Gather My Horses (3 page)

Night was falling as he walked to his camp. It was a good feeling to have the day's work done, a night horse close at hand, a bucket of water to hang in camp, and no one to mar the pleasure of being alone on the plain.

The buzzing of a fly woke him. As he opened his eyes, he realized the sun was up and warming the tent. The light music of the horse bells floated on the air, and he thought of the old saying. Bell your horses and sleep good.

He rolled out of bed, got dressed, and went out in the morning. The sorrel snuffled in the corral. Fielding put a lead rope on him, led him out, and went to untie the two picket horses. The sun was warm on his face as he led the three horses to water. The young cottonwoods on the opposite bank cast the stream in shadow, and the cool smell of morning lingered. The horses touched their muzzles to the surface and made their small sucking sounds as they drank their water upward. A magpie chattered from the big cottonwood near camp.

Fielding turned the sorrel loose and moved the pickets for the dun and the gray. By habit he counted the loose horses, as he had done earlier, and went back to camp.

He had dipped fresh water for coffee and had the fire going when he heard the footfalls of a horse on dry ground. Looking north toward the trail, he saw Richard Lodge riding in on one of the two matched
sorrels that the man kept. Fielding waved him in. Lodge came closer, then swung down and walked the last few yards.

“You can tie him to the corral or turn him in. Coffee should be ready in a few minutes.”

“You're a good boy.” Lodge tipped back his hat and smiled. The sunlight fell on his dark hair and graying beard. He wore a clean work shirt, drab but not wrinkled or sweat-stained, and his charcoal-colored vest was closed by one button. After a pause in his step, he walked on to the corral.

A minute later, he took a seat on one of the two lengths of old tree trunk that did for camp furniture. Fielding sat on the other, holding the rod of green willow that he used for a poker.

After a few seconds, Lodge raised his eyes from gazing at the campfire. “How's business?” he asked.

“Oh, all right. I packed some grub and a few other things up to the flats. Got back yesterday.”

“That's what I heard.”

“Things don't really pick up until later on, you know. Then I'll have more work than I can handle, packin' supplies to cow and sheep camps.”

“Who's your helper?”

“Kid named Mahoney. Says he's from Cheyenne. I'm just tryin' him out. Maybe he's doin' the same.” Fielding thought for a second. “Have you talked to Selby?”

In the shade of the camp, Lodge's deep brown eyes were darker than usual. “He said you dropped by. Raised a little dust.”

“Not much.”

Lodge sniffed. “Don't know if they'd've done much, but it was just as well that you showed up.
Maybe saved some trouble.” He tipped his head back and forth. “Then again, maybe it caused some.”

“Either way, I didn't like it. Someone's better off than the rest, and he thinks he can ride roughshod over the ones that don't have much. I just don't like it.”

“I don't, either, of course, bein' one of those that has less.”

Fielding gave a light shake of the head. “Then their young puncher named Steelyard, nice enough fellow, comes by and tells me I ought not to take sides.”

“He told you that?”

“I think he meant it well. He's the type that just by nature stays out of trouble. But if I did what he said, looked the other way, I'd be doing what he is, which is more or less goin' along with what Cronin does.”

“I'm surprised he took the trouble to tell you.”

“I am, too. He had to go out of his way to do it. I'd guess he heard something from Pence or Adler after I left, and it didn't sound good.”

Lodge frowned. “That Cronin's a high-handed son of a bitch, and he hires men to do things his way.”

“This is the first time I'd seen Adler. I'd heard there was a new foreman, but I didn't know what he looked like.”

Lodge held his eyes on Fielding. “And what does he look like to you?”

“Oh, I don't know. He doesn't seem to be from around here.”

“I think you've got that right.”

“After a man's been here awhile, he takes on the
look of the country,” said Fielding. “His clothes weather to this climate, and he does, too.”

“That's right,” said Lodge. “And I don't think Cronin brought this fellow in because of his knowledge about runnin' cattle on the northern range.”

