Gather My Horses

by John D. Nesbitt

  “I don’t know much about unions. They don’t make it far in cow country.”

  “Not enough Swedes and Norwegians and other sheep, men that’ll sign the oath and go back to muckin’.” Dunvil’s eyes were intense as he peered out from the shade of his hat. “If you want to get anywhere at all, I’ll tell you how.” The eyes narrowed. “You go for the top. Get the kingpin. Whether you blow ’im sky-high or cut ’im in half with a shotgun, you take care of the big auger. That gets results.”

  Fielding took a measured breath. “It’s a way of lookin’ at it,” he said. “But I’m not likely to follow up on it.”

  The other man’s eyes opened wide. “Oh, I didn’t say you were. I was just sayin’ what works, and why they’d better not come near me.”

  “I’d be surprised if they did,” said Fielding.

  “So would they.”

  Fielding could not gauge how much of Dunvil’s rant was pure bluster and how much of it was vitriol of substance. Thinking that a change in topic wouldn’t hurt, he said, “Well, I don’t stay in this place very long anyway. Before too long I’ll be off and gone on trips. Once these outfits take their cattle to summer range, I pack supplies up into the mountains to the line camps.”

  “You use horses.”

  “It works all right for me.” Fielding observed the mule with its ears up and its eyes half closed. “This looks like a good animal you’ve got.”

  “Better than some. Slow at times.”

  Just to make conversation, Fielding asked, “Do you ever hire out?”

  “What, to pack with him?”

  “Oh, no. I meant yourself. Work.”

  “I work when I have to. Why?”

  “No special reason. Just somethin’ to talk about. But there is work comin’ up around here. A little bit of grain to harvest, hay to cut and stack.”

  “That’s all fine.” Dunvil’s eyes wandered around the camp.

  At that moment, a gunshot sounded from downstream.

  Dunvil gave a suspicious look in the direction of the shot. “What was that?”

  “Just my helper. He got himself a sidearm, and he went off to do some practicin’ with it.”

  The gun went off again.

  “I hope he knows which way to shoot,” said the visitor.

  “Oh, yeah. He knows where camp is. He just left here.”

  Dunvil nodded as he looked in that direction. “I didn’t know you had anyone else around.”

  “It’s a kid I hired to help me out. Gonna make a wrangler out of him, I guess.”

  Bracken’s gun boomed again.

  “Uh-huh.” Dunvil raised his voice as he lifted his rein hand. “Well, I’ll be goin’ back.” He squeezed the mule with his legs.

  Fielding stood back as the man made a wide turn on the mule. “Good of you to drop by. We’ll see you again.”

  “If neither of us breaks a neck,” said Dunvil. “Hup, hup.” The mule took off at a jiggling walk, showing the bottoms of its large, unshod hooves.

  As the gun crashed again, Dunvil did not look around. He left Fielding to wonder if this had been a version of a Sunday visit.

  Fielding stood in the main street of town, where he had the two saddle horses and five packhorses tied to the hitching rails. Bracken came out of the store with two twenty-five-pound bags of flour.

  “Right here,” said Fielding, moving to the left side of the first packhorse. “We’ll put one sack in each side. Keep the loads balanced. I always load the left side first, so these horses know what to expect.” He took a bag of flour and slipped it into the pannier, then took the second bag and put in the right side while Bracken went in for more merchandise. After another trip, the gray horse had a hundred pounds of flour on him, which was enough for the time being. Fielding assumed he could fill in with smaller items in a little while.

  He moved to the dun horse as Bracken came out with the next two bags of flour. After those and two more, the kid brought out rice in three twenty-pound bags.

  A voice came from behind while Fielding had his back to the sidewalk and was putting the rice into the panniers on the dark horse. “Looks like we’re in the same business today.”

  Fielding turned and saw Richard Lodge in the company of the woman Leonora. “How’s that?” he asked.

  “I came to help Leonora get a sack of four for the kitchen. So I’m her packhorse for the moment.”

  Fielding gave the lady a questioning look. “Is that right?”

