“Here,” he said. “Let me show you how to tie a horse so he doesn’t get in trouble like this one did. Tie him at this height and give him only a couple of feet of slack.” He glanced at Baker, who looked on with indifference. “All right,” he went on. “Go ahead and get that piece untied, and we’ll get back to work. We’ll load this fella later, give him a while to cool down. But he’ll be all right.” He patted the roan on the neck and moved away.
As they were getting the horses lined out, Fielding made another effort at explaining the work to his new wrangler.
“Notice how none of these horses is very tall. Fifteen hands at the most.” He started with this point because he imagined it was something Baker could recognize in his own terms, as the man did not have to lift his foot very high to step into the stirrup. “That’s good in a packin’ horse, not only so you can get the load on easier but so it doesn’t scrape on as many branches. And as you can see, we try to keep the top packs low.”
Baker nodded but did not look at the horses.
“Let’s get going, then. We’ll do the same as yesterday. I’ll go first with my four, and—”
“Lemme roll a cirrette first.”
Fielding took a quick inward breath. “Go ahead. I’ll take a last look around.” As he did, he found where Baker had left the tent rope, uncoiled, lying in the thin grass. Words ran through Fielding’s mind. Slow, lazy son of a bitch. Drops everything at his ass. He picked up the rope and coiled it as he walked back to the pack string. He waited for Baker to finish lighting his cigarette, and then he held up the rope and said, “We need to be more careful, not leave things lying around.”
Baker gazed at the rope with an incurious expression.
Fielding stuck the rope into the pannier of Baker’s first packhorse and said, “Let’s get going, then.”
They rode through typical canyon country, where wildflowers and single blades of grass grew in the sparse soil. They went past a spreading pine tree that grew out of a hillside of gray rocks laid out like a row of fallen columns. At midday they rested in a bottom where a clear, sparkling stream flowed through a grassy little valley, crossing the trail and winding into a rock-wall canyon to the northeast.
After watering the horses there, they started to climb. They passed through a country of high, rocky formations—smooth, yellowish bronze rock that rose in heaps and domes made of huge slabs. Toward late afternoon, the canyon opened into broader country again, with grassland rising away on each side and flanked by hills with dark cedar and pine on the ridges. At a place where a small trickle of a stream came down from the left, Fielding decided to make camp.
Baker held the horses as Fielding untied the pack animals from one another. As Fielding made his way to the horse nearest Baker, he said, “It’s good to know your own knots and hitches. You don’t always get to undo ’em in daylight and warm weather. By the way, what did you do with that length of rope that got cut this morning?”
“I never could get that sumbitch untied.”
“You just left it there?”
Baker shrugged. “What good is it anyway? It was on’y ’bout three feet long.”
“By God,” said Fielding. “You never know when you need every last piece of rope you’ve got. I was goin’ to splice it onto the length it came off of, but even if I didn’t, you use it for something. Untwist it and use the strands, if nothing else.”
“It’s not goin’ anywhere. We can get it on the way back.”
The man’s careless tone set Fielding off. “Don’t make me mad, Baker. I’m just tryin’ to get this job done.”
For once, Baker’s voice rose to something like defiance. “Well, so am I,” he said.
Fielding calmed down as he realized that Baker, in his own way, was doing what he thought was a full day’s work. “That’s all right,” said Fielding. “Let’s tie these up, and we’ll separate the others.”
Aggravation came back the next morning when they got ready to mount up. With the loads lighter after the first delivery of supplies, Fielding decided to use the dark horse and the roan for saddle horses for a day. He got the dark horse ready and left it tied as he went to see what was taking the hired hand so long.
Baker stood three feet back from the horse, holding the saddle blankets at waist level.
“What’s wrong?” asked Fielding.
“He doan like me.”
