Gather My Horses (21 page)

“Uh-huh.” Selby's eyes had a blank expression.

Fielding went on. “You've got an idea what I mean.”

Selby blinked. “Well, no. Actually, I don't. You'll have to fill me in.”

“What I mean is, you've been sayin' all along that we need to stick together, which is even plainer now than before.”

“It's true I've said that—”

Fielding narrowed his gaze on the man. “Do you think you're having second thoughts about it?”

“Well, no, not exactly.”

“I'm wonderin', then, if anyone's got an idea, or a plan, on what we're going to do as a group. I don't have any ideas myself, but I don't have holdings like the rest of you, so I may not see things the same.”

Selby shrugged. “Maybe.”

Fielding went on. “I can't help thinking that we should have done something rather than just wait. Even Richard—”

“It's too late for him,” said Selby. “He wasn't worried about himself, but maybe he should have been.”

“Seems to me we all should be.”

“You'd be a fool not to. If a man doesn't look out for himself, who's going to?”

Fielding could almost hear Lodge's voice.
Mark my words.
Maintaining his calm, he said, “Then I guess each of us has to have his own plan first.”

Selby put up a matter-of-fact expression as he said, “I think you've got to start there.”

“I see.” What Fielding actually saw, he didn't state. Cronin's men had started by making an example out of Selby, had raised the stakes when they moved on to Fielding, and had raised them even higher when they took care of Lodge. Now Selby did not want them to come back to him, and he wanted to avoid an alliance with Fielding that might bring on more retribution. Fielding looked down and then up again. “Do you have a plan for yourself?” he asked.

“Not yet. But I might be workin' on one.”

“Well, I won't ask about it.”

“Oh, it's not a secret,” said Selby right away. “Just not very definite.” After a short pause, he added, “I'm thinkin' I might pull up my stakes here.”

“Sell out?”

Selby tipped his head. “I might sell what I can, take what I can. But like I said, none of that's definite yet.”

Empty homesteads. Just what Cronin wanted. “By the way,” said Fielding, “do you have an idea of what's going to become of Lodge's place?”

“The Magpie? I heard yesterday evenin' that a crazy man was camped out there.”

“Dunvil, the anarchist?”

“I believe that's him. I haven't met him myself, but Richard mentioned him. Sounds crazy as a loon.”

“He might be.” Fielding was about to ask Selby where he heard it, but he held his question. He did not think he had that level of confidence with Selby anymore.

The knowledge that Dunvil was camped out at the Magpie caused Fielding to reconsider the sequence of his visits. By the time he had ridden half a mile from Selby's place, he had decided to go visit the wild man and find out if he knew anything. Turning his horse to the south, he set off across country.

He came onto the homestead acreage a little to the east of where he usually did. From his position he could see three of the four conical rock piles that marked the corners of the property, while the
house and stable and corral lay uphill on his right. At first he saw no signs of occupation, and then he noticed the mule picketed on the grass out beyond the stable. With a light movement of the reins he put the bay horse in the direction of the house and yard.

As he rode up the hillside and came into the yard, he had a feeling of emptiness from knowing that Lodge would never tend to his place again. The two little cedar trees stood in an area of sparse grass and hard earth, and the heap of stones by the front step looked purposeless. The door of the house was closed, as were the corral gate and the stable door. Fielding wondered how long it would be until weeds began to take over.

He called out, “Anybody here?”

He waited amidst the silence of inert stones and weathered lumber. Not a breeze stirred. He called again.

The squeak of hinges and the scrape of wood sounded from the stable. The door moved outward, and Dunvil stood in the shadowy opening.

Fielding swung down from his horse and led it forward. Dunvil did not step out of the doorway. His eyes looked like small beads.

“Mornin',” said Fielding.

“Same to you.”

“Heard you were here.”

Dunvil scratched his beard but said nothing.

Fielding spoke again. “Bad thing that happened.”

“They happen too often.”

“Lodge was a good friend of mine.”