  Leonora, looking fresh in an off-white muslin dress and a wide-brimmed straw bonnet, gave a summery laugh. “That’s what he says, but I can see that you’re going about it in a much more serious way.”

  Bracken interrupted the conversation as he delivered three more bags of rice. Fielding put one on the dark horse and two on the sorrel.

  Lodge spoke again. “Are you gettin’ ready to pull out?”

  “Almost,” answered Fielding. “We’ll take these goods back to camp and repack them. In the morning we’ll pack our beds and camp outfit. I already left the big tent at Selby’s.”

  “Then you’ll get out on the trail tomorrow.”

  “That’s the idea. We could have packed up the camp first, come down here, packed all this stuff once, and headed back west, but we wouldn’t have gotten much farther than our own camp. Comes out about the same, and we don’t have to haul the camp outfit down here and back.”

  Bracken came out with a full burlap sack on his shoulder.

  “What’s that?”

  “Fifty pounds of beans.”

  “We’ll put that in the next one.” Fielding ducked under the lead rope and came up by the hitching rail, where Bracken handed him the sack of beans. Fielding cradled the weight and moved to the white horse.

  “Good enough,” said Lodge. “We’ll leave you boys to your work, and we’ll go on about ours.”

  “Have a good trip,” sang out Leonora.

  “Thanks,” said Fielding. “We’ll see you all when we get back.”

  Bracken continued hauling out supplies until all the flour, rice, beans, dried fruit, coffee, salt, sugar, molasses, bacon, and canned goods were distributed in the panniers.

  “That’s a lot of grub,” said the kid as he came to a rest.

  “It goes to two outfits. But we’re not loaded yet.”

  “What next?”

  “I need to get a bill of provisions for ourselves, which we’ll put on the sorrel horse here, and then we’ll put sixty pounds of whole oats on each of the other four.”

  Bracken’s eyes widened.

  “It’ll be all right,” said Fielding. “Some fellas put as much as two hundred pounds on a horse, but I don’t like to put more than one seventy-five if I don’t have to. None of these’ll go over that, even with that bottle of castor oil I’m goin’ to get for you.”

  The kid frowned. “What?”

  Fielding patted him on the shoulder. “Don’t worry. There’s a bottle for one of the outfits, but we’ll wrap it in half a dozen layers of newspaper, then roll it in burlap. It’ll stay way out of reach.”

  With the camp provisions tied on top of the sorrel horse, Fielding stowed the loose ropes in the open panniers for the next step. He and Bracken led the seven horses down the street and over a block to the grain dealer’s. Bracken tied the horses and Fielding went in to buy the oats.

  Bracken carried the sacks out one by one, and Fielding centered each one on top of a load and tied it down. As he was finishing the fourth one, he became aware of someone watching him from the shade of an overhang next door. Fielding threw his last half hitch, stowed the slack, and looked across the hips of the gray horse. It took him a second to identify the man in the short-billed cap, dusty work clothes, and brogan shoes. The face looked wider than it did beneath the new black hat, but it had the same heavy-lidded eyes and dull complexion of Ray Foote.

  Fielding ignored the man and moved to the front quarters of the horse, where he patted the gray on the neck and untied him. Leading the animal in
to the street, he said to Bracken, “Bring that dun horse around in back of this one.”

  Bracken did as he was told, and Fielding began the next task.

  “Here’s the way I do it,” he began. “Even in easy country, I don’t like to pull a string of more than seven by myself, though I’ve done it. When there’s two of us and we use all seven pack animals, I take four and the other man takes three. Today, I take three and you take two. That’ll be these two.” He pulled a length of quarter-inch rope from the pannier, tied it to the dun’s headstall, and tied the other end to a ring on the back of the gray horse’s packsaddle. “See how I do it?” he went on. “You leave a little space between ’em, but you don’t leave the rope long enough for this horse to put his front foot over it. Also, I use lightweight rope so that if they get into trouble, the rope gives.”

  The kid nodded.

  “We’ll go through this, time and again. Now you hold that front horse, and I’ll get us another one.” As Fielding turned away, he shot a glance at the shaded overhand and was glad to see that Foote had gone.

