Fielding led the way into the main tent, where he handed Bracken the cotton sack. “Here’s your war bag. Use it for your personals and your extra clothes.” Fielding pointed at the parcel. “There’s your new clothes. You might want to go down to the water, get cleaned up, and change into these. Then wash out the ones you’re wearin’ right now. We’re more than an hour away from grub, so you’ve got plenty of time. Oh, and here’s your bedroll, just so you’ll know.”
The kid hesitated. His eyes clouded up, and he had to look away and swallow before he could speak. Then he looked square at Fielding and said, “I sure appreciate you givin’ me a start like this.”
Fielding felt a tightening in his own throat. “Everyone deserves a break,” he said. “You get a chance someday, you do the same for someone else.”
The kid blinked, then nodded his head. “I sure as hell will.”
Bracken was clear-eyed and attentive when Fielding showed him the morning routine of bringing in the horses and watering those that had been picketed and penned.
“Make friends with that brown horse,” said Fielding. “We’ll let you ride him today. He’s a good one to start with.”
While the kid hung around the pole corral, Fielding put the coffeepot on the coals and sliced some bacon. In a few minutes, the smell of frying pork was on the air. Fielding mixed up a batch of biscuits, and when the bacon was crisp he put the Dutch oven in place of the skillet. By then the aroma of the coffee had risen to mix with the smell of bacon and wood smoke.
When the first tin plate of biscuits came out of the oven, Fielding divided the bacon onto two plates, along with three biscuits each. Then he and his helper sat down to eat.
“Dig in,” said Fielding, “but don’t hurry. We’ll have the second bunch of biscuits with our coffee, and then we’ll saddle our horses.”
The grub disappeared, as did the second plate of biscuits. The morning air was still fresh, but the sun had gotten the flies up and around. Fielding put a lid on the cooling skillet. “We can use that grease later,” he said. “We’ll rinse the plates and wipe ’em, cups, too, and get started.”
The area around the corral was well worn, so small puffs of dust rose as Fielding led the brown horse out. He handed the lead rope to Bracken and went for a currycomb.
As he brushed the horse, he talked to the kid. “Watch the way I do things, and do ’em the same way and in the same order. Not everyone does it alike, and you may have already learned something different, but as long as they’re my horses, just do it this way. Same thing when we rig ’em for packin’.”
The kid nodded and paid attention.
Fielding curried the horse, combed the mane and tail, and put on the blankets and saddle. “You’ll get to know your horses,” he said. “This one blows up against the cinch, so we’ll tighten him again before we mount up.” He put on the bridle, coiled the neck rope, and tied it to the front left saddle string.
Next he brought out the bay horse and went through the same process. The kid held the reins of the brown horse and stood by watching.
“Notice that both these saddles are doublerigged,” said Fielding. “Always buckle the back cinch second when you’re puttin’ the saddle on, and unbuckle it first when you take the saddle off. If you don’t, and the saddle slips around under his belly, you’ve got a hell of a mess. Maybe he tries to kick at it and gets his foot caught, and then it’s worse.”
Bracken nodded. “How about the stirrups?”
“We’ll adjust them for you.”
When the two horses were ready to go, Fielding waited until the kid was up in the saddle. Fielding took a last look around the camp, then swung up and led the way out onto the trail.
On the way to Selby’s, Fielding explained the setup. “This roundup’s a small enterprise in comparison with others. We get things organized today, and we roll out tomorrow. We’ll gather a few cattle each day, but we won’t hold anyone else’s. This fella Bill Selby is the roundup boss, for as much as it amounts to. You’ve got to have someone in that position, and he’s got the most cattle as well as the wagon. We’ll go right past Roe’s and could have met there, but he doesn’t go out of his way to invite people to his place.”
“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’.
