Gather My Horses

by John D. Nesbitt

  Lodge, who had come out from the kitchen, said, “That’s a handy cup you’ve got there. It’s the same kind Cedric uses.”

  Roe cocked his eyebrow, and without taking his eye off the bottle he said, “You won’t find me puttin’ any water in this.”

  Foote poured a generous amount into the tin cup, then lifted the bottle as he turned to Lodge. “Care for a snort?”

  “I’ll have a little.”

  Fielding took advantage of the distraction to meet eyes with Isabel. She pointed to a chair nearby, so he crossed the room, drew the chair near her, and took a seat.

  He looked up in time to see Bracken shaking his head at the offer of a drink as Foote held the bottle in front of the kid. Foote went on to pour a drink for Selby, and when he came around to Fielding, a look of displeasure crossed his face. He made a quick recovery of his smile, however, and said, “Have a drink?”

  “I’ll wait, thanks.”

  “Pour one for yourself,” said Roe.

  “I think I will.”

  Mullins, who had taken a chair by himself near the kitchen, sat with his arms folded and did not seem in the least as if he felt left out.

  Selby, Foote, and Lodge remained standing. Selby kept the conversation going with the usual topics of the weather, how the grass was drying out, and how the crops were doing. He recalled years when the rain had never come, and years when the grasshoppers had been a plague.

  “If it’s not one thing it’s another,” he said. “You get good rain and no hoppers, and then you get hailed on.”

  “Isn’t that the truth?” said Roe. He held out his cup toward Foote, who picked up the bottle from the floor where he had set it out of the way.

  “I’m just glad that the roundup went so well,” Selby continued.

  “You got a good count on your cattle?” asked Foote, who seemed to adopt the knowing way of a cattleman as he squeaked the cork out of the bottle.

  Roe held his cup forward. “Good as you could expect.”

  The talk subsided, and after a minute of silence, Selby spoke again. “Say, Richard, were you going to give us a song or two?”

  Lodge swirled his glass, which he had not yet emptied. “I guess I could.” He carried the glass to the kitchen and came back with his mandolin. “Any requests?” he asked.

  “Do ‘Lorena,’ ” said Selby. “I never get tired of it.”

  Lodge plucked at the strings, got set, and delivered the song with smiling melancholy. When he had finished and the applause died away, he asked, “Something else?”

  Selby spoke again. “Oh, do ‘Cowboy Jack’ to go along with it.”

  Lodge’s face lit up. “That’s nice and sad and mournful. Let’s give it a try.” The mandolin made a thin, weepy sound as Lodge began to sing.

  “He was just a lonely cowboy,

  But his heart was kind and true;

  He won the heart of a maiden

  With eyes of heaven’s own blue.”

  Fielding saw Bracken shift and look at his feet. The kid coughed, and Lodge sang on.

  “They learned to love each other,

  And named their wedding day;

  But a quarrel came between them,

  And Jack he rode away.”

  After another verse, Lodge came to the chorus:

  “Your sweetheart waits for you, Jack,

  Your sweetheart waits for you,

  Out on the lonely prairie,

  Where the skies are always blue.”

  Lodge sang the rest of the song, in which the cowboy comes back and learns that his girl has died, and the song ended with the chorus again. Bracken did not look up the whole time, but everyone else seemed to enjoy the morose ballad. When the applause was done, Foote spoke in his loud way.

  “Does anyone want a drink? How about you, kid?”

  Bracken held his head up, as if he was trying to keep from sniffling. “Yeah,” he said. “I’ll have one.”

  Selby fetched a glass, and Foote poured about three fingers. Lifting the bottle in Fielding’s direction, he said, “Are you about ready?”

  “Not yet,” said Fielding, shaking his head. “I’ll wait a little longer.”

  “Suit yourself.”

  Fielding did not care for the man’s tone, but he let the comment go.

  Selby must have sensed an undercurrent as well. In his cheerful voice he said, “Give us another one, Richard. How about one of your own?”