  Bracken held the white horse as Fielding tied the dark horse on behind. “That sorrel does fine by himself,” said Fielding. “Runs loose and tags along like a dog. Sometimes, like in fallen timber, you let all or most of ’em loose until the trail gets better, and you line ’em up again. Most of the time, though, you string ’em out. We’ll let him go on his own today.” He gave the horses a once-over and said, “That’s good enough, I think. It’s a short, easy ride to camp.”

  The sorrel trotted along behind and sometimes alongside. All the others moved in orderly fashion, raising a thin cloud of dust about stirrup high. The sun had reached the midday mark, and the air was still and dry as well as warm. Every few minutes, Fielding looked back to see how the kid was doing.

  They followed the trail as it wound through the hills. When Fielding came to the lane that led into the Roe place, he stopped and signaled for Bracken to come ahead.

  “You can get down and stretch your legs for a minute,” he said. “Hold these horses. I’ll be right back.” He handed the kid the lead rope and turned the bay horse toward the yard.

  The young nanny goat came out first to meet him as the cackling rose from the backyard. The front door opened, and Isabel stepped out onto the front step. She was wearing the dark gray dress and black shoes, and her hair hung loose at her shoulders. She smiled as she raised her hand in a wave, and then her gaze traveled past him.

  “Looks like you’re leaving,” she said as he stopped the horse.

  “On my way.” He swung down from the saddle and held the reins. “I thought I should stop in and say good-bye for a little while.”

  She winced. “How long is that?”

  “About ten days. We’re taking these goods to camp, and we’ll leave from there in the morning.”

  “That seems like quite a while.”

  He shrugged. “We don’t get into the mountains until the second day, and we’ve got two outfits to deliver to. Comin’ back empty, we go faster.” With a wink he added, “Wouldn’t want to waste any time.”

  Her face relaxed as she smiled again. “Well, I’m glad you stopped in.”

  He held out his hand, and she came down from the doorstep and gave him hers. “Did you think I could leave without seeing you again?”

  “I would hope not.”

  He gave a quick glance at the door. “I suppose your father’s here.”

  “He just sat down to eat.”

  Fielding moved toward her, and they met in a quick kiss. As he drew back, he said, “Give him my best, then.”

  Her dark eyes roved across his face. “I’ll be sure to.”

  He squeezed her hand and let it go. “Well, I’d best not linger.” He motioned with his head toward the road. “They’re waitin’ for me.”

  “I won’t keep you,” she said. “That is, I won’t make you tarry.”

  “I knew what you meant.” He moved his hand along the reins in a preliminary motion for leaving.

  Her face brightened. “Just a minute,” she said. “I’ll be back.”

  He watched her as she rushed into the house. A few seconds later she returned, carrying a small cloth sack.

  “Here’s something for you,” she said.

  “What is it?” He opened the sack, and seeing the dark contents, he said, “Jerky. Thanks a lot.”

  She stood with her hands together in front of her. “I hope you like it.”

  “I’m sure I will.” Seeing no other pretext for staying, he said, “Well, I’m off. I’ll see you again soon.”

  “Be careful, Tom.”

  “I sure will.” He tucked the cloth sack into his saddlebag. He put his foot in the stirrup, grabbed the saddle horn, and paused. “Thanks again, Isabel. I’ll be thinking of you.” Then he swung aboard and rode away, looking back once to wave.

  In camp, Fielding showed Bracken the process of double-bagging all the supplies and tying every parcel. He rolled the canned goods five at a time in a burlap sack and tied each one.

  “Always have a few extra grain sacks,” he said. “They come in handy for storin’ rope, makin’ hobbles, rubbin’ down your horse. And you save all the strings as well, just as you saw Mullins do. Carry a few of them, and some leather lace, in your saddlebags.”

  After the supplies were wrapped, Fielding showed the kid the axe, with its head in a leather scabbard, and the shovel and the log saw, each in its canvas sheath. “You pack these on the front horse,” he said. “You never know when you need them. Same with the hatchet and the shoein’ outfit.”