“He won’t give you any trouble. Here, give that to me.” Fielding took the pair of folded blankets, gave them a shake, and looked them over for stickers. Then he laid them smooth as a mat on the roan’s back. “Now give me your saddle.” He swung it up and over, then settled it onto the blankets. Next he reached under the horse, drew up the cinch, and held the ring as he ran the latigo through it. After buckling the back cinch, he held his hand out for the bridle. He tied the halter loose around the horse’s neck and drew the bridle up to the horse’s nose and mouth. The roan took the bit just fine, and Fielding settled the headstall around its ears. After setting the halter aside, he led the horse out for twenty yards, brought it back, and tightened the cinch until it was snug on three fingers.
“Here,” he said, handing the reins to Baker.
The lean man draped the reins around the horse’s neck and onto the saddle horn, pulled some of the slack, and then stuck his foot in the stirrup and stepped over.
As soon as he had his seat, the roan went into a rocking-horse buck. The pale-faced rider let go of the reins and grabbed the saddle horn with both hands. After half a dozen bucks, the horse settled down to a stutter step. Baker’s right leg came up over the cantle, and he bailed off.
“I’m not gonna ride that sumbitch,” he said, pulling off his hat.
“Ah, hell. He’s all done buckin’. And he’s not that much of a bucker anyway.”
“I don’t care. I don’t wanna sit on him all day long and wonder when he’s gonna try it again.”
“He didn’t even throw you. Just get back on him.”
“Not that sumbitch. Not me. Lemme have the one I’ve been ridin’.”
Fielding gave in, figuring he didn’t need any more complications. If Baker was afraid, he would communicate it to the horse, and if he chanced to get thrown off, he could get hurt. “All right,” said Fielding. “We’ll swap him for the brown one.”
That evening they pulled into the Harbison camp, which consisted of a shack and a set of corrals. The two line riders were a couple of older punchers whose job consisted in going out and checking on cattle each day. They looked over the horses as the string came in, and Fielding could tell they were inspecting his diamond hitches as well. They helped unpack and hauled their own supplies into the shack.
“Do we get to put the horses in the krell?” asked Baker when both men were in the shack.
“If they tell us to. Same thing with whether we sleep inside or out.”
One of the men came out a few minutes later and told them they could put their horses in the last corral. “Looks like you’ve got oats,” he said.
“Oh, yeah, plenty,” said Fielding.
“Well, when you’ve got ’em watered and grained, come on in. Charley’s got a pot of beans, and there’s not so many mosquitoes inside. Bring your bedrolls in if you want.”
Daylight was not yet showing when Fielding woke to the clanking of firewood in the stove. From the man’s labored breathing, Fielding could tell it was Charley getting a start on the day.
After breakfast, Fielding walked out into the chilly morning. He had the light, relieved feeling of having delivered the goods he was responsible for and of getting ready for the trip back.
With only their own gear to pack, he and Baker had the horses ready in about an hour. They waved good-bye to the line riders, and the horses picked up their feet as Fielding started on what he hoped was a quick trip home.
They made good time, but the day warmed up in the afternoon, so Fielding called a rest stop before they went into the narrower, rocky part of the canyon. Following a line of t
rees up a dry creek bed, he found a water hole that hadn’t gone dry. As the horses drank, Baker squatted on one knee and rolled a cigarette.
When the rest was over and Fielding was tying the horses together, he noticed that the canvas bundle of the gear tent had slipped to one side. He pushed it back even and told Baker to tighten it up a little as he tied the other horses. A couple of minutes later, he looked over to see how his wrangler was doing.
Baker stood on his left foot while he had his right against the dark horse’s hip. He must have just given a pull, as he sagged for a couple of seconds. Then he straightened up and pulled for all he was worth, his lean frame and thin arms fighting the task. He sagged again and gave it another pull, and the horse broke wind, short and explosive. Fielding almost laughed out loud, and he could imagine someone like Lodge quoting the old saying, “Pull baker, pull devil.”