“I know.” Dunvil's hand rose as if he was going to lean against the doorjamb, and then it lowered.

Fielding, in no hurry, took a couple of seconds before going on. “Another friend, named Selby, was the one who found him. Said the deputy's been out here.”

“Might have been.”

“Said the deputy is askin' around whether anyone knows anything or saw anything.”

“Might be.”

Fielding paused. Dunvil was being more reserved than he expected, and he did not move from the doorframe. Fielding decided to go ahead. “You didn't happen to see anyone out this way on the day of the shooting, did you?”

“I keep to myself.”

“Sometimes those are the people who see things.”

“Well, I didn't.” The beady eyes held steady.

Fielding thought of another approach. “Have you been in the house?”

“Not my place.” The beard made a strange movement as Dunvil wrinkled his nose. Then he went on. “Maybe you think none of it is. But don't get the wrong idea. I'm not trying to take it.”

“I wouldn't think you were.”

“Call me the guardian of the dispossessed if you want.”

The wording gave Fielding pause. “I'm not questioning your motives,” he said.

“I didn't think you would, but make no mistake. This is bigger than the case at hand.”

Fielding was not sure how to take the last statement, but he thought it was the anarchist's idea of making an example out of an isolated incident. Hoping to bring the conversation into comprehensible terms, he said, “This outfit called the Argyle
seems determined to push out the smaller stockmen, and they don't seem to be holding back now.”

Dunvil wagged his head. “Let the overlords come. If they get near me, they'll wish they'd thought twice.”

Fielding nodded.

“If they have time to think about it,” Dunvil added.

Seeing that he had gotten as much knowledge as he was likely to, Fielding said, “Well, I suppose I'll move along.”

“I might, too,” said Dunvil. “But not quite so soon.”

Fielding mounted up and rode away without looking back. For his own interest, he would have liked to see what Dunvil had inside the stable door, but he was pretty sure it had a stock and a barrel, maybe two.

Fielding rode around and came into the Roe yard from his usual direction. A mélange of noises came from the backyard, and a horse was grazing between two piles of salvage in front. Roe himself was leaning with both forearms against the side of his wagon, which was standing empty beyond the front step of the house. With slow movement, the man stood up from his leaning position and faced his visitor.

He was dressed in his usual fashion, with his worn hat, loose clothes, and cloth vest. Two or three days had passed since his last shave, and the knotted kerchief hung limp at his neck. With thumb and forefinger he lifted the stub of a cigarette to his lips.

Fielding dismounted and held the reins.

Roe's eyes wandered over Fielding and the horse as he lowered the cigarette and said, “How'd'ya do?”

“All right, and yourself?”

“A day older than yesterday, and still a dollar short.”

“Isn't that it?” said Fielding.

Roe twisted his mouth and did not offer another comment.

Fielding picked up the conversation. “Things go on. I was over and saw Selby earlier. Just talkin' about things in general. I've got another trip to go on in a couple of days, and I thought I'd check with you others before I take off.”

Roe rubbed his face and said, “Not much goin' on right now. I think everyone's sittin' tight after what's happened.”

“Seems like. You know, when I talked to Selby a couple of days ago, he was all for stickin' together, but now it looks like he's hunkerin' down.”

“Suppose so.” Roe lifted the cigarette and smoked it down to the last pinch.

“It's all right with me. I just like to know how things stand.”

“Hard to know.” The old hat lowered as Roe dropped the cigarette butt and stepped on it. He had his tongue between his lips as he looked up.

Fielding felt as if he was still missing a piece. “Has something else happened, or has this thing with Lodge got everyone down?”

Roe moved his mouth and then spoke. “Maybe either or both.”

“Something new, then?”

The pale brown eyes held on him for a few seconds. “That kid Mahoney died yesterday. You know he got shot.”

“I heard that, but I also heard no one was sayin' how or where.”

“All the same, you don't know whether it's goin' to give them reason to do something more.”

