Gather My Horses (8 page)

“And you say Richard Lodge will be there?”

“That's right.”

They turned into the lane of Selby's place a little over half an hour later. A light breeze rippled through the box elders and young cottonwoods as Bill Selby stood in his yard waiting. He was about the same age as Lodge, and although he had a sturdy build, he was starting to fill out above the waist and go swayback. As Fielding rode closer, he
noticed the man's puffy lower eyelids and sun-reddened cheekbones, plus a day or two of stubble that accentuated his square jaws.

Selby had a broad smile as he nodded his head up and down. “Mornin',” he called out.

“Good mornin',” Fielding answered.

“The others should be here right along. Go ahead and tie up.”

Fielding and Bracken dismounted, and the kid took both sets of reins. As he led the horses away, Selby said, “That's not the same kid, is it?”

“No, I think that other one got a job somewhere else.”

“Huh.” Selby turned to peer at the trees on the west side, and as he did, the leather gloves in his hip pocket waved like the tail feathers on a bantam rooster. “Andy ought to be here right away,” he said. “He's not that far away, and he said he'd come early.”

A couple of minutes later, Roe came in through the trees. He waved to Selby and Fielding, gave Bracken in his new clothes a looking-over, and eased down from the saddle.

Selby smiled at Fielding. “Well, that leaves Richard. We can go in, pour a cup of coffee, and get going if we want to.” He started out for the house, with his gloves coming into view again.

Roe finished tying his horse and walked past the kid without speaking. Fielding had the impression that Roe practiced treating young men as if they were under suspicion of wanting to abduct his daughter. Fielding had sensed some rebuffing from the old scavenger in the past, and he imagined that Roe was more civil to him now for the
same reason Selby overflowed with friendship. Fielding was on their side now.

As Selby stopped to greet Roe, Fielding came alongside and introduced them both to Ed Bracken. Roe's glance slid over him again, and Selby said, “You can watch the horses if you want. If an old boy comes in from thataway, you can tell him we're inside.”

“He means Lodge,” said Fielding.

Bracken's dusty hat went up and down as he nodded.

Selby led the way inside to the kitchen, where four wooden chairs sat around a table covered with a stained oilcloth. To the right stood a grease-spattered cookstove, and to the left a stack of dirty dishes sat on the sideboard.

“Have a seat,” said the host, looking out the window. “Hey, here's Richard now.” He set out four cups, lifted a blue enamel coffeepot from the stove, and poured out the coffee.

Lodge knocked as he opened the door, and Selby called for him to come in. Greetings went around as Lodge came into the kitchen.

When everyone was seated, Selby began. “Here's how I've got it figured. If anyone else has a different idea, why, let me know.” His light blue eyes moved around the table, and he continued. “I've got the wagon, as you know. Along with that I've got ten or twelve horses—at least ten that'll work. The other two are pretty green until I get someone to ride 'em. Richard, you've got two, and, Andy, you've got half a dozen, you said.”

Roe's eyes opened and closed. “That's right. I need to leave one at home, just in case.”

“That's fine. Now, let's see. How many more do we have?” The blue eyes came to Fielding.

“I've got nine head. I think most of 'em will do all right. A couple of the slow, steady ones might do best at night herding.”

“Or wagon horses.”

Fielding did not answer.

Selby went on. “Of course, a couple of mine can do that. Bring all of yours along, though, so you can at least keep track of 'em.”

Lodge spoke up. “Did you get anyone else?”

“I've got a wheat farmer named Mullins and his twelve-year-old kid lined up to do the cookin' and wranglin'. Him and his brother farm together, and they take turns hirin' out. They don't want to take any horses off the farm if they don't have to, though. They don't have many to begin with, as far as that's concerned, and they're probably all plugs and nags anyway.”

After a couple of seconds, Lodge said, “That gives us a little more than twenty-five head.”

“We should be all right,” said Selby. “We're not goin' to be ridin' long and hard every day.” He looked around the table again. “Mullins and his kid are comin' down this afternoon. I've got all the grub, and they'll double-bag it and load it in the wagon.” He paused. “What else? Tom, what do you think of a tent?”

