Gather My Horses

by John D. Nesbitt

  “I’m headed to Rock River. Know of a place out that way where I can get on.”

  “Oh. Did you—”

  Steelyard’s casual tone seemed deliberate as he said, “Yeah, I gave notice and rolled my blankets.” He smiled as he looked up and around. “Thought I might see some different country.”

  “That’s not all bad.”

  “I hope not.” The young puncher’s eyes took in the camp and came back to Fielding. “Well, Tom, I’d better be goin’. It’s good to see you.”

  “Likewise, Henry. Good luck where you’re goin.”

  “Thanks, Tom. You ever get out west of Rock River, don’t be a stranger.” Steelyard turned to his horse, poked his boot in the stirrup, and swung his leg up and over his bedroll and war bag. He waved to Bracken, touched his hat to Fielding, and rode off at a lope toward Sybille Canyon.

  “Who’s that?” asked Bracken.

  “Oh, I guess you don’t know him. His name’s Henry Steelyard. He worked for J. P. Cronin for a couple of years, but it sounds like he drew his wages. Don’t know why, in the middle of the season. He’s a good-natured sort, minds his own business. Nice of him to stop in and say hello. You know, it seemed as if he wanted to let me know he was leavin’ there.”

  “He didn’t say why.”

  “Nah, and it’s not the kind of thing you ask a fella.”

  Fielding and Bracken and the two sets of packhorses made good time the next day. They rode a full ten miles west through foothill country and watered the horses where a creek came out of a broad canyon. Higher up on both sides, pine and cedar trees grew among the rocks. Down below, most trees grew in the drainages, such as this one. Pale willows and dark cedars grew here, where the water flowed out of the canyon and rippled over smooth, speckled stones.

  Bugs rose from the waterside plants as Fielding and Bracken walked upstream to drink the cool water and wash their faces. Fielding handed Bracken a stick of jerky and took a bite from his own.

  “There’s a place about five miles up where there’s a set of pole corrals. It’s worth our while to try to get that far today. Horses don’t seem too tired, but it gets hotter in the canyon, especially in the late afternoon.”

  The kid nodded. His eyes had a faraway look, but he came back to the moment and said, “That sounds fine with me.”

  They finished the jerky, drank more water, and tied the packhorses together again. Fielding led the way as they went into the canyon.

  When they got to the place Fielding had in mind, the corrals were no longer there. A couple of spikes in pine trees showed where poles had been nailed, and the ground was still roughed up from the last year’s wear, but nothing of the corral itself remained except a few stubs in the fire pit.

  Fielding let out a long, tired breath. “Isn’t that something?” he said. “Someone took down the whole damn thing for firewood. Must have got stuck here in a cold spell.”

  “What’ll we do, then?”

  Fielding glanced around as he answered, “Well, we’ve got to make camp one way or another, and these horses need a rest. No reason to let them stand around with their packs on, so we’ll unload everything and decide how to put ’em out. We’ll have to cut some green stakes.”

  “And drive ’em deep.”

  “That’s right.”

  They stripped the horses one by one and tied each horse to a tree where he was clear of the others.

  “We need to set up the gear tent,” said Fielding. “That’s it there, and the rope is in the pack next to it.”

  As the kid went for the bundle of canvas, Fielding heard the sound of boot heels and spurs. Two men, who hadn’t been on the trail a minute earlier, had appeared on foot at the western edge of the camp area. Fielding’s stomach tightened as he recognized the upturned brim and reddish hair of one man and the high-crowned hat and dark side whiskers of the second. Mahoney and Pence had come to call.

  “What do you need?” asked Fielding.

  Bracken rose without picking up the canvas. “Who are they?” he asked.

  “A couple of Cronin’s men. Just stand by.” When Mahoney and Pence did not answer his question, Fielding asked again, “What do you need?”

  “Don’t need anything,” said Pence.

  “Aren’t you a ways off of your range?”

  Pence wagged his head. “The Argyle runs cattle up here, too, you know. Or maybe you didn’t know that.”

  Fielding shrugged. “What do you want here, then?”

  Mahoney spoke up. “Who’s that tramp you’ve got with you?”

