Cronin moistened his lips with his tongue. “That’s more than enough, I think. Why don’t you men get your cattle and go?” He put his gun in his holster.
Adler did the same and, nonchalant, said, “Everyone gets their blood up, there’s no good comes of it. Let’s just put this behind us and do our work. Fred, hand the man his hat.”
Mahoney, with his face flushed, picked up Selby’s hat and handed it to him without speaking.
“Thanks,” muttered Selby. He put the hat on his head and turned to look for the reins of his horse.
Fielding tried to get a view of Buchanan, but the man had turned away. Fielding did, however, catch a glance at Cedric’s long, expressionless face.
Selby found his reins, mounted up, and led the way to the small herd. The others followed.
The one remaining calf had shown up, so the four men closed around the herd and started it on the way.
Fielding, who was riding drag about ten yards away from Lodge, said, “It was decent of you to jump in, too. But I wonder if you went too far with what you said.”
Lodge wiped at his nose with his gloved hand. “Oh, I’m sick of these sons of bitches, and I’m not going to lick their boots.” Then he added, “It’s a hell of a good thing no one pulled a gun, though.”
Bracken, the granger kid named Topper, Mullins, and his son, Grant, were all at their work as usual when the men put their gathered stock in with the rest of the herd. No one spoke of the incident at the other camp, and Fielding hoped they could all put it behind them. But he remembered the man who had said it that way, and he had his doubts. It was more likely that Adler would just put it away until later.
Chapter Six
The morning breeze soughed in the cottonwoods, rustling the leaves but not shutting out the tinkle of the horse bells in the meadow and the accompanying song of the meadowlarks. The sun had not yet cleared the young cottonwoods on the east side of the creek, so Fielding enjoyed the freshness of the morning.
The cast-iron skillet lay upside down on the log, and the coffeepot sat next to the embers of the fire. Specks of ash rose in the low eddies of air that formed in the fire pit as the haze passed over. Things were on a small scale this morning, which suited Fielding as he mended a shirt with a small needle and thread.
Out from the camp, coming into sunlight inch by inch as the sun rose, the clothing that Fielding and Bracken had washed the evening before lay spread out on clumps of sagebrush. It had been limp and damp before Bracken set out for town, but it would all be dry by the time he came back. Seeing that none of the garments had blown off, Fielding returned to his work. The change from sunlight to shade required him to blink his eyes and adjust, but within half a minute he had his focus and was back at it. As he pulled the needle to tighten his stitch, he entertained a thought about how he might spend a couple of hours. Bracken was not due back until midafternoon, and no other camp work needed to be done at the moment, so Fielding had time to take a short ride.
The sounds of the Roe menagerie lifted and floated on the air as Fielding rode into the front yard. The two gray geese did not show, however, as Isabel herself appeared around the corner of the house and came forward. Her dark hair hung loose to her shoulders, and she wore a full-length, dark blue dress that was snug at the waist. Below the hem, her laced black shoes were visible.
“What a surprise,” she said. “I didn’t expect you.”
“I didn’t plan very far ahead. I had a little time free, so I thought I’d stop by. Are you too busy for a visit?”
“Not at all. Papa’s not here. He went over to Bill’s, to get ready for the get-together this evening. But you’re welcome to visit if you’d like.” Her eyes had a soft shine, and her clean, even teeth showed as she smiled.
“More than happy to.” Fielding swung down from the buckskin and took off his hat, again disguising the move by rubbing his sleeve across his brow. “How have you been?” he asked. “You look as if you’ve weathered all right.”
She gave a demure half smile, then said, “I was here by myself, but Leonora Janken came out and stayed a couple of times. You know her.”
“Oh, yes.”
Her eyes moved in a casual glance past him. “Would you like to water your horse?”
“He can wait till we’re ready to go. I’ll just hold him.”
“Why don’t you tie him? You can come around back, and I’ll show you something.”
