Gather My Horses

by John D. Nesbitt

  Selby’s blue eyes flickered from one side to the other as he took another step backward. He was short and sturdy, but no match for the larger man. “Just a bully,” he said. “All the courage in the world when you’ve got someone three to one.”

  Pence doubled his fists, and his voice came out gravelly as he said, “I’ll take you one on one.” He moved forward.

  Fielding dropped his reins, took about five quick steps, and came between the two men with his shoulder almost touching Pence’s chest. “I think that’s enough,” he said. “There’s no need for any more.”

  Pence laid his left hand on Fielding’s shoulder and gave him a shove. “This pissy little nester called me a bully.”

  Fielding squared around. “Maybe you are. Look at you. And you’re callin’ names just as much as he is.”

  The big man surged forward and shoved Fielding with both hands, throwing him off balance but not knocking him down. Fielding went back a couple of steps, regained his footing, and got ready for the other man as he came hulking toward him. As long as it was just a shoving match, Fielding did not want to throw a punch. He hovered with his weight forward, and then he pushed off.

  He went between Pence’s two hands, which were poised above waist level and were not yet tensed for another shove. The thumbs gave way. Grabbing the big man by the shirt and putting the toe of his boot on Pence’s right spur, Fielding pushed hard and sent the man backward, arms flailing for balance. Pence landed with his butt on the ground, and his high-crowned hat went rolling away. His pale forehead showed where his dark brown curly hair was receding. As he turned in a smooth motion and came up with his .45 Colt, the beginning of a bald spot showed in back.

  Adler stepped in to block Pence’s view, though the barrel of the six-gun was still raised in Fielding’s direction.

  “This has gone far enough,” said the foreman. “Put it away, George.”

  Fielding, having stepped out of the line of fire, saw the gun barrel lower and withdraw.

  Adler turned to Fielding. “Maybe I’ll say it a third time, my friend. Don’t let us keep you from going on your way.”

  Fielding gave him a cross look. “So you can pick on Bill some more?”

  Adler jutted his chin and shook his head. “No one’s pickin’ on anybody. We’re about to leave, too. That’s the secret of a friendly visit, know when to leave so you don’t stay too long.”

  Fielding turned to Selby, who was standing off by himself with his hands at his sides. “Are you all right, Bill?”

  “Oh, I’ll be fine.” Selby had a subdued tone, but he did not seem afraid. His eyes followed Pence, who had gotten up and found his hat and was now walking back to the horses.

  Fielding shrugged. “I guess we’ll go, then.”

  Adler raised his eyebrows. “All the best.” Then after giving a closemouthed smile, he added, “Good to meet you, Fielding.”

  “The same here.” Fielding returned to his horse, a calm sorrel that stood hipshot with its head forward. Fielding gathered the reins, turned the sorrel, and found the lead rope for the first packhorse where it lay in the dirt. Positioning the sorrel to avoid throwing his leg over the lead rope when he swung aboard, Fielding held the reins and the rope at the saddle horn as he mounted up. He transferred the reins to his right hand, and with his left he waved to Bill Selby and Henry Steelyard.

  Adler was turning out his stirrup and had his back to Fielding, as did Pence in his dark hat. That was just as well, thought Fielding. As he turned the packhorses and led the way out of the yard, he looked across at Mahoney, who had not gotten down from his horse the whole time and who gave no expression in response. That was just as well, too.

  The campsite on the west side of Antelope Creek was a welcome sight as Fielding brought the pack train in off the trail. He and Mahoney worked together to untie the packs, lift the panniers off the sawbucks, strip the gear, and water the horses. They picketed two, a dun and a gray, then belled the rest of the packhorses and turned them loose. They tied the two saddle horses to the corral for the time being.

  Next they set up two tents, using the poles that Fielding had left stacked. They set up one tent for living quarters and one to stow the gear, including the tepee tent they had used on their recent trip. When they had the gear put away, Fielding stood back and looked over the whole layout.

  “I think that’s pretty good,” he said, turning to Mahoney. “If you want, we can call it a day.” He brought out a ten-dollar gold piece and handed it to the young man. “Here’s this. We can call it square for the six days.”