  Lodge held the shiny, blackish brown mandolin against his charcoal-colored vest. He had taken off his hat, and his dark, graying hair lay ridged and glossy. His brown eyes moved around the room to take in his audience, and he said, “Over half of you haven’t heard me like this before, so I’m kinda shy, but I’ll do one that Tom and Ed might like. I call it ‘Old Rope Corral,’ and it goes like this.” He tucked the mandolin against him, sounded a few preliminary notes, and delivered the song with his full voice.

  “As I sit on a log at the edge of the fire

  And another day comes to a close,

  Far away from the laughter and gloom of the city,

  Far away from the laurel and rose,

  “With the song of a stream as it chuckles in moonlight

  Over secrets it never will tell,

  I relax in the company of two faithful horses

  Munching oats in the old rope corral.

  “It’s a mighty fine camp in the heart of the mountains

  Where I come when my time is my own,

  Where the shuffle of hooves and the wind in the treetops

  Knock the edge off of being alone.

  “As the fire burns down and the coals fall asunder,

  There’s a sight that I’ve come to know well—

  A gash in the embers as bright as a blossom

  Puts a glow on the old rope corral.

  “Though I’m far from the plains and the tents of the wicked

  And the company of my fellow man,

  Just the warmth of the fire on the brim of my Stetson

  Lets me think of the times in Cheyenne

  “Where the love of a woman in cool dusky twilight

  Gave me hopes that I cannot retell

  Of a place and a time far away from my refuge

  In a camp by an old rope corral.

  “For we opened our hearts and discovered each other

  And made plans for the future as well;

  But the rules of life changed as she pledged to another,

  And the curtain of solitude fell.

  “So I come to these mountains to stay with my horses

  Where the water sings clear as a bell,

  Where my tent stands in shadow in pale mountain moonlight

  In my camp by the old rope corral.

  “Well, the hope never dies that we’ll find love again

  Though the future we cannot foretell,

  So we gather our strength as we take in the fire

  Like the one by my old rope corral.”

  The room broke into applause, and Lodge gave a bow of the head as he lowered the mandolin.

  “Thank you,” he said. “It always makes me a little nervous to do one of my own, so I think I’ll take a couple of minutes and find my drink. We might have some more later.” He smiled and nodded to a chorus of thank-yous, then made his way to the kitchen. In another minute he was back with his drink.

  The talk returned to the same topics as before—the weather, the flies, cattle and horses, and what the range was coming to. Foote, with no apparent sense of wordplay, declared that the homesteaders were getting more and more of a foothold. He said it as if he represented them as their leader and had a phalanx of foot soldiers behind him.

  Lodge countered by saying that although that might be the case, the big cattlemen had an interest in keeping things the way they were. Then as a barb he added, “You know that, bein’ a horseman yourself.”

  Foote gave a shrug. “Well, yeah, but there’s plenty of land to go around.”

  “Say that when t
hey come and cut your fence or club your sheep.” Lodge took a sip of his whiskey.

  “I don’t have sheep.”

  “Neither do I. And you don’t have to have sheep to know what I’m talking about. You can climb to the top of one of these buttes and it seems like you can see forever and no one’s there. But they are, and even though there’s a hell of a lot of land, it’s not endless. Any range has its limits, and the more people you’ve got on it, the less there is for the ones who want it all.”

  It was evident that Foote wanted to hang on to his argument. “Well, some of it’s deeded, so they can forget about it.”

  “That doesn’t make ’em think they wouldn’t like to get it. Especially if it’s got a well or a water hole or anything they can use. You watch.”

  Foote’s eyes, which had begun to droop off and on during the evening, opened wide. Before he could answer, Selby entered the discussion.

  “Let’s not get too worked up,” he said. “I’m thinkin’, or hopin’, that things’ll settle down as far as the neighbors go.”

  Roe with his drifting glance seemed to be looking at no one in particular as he said, “Oh, I think the trouble is over, or will be over before long.”

  Lodge wrinkled his nose. “Don’t count your steers until they’re in the rail car.”

