Gather My Horses

by John D. Nesbitt

  “It’s all right,” said Lodge.

  Roe spoke without looking up. “You got nothin’ at home to be lookin’ after.”

  “Everyone’s got somethin’,” said Lodge. “Well, almost everyone.”

  Mullins appeared with a tin plate of biscuits. “Here, Tom,” he said as he lowered it.

  Fielding took two.

  “Anyone else?” asked Mullins. When the other three shook their heads, he said, “I’ll leave this at the wagon, Tom. Ed can have what you don’t eat, and I’ll make some more for the rest of us.”

  No one spoke for the next few minutes as Fielding ate his meal and Roe smoked his cigarette. Fielding went for a second helping and two more biscuits, and he had just gotten settled in the shade again when Lodge spoke.

  “Looks like someone’s comin’.”

  Fielding turned where he sat, and following Lodge’s gaze, he peered to the northeast. Two riders were coming toward the camp. Fielding returned to his meal.

  A few minutes later, the two men stopped their horses at the wagon and dismounted. They spoke to Mullins, handed their reins to the kid Grant, and came forward. Fielding recognized the man on the right as Joe Buchanan, while the one on the left took a few seconds to identify.

  The man was of the same height as Buchanan. He wore tan canvas pants and a matching jacket, the latter open in front and not quite concealing a small gun and holster that rode high on his hip. He also wore a tan, high-crowned hat that sloped down in front. The wide brim shaded his features, and it was not until Fielding noticed the blond hair and searching eyes that he recognized Cedric the Saxon.

  The two men walked in under the fly and stood in the shade. Cedric’s gooseberry-colored eyes took in the men seated on the ground, and he arched his eyebrows as the corners of his mouth turned down. Buchanan smiled at nobody in particular. As usual, he was dressed in dark brown from his hat to his boots, and he wore dark spurs. Fielding glanced at Cedric’s tan boots and saw a pair of silver spurs.

  “Afternoon, boys,” said Buchanan.

  The four men on the ground returned the greeting.

  “I hope your roundup’s going all right,” Buchanan continued.

  “Slow but sure,” Selby replied.

  “That’s good. We’re movin’ along, too.” Buchanan took a breath and continued. “As you know, my outfit is in together with the Argyle’s. We’re runnin’ a full crew, and right now we’re on the other side of the valley and a little ways north.”

  He paused as the men on the ground nodded.

  Cedric took the occasion to reach into his jacket and bring out a tan leather case. He pressed a brass button, and the case opened. He offered it to Buchanan, who took out a tailor-made cigarette, and then he lifted out one for himself. As Cedric put the case away, Buchanan produced a match and lit the two cigarettes. Cedric held his between the tips of his first two fingers as he blew away the smoke. Then, wrinkling his nose, he turned around to look at the rest of the camp.

  Buchanan spoke again. “What I came to tell you is that we’ve made a pretty good gather so far.” Cupping the cigarette as he held it between thumb and forefinger, he took a puff. “In amongst the stuff we’ve got is a few head of your stock.” He nodded at Selby, Roe, and Lodge. “I believe we’ve got something of each of yours.”

  Fielding had the distinct feeling that Buchanan avoided looking at him. He told himself it didn’t matter, as he didn’t have any cattle. He went on eating his meal.

  “If you’d like to come and get your stock,” Buchanan went on, “sometime today or tomorrow would be a good time. We’ll hold the herd, and you can cut out what’s yours.”

  Selby spoke up. “I think tomorrow would work better for us. About this time of day?”

  Buchanan nodded. “That should be fine. I’ll let the others know, and we can be expectin’ you.” He took another drag on his cigarette and looked around. “This weather is all a man could ask for, isn’t it?”

  Selby smiled. “Couldn’t be better.”

  “Well,” said Buchanan, with an intake of breath as he drew himself up straight, “we’d best be gettin’ back.” He turned to Cedric, who met his glance and gave a curt nod.

  “Be sure to get something to eat before you go,” said Selby. “There’s plenty.”

  Buchanan gave a short smile. “Thanks, but we ate before we came over.”

  “Good enough,” said Selby. “We’ll see you tomorrow.”

  “You bet.” Buchanan and Cedric went out from under the canvas fly.