Fielding put on his hat, tied the buckskin to the hitching post, and followed Isabel. Past the back corner of the house, he found himself in the midst of more of her father’s salvage. A rowboat-shaped galvanized bathtub sat next to a wooden icebox with a sagging door. A rusty corn grinder stood cheek-by-jowl with a clothes wringer, the latter mounted on a small vat with vertical staves and iron hoops. Isabel led the way past these hulks to a wooden lean-to next to the back door of the house.
At the entrance to the lean-to sat a kitchen chair, and next to it squatted the three-legged stool with chipped paint. On the yellowed stool, a dark brown leather case lay open to display a row of narrow, shiny instruments. Isabel picked up the case, closed it, and handed it to Fielding. Then she pulled the stool away from the lean-to but still in the shade and said, “Here, sit down, and I’ll show you.”
She sat on the chair and reached forward into the storage area, where she pulled out a burlap sack that looked as if it was stuffed with rags. She set the sack against her knees and held her hand out for the instrument case. When he handed it to her, she opened it.
“See, these are my sack-sewing needles.”
He could see them now, gleaming pieces of fine polished steel, ranging in length from three to five inches. The first three needles were straight all the way, like any normal needle but larger. The next two were straight also but flared out like a long spearhead and tapered back to a point at the tip. The last one in the row was flared as well but bent so that the last inch angled away from the shaft. Across the top of the row, two semicircular needles were hooked into folds of leather.
“These are nice,” he said, surprised to see something so neat and clean in the midst of all the junk.
“Thank you. I thought you might appreciate them. Most of them can be used for carpet and canvas as well. The curved ones are more for upholstery.”
He nodded. “And you sew sacks?”
“In the wheat harvest. It’s just for a short while each year, but it gives me something for myself.”
“I see. That’s coming up before long, isn’t it?”
“Yes, it is. So I get out my needles and twine, and I take a few turns for practice. I’ve got different stitches I can make, but I start with the easiest one.”
She took out a four-inch straight needle, handed the case back to Fielding, pulled and cut a length of heavy cotton twine from a spindle on her left, and threaded the needle, leaving about six inches of loose twine coming out one side of the needle eye. Next she adjusted the sack of rags, twisted an ear on the right corner of the open end, wound three loops around the base, and pulled it tight with a half hitch. Then, after pulling another six inches of twine through the eye on the loose end, she held the seams with her left hand as she looped her stitches across the top of the sack. In less than a minute she had reached the other end, where she twisted the left ear and tied it off.
“That’s pretty good,” said Fielding. “It looks as if you could do one per minute.”
“If they came that fast. I understand they do, with some of these steam threshers. They can keep two sack-sewers busy at once.”
“There’s not enough grain around here for someone to go to all the trouble of bringing in a steam engine, is there? That’s what they tell me.”
“Not yet,” she said. “And I’m not in a hurry for it.” Then, as if she caught herself, she added, “Not that I mind the work. I just wouldn’t want to live for it.” She motioned with her arm at the backyard. “It’s like all of this. I can put up with it, but I don’t want to live in the midst of
it for the rest of my life.”
Fielding took heart. “It’s not in your blood, then. All this stuff.”
“Not like Papa’s. He can live in a run-down place cluttered with scraps, and it doesn’t bother him. I can’t say it bothers me greatly, not now, but I can’t see it as the rest of my life, not any more than working for day wages on a threshing crew or in a factory. Don’t you think?”
“Well, sure. It’s how you yourself see it.”
She seemed to be in thought as she stood up, took the sack by the two ears, and set it inside the lean-to. As she sat down she smiled at him and said, “And how about you? I would imagine you’re satisfied with what you do because you chose it.” She held out her hand for the case, and as he gave it to her, his fingers touched hers.
“Yes,” he said. “I’d say I like my work well enough.” He did not feel as if he had to be on his guard with what he said, so he went on. “I’ve never had much of anything, so I’m not disappointed with what I’ve got. I’ve never had a place of my own, and I think I’d like to do that. Have a place where the rest of the world leaves you alone when you want.”
