Gather My Horses

by John D. Nesbitt

  By the time he had dug out another plate, served himself a portion of bacon, and poured a cup of coffee, the biscuits had baked a couple of minutes more, so he lifted out the plate and put in the one with the raw dough.

  The biscuits tasted smoky with a hint of bacon, plus a bitterness from the tin plate, but they were good, especially parted in the middle with a piece of bacon stuck in. When the first bunch was gone, the second plate was ready to take out. He set it aside to cool next to the bacon, which he covered with a sheet of newspaper. He would eat the second portions cold.

  Although he felt better after taking on a meal, the empty feeling still haunted him. He recalled the previous time in this camp, and others before that, when the kid Bracken had eaten by the same fire. The kid had liked this camp, the horses, the work—Fielding shook his head and tried to get rid of the tightness in his throat. It didn’t do any good to dwell on sadness, but he couldn’t just forget about the kid.

  After two cups of coffee, Fielding cleaned up the camp and put things away. It was time to go back out into the world and see if any news had come this way ahead of him.

  He saddled the buckskin and corralled the other horses. After taking a look around the campsite, he mounted up and set out upstream. He crossed the creek sooner than he usually did and took a wide way around, to put a line of hills between himself and Dunvil’s camp. Fielding did not know if the wild-bearded man was still around, but if he was, Fielding preferred to wait until later to visit with him.

  Angling to the southwest again, Fielding came over the last hill and paused to take a view of the Magpie, Richard Lodge’s little spread. Everything looked the same as on his last visit except that the grass was drier, fading to a pale green, and Lodge was not standing in his pasture. The two sorrels were there, standing head to tail and swishing flies.

  As Fielding rode down the hill, he saw Lodge working in the shade of the cabin. It looked as if he was washing something in a tub. Fielding nudged the horse around the front of the house, where he dismounted near the hitching rail.

  “Go ahead and tie up,” Lodge called out.

  Fielding did so, and as he walked around the hindquarters of the buckskin he saw the pile of stones by the cabin door. He could not tell if it had grown any since he had seen it before. Another couple of steps took him into the shade where Lodge was working.

  The man had the sleeves rolled up on his drab work shirt, and his dark gray vest was buttoned, the better to keep it from dipping into the water. The tub itself, round and galvanized, rested on the bench that usually sat against the house. Lodge pushed down with a swishing, burbling sound, then amidst the rushing of water he raised up a dripping saddle blanket. Lodge dunked it again, sloshed it up and down, and pulled it out.

  Fielding could almost feel it himself, sodden and heavy, and the smell of wet wool carried in the short distance.

  “I’ll be done in a minute or two,” said Lodge.

  “No hurry.”

  Lodge held the blanket up higher, to clear the edge of the tub, and carried it to the top plank of the corral. There he spread it out lengthwise as he had done to the first one. Returning to the bench, he picked up a tin bucket from the ground and dipped it into the tub. He pulled it up and carried it out front, where he poured the water into the earthen bowl around a knee-high cedar tree. It was one of a pair of trees, fifteen yards from the cabin door, that Fielding hadn’t paid much attention to because the trees were so small.

  Lodge returned for a second bucket of water and poured the contents around the other tree. He took two more trips, then lifted the tub to pour the last of the dirty water into the bucket. This last amount he divided between the two trees.

  Fielding thought the man might be done, but he pumped half a bucket of water into the pail, rinsed the tub with it, and poured the water back into the pail. Again he gave an equal portion to each tree. After that he took the pail and the tub around back, where Fielding heard the door open and then close a few seconds later.

  Lodge came back, picked up the bench, and set it in its usual place. “Have a seat,” he said. “Don’t sit in the wet spot.” When they were both settled in place, he gave Fielding an expectant look and said, “Well, tell me of your travels.”

  Fielding took a breath as he thought about how to begin. “Quite a bit happened, as it turned out. Some of it may have gotten back ahead of me.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “Well, we got loaded up and pulled out of here the next morning after I saw you last. The first day out, nothin’ much to report except we saw Henry Steelyard, who said he was on his way to Rock River.”