  Fielding felt a spark of anger jump inside. “What’s it to you?”

  “Maybe you don’t know who he is.”

  “He’s my wrangler. Or maybe you didn’t know that.”

  Mahoney gave a short, sarcastic laugh. “You ought to know more about a fella before you hire him.”

  “I hired you.”

  “Not for long. But maybe you found your own kind here.”

  Fielding narrowed his eyebrows. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Mahoney lifted his chin and flared his nostrils. “Ask him.”

  Fielding turned his head halfway and could tell that Bracken was worked up. The kid was biting his lip and rubbing his left hand on his pants leg. Fielding came back to Mahoney and said, “You come a long ways to start trouble with someone who’s doin’ an honest piece of work.”

  “Listen to you.” Mahoney sneered. “You don’t even know what you’ve got.”

  “I don’t need to.”

  Pence’s gravelly voice came out. “Maybe you should tell him.”

  “He’s a jailbird,” said Mahoney, “in case you couldn’t tell. Spent the winter in jail in Cheyenne. Tell him, kid.”

  “Go to hell,” said Bracken.

  “It was in the papers, so it’s not anything made up.” Mahoney’s blue-green eyes moved sideways and back to Fielding. “Your wrangler here had him a little trollop down in Julesburg, but she ran off with a section hand. Didn’t she, kid?”

  “Shut your filthy mouth.”

  “I don’t think you can make me.” Mahoney’s eyes moved back and forth as he spoke. “So your wrangler here followed her up to Cheyenne, and one night he gets liquored up, goes to their shack, and all but kills this section hand with a length of firewood. Didn’t you, kid?”

  Bracken was trembling and didn’t say anything.

  Mahoney went on in the same taunting tone. “And then when this jailbird was spending the winter in the coop, his little trollop has the other fella’s baby. Didn’t she, kid?”

  “Ah, you son of a—” Bracken did not finish his sentence as he grabbed at his six-gun.

  It must have been all Mahoney was waiting for. He pulled his gun and fired two shots at Bracken, which caused the kid to double over and drop his revolver. Then he pitched forward and fell on his right side.

  As Mahoney put his pistol away, Pence raised his head in challenge. “How about you, packer?” called the big man. “Would you like to try it?”

  Fielding’s mouth was dry and his hand was shaking, but more than that, he could see how the whole thing had been set up. Mahoney and Pence, working together. Fielding swallowed hard and said, “I’ve got more sense than to be drawn in at this point.”

  Pence’s voice came in short syllables. “Suit yourself.”

  Fielding turned away from the other two and walked a few steps to kneel by Bracken. All of the color had drained out of the kid’s face.

  His lips moved, and words came out. “I didn’t even know him.”

  The realization came to Fielding that not only had Bracken not gone to the Argyle camp that day, but the others had not made much mention of the actual trouble after that. Chances were that the kid didn’t have an idea that a feud had been in the making. Everyone else had, even Henry Steelyard. Maybe that was why Henry had gone to Rock River, and stopping in to tell Fielding about it was the most warning he would give. All of this came to Fielding in a couple of seconds.

&
nbsp; “I’m sorry, kid,” he said in a low voice.

  He heard footsteps, and from the corner of his vision he saw the other two walking away. He put his hand beneath the kid’s head, and the dark hat rolled aside.

  “It’s my fault,” said Bracken.

  “No, it’s not. It’s mine. I got you into this without thinking, and then I got pulled into the argument and didn’t think straight enough to warn you.”

  “It’s my fault. I got het up, and—” The kid didn’t finish his sentence.

  Fielding knew the kid had acted on his own impulses, but he didn’t see it as the only source of blame. “No, Ed. It’s not all your fault, and I’m sorry.”

  “Yes, it is,” said Bracken. “All mine. She never did anything wrong.”

  Fielding could see the kid was going and he had things crossed up. Before Fielding could speak again, Bracken fell limp and was gone.

  Fielding laid the head down and stayed kneeling for a long moment, with nine horses tied to trees and a kid who had died for the wrong reasons—a kid who had been grateful for getting a new start and now would never be able to give someone else a break.

