Gather My Horses (4 page)

“Oh, no. I was just passing by, so I stopped there. I know it might be early in the season for you, but I've already started packing, so I thought I'd let you know I'm ready whenever you might need me.”

Buchanan looked at the brown horse again, stroked the underside of his jaw with his thumb and first two fingers, and cleared his throat. He was clean-shaven and had a trim mustache, but his weather-tanned face was starting to go heavy and the lines were setting in. He looked tired, as if he had to work himself up to what he had to say. He took a breath and said, “I'll tell you, Fielding, I need to take things into consideration.”

“Of course.”

Buchanan seemed to hesitate and then said, “I heard you had a little trouble with the Argyle men.”

“Not much, but there was a small incident.”

“Sure. And we don't need to go through it. You're your own man.”

“Thank you, sir.”

The blue eyes wandered and then came back to Fielding. “But after considering it, I've had to decide that it would be better if I didn't have you transport goods for me if there was any possibility of mishaps.”

“Oh, I don't think there would be, sir.”

“You can't tell, but at any rate, that's what I've decided.”

“I see.” Fielding felt a sinking of the spirits.

Buchanan's voice, in contrast, picked up. “That doesn't mean I don't value your work. I'd be happy to put in a good word for you, any time.”

“Why, thank you, sir. I appreciate that.”

“Just fine, and good luck to you, boy.”

“All the same to you, sir.”

Buchanan turned and walked away, his heavy brown boots thumping on the board sidewalk.

Fielding led the buckskin out into the street and swung aboard again. The conversation with Buchanan had left him almost in a daze, as he had been hit by the main point when he thought he was still working up to it. Fielding thought it was polite of Buchanan to make it seem as if Cronin's men were the problem, but he could see that it was a nice piece of condescension as Buchanan cut off business with him.

Then came the second part. Fielding was left to interpret that he probably didn't have much welcome at the Buchanan ranch house anymore. Now that he thought of it, Susan had not said to come back again. Fielding frowned and then shrugged.
So much the better for the hatless, red-faced young gentleman.

Out on the trail, the brown horse stepped right along as the buckskin kept up a fast walk. Fielding rode past Selby's, where no activity stirred in the ranch yard. He thought that was just as well, as he didn't care to see Selby again quite so soon. A couple of miles farther, as the road curved through the rolling country, he came to Andrew Roe's place, also on his left. Thinking that it wouldn't hurt to have a word with Roe, Fielding turned in.

As he rode along the lane, he realized it was the first time he had come in from the road and had seen the layout up close. Roe had a good location for his homestead. The house and other buildings lay in a corner formed by two hills, which gave protection from the strong winds that came from the southwest, west, and northwest from November to May.

Although the place was well situated, Fielding thought a man could make better use of it. At some point, Roe had planted a windbreak of trees on the north side, but now it consisted of three rows of dead stumps. At the far end of the windbreak and a little to the left, a roofed shelter on poles had fallen in on one end and was leaning on the other. Farther to the left, the stable and then the house looked east, which made for good sunshine on winter mornings and shade on summer afternoons, but the whole front yard was littered with heaps of salvage.

Roe's accumulations had some order, as the fence posts lay in a pile next to the warped planks, the
rusty barbed wire had its own mound with weeds growing up through it, the wagon parts leaned against or lay on top of a couple of crippled old spring wagons, and the scraps of curled and perforated tin roofing were held down by a rusted iron bedstead tipped on its side.

To give the man his due, Fielding reflected that Roe had not had it easy. His wife had died a few years back, and he had finished raising his daughter by himself. If the wife had been healthier or the girl had been big enough, someone might have watered the trees. The last time Fielding had seen her, a year or so back, the girl was big enough to do the cooking and cleaning. She probably did the chores as well, as Roe had a reputation for dropping in on other homesteaders or idling about town, picking up scraps of gossip along with items of perceived value. He was not very open about having people come to his place, perhaps because of the girl, but perhaps because he would rather have a bite to eat or take a nip at someone else's place and not have to return the favor. So the talk ran, at least.