  “I heard he left.”

  “The next day we got into the mountains, and everything went all right until we started to make camp. And who should show up but that smart-talkin’ kid Mahoney and his backup man, Pence.”

  “Out there?”

  “That’s right. So Mahoney starts needlin’ my wrangler, Ed, and finally goads him into a fight. Ed tries to pull his gun, which he had just bought, and Mahoney puts two bullets through him. I’m sure they were tryin’ to get me to play in—Pence even invited me—but I didn’t go for it, and I think they didn’t want to draw first, just in case everything didn’t go right for them. Then they wouldn’t be able to say it was self-defense, which they could with Ed. I’ll tell you, I felt worthless, knowin’ that I was the cause of it and then couldn’t do anything about it without gettin’ killed myself.”

  “No need to do that.” Lodge moistened his lips as he nodded. “Curious how news travels. All we heard was that Ed died and you had to take him into Chugwater.”

  “I did that, and while I was at it I hired another man. He wasn’t much of a hand, but he did help out, and we got all our goods delivered. Then on the way back, someone ambushed us as we were unloading. A horse got loose and I went after it, and as I was comin’ back into camp, someone opened up. Missed me and got the horse.”

  “Killed it?”

  “Dead center. Son of a bitch. Whoever it was, I got a couple of shots at him, and I think I hit him on the second one. I heard him holler. I’m pretty sure someone else was with him and helped him get away. Well, that scared the hell out of my hired hand, but we didn’t have any more trouble. We got back into Chug on one long haul the next day.”

  “Whew,” said Lodge as he let out a long breath. “I imagine you’ve got your suspicions as to who it was.”

  “I’d guess it was Mahoney and Pence again, but there’s no way I can prove anything.”

  “Purely circumstantial.”

  “My thought is, they tried it one way, and then they tried it another. But I can’t prove without a doubt that it was them, or that they were shootin’ at me and not the horse, for whatever difference that would make.”

  “Interesting circumstances, though,” said Lodge, extending his previous comment. “Word is, young hot-blood Mahoney got hurt in some kind of shooting mishap. Didn’t kill him but put him out of action. He’s laid up at the Argyle, and they had to telegraph for a doctor. Otherwise, I doubt anyone would know that much.”

  Fielding sorted through what Lodge had just told him. Then he said, “I have to admit, I don’t feel guilty about the possibility that I was the one who put a bullet in him. On the other hand, I don’t like feeling satisfied about it. Doesn’t feel right.”

  “Take what you can get,” said Lodge. “If it was your bullet, then it was his that killed your horse. Not to mention that kid Bracken.”

  “I know that was a setup, but on the face of it, it was a fair fight. But you’re right. I just don’t want to feel too satisfied about it. And besides, even though they’ll deny bein’ anywhere near, they’ll know that I know, and they might want to even the score yet.”

  Lodge raised his eyebrows. “That’s a good practical way of lookin’ at it.”

  Fielding pushed with the heels of both hands on the bench as he looked forward. “I don’t like it. I don’t like it at all.” Turning to Lodge, he said, “Wha
t else have you heard?”

  “Not much. Maybe one little thing. Joe Buchanan left on a trip to St. Louis. Took his wife and daughter with him, to see about a school for the girl. Finishing school, or something like that. They don’t expect him back until just before fall roundup.”

  “Huh,” said Fielding. “When did he leave?”

  “Right after I saw you last. About the time you and the kid were settin’ out on your trip.”

  Fielding gave it a thought. “More or less when Steelyard left. Maybe neither of them liked the looks of things.”

  “Could be. But Buchanan had a reason for his trip, and he didn’t leave for good, not like that puncher.”

  “Half the time, that’s what I think I ought to do. Just pack up and leave.”

  “No one would blame you.”

  “No, except that I’ve got work I said I would do. And I wouldn’t want to walk out on the rest of you.”

  “Us?”

  “Yeah, you and Selby and Roe.”