Fielding had raised his coffee cup and now set it down. “I've got a couple. I think the bigger one would be good for a mess tent or other general purposes, even sleeping. Do you have poles?” He pictured a typical chuck wagon with a couple of long poles tied alongside.

“No, I don't. Can't we use yours?”

“They're kind of long to pack down here on horses. I could drag 'em, but that might not be good. I usually just leave 'em put, and use 'em the next time I'm there. Make new ones if I go to a place I haven't been. But I don't think we'll see many lodgepole pines where we're goin'.”

Lodge spoke again. “Is it too much trouble to send a wagon up to his camp?”

Selby moved his head back and forth. “I guess I could. I didn't have that much time figured in for such a little thing.”

“I don't see anything wrong with it,” said Roe as he rubbed his face.

“Ah, hell. Go ahead. Richard, maybe you can take my buckboard up there. I've got to stay here for Mullins. It'll be worth it to have a good tent, though. Do you sleep in it, Tom?”

“I do now, but I'll bring along a tepee tent for me and the kid to sleep in. This big one will sleep half a dozen, though. That's why the poles are so long.”

“You think that kid's all right?” asked Selby.

“I think so. He catches on pretty quick.”

“He looks like he eats a lot,” said Roe.

“They all do,” Lodge said. “We'll be glad to have him along.”

Fielding spoke again. “One other small thing. I was hopin' to find a place to store the gear I won't be using. Packsaddles, panniers, canvas, the gear tent.”

Selby pushed out his lower lip. “We'll find a place in the barn.”

“We can bring all that stuff in the wagon, too,” said Lodge. “Save you the trouble of packin' 'em all up.”

Selby laid his hands flat on the table. “That should be pretty good, then. You boys come back this afternoon or evenin', and we all roll out in the mornin'. This ought to be an easy job.”

The roundup camp came into view as Fielding pushed the cow and calf down the last draw toward the valley. Bracken the day herder, on Fielding's white horse with speckles and dark mane, was easy to pick out on the other side of the small herd. He waved to Fielding and worked his way around.

“Looks like dinner's ready,” said Fielding.

“I think it is,” said Bracken. “The others came in a little while ago.”

“I'll go eat, then, and I'll come back and relieve you.”

“Sounds good.” Bracken reined the white horse around to watch the cow and calf that had just come in, and Fielding headed for the chuck wagon.

Selby, who knew the run of the valley better than the rest, had picked a good site for a camp. It lay about seven miles south of the town of Umber, on a stream called Richeau Creek. The crew had stayed here one night and planned to stay another, taking advantage of water for the cattle and horses as well as deadfall for firewood.

Across the valley to the east, a lone formation stood out from the ocher-colored bluffs. It was of
the same height and color, but time and the elements had separated it. If it had stood farther out by itself, it might have been called Courthouse Bluff or Courthouse Rock, as such formations were called in other places, but it had no name that Fielding knew of. Named or not, it served as a good landmark for someone coming into the valley from the hills to the west.

Fielding yawned as he rode toward the camp. One day had stretched into the next on this drive—warm weather, with an occasional afternoon shower but no hail or lightning so far. The crew picked up a few head of stock each day and branded every three or four days. Although each day cost money in wages and grub, Selby did not push the crew.

At the moment, he and Lodge and Roe were seated in the shade of the canvas fly that Mullins set up in front of the entrance to the tent. Out in the open between the tent and the wagon, faint wisps of smoke rose from the fire pit, where two Dutch ovens and a coffeepot hung from the iron rack that ran lengthwise above the bed of coals. Mullins himself stood at the tailboard of the wagon with his hands in a metal mixing bowl. At his side, around the far corner of the work area but not out of sight behind the chuck box, Mullins's son, Grant, stood with a clean lard can, pouring small splashes of water as his father commanded.

Fielding swung down from the bay horse, walked in for the last few steps, and tied the reins to the front wheel of the wagon. He glanced in the direction of the horse herd, where the granger kid named Topper, who had hired on at the last minute as day
wrangler, seemed to be practicing the art of sleeping on his feet.