“That’s a good way to put it.” She turned her dark eyes on him and added, “Oh, I hope you don’t think I’m ungrateful for what I’ve got. After all, Papa does have a place of his own, and I’ve never wanted for anything. I work because I want to.”
“I understand that.”
“And there’s nothing wrong with that kind of work. That’s where we started, wasn’t it? I said I just didn’t want to live for the sake of working on a threshing crew.”
“I don’t blame you. Some of those machines make a lot of racket, especially the steam engines.”
“Well, there’s the racket, and then the drudgery.” She paused. “And the people you work with.”
“I’ve met some of them,” said Fielding. “Here and there. Packed supplies for a couple of ’em a while back. And this fellow Mullins and his kid, Grant, they worked roundup with us.”
“Oh, he’s all right,” said Isabel. “There are others, though. You don’t know Ray Foote, do you?”
Fielding shook his head. “Don’t believe I’ve heard the name till now. Did you say Foot?”
“Foot with an e,” she said. Then, with an impatient huff, she went on. “He’s the one thing I dread most about this work coming up. He’s a sack jig.”
“What’s that?”
“Oh, that’s the person who jigs or shakes the sack so it has a uniform weight—hundred and thirty-eight to hundred and forty pounds. He jigs it and passes it to me to sew. I can’t stand the way he looms over me, always making eyes at me, showing off how strong he is, hefting the full sacks. But he’s got the mind of a slug. And when he counts the sacks, if he has four rows of five each, he counts them one by one.”
Fielding smiled. He didn’t mind that kind of competition. “I guess that’s the way work is,” he said. “You can’t always pick who you work with. But if it’s only for a while—”
“Yes, but he’s taken to Papa, making friends with him. Buys him a drink in town, gives him a bottle to take home. I think he might be at Bill’s this evening. He got himself invited, and Bill said he could come down with Mr. Mullins.”
“Oh, well,” said Fielding with a playful smile, “as long as he doesn’t keep you tied up all evenin’, showin’ you the muscle in his arm.”
“Pooh,” she said. “If you don’t mind, you can keep me away from him. And don’t leave before he does.”
Fielding laughed. “I think I can do that much.”
“I’m glad you’re going to be there.”
“I wouldn’t miss it.”
Her dark eyes met his again. “I hope you don’t think I was saying anything unkind about Papa.”
“Oh, no. Like I said, I understand. And if some of this isn’t in your blood—” He was about to say, “So much the better,” but he left the sentence unfinished.
“He always says I take after Mama. You never met her, but she was a lovely lady.”
“Oh, then I agree with your father.”
A blush came to Isabel’s tan complexion. “Well, I take after her in other ways. She liked music, painting. She was adventurous, coming up here with Papa. She wanted to see new places. He was young then, too, of course.”
“Did they homestead this place?”
“No. Papa bought it from someone else who started here. Papa worked in a creamery in Cheyenne, and he met the man that way. He and Mama sold everything they had—except me—and came here. It wasn’t good for Mama, though.” She stopped, then forced a smile. “Let’s not be sad. We were talking about the party tonight. You like music, don’t you?”
“Oh, sure.”
“Maybe there’ll be music there. Sometimes Mr. Lodge plays a song or two.”
“Really? I didn’t know he did.”
“Otherwise, it might be rather dull. Just Papa, Bill Selby, Mr. Mullins, Ray Foote—”
“And myself, of course, not to mention you. I think the kid who works for me will come along as well.”
“Oh, yes. You had better be there. If I get trapped into a long conversation with Ray Foote, I’ll have you to blame.”
“Fear not,” he said. “I’ll be there, if only for that reason.”
Fielding and Bracken rode to Selby’s together as the sun was slipping behind the hills to the west. The kid had bought a used Colt .45 with holster and gun belt, and he was fiddling with the outfit to see how it rode best when he was in the saddle. Fielding, who had thought the kid was going to buy a jacket for the trip into the mountains, found himself getting impatient with the fuss.
