Gather My Horses (12 page)

“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.

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.”

“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.