Creek. Crossing it, they stood at the junction of Little Bear and Bear creeks. According to the map given him by the land clerk, they were now standing on Duff’s land.
“What do you say we camp here for the night?” Falcon suggested. “We can go into Chugwater tomorrow.”
“Cousin, I have never heard more agreeable words,” Duff said as he swung down from his horse. Reaching around, he began massaging the cheeks of his butt.
Falcon chuckled. “A little sore, are you?”
“A little,” Duff said. Then, he chuckled as well. “Maybe more than a little.”
Back in Scotland, Duff had owned horses, and he rode frequently, not only to manage his property but also when he went into town. But the distances in Scotland were nothing like the huge, open, almost endless plains of the American West. They had come thirty miles just since leaving Tracy, and Duff had never sat a saddle this long. There had been little conversation during the ride, the silence of the ride interrupted only by the clank of the bit in the horses’ teeth, the dry clack of horse hooves on the rocky ground, and the creaking of the saddle as Duff shifted his weight, trying to find a more comfortable position.
Despite the weariness of the ride, Duff had to confess that he had never seen more dramatic or inspiring scenery. To the west lay a long purple range of mountains, which the map identified as the Laramie Range. There were other elevations as well, though many were not specifically identified on the map.
They let their horses water, which both animals did eagerly. Afterward, they ground-tethered their horses and the horses immediately began to crop the grass, eating hungrily.
“That’s a good sign,” Falcon said. “If the horses like the grass, cattle will.”
“Aye,” Duff replied. “The water and the grass are good here, I think.”
“Have you named your horse?”
“I’ve been thinking about it, and I believe I have come up with a name.”
“What?”
“I’m going to call him Sky.”
“After Skye, good idea,” Falcon said.
“Aye, but being as the horse is male, I’ll leave off the ‘e’ in his name. Still, it will remind me of her.”
Falcon walked over to Duff’s horse and rubbed it behind the ears. “Hello, Sky,” he said. “How do you like your new name?”
A covey of quail flew up in front of them, and Falcon smiled. “Cousin, how do you like your quail? Grilled, or cooked in a pan?”
“I’ve never eaten the critters,” Duff replied. “Though I’ve taken my share of grouse.”
“Well, quail is as good eating as grouse, but they are a mite smaller. I reckon we’re goin’ to have to have two apiece to make a meal of them.”
“How do we hunt them?”
“Easterners use shotguns,” Falcon said. “But I use a pistol.”
“A pistol?”
“You’ve never hunted grouse with a pistol?”
“I don’t think I have.”
“It wouldn’t matter if you had. Grouse are bigger and easier to hit, so there’s no sport in it. Fill your hand, cousin. Let’s get us some supper.”
Falcon and Duff stood about twenty yards apart, then started walking through the grass. Duff was the first person to flush a quail. With a loud fluttering of its wings it darted up in front of him. Duff fired, missed the first shot, and fired again. On his second shot he saw a little puff of feathers fly out as the bird tumbled and fell.
“Ahh, what’s wrong? It took you two shots,” Falcon teased. As he was calling out to Duff, one flew up in front of him, but because he was teasing Duff, his bird got away before he could shoot.
“Did I misunderstand the concept here?” Duff called back. “It was my understanding that we were to shoot the birds, not let them fly away.”
Falcon laughed good-naturedly. “You got me on that . . .” Before he could finish his sentence two more birds flew up in front of him and he took them both. Even as he was looking back at Duff for affirmation, a second bird flew up in front of Duff. He got this one in one shot.
Chapter Twenty
Comfortably fed with grilled quail, and with his thirst satisfied by the cool, sweet water of Bear Creek, Duff watched the play of color on Laramie Peak as the sun dipped behind the range. The sun was gone, but a painter’s palette of color filled the western sky, from gold, to pink, to purple.
“What do you think about your place?” Falcon asked.
“I think this could make me forget about Scotland,” Duff replied.
The two men talked until the fire burned out, until not one glowing ember remained. Then, under a canopy of stars that was more magnificent even than they had been at sea, Duff spread out his bedroll and, to the music of the babbling creeks, the thrum of frogs, and the hooting of owls, he drifted off to sleep.
