Chapter 6

As the brothers approached the Tsosie ranch compound the next afternoon, the entire Tsosie family, in somber and solemn manner, came out into the yard to meet them. They had already been told of Gabriela’s death.

As it turned out, Juniper had ridden out from Dorado Springs, where he was attending special classes at the Jesuit mission school. He informed his family of the telegram that had been sent by Val Garcia regarding Gabriela’s passing. After spending a night at his home, he had ridden on to the Doña Anna, Gabriela’s ranch, to bring the sad news to her foreman, Lester Toomey, and the rest of her hired hands.

The Maliks stayed that night in the comforting warmth of the rambling Tsosie home, with Sargent and Tilly and their children, their children’s spouses, and their grandchildren.

The next morning, after breakfast, Andy said to Mockingbird, “We’ll likely have a memorial service in a week or two, but I think you have already expressed your feelings to Shadow. I’m not sure there’s a good reason for you to come all that way for the same purpose, and I know that Sargent may harbor feelings from the Navajo tradition.” Travel time between the Tsosie ranch and the Malik ranch, if using a wagon or buckboard, was four or five long days, depending on the season.

Malik said, “He’s right, Mockingbird. I feel the love and concern of your family over the miles. It would be no warmer if you brought it to me, and I would feel sad for your trouble.”

Before they left, Sargent spoke with Malik. His eyes were moist when he looked at Malik. “It has been a sad year, nephews.” While Sargent was not especially observant of Navajo spiritual customs, some were ingrained and nearly impossible to overcome. The prohibition against speaking the names of the dead was a taboo rooted deep in Navajo life. Cowboy had had no trouble ignoring the many ostracizing customs associated with the dead, and it was the same for his siblings and cousins, but Sargent still felt the grip of the strictest taboos. He would not have mentioned Cowboy’s, or Aspen’s, or even Gabriela’s name as the source of his sadness for fear of interrupting their spirit journeys to their ancestors. Nor would he have permitted himself to make a show of grief at their passing, nor to even touch their bodies, for fear of drawing that spirit, the chindi, into haunting this world instead of going to the underworld, whence the Navajo people had originated.

Early in their visit, Malik had managed to mitigate the strictures of that taboo, when he said, “Our newborn daughter we have named Aspen. She is thriving.”

Sargent again glanced at Tilly, who was not Navajo, but of African descent, a former slave. Sargent looked back at Malik and said, “That is a good name.”

It was another sad, but also an anxious group, that met them at the Doña Anna. Juniper had informed the men of Gabriela’s death, then rode on to return to Dorado Springs, wanting to minimize the interruption to his studies. Since that time, the grieving of the ranch’s small crew had been aggravated by the uncertainty of what the future would hold for them and the ranch. Both emotions were evident on their faces when the Malik brothers arrived.

While Andy dismounted at the stable, Malik remained briefly astride Tsela, looking at the half dozen men. Finally, he dismounted and led Tsela into the stable. Les Toomey, the foreman, walked up and asked, “Want me to take care of him?”

“No, thanks, Les. We’ll see to our own horses. But why don’t you bring the men in here and we can talk while I brush him.”

Toomey turned and called out the door, “Come on in here, fellas. Mister Malik wants to talk to us.”

It only took half a minute before they were gathered inside the door. As Malik hefted his saddle over a drying stand, he said, “None of this ‘Mister Malik,’ Les. I’m still Shadow, or Emil.” He looked at the assembled hands. “Same goes for everybody.”

He resumed brushing Tsela, but spoke up, “Don’t worry about your jobs, fellas. I have a plan I think you’ll like. In fact, it was an idea that Gabriela had, based on some things we do at the Malik ranch.”

Les asked, “What happened to Miz Gabriela, Shadow? She seemed fine when she left.”

Malik bent his head toward the floor, concealing his face behind Tsela.

Andy looked toward his brother, then turned to the men and said, “They call it childbirth fever. It’s one of those things that makes birthing a baby risky, and not just for the baby. It happens and we can’t explain why. A day or two after giving birth, the mother gets a fever which just gets worse and worse. Gabriela was fine, at first, then she got sick over three days. She became listless, less and less sensible, and finally went into a coma, as the fever continued to worsen. The next day, she just faded and died. The best we could do was try to keep her comfortable. Emil never left her side.”

“What’s a ‘coma’?” Frank Fenn asked.

Andy said, “It’s uh, like a deep sleep that you can’t be woken from.”

“What about the baby?” Toomey asked.

Malik, looking up, cleared his throat and said, “The baby’s doing fine. She was able to spend her first couple days with her Momma. Gabriela and I named our little girl Aspen.” Knowing glances passed between the men, as they had all known Aspen Tsosie, as she had grown up on the neighboring ranch. Aspen, one of the sisters of their cook, Sage Tsosie, had been killed by kidnappers earlier in the year. Malik continued, “Andy’s wife, Christina, and Cowboy’s widow, Matilda, also recently delivered babies. They’re taking care of Aspen and wet-nursing her.”

“What about the funeral?” Toomey wanted to know.