  Mahoney’s eyebrows went up. “Thanks,” he said.

  Fielding waved toward the corral. “Go ahead and take the horse you’ve been riding. You can leave him at the livery stable in town, and I’ll pick him up when I go in. Probably tomorrow.”

  Mahoney nodded, turned to walk toward the brown horse, and stopped. Someone was riding into the camp from the main trail.

  As the horse came to a stop about twenty-five yards out, Fielding recognized the features of the young range rider. “Come on in, Henry,” he called.

  Steelyard rode his horse another fifteen yards and then dismounted. Leading the animal by the reins, he walked forward with his usual easy air about him. His round hat with the ranger’s peak was set back on his head, and his trimmed, wavy brown hair combined with his clean-shaven face to give him a look of innocence.

  “Evenin’, Henry. What brings you to this side of the valley?”

  “Oh, I just thought I’d drop by to see if everything was all right.”

  “I hope so.”

  “That’s good. You know, I felt kinda awkward, bein’ in the middle of that scrape earlier in the afternoon.”

  Fielding waved his hand. “Ah, don’t worry about it. I didn’t think you had anything to do with it.”

  Steelyard shrugged. “Well, I was there, and I wouldn’t want to have any hard feelin’s.”

  “None on this side, not towards you. As for Pence—well, I’ll just have to wait and see if he wants to start somethin’ again. You know as well as I do that some of these things go away on their own, and some don’t.”

  Steelyard pushed out his lower lip. “I don’t blame you for steppin’ in,” he said. His words hung on the air until he added, “But I don’t know how good an idea it would be to take sides.”

  Fielding’s eyebrows pulled together. “What do you mean, take sides?”

  “I didn’t say you did.” Steelyard laid his hand out, palm up. “I meant something you might or might not do later on.”

  “Such as . . .”

  “Better not to burn bridges.” Steelyard gave a tip of the head.

  “Ah, as far as that goes, I figure I already lost any work I thought I might have with Cronin.”

  “Well, that, or anything else. Just thought I’d mention it.” The young man’s brown eyes were steady.

  “I’m glad you did. Good of you to drop by.”

  Steelyard gave a backward wave. “Think nothin’ of it.” He glanced at the sun, which was about to set. “Huh,” he said, “looks like I’d better be headin’ back.”

  “Are you goin’ by way of town?”

  “I could. Do you need somethin’ done?”

  Fielding motioned toward Mahoney, who had been standing by and taking things in. “I don’t, but Mahoney here was about to leave. He could ride along if it was no bother to you.”

  Steelyard looked at Mahoney and smiled. “Not at all. Glad for the company. Was your name Pat?”

  “Fred.”

  “Good enough. Well, I’m ready to go when you are.”

  Mahoney untied the brown horse, led it out a few yards, tightened the cinch, and mounted up. Steelyard swung aboard also, and the two young men waved good-bye and rode away.

  As the hoofbeats faded on the trail, Fielding unsaddled the sorrel and put him in the corral. He gave the animal a bait of grain and went to look for a canvas bucket. When he came out of the gear tent holding the bucket by i
ts rope handle, he paused to appreciate the sunset over the skyline. Shades of orange and scarlet shot through a layer of lowlying clouds, and the rangeland was falling into shadow.

  The bells of the grazing horses tinkled in the still air, and the creek made a light, rippling sound as Fielding walked toward it. He washed his hands and face in the stream, then dipped the bucket and brought it up swelled and dripping.

  Night was falling as he walked to his camp. It was a good feeling to have the day’s work done, a night horse close at hand, a bucket of water to hang in camp, and no one to mar the pleasure of being alone on the plain.

  Chapter Two

  The buzzing of a fly woke him. As he opened his eyes, he realized the sun was up and warming the tent. The light music of the horse bells floated on the air, and he thought of the old saying. Bell your horses and sleep good.