  No one spoke for a few seconds. Mullins, who had said next to nothing all evening and had only moved his chair to avoid sitting behind Lodge during the performance, took notice of the talk about trouble. He rose from his chair and said it was time they started back.

  Foote objected, saying the night was early yet, but Mullins insisted. The talk went back and forth a few times, and Mullins prevailed. With reluctance, Foote said good night to Roe and Isabel, nodded at Fielding and Bracken, and thanked Selby. Then he tugged down his black hat and walked out.

  The room went quiet for a moment until Roe spoke. “I think you made him mad, Richard. He didn’t say good-bye to you.”

  “Oh, that’s all right. There was no point in gettin’ worked up with someone like him anyway. Punkin roller in a Sunday hat.” Lodge went into the kitchen and began to store the mandolin in its pasteboard case.

  “Here, Ed,” said Roe. “Why don’t you hand me that bottle? No need to let it go to waste.”

  Bracken picked up the bottle by the tip of the neck and transferred it to Roe, who thanked him with a nod.

  Fielding and Isabel turned toward each other. “It looks as if things are coming to a close,” he said, hearing the echo of his words. “We’ve got a ride back, and so do you.”

  “It’s not too far,” she said, her dark eyes softening. “And we’re in the wagon.”

  “Oh, let him go if he wants,” said Roe as he finished pouring a drink. “We won’t be far behind him.”

  Fielding met her eyes again. “I’ll hitch the horses for you if you’d like.”

  “Oh, that would be nice. Papa won’t have to get up so soon.”

  “Sure,” said Roe. “Go ahead.”

  Fielding looked at Bracken, who had moved toward the door and looked ready to go. Fielding stood up, bid good evening to Roe and Lodge, and thanked Selby.

  Isabel rose from her chair and said, “I’ll hold the lantern for you.”

  “The kid can hold the lantern,” said Roe.

  “Then I’ll show him where it is. I won’t be a minute.” Before her father could say anything, she was headed for the door.

  Outside, Bracken walked ahead as Fielding and Isabel lingered in the yard.

  “Thank you for staying,” she said. “I was afraid he wasn’t ever going to leave.”

  Fielding smiled. “We have Mullins to thank.” He looked up at the sky. “Pretty moon, isn’t it? Almost a full moon. Everyone should have a good ride home.”

  “Yes, it is pretty.”

  “Did you know you could see it with your eyes closed?” “No, I didn’t.”

  “Try it.”

  She closed her eyes, and he did the same. When they released from the kiss, she said, “You’re right.” Glancing at the door, she said, “I’d better go in.”

  “Thanks for helping me find the lantern,” he said.

  “I was glad to.” Then she turned, and her black-and-white figure moved away in the moonlight.

  Chapter Seven

  Fielding hummed the tune of Lodge’s song about the rope corral as he mixed up the batter for hotcakes. Bracken had not seemed to enjoy Lodge’s songs, especially the second and third ones, but the kid was off by the gear tent loading and unloading his six-gun, so Fielding went through the plaintive melody time and again.

  When the first cake was browned on both sides, he called to Bracken, “Come and get it.”

  The kid did not waste time. He came right over, picked up a plate, and held it out. Fielding lifted the hotcake onto it. “Thanks,” said the kid.

  “You bet. There’s molasses.”

  Fielding served himself the second one and poured more batter into the hot skillet. After spreading on some molasses, he took a bite. “Not bad,” he said. “Sometimes you wish for butter or honey, but as far as camp grub goes, it’s pretty damn good.”

  “Sure is,” said Bracken. His sadness from the night before seemed to have gone away, as he had a cheerful tone in his voice. “Say,” he said, “what would you think if I practiced with my gun a little bit when we get things put away?”

  “All right with me. Bein’ Sunday, I didn’t have any work planned. Just go down the creek a ways, so as not to make a lot of noise around camp.”

  They drank the coffee as they cleaned the plates, scrubbed the skillet, and wiped everything down. After Bracken rinsed out the coffeepot, he said, “I guess I’ll go downstream for a while.” With his hat on his head and his gun belt strapped on his waist, he wandered to the north, past some bushes and low trees, and out of sight.

