair on a rug. Her bed was beautiful, but simple. The designer had considered the problem of laundering fine fabrics out here. Above her bed was an oil painting of the desert. 

In the morning Mr Curtis gave her a tour of the immediate property. Nearby was a spring. He had built a stone lined trough into which a spigot flowed freely. There was also a hot spring naturally lined with pebbles. Cottonwoods had been planted in rows. Mr Curtis said they would reach a great height in a few years. The house was basic, but very comfortable. There was a barn and a small, comfortable house for Ling. All the structures had been painted white as she had asked. Mr Curtis said her trunks along with provisions would arrive in a couple of weeks. He thanked her for her business and headed back to Reno. Alice remembered that first night alone, Ling was there of course. She hadn’t slept so well in years. She felt she belonged to this place and it eased her mind because she had given consideration to what Micheal would have wanted for her. He had indulged her love of the West, which seemed a fad among her peers. To them it was a surface fascination. They denigrated the newly monied and the coarseness of boom towns, which to them included even San Francisco. And secretly they wanted a romance with a cowboy. Unlike Alice, they didn’t understand the difference between a vaquero and a cowboy. After Micheal died her friends, as she had once called them, were scarce. Perhaps they found her a threat. She wasn’t considered old and was quite beautiful even if she had been. No matter. 

In the morning Ling served eggs, toast, tea, and coffee. Alice had tried to make conversation with him, but he did not speak any English at all. Well, she thought, they would work on it. When her trunks arrived Ling helped her put her books into the shelves and set up her typewriter on the porch. Most of the other supplies went to the pantry and barn. She sat at her typewriter and looked out at the desert just as she was doing now.  She knew she was being watched. Just curious, she thought. She saw through their eyes, a white lady alone in black with a Chinese man. Very curious indeed. And now, she sat punching away on a strange machine. A couple of braves had come to the spring earlier and she didn’t bother them. She wanted people to know they were welcome to the water.  She was surprised how many visitors she had to the spring, animal and human. Freighters, families traveling to Reno, vaqueros, Piutes. And they were all drawn to her porch. She didn’t blame them. It was the sound that caught their attention and then the lady in black. She gave them a little tour of her machine and told them what she was doing. Most seemed to think it was a perfectly reasonable thing to do. She always had new material for characters.

Over time she and Ling were able to communicate. He outpaced her in learning a new language and so even though she had an interest in learning Chinese they increasingly spoke in English. She learned that he didn’t know if he had any family left. He had worked on the railroads, then in mining. He had gotten a job as a cook in Reno and found the work enjoyable. Alice asked if he was lonely, but he didn’t know what she meant. Whenever they needed supplies Ling went and spent a few days in town.  One morning while she was having her breakfast Paiute braves approached the house. She thought they were going to the spring, but they passed the water and started whopping and crying out. She didn’t know what they might want.

“Ling!”

“Misses?”

“Make some corn cakes and a little pork and bring it out here.”

Ling brought out the corn cakes in a huge stack with a plate of shredded pork. The braves came and took a cake and grabbed the pork with their fingers. They ate and left. The following week, they approached in the same manner, whopping loudly. And so it became a weekly tradition that Mrs Jones served corn cakes and shredded pork on Saturdays to whoever happened by. And then he came by one afternoon. Jeffry. He was working the Smoke Creek range nearby and was after stray cattle when he neared her place and went to the spring for water. He came to the porch like everyone did.

“Howdy ma’am. Mind if I water my horse?”

Alice looked up at him and felt struck. Suddenly she felt shy.

“Please, help yourself. You never have to ask to take water.”

“Obliged ma’am. Names Jeffry.” He held his hat in his hands and she could see he had blonde wavy hair. She was tongue tied, so she just smiled at him. She didn’t see him again for quite a while, months. She thought about him often and hoped she would see him again. He stopped by again in the spring. He came to the porch to say hello. She wanted him to stay so she invited him to have lunch with her. He said he’d be grateful. Ling made a chicken dumpling dish.

“Can’t say I’ve eaten anything so delicious.”

“I am spoiled with Ling. I’ve come to adore Chinese food.”
“Next time in Reno I think I’ll find my way to Chinatown.”

“You’re always welcome to stop here for Chinese food.” She flushed. That was a little forward, but it’s what she wanted to say. She raised her eyes to his face and he looked right into her. She thought he looked a little nervous.

“Obliged for the meal ma’am. I ought to be gettin back now.” 

He came again a couple of weeks later. Each time they had lunch on the porch and talked. She learned he had been working cattle ranches since he was a boy, that he never married, that he loved his work. And then he came one week when Ling was in town. Alice made them ham sandwiches and tea. She had reached out and taken his hand. She held it, turning it over. So rough, she thought. She led him into the house. He visited every week for a decade. She had finished several novels by that time. She will never forget the day a rider came at a fast trot, a line of dust rising in clouds– looming large behind the small rider. And then he dismounted and walked slowly towards the house. She had seen him before, a vaquero. He took his hat off.

“Mrs Jones, ma’am. I have some bad news about Jeffry.” He looked at her seeing if he should go on. Alice’s mind simultaneously raced and froze. 

“Jeffry was killed. Murdered. I’m sorry.” 

When Alice could finally speak she asked for the details. Jeffry had just been paid. He was robbed and murdered. 

Alice wiped her eyes again with the handkerchief and looked out into the desert. She pulled the page from her typewriter and set in on top of the stack to her right.

The Vaquero

by A. Jones