  He rolled out of bed, got dressed, and went out in the morning. The sorrel snuffled in the corral. Fielding put a lead rope on him, led him out, and went to untie the two picket horses. The sun was warm on his face as he led the three horses to water. The young cottonwoods on the opposite bank cast the stream in shadow, and the cool smell of morning lingered. The horses touched their muzzles to the surface and made their small sucking sounds as they drank their water upward. A magpie chattered from the big cottonwood near camp.

  Fielding turned the sorrel loose and moved the pickets for the dun and the gray. By habit he counted the loose horses, as he had done earlier, and went back to camp.

  He had dipped fresh water for coffee and had the fire going when he heard the footfalls of a horse on dry ground. Looking north toward the trail, he saw Richard Lodge riding in on one of the two matched sorrels that the man kept. Fielding waved him in. Lodge came closer, then swung down and walked the last few yards.

  “You can tie him to the corral or turn him in. Coffee should be ready in a few minutes.”

  “You’re a good boy.” Lodge tipped back his hat and smiled. The sunlight fell on his dark hair and graying beard. He wore a clean work shirt, drab but not wrinkled or sweat-stained, and his charcoal-colored vest was closed by one button. After a pause in his step, he walked on to the corral.

  A minute later, he took a seat on one of the two lengths of old tree trunk that did for camp furniture. Fielding sat on the other, holding the rod of green willow that he used for a poker.

  After a few seconds, Lodge raised his eyes from gazing at the campfire. “How’s business?” he asked.

  “Oh, all right. I packed some grub and a few other things up to the flats. Got back yesterday.”

  “That’s what I heard.”

  “Things don’t really pick up until later on, you know. Then I’ll have more work than I can handle, packin’ supplies to cow and sheep camps.”

  “Who’s your helper?”

  “Kid named Mahoney. Says he’s from Cheyenne. I’m just tryin’ him out. Maybe he’s doin’ the same.” Fielding thought for a second. “Have you talked to Selby?”

  In the shade of the camp, Lodge’s deep brown eyes were darker than usual. “He said you dropped by. Raised a little dust.”

  “Not much.”

  Lodge sniffed. “Don’t know if they’d’ve done much, but it was just as well that you showed up. Maybe saved some trouble.” He tipped his head back and forth. “Then again, maybe it caused some.”

  “Either way, I didn’t like it. Someone’s better off than the rest, and he thinks he can ride roughshod over the ones that don’t have much. I just don’t like it.”

  “I don’t, either, of course, bein’ one of those that has less.”

  Fielding gave a light shake of the head. “Then their young puncher named Steelyard, nice enough fellow, comes by and tells me I ought not to take sides.”

  “He told you that?”

  “I think he meant it well. He’s the type that just by nature stays out of trouble. But if I did what he said, looked the other way, I’d be doing what he is, which is more or less goin’ along with what Cronin does.”

  “I’m surprised he took the trouble to tell you.”

  “I am, too. He had to go out of his way to do it. I’d guess he heard something from Pence or Adler after I left, and it didn’t sound good.”

  Lodge frowned. “That Cronin’s a high-handed son of a bitch, and he hires men to do things his way.”

  “This is the first time I’d seen Adler. I’d heard there was a new foreman, but I didn’t know what he looked like.”

  Lodge held his eyes on Fielding. “And what does he look like to you?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. He doesn’t seem to be from around here.”

  “I think you’ve got that right.”

  “After a man’s been here awhile, he takes on the look of the country,” said Fielding. “His clothes weather to this climate, and he does, too.”

  “That’s right,” said Lodge. “And I don’t think Cronin brought this fellow in because of his knowledge about runnin’ cattle on the northern range.”

  Fielding smiled. “You mean he doesn’t look like a foreman to you.”

  “Not as much as some.”

  Fielding reflected. “You know, I didn’t even notice if he was wearing a gun.”

  “If you see much of him, you will. And he carries a saddle gun, too. I’ve seen that.”

  “Then you think he’s some kind of a—”

  “The nice term is stock detective. If he hadn’t hired on as foreman, he might go by that.” Lodge raised his chin. “Can you get that coffeepot any closer to the coals? It’s takin’ a while to boil.”