Two large gray geese came around the side of the house, lifting their wings and honking. From somewhere in back a calf bawled, and the cackle of chickens rose and fell.

As Fielding stopped his horse, the front door opened. He expected to see Andrew Roe appear, rubbing his face or running his fingers through his hair, but the person who stepped outside was the girl.

Her name came to him. Isabel.

The house had no porch, but the front step lay in the first of the afternoon shadow. The girl's dark,
shoulder-length hair and her dusky complexion reminded him of the little he had heard about her mother—that she had come from New Mexico and had Spanish in her background. He had not connected that information with the name Isabel until now.

“Good afternoon,” he said. “I stopped in to see if your father was at home. My name's Tom Fielding, and I've got a camp a couple of miles farther out. He knows me.”

The girl's dark eyes took in the rider and the two horses. Then her voice came floating from the shadow, musical as the lark's song. “He's not at home right now. You're welcome to wait for him if you'd like.”

“Well, I wouldn't want to—”

“There's a trough over there, if you'd like to water your horses. It shouldn't be long.”

He turned to where she pointed. A wooden trough with a hand pump stood in front of the stable. “I suppose so,” he said. Holding the lead rope out of the way, he drew back his right leg and dismounted. When he came around in front of the buckskin, the girl was gone.

He led the two horses to drink, then took them back to loiter in front of the house.

The door opened again, and the girl Isabel came out carrying a three-legged stool. “Here,” she said. “You can sit in the shade if you'd like.”

The paint was yellowed and chipped, but the stool looked sturdy enough. “I guess I could,” he said.

She took a short step down and set the stool next to the house. “I'll be back,” she said.

As she stood up, Fielding appreciated her figure in the dark gray dress. Then she was gone again, and he took his seat on the stool, resting his back against the house as he held the lead rope in his left hand and the reins in his right. Both horses were relaxed, and the barnyard animals had quieted down. Though the immediate surroundings were homely, the spot had a peaceful quality to it.

The door opened, and the girl set a chair on the step. A few seconds later she returned with a cutting board, a knife, and a chunk of meat that looked like a venison haunch.

“There's not many flies yet,” she said. “I thought I could work outside here.”

“That's good. You can keep those geese from doin' me any harm.”

She smiled and showed her clean, even teeth. “Oh, they're something, aren't they? But that's geese.” With the board in her lap, she positioned the chunk of meat and sliced off a thin strip lengthwise.

“Makin' jerky?”

“That's right. It's antelope meat. Papa says they're good this time of the year, when the grass comes green.” She glanced up from her work. “So, you live over this way, do you?”

“I have a camp is all. I'm a packer, so I'm on the trail a good part of the time, when the weather allows.”

Her dark eyes looked at him again. “I think we've met. Or seen each other. I'm Isabel, you know.”

He took off his hat, but she didn't seem to notice the courtesy, so he dragged his cuff across his forehead. “And I'm Tom, as I already mentioned.”

“Sure.” She pulled the knife through the haunch and cut off a long, thin piece. “I think Bill Selby mentioned you just yesterday when he came by.”

Fielding shifted on his stool. “It was a little thing that happened, but everyone seems to have heard of it.”

“I think Bill came over here to tell Papa just as soon as he could. He made you out to seem like the rescuer.”

“Like I say, it wasn't much.”

She paused in her work and let her eyes meet his. “Do you think those other men mean trouble? Bill seemed shaken by it.”

Fielding rotated his hat in his hands. “I don't know what all they said before or after I was there. I just saw them pushin' him around, and I didn't think it was fair. If there's something bigger behind it, I'm yet to know.”

“But you stuck your neck out. That's what Bill said. I know he appreciated it.”

“I'm glad he did. I don't think the other side did, though.”

“But you stood up for him, see? That's good.”