  Chapter Eight

  Afternoon shadows were reaching into the street as Fielding stepped out of the deputy’s office in Chugwater. It had been a ragged day and a half since he started down the mountain with Bracken’s body, and the worst of it was over. It galled him to have to concede that Fred Mahoney had killed Ed Bracken in self-defense, but that was what it came to. The deputy had taken down the report and said he would look into it. He also had telegraphed Julesburg and had gotten an answer, so the body was going home. If there was one thing not to feel wretched about, it was the knowledge that the kid was going in his good clothes. They had been in his duffel bag at the time of the shooting.

  Feeling empty and dragged out and edgy, Fielding stepped into the street where he had left the bay horse and the brown. As he checked the cinch on the bay, a voice came from behind him, saying his last name. Chugwater was not his home, but it was close enough that he was not surprised to hear someone call his name in greeting.

  Turning, he saw Al Adler on a dark horse and Cedric Tholes on the cream-colored horse he had ridden to Buchanan’s one day.

  Fielding wondered why the Argyle foreman would take the trouble to greet him, but he returned the courtesy by saying, “Good afternoon.”

  Adler, dressed in brown with his white shirt visible, reined his horse so that he could look down on the right side. At the same time, he gave Fielding a view of his free right hand, gloved as always, and his smooth holster and dark-handled gun. “I thought you were in the mountains,” he said.

  “I was, but I had to come down here on an errand.”

  Adler frowned and cast a glance at the hitching rail. “Where’s your pack string?”

  “I had to leave it at the first line camp where I was to deliver goods. Belongs to Dillon. Maybe you know of it.”

  “I’ve heard of him, but I don’t know all the places yet.”

  “It doesn’t matter much. Your men know where it is.”

  “I’m sure.” Adler looked at the two horses again. “Have any trouble with the weather?” he asked.

  “Not yet, but it can come up at any time.”

  “I’d say. We just got caught in a hailstorm a couple of miles north, and it gave Cedric a good stinging. Isn’t that right, Cedric?”

  The man turned his head but did not lower his gooseberry-colored eyes to acknowledge Fielding. “Rah-ther,” he said.

  Fielding realized it was the only time he had heard Cedric speak.

  “Well, we’ve got to move on,” said Adler, “and we don’t want to keep you from your work.”

  “Thanks for stopping.”

  “Good to see you.” Adler touched his hat brim and moved on.

  Fielding watched the two men ride away. Good to see him, indeed. For all Fielding knew, Adler had come down this way to see whether Fielding was laid out in a pine box. Whatever the case, Adler would find out soon enough what had happened, if he didn’t know already. All Fielding had was the satisfaction of not being the one to tell him—that, and still being on his feet.

  He stared at his saddle for a moment, collecting his thoughts. Between the visit with the deputy and the distraction of seeing Adler, his mind had gotten off track. Now it came back. He needed to find another man to work for him.

  He left the horses at the livery stable to take on some feed. The stable man said he couldn’t think of anyone who needed work, so Fielding went back to the center of town on foot. He asked in the barbershop and the saloon, usually good places for information of that kind, but he had no luck. He went on to the general store, the butcher shop, the blacksmith’s, and the train depot. Still without even a recommendation, he trudged back to where he had left the horses.

  The stable man said that he had thought of one person who “might could use some work.” His name was Baker, and he was no great shakes, but the stable man would send for him if Fielding wanted.

  Fielding said he would give it a try. He sat on a bench in the shade outside while a boy ran the errand.

  About fifteen minutes later, a tall, slender, pale fellow showed up. He was not wearing a hat, and although he was only about twenty-five, his strawberry blond hair was receding on both sides above his forehead. From the way he moved he seemed to run on low energy, and he talked that way as well.

  “Said you’re lookin’ for help.”

  Fielding stood up to talk to him. “I am. I need a man to go to the mountains with me and help with my packhorses.”

  “What’s it pay?”

  “Dollar and a half a day. We start out today, we call it a full day. Same comin’ back.”

  The man gave a slow nod and seemed to be looking at nothing in particular.

  “You know how to work around horses?” asked Fielding.