Fielding had told Baker more than once to give the lash rope a steady pull instead of yanks and releases, but he knew by now that his hired hand was no kid and was not likely to change for the better.
“Let me give you a hand,” he said. He pulled the rope and tied it off. “That should be good enough.”
That evening they pulled into an open spot that looked good for a campsite. Baker tied the horses as he and Fielding stripped them, but he must have been leery of the roan horse and not gotten him snug. Motion caught Fielding’s eye, and he turned to see the roan trotting away with the rope trailing on the ground.
“Damn,” said Fielding. “You watch these, and I’ll go get him.” He ran to the bay horse, which he had not yet unsaddled. In a few seconds he untied the neck rope, set his reins, and swung aboard.
He set out on a trot after the roan. He did not want to come galloping up behind the other horse, or it might take off in a game of run and walk. Instead, he kept the bay on a fast trot and gained on the roan. Coming up alongside, he leaned over and got hold of the rope, then dallied it to his saddle horn. The roan did not resist, so Fielding turned both horses and headed back to the campsite on a soft lope.
Just before he got to the trees, he felt a tug on the rope and heard the blast of a rifle. The roan horse went down and jerked the bay sideways, and a second shot crashed.
Fielding jerked the dally loose and threw the rope aside, then kicked the bay into a pounding run until he made it to the trees. He pulled the horse to a quick halt and yanked his rifle from the scabbard. On the first shot he had thought that Baker in a perverse moment had shot at the roan, but he placed the second shot as coming from across the opening, where pine trees grew in a slope of jumbled rocks.
He searched the hillside, which lay in shade, and when he saw movement he placed the object in his sights and fired. It moved again, a man crouched and running uphill. He picked up the target, got a bead on it again, and squeezed the trigger.
The gunshot split the evening, and then the wallop of a bullet hitting a body came echoing back. A man’s cry lifted in the air.
Fielding waited. He thought he heard a second voice, the rattle of rocks, a scuffling sound. Dusk began to draw in. Baker had not moved from his position behind the dark horse, which he clutched by the headstall and packsaddle.
Fielding held still awhile longer. As the evening grew darker, he concluded that the man or men had made it up the hill and gotten away. “I think they’re gone,” he said to Baker in a low voice. “Whoever it was, I don’t think they were shootin’ just to get the horse.”
Baker’s pale face was visible in the dusk. “What are we gonna do?”
“I guess we finish unpacking and keep the horses tied close in. We’ve got plenty of grain left. We’ll use the tent for a tarp to cover the gear, not set up the sleepin’ tent.”
“What if they come?”
“I don’t think they will, but there’s no need to give them an easy target. It looks like a night for a cold camp. No fire.”
Baker swore under his breath.
“I think they’re long gone,” said Fielding. “I think I hit one, and the other one’s got his hands full trying to get him away. Let’s get these animals taken care of and get a bite to eat for ourselves.”
In the morning, the dead horse lay where it had fallen. Baker would not even go to the edge of the trees, so Fielding went out and got the halter and rope. When he came back to camp, Baker was smoking a cigarette and had a heavy sulk on his face.
“Look,” said Fielding, “I don’t like this any better than you do. If they were shooting at anybody, it was me and not you. Like I’ve already said more than once, I think they’re long gone. As for us, there’s no point in stayin’ holed up here. The sooner we get on the trail and out of this canyon, the better. I think we can make it back to Chug in one long day if we get a move on.”
Baker muttered something.
“I didn’t catch that,” said Fielding.
“I haven’t even had a cup of coffee yet.”
“Oh, don’t worry. We’ll have breakfast. If you want to get a fire going, I’ll feed the horses.” Fielding took a breath and shook his head. “One less to feed anyhow.”
They rode into Chugwater at nightfall, coming in by the northern edge of the huge bluffs that overlooked the town. Below them to the east, lights showed in a few windows.