  A few minutes later, the bay horse in the corral gave a snuffle. From a ways off, footfalls sounded on the dry earth. Fielding held still and listened. The hooves were coming from upstream, the opposite direction from the way Bracken had gone. Fielding stood up and walked out to the edge of the camp, where he could see his horses grazing in the meadow to the south. A dark object caught his eye as a rider came around a low, spreading box elder tree.

  It took him a couple of seconds to recognize the wild man Dunvil and his dark mule, as they had faded in memory. Now that Fielding had Dunvil placed, he could see that the man looked the same as before, with his long hair and beard flowing out beneath the battered, wide-brimmed, full-crowned hat. He wore a collarless, long-sleeved undershirt and a pair of flat-black suspenders. All three buttons on the shirt were done up, and the sweat stains and grime suggested that the shirt had not been washed or even taken off in a good while. The man’s right hand was out of view, but his left, which held the reins, lifted in a small wave of greeting.

  Fielding waved in return as the mule came forward. Fielding stepped to one side, as he preferred to give wide a berth to mules.

  Dunvil stopped about ten feet away. It seemed as if he preferred to keep his own distance as well and didn’t mind speaking in a loud voice to make up the difference. “You’re back,” he said.

  “For a while.”

  “I came by a couple of times, but the place was empty.”

  Fielding smiled. “You could have moved in. Has all the comforts.”

  “Didn’t need to. I’ve got ’em all where I am.” His eyes traveled and came back. “Except the corral. Don’t need that.”

  Fielding cast a glance over the mule, which was standing still in a picture of obedience. Dunvil had it rigged with a heavy saddle with high swells and cantle, plus a large old iron mouth bit with a chain across the bottom and chains to connect the reins to the bit shanks. Fielding raised his eyes to meet Dunvil’s, which were gray at the moment.

  “I was workin’ on roundup,” said Fielding.

  “That’s what I heard.”

  “Oh, have you talked to Lodge?”

 
“I went to borrow some salt. For this thing.” Dunvil pointed at his mule.

  Fielding did not say anything, though he felt that the other man was waiting for him to speak.

  After a long moment, Dunvil shifted in the saddle and said, “Heard you had a run-in.”

  “Not much. Just the consequences of gettin’ very close to a couple of the Argyle men.”

  Dunvil spit to the off side of the mule. “They get a lot of nerve when they work for someone like that.”

  “I think they find each other. He looks for men like them.”

  “He’s a high and mighty son of a bitch, isn’t he? You got to see him in person, hey?”

  “We had that pleasure.”

  Dunvil’s eyes were lighting up. “I guess Lodge gave him what-for.”

  “He said a couple of words.”

  “I’m not that diplomatic.”

  Fielding shrugged. “I don’t think Lodge is in danger of being called too polite. Not on that occasion.”

  “Well, it’s a good thing I stay away from people, especially the likes of the Duke of Argyle. I wouldn’t be nearly so nice.”

  “They’re the type to stay away from, him and his men. I don’t know if they’re the type to put a hole in a man because of something he says, but I wouldn’t want to push ’em far enough to find out.”

  “Oh, I don’t go near ’em, and they’d best do the same with me. They come around and push me, and there’ll be more than words.”

  Again Fielding did not say anything.

  “I know their type,” Dunvil went on. “They don’t like nesters, grangers, or squatters. They want to have it all. Run cattle through your camp, ride in three or four strong, and tell a man to pull his stakes. All I’ve got to say is, they’d better not try it with me.”

  Fielding kept his silence. Some of Dunvil’s talk sounded like a strange rehearsal of things the man had heard and said before.

  “You think I’m crazy, but let me tell you this. The little men try to get together when the lords ride over the top of ’em, but it doesn’t go very far. They either try to do it themselves, and some of ’em don’t have the backbone, or everyone lays back and huddles like sheep and lets the Molly Maguire sons of bitches come in and run everything. Organizers. All they do is look out for themselves. You don’t believe me.”