Andy looked at his brother. Malik, still brushing Tsela, said, “Truth be told, I took Gabriela’s body and buried her myself. I laid her in a grave next to Anna, up on Green Ridge.”

That seemed to surprise them, though none of the men looked bothered by the idea.

Caleb Ackary said, “You laid her with Miss Anna? On that land you gave to Miz Gabriela?”

Malik paused in his grooming. “Have you been up there, Caleb?”

Ackary replied, “Reckon we all have, at one time or another. It’s a right pretty spot, for bein’ on the dry side of the ridge. Nice view a’ Surprise Valley.”

“Uh, Shadow,” Lucas Ingham said, “You goin’ to have Miz Gabriela’s name carved on that stone, too?”

Malik smiled. “Did it myself, already. Not as pretty as Anna’s name is, but it doesn’t look like it was done by coyotes, either.”

Andy looked over at Sage. “We skipped lunch, Sage. You have anything to make a sandwich or somethin’?”

“Oh, I reckon I could come up with somethin’.”

“Tell you what, fellas,” Malik said, “Let us finish up and get cleaned up, then we can continue this talk in the bunkhouse. But don’t be worryin’ about the ranch or your jobs. I’ll tell you what I’ve got in mind while I sip some coffee.”

Twenty minutes later, Malik had finished a bowl of split pea soup and a couple biscuits. He held a steaming mug of coffee in his hands.

Luke Ingham was asking Andy, “So he just left with Miz Gabriela’s body, in the middle of the night?” Ingham was reacting to Andy’s story about his chase after his brother.

Malik said, “Yeah, I did. I suppose I just needed to do something for her, because I...” He had to clear his throat, then he quickly sighed. “Watching her go was like ... like watching water slip through your cupped hands,” he brought his hands together as if holding water and looked at them, “try as you might, the water still just dribbles away.” His hands curled into fists and he stopped again and squeezed his eyes shut. All the man sat silently. Malik blinked and sniffed. Still looking down at his hands, he said, “After she passed, I was just sitting there, holding her hand, and all at once I knew what she’d want.”

He looked up at them. “She’d never said anything about it, but she always seemed comforted when we’d ride up to Anna’s grave. We’ve camped up there three ... no, four times since we married.” He looked around at the men seated at the big table. Then, shaking his head, he admitted, “Ah, hell, fellas, Gabriela’s gone. Reckon it doesn’t matter to her, really, where her body ended up. Fact is, layin’ her body up there with Anna’s is mostly a comfort to me.”

“An’ rightly so, Shadow,” Toomey said. “But it’ll be a comfort to all of us, I reckon.” There were nods and murmurs of assent around the table.

“Besides,” Fenn said, “it’ll be a chance to swing by the Tsosie ranch and get some decent cookin’ ever’ once in a while.” He made a try at relieving the mood.

Sage said, “That reminds me, Frank, I’m runnin’ low on cow pies. Think you could collect a dozen or so for me?”

Andy said, “Is that what made the pea soup so tasty? Or did you use real pee?”

That broke the melancholy state that had descended on the group.

Malik said, “So let me tell you what Gabriela and I had in mind for the Doña Anna.”

The men grew quiet again.

Malik looked around, once more. “Hold on. Is somebody missing?”

Fenn replied, “My brother. He and Rosalie went to El Paso after she got word her ma died.”

“Ah. It’s been a sad year, like Sargent Tsosie said this morning.” He sighed. “Floyd and Rosalie still good in the foreman’s house?”

Toomey said, “I ain’t heard no complaints. You, Frank?

“Nah. They’re happy as pigs in slop.”

“Good,” Malik said. “Then here’s the deal.

“First, Les is being made general manager. Les, if you want, you can move into the big house, long as you keep a bedroom just for me.”

“Waste of a house. I’ll stick to my room out here. I’d never be able to sleep without a snorin’ chorus to lull me.”

“Whatever you prefer, Les.

“What the job means is that you run this ranch. By the terms of Gabriela’s will, the Doña Anna is being held in trust for her children, which means Aspen. I’m the trustee, so I’ll be acting owner until Aspen is twenty one. But my plate is more than full with other obligations. So it’ll be up to you, Les. Everything will be on your say-so: planting, harvesting, selling, buying, hiring, firing. You don’t need to check with me.

“What I figure is that I can meet with you every month down in the Springs, assuming you still make the supply run. If not, we’ll work out something else. Maybe one month I come to see you and the next month you come to see me. Or we meet somewhere else. What do you think? New Orleans? San Francisco?”

“Miz Gabriela told some fine stories about the beaches by Corpus Christi,” Toomey joked in return.

Andy chided, “Enough skylarking, Emil. You’ve got business to conduct.”

“You’ve always enjoyed bein’ the rain on my picnics, little brother. But you’re right.

“Fellas, let me get back to it. Les and I can work out our details later.

“So, then, everybody keeps the same pay and we’ll have the same pay schedule that Brandon Lestly set up. Same number of years, same raises. Good?” He saw shrugs and nods. “Fine, then. Here’s something new.

“Beginning the first of the year, everyone will be working for a share of the profits, up to two-and-a-half percent of the net income, depending on how many years you’ve worked for the ranch since Brandon Lestly bought it.”