Fielding picked up a tin plate and a fork.

“You'll need a spoon,” said Mullins. “Beans are in the first pot, biscuits are cookin' in the second one.”

“Thanks,” said Fielding as he nodded at the cook.

Mullins was a slender man with a thin, worried face, but he did his work well and without much comment. Unlike other cooks who acted as if they owned the chuck wagon and everything related to it, Mullins had the air of working in someone else's domain and using someone else's equipment. The kid was mindful in the same way.

The two of them had joined the crew with nothing more than one bedroll and one duffel bag between them. The father slept in the same tent as the other men and got up every morning between three and four. On nights when Fielding rode that shift watching the herd, he saw Mullins hang the lighted lantern from a pole on the end of the wagon. The kid, who was horse wrangler by night and cook's helper by day, slept when he could on his father's bed, or beneath the wagon, or in the shade of the tent.

As Fielding passed the kid on his way to the grub, he saw the heavy eyelids and tired face. He felt sympathy for the kid, who was likeable in his quiet way. He did not complain, and he worked alongside his father to make a go of things.

At the fire pit, Fielding picked up the wooden pothook, lifted the lid from the first Dutch oven, and set it on a length of firewood that lay close by. Steam wafted from the pot, carrying the promise of beef and beans together. Fielding took the spoon
from the end of the rack and served himself a plateful.

The other men were finishing up as he sat on the ground near them.

“Good grub today,” said Selby.

Lodge set his plate aside. “It's all good. Just some of it's better.”

“We're a long ways from the café,” Selby countered.

“Oh, I meant this was a lot better than a good deal of the chuck wagon grub I've eaten. Boiled beans, without a pinch of salt.”

“You must've ate with the Mexicans,” said Roe. “That's the way they cook 'em.”

“That's not who I was thinkin' of, though I've eaten with them, too. And even the boiled beans aren't bad.” Lodge shook his head. “Better than boiled cabbage, refried the next day in old grease, or cornmeal mush with bacon grease mixed in. Sorry, Tom. Didn't mean to spoil your appetite.”

“No danger there,” said Fielding.

Roe took out the makin's and went about rolling a cigarette.

Selby picked at the drying grass next to him and said, “Well, this is slow goin', but we knew it was goin' to be that way.”

“It's all right,” said Lodge.

Roe spoke without looking up. “You got nothin' at home to be lookin' after.”

“Everyone's got somethin',” said Lodge. “Well, almost everyone.”

Mullins appeared with a tin plate of biscuits. “Here, Tom,” he said as he lowered it.

Fielding took two.

“Anyone else?” asked Mullins. When the other three shook their heads, he said, “I'll leave this at the wagon, Tom. Ed can have what you don't eat, and I'll make some more for the rest of us.”

No one spoke for the next few minutes as Fielding ate his meal and Roe smoked his cigarette. Fielding went for a second helping and two more biscuits, and he had just gotten settled in the shade again when Lodge spoke.

“Looks like someone's comin'.”

Fielding turned where he sat, and following Lodge's gaze, he peered to the northeast. Two riders were coming toward the camp. Fielding returned to his meal.

A few minutes later, the two men stopped their horses at the wagon and dismounted. They spoke to Mullins, handed their reins to the kid Grant, and came forward. Fielding recognized the man on the right as Joe Buchanan, while the one on the left took a few seconds to identify.

The man was of the same height as Buchanan. He wore tan canvas pants and a matching jacket, the latter open in front and not quite concealing a small gun and holster that rode high on his hip. He also wore a tan, high-crowned hat that sloped down in front. The wide brim shaded his features, and it was not until Fielding noticed the blond hair and searching eyes that he recognized Cedric the Saxon.

The two men walked in under the fly and stood in the shade. Cedric's gooseberry-colored eyes took in the men seated on the ground, and he arched his eyebrows as the corners of his mouth turned down. Buchanan smiled at nobody in particular.
As usual, he was dressed in dark brown from his hat to his boots, and he wore dark spurs. Fielding glanced at Cedric's tan boots and saw a pair of silver spurs.