Fielding saw it all in a moment. Not only did Selby and Roe not want anything to come back on them, but if they sat tight enough, it might come only to the man who was assumed to have fired the shots at Mahoney. Selby and Roe were all for sticking together when they needed Fielding's help, but now when it looked as if he might be marked, he was on his own. Not only was Lodge's prediction true, but so was another comment that Fielding had not forgotten. Susan Buchanan herself had told him in her polite way that it was not worth it to stick up for people who probably wouldn't do the same for him. And that was the way things stood now.

“Maybe they will try something,” Fielding said. “At least I know more than I did before.”

“I thought Bill might have told you.”

“No, we didn't get around to that.”

“Well, I didn't like the little snot myself. The way he started that fight.”

“It wasn't the only one. But I guess he's done now.”

“A lot of good it did him.” Roe twisted his head in an odd kind of exercise, and then with a quickened tone he said, “Oh, here's Bel.”

Fielding turned to see Isabel. She was wearing a dark blue dress and dark shoes, and her hair hung loose as it often did. Her eyes sparkled and her clean teeth showed as she spoke.

“Hello, Tom. I thought I heard voices.”

“We were just talkin',” said her father.

“Oh, I'm sorry.”

“Nothin' to it.”

“That's right,” said Fielding. “And I think we were just about done, weren't we?”

“I guess,” said Roe. He had taken out his pocketknife and opened it, and now he clicked it shut and put it away.

“It's good you came out,” said Fielding. “I was getting ready to leave.”

“Well, I can walk along with you as far as the road.”

“I won't complain.” Fielding looked at Roe, who had taken out his tobacco sack and was opening the drawstring. “Thanks for the talk,” said Fielding.

“You bet. Be careful, now.”

“I will.” Fielding turned the horse and fell in beside Isabel.

After they had walked a few yards, she said, “I'm glad you stopped in today.”

He made a smile. “I'm sorry if I'm not in a cheery mood.”

“I heard some of it. Papa doesn't want to have much to do with anything, does he?”

“He and Bill Selby both. I guess I can't blame them much.”

“They seemed to appreciate your help when they needed it.”

“I think they did. But other things have happened
since then. Richard Lodge, and then this kid Mahoney. You heard about that?”

Isabel nodded, and the shine of the sun moved on her dark hair. Her eyes had a pained expression and then relaxed.

“I can't say I'm very sorry,” Fielding went on. “He was the one who pushed Ed Bracken into the gunfight, and I'm pretty sure he got shot when he opened fire on me and killed my horse.”

She put her hand on his arm as they continued walking. “No one can blame you for that.”

“No, but they might want to get even. I think that's part of why Selby and your father want to lie low.”

“I'm glad you're not like that.”

“Thanks. It's just not a pretty spot to be in.”

“You're your own man,” she said. “You stick up for yourself. Maybe someone else doesn't like it, but it counts a lot with me.”

“Thanks for that, too.”

They walked to the end of the lane and turned to each other. Fielding cast a glance toward the yard and saw her father gazing in their direction. With his left hand, Fielding took off his hat and held it as a shield as he leaned forward to kiss her.

As they parted he said, “So long for now. I'll be thinking of you.”

“Be careful. And I'll be thinking of you, too.”

He led the bay out a few steps, checked the rigging, and swung aboard. He turned in the saddle to wave, and he caught her smile.

The glow stayed with him for a while, but the meetings with Roe and Selby came back to remind him of how things stood. He was on his own now.
He had no one to blame. It was of his own making, and he had to face what would come. This whole feud had moved from push and shove to bullets and blood, and it wasn't likely to go away by itself.

The broad, bladelike part of the needle glinted in the morning sunlight as Fielding pushed the instrument through the canvas. Then he reached around, grasped the tip, and pulled the needle the rest of the way until the thread was tight. He looped the thread over the seam and poked the needle in place again. Tucking his elbow against his side, he moved his right hand so that the eye end of the needle rested in one of the steel pits in the buttonlike thimble, which was set in a leather strap that ran across his palm. He made sure the needle was straight, then pushed with the heel of his hand until the shiny tip broke through again.