  “What’s the little sledgehammer for?”

  “Drivin’ picket stakes. There’s another old saying for you—drive ’em deep, or walk.”

  “You don’t have all yours staked out.”

  “I know which ones need it. And besides, this is home to these boys. It’s not like up there.” He pointed to the west, where a pink-and-orange sunset lit the sky between the dark skyline and a layer of hovering gray clouds.

  The first hint of daylight was showing when Fielding gathered the horses and put them in the pole corral. Bracken in his hat and boots and old work clothes was feeding the fire.

  After breakfast, Fielding began the routine of loading each horse. Starting with the gray horse, he reviewed how to put on the pad and crossbuck, tighten the britching, and cinch the rigging. Next he hung the panniers and loaded them, stressing as always the need to keep the weight even. The top pack he wrapped in canvas, then began a diamond hitch to tighten the whole load together.

  “This is a one-man diamond,” he said as he twisted the two strands of rope on top. “A lot of this work goes easier if you’ve got two men, but you’ve got to know how to do it all by yourself.” He pulled a loop of the loose strand up between the two he had twisted. “It’s like cow-punchin’ in a way, because at some point you’re all on your own. You and your pal can play cards in the evenin’ to see who wrangles the horses the next morning, or you can draw straws to see who rides the wild one. If you draw the short straw, maybe you snub the outlaw to your partner’s saddle horn, but when the dally comes loose, you’re on your own.” With the second loop around the load on the other side, he pulled on it, and the diamond began to open up. “Now here’s a rule for throwin’ the diamond hitch: once you start, never give slack. See how it tightens in every direction as you pull this end. None of this is worth much, though, if you don’t have your riggin’ cinched good and tight to begin with.”

  He tied the gray horse to the corral and led out the speckled white horse. After that he loaded the dun, the dark horse, the roan, the bay, and the sorrel. Next he saddled the buckskin for himself, tying on the scabbard so that the rifle rode butt-up in front on the right side, where he could protect it from branches or pull it if he needed it. Meanwhile, Bracken saddled the brown horse.

  Sunlight was coming in over the treetops as Fielding tied the horses three and three. With the sorrel he passed the lead rope up through
the headstall and snugged it around the neck so the horse could travel on its own. Fielding took one last look around the camp, positioned his saddle horse and the lead rope to his string of three, and climbed aboard. Bracken mounted up as well, and the party moved out of camp.

  The horses made good time, and the packs rode even. By early afternoon the group made it to Brush Creek, where Fielding decided to stop for a rest and water the horses.

  “We’ve come over ten miles,” he said. “Fifteen is all right, but in easy goin’ like this I’d like to make a little more. We’ll be goin’ southwest after we cross here, and we can camp somewhere along Sybille Creek this evenin’. There’s good grass all along there.”

  They found a good spot as he had hoped. They stripped the horses and watered them, picketed the dun and the gray, and turned out the rest except the roan. Fielding decided to keep it close for a night horse, and he gave Bracken another bit of instruction.

  “Always tie your horse to a live tree, about four feet up like this. Don’t give him more than a couple of feet of rope. Horses always pull backward when they get in a jam, and they don’t know to let up. So don’t put him where he’ll pull a dead tree into his face or get a foot caught over the rope.”

  They went on to set up the gear tent, and they were just getting it pegged out when the roan horse nickered. A horseman was riding toward their camp.

  As the man came closer, Fielding could see it was Henry Steelyard. The young man waved, came within twenty yards of camp, and dismounted. His round hat was set back on his head, with his wavy brown hair falling over his forehead, and he looked cheerful as always.

  “Evenin’, boys,” he said. “Didn’t know whose camp this was, but with that many horses, it figures.”

  “You’re welcome to stay,” said Fielding. “Private room, elegant dining.”

  Steelyard smiled. “Oh, that’s all right. I was hopin’ to make it a little further today. Just thought I’d stop and say hello.”

  “Goin’ far?” Fielding did not want to seem inquisitive, but he saw gear on the back of the horse, and he thought Steelyard was a ways from home to be riding alone.