  “Been around ’em.” The man raised his head and turned it side to side. “Where are they?”

  “The one you’ll ride is in here, along with mine. We’ve got to pick up the rest where I left ’em in the mountains.” Thinking that he might as well level with the man from the beginning, Fielding added, “I had to leave ’em there because my other man got hurt. Killed, actually. But it wasn’t the horses. Some-thin’ personal between him and another fella. But they’ve got nothin’ against you.”

  The man took on his vacant look again. “Lemme have a cirrette and I’ll think about it.”

  Fielding thought he was asking for a cigarette, but the man reached into the pocket of his loose trousers and took out a sack of tobacco. He shuffled over to the bench, sat down, hooked one leg over the other, leaned forward, and rolled a cigarette. He lit it and smoked it down halfway, resting his elbow on his elevated knee. Then he turned, and with his pale eyelids open a little more than before, he asked, “How many days we be out?”

  “I’d say six, altogether.”

  He took another drag and said, “I guess I can do it. I’ll go tell my ma.” He stood up.

  Fielding looked him over again. “If there’s anything you don’t have, we’d better get it before we leave town. You’ll need a hat, a coat, a change of clothes, boots, a bedroll, a slicker if you’ve got it.”

  “I’ve got all that. I’ll be back in a li’l bit.”

  “I’ll wait here. By the way, did I hear this man correct, that your name’s Baker?”

  “Yeah. I just don’t like to be called Slim.”

  Baker came back in about half an hour, wearing a dust-colored hat with a narrow brim. He was carrying a cotton sack by the neck, and it didn’t look as if it held much more than a shirt, a pair of trousers, and maybe a pair of socks.

  Fielding eyed the sack. “Is there anything you need to get?”

  “It’s all in here,” said Baker.

  Fielding settled with the stable keeper and brought out the horses. He showed Baker which one he was to ride, and after getting the duffel bag tied on and the man up into the saddle, he ad
justed the stirrups by letting them out a couple of inches.

  The first night out, the lanky blond man slept under horse blankets with his nose straight up and his mouth open. The second night, after Fielding and his new wrangler had picked up the packhorses and gotten them on the trail again, Fielding gave Baker the bedroll he had made up for the kid. Baker took it without question or comment.

  By the second morning, Fielding caught himself getting impatient with the man. Baker seemed to do everything with the least amount of effort possible, as his arms hung at his sides most of the time and his feet did not come very high off the ground. At one point when they were breaking camp, Fielding was rolling up a canvas top pack when Baker appeared at his side and mumbled, “You better come n’ see ’bout this horse.”

  Fielding had heard some thrashing, but the sound had subsided, so he had not quit in the middle of his task. Now he got up and went with Baker to see what the problem was.

  The roan horse lay on its side in the midst of foot-high pine and aspen trees. It was wild-eyed and heaving slow, with its chin tucked to its chest as the lead rope held taut between its headstall and a four-inch-thick aspen. Fielding could see at a glance that Baker had given the horse too much slack and it had straddled the rope, tripped itself, and pulled back by nature. After each loud breath, the horse kicked in the air. It rocked to one side, pushed partway up, and fell again.

  Fielding shook his head. The knots were pulled tight, and it was hard to get any slack on a horse in this position. Losing no time, he took out his knife and opened it, decided not to risk getting cut or kicked, and cut the rope where it was tied at the tree.

  The roan’s head jerked back, its legs flailed, and it clambered to its feet in a cloud of dust.

  “Why didn’t you do something sooner?” asked Fielding.

  “I din’t wanna get kicked.”

  Fielding took a short, heavy breath. “Well, go get that horse—no, I’ll get him. You untie that rope from the tree. I’ll have to splice it later.”

  Fielding went after the roan and caught him without much trouble. On his way back, he realized he had not told Baker how to tie up a horse. The man didn’t show much interest when Fielding did tell him something, and Fielding felt a futility in trying to teach what someone didn’t care to learn. Nevertheless, if he was going to get any use out of the man, he was going to have to go through the same things he went through with the kid. He led the roan back to the aspen tree, where Baker was pushing the heel of his hand against the tight knots.