Ten minutes later, they halted the pack string in front of the livery stable and dismounted. Faint light filtered out of the stable door, and out of habit Fielding counted his horses.
“I’m going to put up here for the night,” he said. “I can take care of the animals, and you can go on home if you’d like. I’ll give you this now.”
He handed Baker a ten-dollar gold piece, which the man held up close to his face and then dropped into his pocket. He gave the reins and lead rope to Fielding, then took his duffel bag out of the pannier on the white horse.
Out of courtesy more than anything else, Fielding said, “I’ll have a little more work comin’ up later on. Don’t know if you’ll be interested.”
“I don’t think so,” said Baker. “I’ve had enough of wranglin’ in the mountains.” In his slow way he walked to the bench, sat down, and began to roll a cigarette.
Holding two sets of reins and two lead ropes, Fielding led his eight horses to the stable door.
Chapter Nine
The campsite on Antelope Creek looked the same as when Fielding had left it ten days earlier, with the exception that it now lay in midafternoon sunlight and did not have the freshness of morning.
Fielding unloaded all the gear and turned out the horses. The poles were where he had left them, so he set up the gear tent and his sleeping tent. By then he was tired and sweaty, and he could tell he had been on the trail awhile. He went to the creek and had a bath, changed into clean clothes, and washed the ones he had been wearing.
The sun was slipping in the west. He felt worn out and empty but not hungry. After taking a last look at his horses, he went into the small tent and went to bed.
Flies in the tent woke him, and he saw he had slept past sunrise. The sun was beginning to warm the tent, and that was what got the flies going.
He rolled out of bed, pulled on his clean clothes, and went out to check on the horses. Everything seemed to be in order. He moved the picket horses and gave grain to the buckskin in the corral. Having no pressing business in town and being in no hurry to talk to other people, he decided to make some biscuits.
Once he went to the trouble of getting a bed of coals, it was worth his while to make a full batch. A half batch often did not come out as well, and besides, he had plenty of provisions.
First he sliced the amount of bacon he thought he would need to give him enough grease. He laid the slices in the cast-iron skillet and set it on the coals to cook as he got out the dry ingredients and mea sured them.
In less than ten minutes, the smell of frying bacon seeped out from the covered skillet. Fielding picked up his wooden pothook, a little over two feet long, and lifted the lid. A cloud of steam rose as the crackling sound came alive.
Fielding set the lid on a log, took up his fork, and turned the pieces. Then he settled the lid onto the skillet again, to keep the drifting bits of ash from landing in the food.
With the same two-pronged roasting fork, he mixed the dry ingredients he had measured out—flour, baking powder, and salt. He stirred round and round one way, then the other. He shook the metal bowl and leveled the mix, then worked the middle with up-and-down circular strokes.
Setting the dry mix aside, he handled the pothook again and took the lid off the skillet. The bacon had all turned brown and crisp, so he lifted the skillet off the fire and forked all the pieces onto a tin plate. It looked as if he had just enough grease, so he poured it into a tin measuring cup. When the grease rose to the half-cup level, all he had left in the skillet was grains and crumbs of bacon with less than a spoonful of grease, so he set the skillet aside.
Dry heat rose from the coals as he settled the Dutch oven into the place where the skillet had been. With the pothook he set the hot lid on the oven, as the lid fit both cast-iron implements.
Now he poured the grease into the mixing bowl and stirred with the big fork. He stirred and folded, stirred and folded, until he had an even consistency of dough. He set aside the bowl and the fork. With a small piece of cloth he swabbed grease from the skillet and wiped it onto two tin plates. Then with a large tablespoon he dropped gobs of dough—a star of five, with a lump in the center—so that he had six biscuits ready in each plate.
Lifting the lid of the oven, he saw smoke rising from the bottom of the pot, so he set the first plate inside and covered up. He went about tidying up his materials while the first bunch cooked. After ten or twelve minutes, he lifted the lid and turned the biscuits.
Gather My Horses Page 12