  When the two men had mounted their horses and ridden away, Roe spoke up. “Who the hell is he?”

  “Why, that’s Joe Buchanan,” Selby answered. “You know him.”

  “I mean the dandy with his nose in the air.”

  Selby cleared his throat. “I believe that’s a personal friend of Cronin’s. Isn’t that right, Richard?”

  “That’s right. Name of Cedric. Sociable chap, as you can see.”

  Roe, who had smoked his own cigarette down to a pinch, said, “That’s some kind of case he’s got for his smokes.”

  “Goes along with his tin cup,” said Lodge. “Did you see it tied to his saddle horn? He carries it so he doesn’t have to get down on his belly to drink from a spring, or cup water in his hands from a stream. I heard he won’t drink from the same dipper as the other men, either.”

  “Well, he’s British,” said Selby.

  “What is he, some kind of a remittance man?” Roe’s voice had a nasal whine to it.

  Selby shrugged. “I don’t know.”

  “What’s that?” asked Fielding.

  Selby looked at Lodge, who had leaned over to rest on his right forearm.

  “A remittance man,” said Lodge, “is a fellow, usually from England, who lives off his relatives back home. His family sends him money, in remittances as they call it, so he’ll stay over here—in this country or Canada—and not come home and be an embarrassment to them. Usually some prodigal, I guess. But I don’t think our friend Cedric is one of them. From what I heard, his father is one of your foreign investors in cattle. Pal of Cronin’s.”

  “Well, I didn’t like his looks.” Roe poked his finger between his neck and bandanna and rubbed back and forth.

  Lodge gave a short laugh. “I doubt that he liked ours, either. But that’s not goin’ to keep me from enjoyin’ a cup of coffee.”

  The four riders left camp after noon dinner the next day, leaving the other workers at their regular tasks—Bracken to keep in the cattle herd, Topper to watch the horse herd, and Mullins and Grant to clean up after the midday meal and start working on supper. Fielding wondered, as he did at times, at the efficiency of having four workers in camp and only four men to make the gather, but Selby seemed satisfied with the progress they were making.

  The men rode two abreast, with Selby and Roe in front and Fielding with Lodge a few paces back. Unlike Roe, who slouched in the saddle and listed to one side or another, Selby rode straight up, with his chin lifted. He kept a cheerful air about him, which struck Fielding as being maintained for effect. Although Selby had shown resistance in the set-to with Cronin’s men a couple of weeks earlier, he now seemed willing to go out of his way to get along with men from the other camp. Fielding had noticed also that Selby did not join in on the casual remarks about Cronin, Cedric, and the others. If he was hoping to avoid confrontation, he was giving it a good try.

  The four riders made it to the other roundup camp in less than an hour. Fielding had seen it from a mile away, as it sat on high ground and had a thin cloud of dust hovering over it. Selby brought his horse to a stop at the edge of the camp, and the other three did likewise, as it was common courtesy to let the horses relieve themselves before going in as well as to stir up less dust.

  At present, the Argyle and Buchanan crew was having dinner and taking noontime rest. Fielding counted fourteen punchers either sitting cross-legged or stretched out on the grass. To the left of them, under a canopy that came off the big tent
, four men sat on folding chairs. Fielding identified them as Cronin, Cedric, Buchanan, and Adler. To the right, the chuck wagon cook and his helper moved between the fire pit and the tail end of the wagon. Farther back, to the right, an empty wagon that would serve as the bed wagon for hauling bedrolls between camps now stood as the base for the rope corral that held the horse herd. Fielding estimated over a hundred head in the bunch, plus the day wrangler’s horse, tied to a wagon wheel, another horse tied to the chuck wagon, and four or five that were ground-hitched beyond the tent and canopy. Farther back yet, two day herders on horseback rode around the cattle herd, which looked as if it held from three to four hundred head. The mooing and bawling of the cattle rose in the constant din a man got used to on roundup grounds.

  Fielding was thinking that he and Lodge could stand back and hold the horses, but Selby turned and said over his shoulder, “Don’t lag behind, boys. Come right in behind me.” So Fielding and Lodge followed the other two up to the edge of the shade, and Fielding moved to one side so he could see the men seated.