  “I can try.” Fielding took a stick of firewood, moved two rocks closer to the center of the fire, and set the coffeepot in place.

  “I can tell you’re not in any hurry today. You’re not like these others that live on the trail—boil their coffee in a little can, and kick dirt on the ashes before the sun comes up.”

  Fielding smiled. “I don’t have someone trailin’ after me.”

  “That’s good.”

  “I do need to go into town a little later on.”

  Lodge gazed at the fire. “Yeah, I need to go in there one of these days, too. Boy, those bells have a pretty sound, don’t they? Meadowlarks sing right along with ’em.”

  The talk ran on, touching on light topics. Lodge asked about the places where Fielding had been—what the grass was like, how the wheat farmers seemed to be doing, whether the snakes were out yet. When the visitor finished his cup of coffee, he stood up.

  “Well, I think I’d better move on,” he said. “Thanks for the coffee.”

  “Glad you got some. I usually boil it in a little can.”

  “I know.” Lodge untied his horse and turned toward Fielding before mounting up. “Thanks for the help you gave Bill,” he said.

  “It wasn’t much.”

  “Maybe not, but he appreciates it. Others of us do, too.”

  “Thanks. That’s good to know.”

  Lodge’s deep brown eyes looked away and came back. “Selby and Roe are plannin’ their own roundup. I’ll throw in what little I have. They could use another hand or two, if you’re still in the country.”

  “I might be.”

  Lodge took the sorrel out into the sunlight, where he checked the cinch and climbed on. “Come and see me in your life of leisure,” he said.

  “I’ll do that.” Fielding watched as the horse and rider trotted off to the south, through the grassy valley where the belled horses were grazing.

  On his way to town, Fielding took a detour to the southeast. He rode a buckskin that covered the ground at a fast walk and a smooth lope, so he crossed Hunter Creek before the sun was straight up overhead. He followed a cow trail for a ways and then cut across a meadow to a grove of cottonwoods. Coming out on the other side, he picked up the lane that led into the headquarters of the Buchanan Ranch.

  A short-haired terrier came off the front porch of the ranch house, barking, and did not let up until the front door opened and a young blonde
woman stepped out.

  Fielding’s pulse quickened for a second. As the young woman called the dog to her, Fielding dismounted and led his horse forward.

  Her voice had a pleasant tone to it as she said, “Good morning, Tom. I believe it’s still morning, isn’t it?”

  “I think so. How are you, Susan?”

  “Very well, thanks.” As she stood in the open yard, the sunlight shone on her straw-colored hair, which was tied up in a neat coil. Her high-necked white blouse and long, sky blue skirt also caught the light and added to her radiance.

  “I hope I didn’t come at a bad moment.”

  She frowned. “Oh, no. Why?”

  “I wouldn’t want to interrupt your dinner hour.”

  She smiled, and her blue eyes sparkled. “Not at all. We won’t even start until Father gets back.”

  “Oh, I see. Then he’s not around?”

  “No, he’s in town. Or that’s where he went. Did you wish to see him?”

  Fielding gave a jaunty toss of the head. “Well, that was my main reason for stopping by. But I wouldn’t want to be so blunt as to not give my best to you.”

  She smiled again, this time showing her pretty teeth. “It’s nice of you to be so gallant, Tom.”

  “Thank you. I couldn’t do it without inspiration.” He felt himself blush and he thought she colored as well, but he couldn’t be sure in the warm sunlight.

  She gave a light laugh, then in her easy way moved to another topic. “I heard you went off on a delivery trip. I’m glad to see you made it back without any trouble.”

  “It was all pretty easy, there and back.”

  Silence hung between them for a few seconds. He let his eyes rove over her facial features, which were friendly but not revealing. It occurred to him that if she had heard one thing, she might have heard another.

  They both went to speak at the same time, and then she laughed and said, “Go ahead.”

  “You first.”

  “No, you. I insist.” She gave him a mock-severe look.

  “Well,” he began, “there was another little thing. You may have heard of it, and I wouldn’t want you to think that I didn’t want—or was trying to—”