Fielding smiled. “You mean he doesn't look like a foreman to you.”

“Not as much as some.”

Fielding reflected. “You know, I didn't even notice if he was wearing a gun.”

“If you see much of him, you will. And he carries a saddle gun, too. I've seen that.”

“Then you think he's some kind of a—”

“The nice term is stock detective. If he hadn't hired on as foreman, he might go by that.” Lodge raised his chin. “Can you get that coffeepot any closer to the coals? It's takin' a while to boil.”

“I can try.” Fielding took a stick of firewood, moved two rocks closer to the center of the fire, and set the coffeepot in place.

“I can tell you're not in any hurry today. You're not like these others that live on the trail—boil their coffee in a little can, and kick dirt on the ashes before the sun comes up.”

Fielding smiled. “I don't have someone trailin' after me.”

“That's good.”

“I do need to go into town a little later on.”

Lodge gazed at the fire. “Yeah, I need to go in there one of these days, too. Boy, those bells have a pretty sound, don't they? Meadowlarks sing right along with 'em.”

The talk ran on, touching on light topics. Lodge asked about the places where Fielding had been—
what the grass was like, how the wheat farmers seemed to be doing, whether the snakes were out yet. When the visitor finished his cup of coffee, he stood up.

“Well, I think I'd better move on,” he said. “Thanks for the coffee.”

“Glad you got some. I usually boil it in a little can.”

“I know.” Lodge untied his horse and turned toward Fielding before mounting up. “Thanks for the help you gave Bill,” he said.

“It wasn't much.”

“Maybe not, but he appreciates it. Others of us do, too.”

“Thanks. That's good to know.”

Lodge's deep brown eyes looked away and came back. “Selby and Roe are plannin' their own roundup. I'll throw in what little I have. They could use another hand or two, if you're still in the country.”

“I might be.”

Lodge took the sorrel out into the sunlight, where he checked the cinch and climbed on. “Come and see me in your life of leisure,” he said.

“I'll do that.” Fielding watched as the horse and rider trotted off to the south, through the grassy valley where the belled horses were grazing.

On his way to town, Fielding took a detour to the southeast. He rode a buckskin that covered the ground at a fast walk and a smooth lope, so he crossed Hunter Creek before the sun was straight up overhead. He followed a cow trail for a ways and then cut across a meadow to a grove of cottonwoods.
Coming out on the other side, he picked up the lane that led into the headquarters of the Buchanan Ranch.

A short-haired terrier came off the front porch of the ranch house, barking, and did not let up until the front door opened and a young blonde woman stepped out.

Fielding's pulse quickened for a second. As the young woman called the dog to her, Fielding dismounted and led his horse forward.

Her voice had a pleasant tone to it as she said, “Good morning, Tom. I believe it's still morning, isn't it?”

“I think so. How are you, Susan?”

“Very well, thanks.” As she stood in the open yard, the sunlight shone on her straw-colored hair, which was tied up in a neat coil. Her high-necked white blouse and long, sky blue skirt also caught the light and added to her radiance.

“I hope I didn't come at a bad moment.”

She frowned. “Oh, no. Why?”

“I wouldn't want to interrupt your dinner hour.”

She smiled, and her blue eyes sparkled. “Not at all. We won't even start until Father gets back.”

“Oh, I see. Then he's not around?”

“No, he's in town. Or that's where he went. Did you wish to see him?”

Fielding gave a jaunty toss of the head. “Well, that was my main reason for stopping by. But I wouldn't want to be so blunt as to not give my best to you.”

She smiled again, this time showing her pretty teeth. “It's nice of you to be so gallant, Tom.”

“Thank you. I couldn't do it without inspiration.”
He felt himself blush and he thought she colored as well, but he couldn't be sure in the warm sunlight.

She gave a light laugh, then in her easy way moved to another topic. “I heard you went off on a delivery trip. I'm glad to see you made it back without any trouble.”

“It was all pretty easy, there and back.”

Silence hung between them for a few seconds. He let his eyes rove over her facial features, which were friendly but not revealing. It occurred to him that if she had heard one thing, she might have heard another.