  Closest to him, sitting upright with his hands on his knees, was J. P. Cronin. Fielding guessed him to be somewhere in his fifties, as he had blond hair running to silver, eyes bulging in a florid face, and a waistline spreading beneath his waistcoat. He was clean-shaven, and he showed a mouth full of teeth as he smiled. He wore a cream-colored hat, furrowed on top with a dent along each side, then a tan, frock-style coat with matching pants and vest, a gold watch chain, and an ivory-colored shirt with pearly buttons all the way down. His dark gun belt and dark-handled revolver matched his stovepipe boots, which rested flat on the ground and were trimmed with small silver spurs. Still smiling, Cronin rotated his head to take in the four visitors, and with his left hand he raised a dark cigar to his mouth.

  He took a puff, and as the cloud drifted up, he said, “Hello, boys.”

  Cedric used the moment to take out his cigarette case, open it, and offer it to Buchanan and Adler. Buchanan accepted a cigarette, while Adler declined with a shake of the head. The foreman tugged on a watch chain, pulled out a silver watch, and began to wind it.

  Selby answered, “Good afternoon, sir.”

  “Come for your stock, did you?”

  “That’s right, sir.”

  Cronin smiled as he rested his cigar hand on his knee. “I’m glad you did.” His body heaved upward and then relaxed as he took a breath. “Here’s how I think we can do it. We didn’t separate your cattle because we didn’t have a place to put them, so you can ride in and cut ’em out. A couple of our boys’ll hold ’em for you, and when you’re done you can each sign for what you got, and be on your way. Shouldn’t take long, really.”

  Selby put on his smile. “Sounds good. We appreciate the trouble you’re goin’ to. We should have sent a rep, but we didn’t have anyone to spare.”

  “It’s quite all right,” said Cronin. “As soon as you’re done we’re going to brand, so no one’s going anywhere this afternoon anyway.”

  Fielding glanced at the punchers lounging around, and he noticed both Pence and Mahoney as well as Henry Steelyard and a handful of others he recognized.

  “Real good,” said Selby. He turned to the other three and said, “Let’s go, boys.”

  They led their horses around the back of the tent, mounted up, and rode to the herd. Fielding was riding the sorrel, and he hoped the horse would do all right if he had to do any cutting.

  The puncher who was riding the edge of the near side of the herd turned out to meet them. “I believe we’ve got thirteen cows, eleven calves, and seven steers,” he said, “but you can see for yourselves.”

  Selby sent Fielding and Lodge to the far side of the herd while he and Roe worked the near side. The plan, as Fielding learned, was for one man to ride into the herd and cut out a cow and pass her off to his partner. If the calf didn’t follow right away, the second fellow waited, and if the calf still didn’t come out, he took the cow around to the men who were holding the cut. All these punchers of Buchanan’s and Cronin’s would have been keeping an eye on the other brands, and between them they would know which cows had calves and which didn’t.

  Lodge rode into the herd and brought out a red cow, and a calf came trailing a few yards behind. Fielding pushed the cow around the edge of the herd until he came to the day herder, who pointed to an area a couple of hundred yards to the south, where two men sat on horses. Fielding delivered the cow and calf, nodded, and loped back.

  The herd was not packed tight, so Lodge moved in and among the animals without getting jammed very much. In a little while he emerged with a brindle cow right ahead of him.

  “I think this one’s by herself,” he said. “She looks dry.”

  Fielding concurred and took the cow around.

  Two hours passed, and little by little the men made their cut. They had all the animals they had expected to find except for one calf. The mother cow bellowed nonstop and kept trying to break out and go back to the main herd.

  Selby nodded as he looked over the small herd and took a count. “Not a yearling heifer in the bunch,” he said.

  “If there was, they probably ate her and buried the hide,” said Roe.

  “No use worryin’ about it.” Selby pulled his gloves snug. “Let’s ride over to the tent and sign for these, and maybe that last calf’ll come out by the time we get back.”

  Fielding held the horses while the other three men went under the canopy. Cronin, Cedric, and Buchanan held the same seats as before, while Adler stood in the sunlight, his silver watch chain glinting as he turned in conversation with three of the men. A couple of other punchers stood by with saddled horses, while a couple more got their mounts ready for the afternoon’s work. The rest, who would be wrestling the roped calves and holding them down for the hot iron, were standing in groups of two or three. Mahoney and Pence stood in the group closest to the canopy.