He felt relaxed with her, and his words came easy. “Oh, I don't know. I think I'm just innocent enough to believe that there are still things like right and wrong and that decency can come out on top. It's just that it's hard to do without causing some kind of friction.”

She cut another long slice, then flipped it to the side with her knife. “You've got to do what you think is right. You've got to be your own man.” She looked across at him and smiled.

“Well, you're right, of course. What I want is to
be left alone, free to live the way I want, but like I say, I tend to make it rough on myself.”

“Maybe you do, a little bit. But I'd rather do that and be able to be myself, not have a lot of people hanging all over me.” Her voice changed tone as she said, “Don't worry about her.”

“Huh?”

Isabel pointed with her knife, and Fielding turned to see a young brown goat, about a yearling, with bulging yellow eyes.

“She likes tobacco.”

“Well, I don't have any.”

The young nanny looked at Fielding's shirt, then at the two horses.

“Go away, Missy,” said Isabel. “No treats today.”

The goat stood still.

Isabel spoke again as she returned to her work. “So, do you always travel with two horses?”

“Um, no.”

“I don't mean to be inquisitive. Just something to talk about.” She looked up, and her dun complexion had a blush. “Really, I talk too much. But just at first. Hardly anyone ever comes here, and if they do, it's like Bill Selby. They come to talk to Papa.”

“And give tobacco to the goat?”

Isabel laughed.

Fielding realized the girl might be a little nervous or giddy about having a visitor like him, but he felt an easy familiarity with her. He said, “Anyway, to answer your question, the reason I look like Ranger Two Ponies is that I picked up this one horse where my helper left it in town.”

“Oh, I see. And you're taking it back to your place.” Her voice was calmer now.

“Unless something comes up.”

She looked at him without raising her head all the way. “Oh, are you a horse trader, too?”

“No, but the world is full of genies and spirits, and one of them might bewitch me.”

Her eyes sparkled as she smiled at him. “Like sailors and mermaids.”

He smiled back. “Maybe so. I've heard it said that a cowpuncher is a sailor on horseback.”

“So, you're a cowpuncher?”

“I've done that kind of work.”

She tipped her head in a matter-of-fact way. “I like to ride,” she said. Then, as if emending, she added, “But that's nothing like cow-punching, I know that. You have to ride long and hard, know how to rope and trip steers, keep from breaking your neck.”

“That, and live on cold biscuits. Boil your coffee in a little can.”

She pursed her lips. “And jerky.”

“Oh, I know,” he conceded. “A fella carries raisins, dried apples, canned tomatoes. I was just makin' myself to be a lone sufferer for the moment.”

“I'm sure it's not easy.” Her voice changed again. “Well, what did I tell you? Here's Papa now.”

Fielding followed the motion of her head toward the east, where Andrew Roe on horseback came down a grassy hill. Fielding recognized the horse, an older chestnut that did not move very fast. Fielding stood up and put on his hat.

Isabel resumed her work, and neither she nor Fielding spoke as her father made his way to the ranch yard.

Andrew Roe stopped his horse. “Been here long?” he asked as he eased down from the saddle.

“Not long,” said Fielding. “Ten, fifteen minutes.”

Isabel rose from her chair and carried the cutting board with the knife and meat into the house.

“What news?” asked Roe. He stood by the horse as it drooped its head. The man was of medium height and slender build, and he wore loose clothes. His hat had nicks in the brim and a hole worn in the ridge of the crown, and it cast a shadow on his eyes, which in turn had permanent shadows below them. As usual, the man had a couple of days' stubble on his face, set off by a knotted kerchief that could use a wash.

“Not much news from me,” said Fielding. “Least, nothin' you haven't heard.”

Roe said something like “Yuh” and moistened his lips. His pale brown eyes, which had a tendency to drift, came back to Fielding. “I was just over to Selby's now,” he went on. “Talkin' about work.”

“ 'Bout that time.”

Roe moved his mouth and then spoke. “Him and me, we're thinkin' of havin' our own roundup.”