  Lodge had a faraway gaze in his brown eyes and then turned to Fielding. “That’s real good of you, and I mean it. But if it comes right down to it, Selby and Roe will look out for themselves. Mark my words. As for me, I can take care of myself, and if I can’t, I don’t know if you could make a difference, unless you were right there.” The older man relaxed his eyes. “Just bein’ practical.”

  “I appreciate it. But I think I’d better stay around at least awhile longer. And by stayin’ around, I mean my work, too, which takes me here and there.”

  “When’s your next job?”

  Now Fielding gazed into the distance. “In a couple of days I’ve got a trip to Cogman’s Hole, off to the east and a ways north.”

  “I know the place,” said Lodge. “Been over that way once. Is your new swamper goin’ with you?”

  Fielding laughed. “He said he didn’t care for any more wranglin’ in the mountains, and I doubt he wants to do any over this way, either.”

  Lodge tipped his head. “Do you need a hand?”

  “Do you mean yourself?”

  “Why not?”

  “Well, you’ve got things to take care of, and besides, I wasn’t plannin’ to take anyone else to begin with. I’m just deliverin’ to one outfit, so I won’t need but five packhorses, six at the most. It’s an easy ride, no mountains or timber.”

  “You don’t want someone along, just in case?”

  “Thanks, but I think I’ll be all right.”

  “How about bein’ alone in your camp before you leave?”

  “Oh, nobody has ever bothered me there.”

  “You’re welcome to put up here,” said Lodge.

  “Thanks again, but I’m really not worried, especially right around here. And besides, a fellow can’t be lookin’ over his shoulder all day every day.”

  “I guess.”

  Fielding shifted in his seat. “Well, I ought to be movin’ along pretty soon.”

  “Care to stay for noon dinner?” “Maybe next time.”

  Lodge perked up. “Say, I just thought of something. Wait here.”

  He got up from the bench and went around the back corner of the house as before. Fielding heard the door open and close once, then twice. Lodge came back with something in his hand, and as he held it out, Fielding saw that it was a round, bumpy object with a dry, dull scarlet exterior.

  “What’s that?” he asked.

  “A pomegranate.”

  “Oh, I’ve seen them before.”

  “Take it,” said Lodge, with a forward gesture. “I’d guess you’ve got more visitin’ to do, and it might make a nice handsel for someone.”

  “A what?”

  “A gift. A token of goodwill or good luck.”

  “Oh, I understand.” As Fielding took the fruit into his hand, he said, “This must have been shipped in from a long ways off. Where would you come across something like this? That is, if you don’t mind my askin’.”

  Lodge raised his eyebrows and put on a discreet expression. “In a place where meals are served. Fruit of my labor.”

  Fielding caught the trail west of Roe’s place and approached it as if he were coming in from his camp. The road was dusty, and grasshoppers whirred up from the drying grass on either side. On a couple of turns in the road he could see the valley below, greener, and then an intervening hill would close off his view and bring him back to sagebrush, prickly pear, and buffalo grass.

  As he rode past the hill that served as shelter on the west side of Roe’s yard and buildings, casual sounds drifted on the air—the cackling of a chicken, the bawl of a calf, the thump of a hoof against a plank, the splash of water as someone tossed out the contents of a bucket or dishpan. Fielding looked back to his right and saw the roofed shelter on poles, falling in on one end and leaning toward the same destiny on the other. Into the lane, he rode past the old crippled wagons and the heaps of salvage—posts and planks and wire and tin. The bawling of the calf became louder, followed by a rising chorus of chickens. Now the two gray geese came out, their wings lifted back and their beaks opened in hissing.

  Fielding stopped his horse a few yards from the corner of the house. He did not see Roe’s wagon anywhere, but he did not know the layout of the place well enough to where it might be parked.

  The geese hissed. Not caring to antagonize them, Fielding stayed in the saddle.

  “Anyone home?” he called out. The noises in back settled down a notch. He was sure someone was at home, because of the sound he had heard of water being pitched. He called again.

  The front door opened with a dull scraping sound, and Isabel stepped out. She was wearing a dark brown dress, and her hair fell loose to her shoulders.

  “Oh, it’s you,” she said. “Just a minute.” As she turned and went back into the house, he saw her bare feet.