  Selby and the other two small cattlemen took a while talking to Cronin and Buchanan, writing out their statements of receipt, and signing. On a couple of occasions, Selby’s voice rose in an artificial note as he tossed back his head and laughed. Roe took out his jackknife and sharpened his stub of a pencil while Cedric watched. Lodge seemed to be keeping track of where Adler mingled.

  At last the voices took on a tone of finality, and Selby gave a closing laugh. He and Roe and Lodge turned away and headed toward Fielding and the horses. As they walked within five yards of Pence and Mahoney, the big man said something that Fielding didn’t catch from where he stood. Selby shrugged and kept walking.

  Mahoney’s voice came out with a challenging ring. “He said something to you.”

  Selby stopped and turned halfway. Roe and Lodge stopped as well. “I heard him,” Selby replied.

  “He said he lost a sack of Deuce.”

  Selby’s face colored. “That’s no concern of mine. I don’t smoke.”

  “He said he lost a sack of Deuce.”

  “Are you his parrot?”

  “He thinks one of you might have picked it up.”

  Mahoney struck an antagonistic pose as he stood with his chin lifted and his thumbs in his gun belt. The sun shone full on his upturned brim and reddish hair, and his nostrils seemed to flare. His voice had a sneer in it, and Fielding thought he saw a method taking place. Mahoney would get the person riled, and Pence would take it from there. From the way the kid had gotten under Selby’s skin, it looked as if Mahoney knew what he was good at.

  “Well, we didn’t.”

  “What did you put in your back pocket?”

  “My gloves. I took ’em off to sign those papers.” Selby reached back, pulled out his gloves, and reached up to give them a shake as he showed them. Before he could give them a second flick, Pence came out of nowhere with his right fist and punched Selby on the side of the face.

  Selby fell back a step and a half, got his footing, and charged forward. Pence landed another punch, this one a haymaker that snapped Selby’s head back, sent his hat flyin
g, and knocked him to the ground. Before Selby could get up, Mahoney kicked him in the head.

  Fielding dropped the reins and launched in. As he did, Lodge came into the scuffle as well, saying, “Hey, we’ll have none of that.”

  Fielding got between Selby and Mahoney and gave the kid a shove. As the kid went backward, Lodge appeared at Fielding’s right, to stand between the fallen Selby and the aggressor, Pence.

  Mahoney came back with a wild swing, which Fielding batted away with his left hand. He was about to counter with his right when Pence shoved past Lodge and clobbered Fielding on the right temple. Fielding staggered back and got his eyes on Pence in time to see the big man come up with a roundhouse that rocked Lodge back on his heels. Fielding was getting his feet back under him and looking out for Mahoney when Cronin’s voice blared.

  “Stop it!”

  Everyone settled back and held still. Roe had gotten well out of the way, as had all the punchers to Fielding’s left and behind Mahoney. Cronin had his pistol drawn and had a clear line of fire on anyone he pleased. On the other side of the fray stood Adler, with his gun drawn as well.

  His voice was cold and steady as he said, “Do what the boss says.” As if for emphasis, his silver watch chain caught the sunlight.

  Cronin spoke again. “Get that man up off the ground. For Christ’s sake, you act like a bunch of hooligans.”

  Lodge glared. “It wasn’t a fair fight to begin with. This pig hit him without any warning. Then it got dirty when this other one kicked him in the head, so you’re damn right we jumped in.” He bent over and helped Selby to his feet.

  Adler’s voice came up from the other side. “Just watch what you say, fella.”

  Lodge turned his anger at the foreman. “You’re brave as hell, aren’t you, when you’ve got a gun in your hand?” He faced Cronin and continued. “I’d think this was a setup, you hopin’ that one of us would pull a gun.”

  Cronin’s face fell, but before he could speak, Lodge continued. “But I know you’d rather do your dirty work in the dark. That’s your kind of courage. Band together, and hire it out.” He pointed to Adler. “And that’s the kind of egg-sucker you bring in to get it done.”