They both went to speak at the same time, and then she laughed and said, “Go ahead.”

“You first.”

“No, you. I insist.” She gave him a mock-severe look.

“Well,” he began, “there was another little thing. You may have heard of it, and I wouldn't want you to think that I didn't want—or was trying to—”

“I think I know what you're referring to. An incident with the men from the Argyle.”

“That's it. I was hoping you wouldn't—”

“Oh, don't worry for my sake, Tom. I know you wouldn't start something like that.” Her words lifted and hung.

“But—” he said.

“But it's a dreadful thing to be drawn into, don't you think?”

“I suppose so,” he answered, with some sense of how she might see it. “I'm just hoping I haven't put some uncomfortable distance between me and your father.”

She tipped her head ever so slightly to one side. “Do you mean, for business interests?”

“For any reason. I don't want to be on bad terms with someone because of other people's squabbles.”

The tension seemed to relax as she gave an assuring smile. “Tom, you know my father is a fair man.”

“I know. That's why I dropped in. I felt I could.”

“Of course.” Now her blue eyes were both soft and direct. “But I'm sorry you got drawn into that incident.”

“I just didn't like to see the bullying.”

She looked down and then up at him again. “I don't blame you. I felt bad for you, and I don't want to presume to be telling you anything about it.”

“Please do.”

“You mean, what I think?”

“Exactly. Yes.”

She hesitated, and her mouth was small and pretty. Then she said, “I do not mean for this to reflect on you at all, but it just seems to me that it's not worth it to stick up for people who probably wouldn't do the same for you.”

Fielding opened his eyes wide. “Do you think your father sees it that way?”

Her face looked innocent now. “I don't know how he has considered it, but I do know that he tries to avoid entanglements.”

“That's good,” said Fielding, even as he wondered whether Joseph Buchanan would side with his own kind or stay aloof if things came to the point of trouble. Fielding was trying to think of the next thing to say when he heard a horse trotting into the yard behind him. Thinking it might be Mr.
Buchanan himself, Fielding turned halfway and looked over his shoulder.

What he saw surprised him. A man in a light tan suit was jolting along on a cream-colored horse. He wore no hat, and his full head of hair, yellowish white like corn silk, blazed in the noonday sun. He had the reins crossed in front and held apart with both hands. As he came closer he stood in the stirrups, then sat again, still bouncing. He did not slow the horse but rode right on by, turning his flushed, perspiring face toward Susan and then glaring with pale green eyes at Fielding. Thirty yards off, he stopped the horse and dismounted in the shade of a cottonwood tree.

“Looks as if you have company,” said Fielding.

Susan gave a half shrug and a nod.

“Well,” he went on, pulling the reins through his right hand, “give my best to your father, if I don't see him before you do.”

She smiled. “Even if you do, I'll be sure to tell him how courteous you've been.”

Fielding returned the smile. “Much obliged.” Nodding toward the cottonwood, he said, “That fellow looks as if he needs a drink of water.”

“I'll see to it.” After a second's pause she added, “Thanks for stopping in.”

“My pleasure. Hope to see you again before long.” He turned the buckskin around, swung aboard, and set off. After a few paces he touched his spur to the horse, and they left the Buchanan place on a lope.

In town, Fielding went to the livery stable, paid for the day's keep, and saddled the brown horse. He
put the bridle and reins in his saddlebag and led the horse by a neck rope. He had not ridden two blocks when he met Joseph Buchanan, who had just walked out of the grain dealer's office. He was putting on his tall dark brown hat with four dents in the peak, and he had his leather gloves in his left hand. Fielding reined his horse over and swung down.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Buchanan. How do you do?”

“Oh, I'm fine. And yourself?” Buchanan's dark blue eyes went from Fielding to the two horses and back.

“Fine as well.” After a second's pause, he added, “I just came by your place, but I missed you.”

Buchanan's eyebrows went up and down. “I was on my way home now. Anything urgent?”