  A couple of minutes later she reappeared, wearing a pair of brown leather shoes that might well have belonged to her mother. “I’ve been scrubbing,” she said. “I hope you don’t mind the way I look.”

  He raised his hat and said, “Fine to me.” He waited for her to shoo the geese out of the way, and he dismounted.

  As she came to stand facing him, she said, “I was worried about you. We’ve heard stories.”

  He wavered, not sure how to begin or how much to tell. With a nod toward the buckskin, he asked, “Shall I tie him up?”

  “Oh, yes. By all means. Go ahead.”

  He tied the reins to the hitching post. Turning to meet her eyes, he said, “The jerky was good.”

  “I’m glad.” She had an anxious, uncertain expression on her face as she hesitated and then said, “I was sorry to hear about that poor boy getting killed. How did it happen?”

  Fielding grimaced, but the question was too direct for him to go around. “Two of Cronin’s riders met up with us, actually came into our camp, and one of them provoked him into a fight.”

  Her eyes tightened. “Just like that?”

  “I think they were trying to get at me, hoping I’d jump in if they picked on him.”

  “But you didn’t.”

  He took a quick, deep breath and exhaled. “No, I didn’t. It happened all in a moment. I don’t know if I could have done anything anyway without getting killed, but I sure felt useless afterward. Poor kid. You know, he wanted to make good.”

  “I hardly knew him,” she said. “Just met him that one time.” She blinked, and her dark eyes came back to Fielding’s. “And the rest of the trip?”

  “I’d like to say it went all right, but it didn’t. On my way back, someone shot one of my horses. It seems small in comparison with what happened to the kid, but it’s hard to take, too.”

  She gave a quick intake of breath. “Oh, Tom. Were you alone?”

  “I’d just as well have been. I had hired another man, but he wasn’t much good with horses, much less with any real trouble.”

  “What did you do?”

  He raised his eyebrows. “Well, I pulled my saddle gun there, and
I threw a couple of shots at where I thought the others came from. I believe I hit a man.”

  “Then you saw who it was?”

  “No, it was too far away, and it was gettin’ dark. But I had my hunches, and they match with what I’ve heard since. I guess one of Cronin’s men came back with a bullet wound.”

  Isabel nodded. “I heard that, too.”

  “Small coincidence. It was the same fella that got my boy Ed to go for his gun.”

  She gasped louder than before. “Tom, they wanted to kill you.”

  “It sure seems that way. Maybe they didn’t want to do it bad enough, or they don’t have what it takes. I don’t know.” He was on the brink of saying that he knew they had someone who was capable, but he left it unsaid.

  “But why?” she asked.

  “I think they want to make an example out of someone. They started with Bill Selby, and now it looks as if they’re trying it on me.”

  “But why you?”

  “To begin with, I stuck up for him that day at his place. Then it happened again when we were on roundup, one day we went to get some cattle at the Argyle camp.”

  “Well, so what if you stick up for someone else?”

  “That’s what I would think, but it hasn’t set well. The way I’ve heard it, the other side wants to push out all the small-time stockmen and run in another big bunch of cattle for themselves. I think they started with Selby because they thought he would move—sort of a softer touch, you might say. But then I blundered in, and they have to push harder.”

  She shook her head. “And to do it the way they did. I keep thinking of that poor boy.”

  “So do I. And a large part of it is my fault. Sure, he got worked up and went for his gun, but if he hadn’t been with me, they wouldn’t have taken the bother to antagonize him. I got myself into this mess, and he went right along with me, not knowing any better.”

  “Can’t you just get out, then?”

  He shrugged. “For one thing, I got into it because I didn’t like the unfairness, the idea that someone can run over the top of others because he’s got money and connections. That hasn’t changed. And even if I did think I could walk out on Bill Selby and Richard Lodge and your father . . .” He hesitated and went on. “Well, I’d have to pull up everything on short order and go a long ways away. I could cancel the work I’ve got and say adios. But wherever I ended up, I would know I had been a quitter, and I wouldn’t want to live with that.”