“I wouldn’t be too worried about that thing right now,” he said. “As soon as we get to Selby’s, you’re going to have to put it in your saddlebag anyway.”
“I know. I’m just tryin’ it out, to see how it fits.”
They got to Selby’s right at dusk and turned their horses into a corral. Two of Roe’s horses, which Fielding knew well enough by now, were in the next corral, and one of Lodge’s sorrels had a pen to itself.
Inside the house, Isabel and her father were sitting in wooden chairs in the sitting room, while Lodge was in the kitchen tuning a mandolin. Fielding said good evening to all present, took off his hat, and turned to where father and daughter sat.
As he gave his hand to Isabel in fuller greeting, he was struck by her beauty. Although she looked fine to him in her everyday clothes, she was enchanting now. Her dark hair, clean and shiny, was held in place with a hair band that crossed her head a few inches back of her brow, and she wore a pair of garnet earrings. Her clean white blouse was set off by a black velvet vest and matching ankle-length skirt, with a pair of narrow black boots barely showing. As he met her eyes a second time, he caught a trace of perfume that made him forget where he was.
Her voice brought him back. “I’m glad you could make it.”
“Oh, uh-huh.” He widened his eyes and collected himself. “Say, I don’t think you’ve met my wrangler, Ed Bracken. Ed, this is Miss Roe.”
The kid had gone easy on his new clothes, wearing mostly his old ones during roundup, so his better set was clean but no longer stiff. He had followed Fielding’s example and had taken off his hat, which he held in front of him as he nodded.
“Pleasure,” he said.
“And a pleasure to meet you,” she answered.
Roe sniffed and said, “Ed worked with us.”
“Yes, I thought so.” Isabel gave the young man a kind smile.
The expression on her face changed as more voices sounded at the open door. Fielding turned to see who else had come.
Selby was throwing his head back and giving his manufactured laugh. “Come on in, come on in,” he said.
Across the threshold came a tall, husky young man with Mullins behind him.
Fielding nodded to Mullins and stood back so that the new arrivals could make a round of greetings. As he did, he made a quick study of the young man who made a beeline
for Isabel.
Leaning forward at the waist and sporting a broad smile, the fellow took off his hat with a sweep. When he stood up, Fielding saw that he had a square-topped head, heavy cheekbones, and a long jawline tapering to a broad chin. He had a filmy complexion and light brown eyes that went with the tone of his dull, light-colored, coarse hair. As he put his hat back on, Fielding was impressed with how clean it was, and he imagined the man had taken it out of the box for this occasion.
Roe looked up from where he sat, and as he held out his hand he said, “Evenin’, Ray.”
The other man dwarfed Roe’s hand with his own. “Same to you. Good to see you.” Then he turned toward Fielding and said, “Ray Foote.” With his elbow lifted, he brought around his large, thick hand.
Fielding met the impact and said, “Tom Fielding.”
The light brown eyes carried a look of self-assurance as Foote released his grasp. “You’re the horseman,” he said, his voice a little louder than before. “I have a few myself.”
“That’s good.”
Selby’s voice came up from behind. “You shoulda been with us on roundup.”
The smile came back. “Maybe next time I will.” Then with a nod, Foote said, “Pleased to meet you,” and moved on to introduce himself to Bracken.
“Likewise,” said Fielding. He took measure of the man, who was more large-boned than broad-shouldered, though he filled out the starched, wheat-colored shirt that he wore. He was thick at the hips as well, and his tan corduroy pants covered the tops of a pair of heavy boots.
After Foote had made the rounds, he went outside and came back in with a narrow package wrapped in newspaper.
Roe sat up in his chair as Foote walked toward him.
“Thought you might like to open this,” said the big man.
Roe took the item and peeled off the newspaper to reveal a quart of whiskey. “That’s the good stuff,” he said. Then he handed the bottle to Foote and said, “You can open it if you want.” As Foote took out his pocketknife to trim the seal, the older man reached under his chair and brought up a tin cup.
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