“Shadow,” Chester Fisher interjected, “what do you mean, ‘net income’?”

“What that means, Chet, is any money that remains after all the expenses are covered.” Seeing a few of the men looking uncertain, he elaborated. “It means that, when you take a herd down to the rail yards, and we get paid for those cattle, that money has to pay wages, put shoes on the horses, buy the food that we eat, buy more cow-calf pairs, buy replacement horses, pay taxes -- you see where I’m going with this? The money we’re handed for the cattle we sold is called gross income. What’s left of that money after all the expenses are paid is called net income or profit.”

“Thanks, boss.”

“Sure, Chet.

“So, for each year a man -- or woman -- completes working for the ranch, beginning with their second year, he or she will get a half percent share of the net income, up to two-and-a-half percent after six years, since the first year for a new hire isn’t counted. That means, if you’ve worked here four years, you get one-and-a-half percent. If six, seven, or more years, it will still be two-and-a-half percent, the profit share doesn’t go any higher.”

“Why not count the first year?” Fenn wanted to know.

“We don’t want short-timers signing on just for the profit share at the end of the year and then movin’ on. A man’s first year, while he’s learnin’ the ropes, requires extra work from all of you showin’ him the how, why, and where of it. We want men like yourself, who know the job and can do it, without someone havin’ to look over their shoulder all the time.”

Fenn said, “Never thought about it that way.”

Fisher was looking puzzled. Malik said, “What’s got you stumped, Chet?”

“I reckon I’m just a dummy about this, Shadow, but what does ‘percent’ mean?”

“Not understanding something doesn’t mean you’re dumb. Just means you don’t know about it yet.

“Percent means a portion of the whole. The whole is considered one hundred percent. You’ve likely heard the expression, ‘give it a hundred percent.’ That simply means, give it everything you’ve got. So when I say two percent, I mean two parts out of one hundred. If we sell the herd for a thousand dollars, and we have nine hundred dollars of expenses, that leaves one hundred dollars profit. Your share, since you’ve worked here -- what, six years? -- is two-and-a-half percent, so you’d get two bucks-fifty from that hundred dollars. That’s above and beyond your regular wages. Just to be clear, that is not how this plan will be work. This will be paid out once, for the whole year.”

Sage asked, “Do you know what the net income is likely to be, Shadow?”

“No, not even to guess. And we’re talking about next year’s revenue and I have no inkling even of what this year’s will be. Gabriela kept her own books. I plan to take them back with me and let our accountant go over them. He will make an official report to the ranch trust. Keep in mind, however, that this profit share plan starts in a little more than six weeks, on January First, Eighteen eighty-eight, and will be paid out the following year, in Eighteen eighty-nine.

“But let’s use last year as an example. The net income was about eight thousand dollars. One percent of eight thousand is eighty dollars. Two-and-a-half percent is two hundred dollars.” The men were exchanging looks of surprise and excitement; it was a substantial amount for men earning between $480 and $600 a year, plus room and board. Both the cook and foreman made more, but, for the rest, they were already earning somewhat better than average wages for a ranch worker.

Malik reined them in. “Hold on, boys. Don’t start spending it yet. That net profit can vary a lot from year to year.

“Couple years ago, when Gabriela bought all those yearling calves, the net profit was less than five thousand dollars. And a bad drought could wipe out even that, if we’d have to buy hay, or if the herd got hoof-and-mouth and had to be destroyed, or if the hay barn burnt down and had to be replaced, something like that could wipe out profit. If more than one bad thing happened in the same year, we might have to take out a loan and paying it back could wipe out much of the profit for years. Still, most years there’s a profit of some amount. Eight thousand’s near the high end, so I wouldn’t be counting on it.”

He lowered his tone and said, “What I want you to think about is that you’re not just working for your monthly wage and found, anymore. From January first, you’ll be working for a share of the profit. That means, the more money we don’t have to spend, and the more money we can make, the more you make in a share of the profit.

“So, every time you drag a calf out of a mud hole, or haze one more steer out of a draw, or fix a fence, or untie a knot rather than cutting the rope, or spot a sick cow and haze it in to the quarantine pasture, or when you eat Sage’s cow pie stew rather than throwing it in the slop bucket, you’re putting cash dollars into your share of the profit.”

Fenn quipped, “What if Sage just turned up missing one day? Would we get to split his share of the profit?”

“Sure,” Malik grinned, “as long as you don’t mind not eating, since he manages the grocery money.”

Ingham got in on the joke. “You mean not having to eat Sage’s cookin’ is somethin’ else you’ll be offerin’? You should ‘a said that first. Where do I sign up?”

Sage, whose cooking had won him the job on the say-so of all the hands, offered, “If that’s what you fellas think, then my next batch of ‘pee’ soup will likely be more yellow than green and taste less of ham hock and more of horse cock.”

Fenn jibed back, “You mean it’s possible for this food to get worse?” That brought the laughter that shut down that line of humor -- for the moment.

Malik, still chuckling, said, “Any other questions? As long as they’re not about the cook or the chow.”

Fenn asked, “Yeah, Shadow. When would that profit money be paid out?” The group quieted, again.