a horse to rub a pack against, and the kid Mahoney had gotten an introduction into this line of work.
Fielding glanced down at the ravine on his left, a deep cut in the yellowish earth where dark green cedars grew in the bottom and back up in a couple of clefts. Then the trail straightened out and the valley came into full view.
Straight ahead lay an expanse of grassland that sloped down toward darker grass. Beyond the meadowlike area, Chugwater Creek marked its course with a procession of trees, left to right, as the creek flowed northward to the Laramie River. Past the creek a half mile or so lay the town of Umber, which at this distance looked like three and a half rows of packing crates set along the railroad. The tracks themselves caught a shine from the afternoon sun as they ran parallel to the creek, through the center of the valley.
Fielding’s gaze traveled from the middle distance out to the edge and around. Off to the south, two tree lines showed where Hunter Creek flowed into Chugwater Creek. Between those two protecting groves of cottonwoods would lie the headquarters of the Buchanan Ranch. Straight ahead across the valley, where the hills began to lift, he could pick out Bill Selby’s place marked by a pale clump of trees. Farther back in the hills and up a ways, Andrew Roe’s buildings squatted in a corner made by two hills. Even farther and to the left, in a place he could not see from here, would be Richard Lodge’s hardscrabble claim that he called the Magpie. Then swinging his view around to the right and following the treetop course of Chugwater Creek about five miles north, Fielding picked out the site of J. P. Cronin’s ranch, the Argyle.
These were his reference points as he took in the valley as a whole—the creek, the town, the railroad, and the ranches big and little in the country that spread out all around. Less distinct for him was a spot on Antelope Creek, tucked away on the other side of the far line of hills. It wasn’t much as he pictured it, just a set of pole corrals, a large spreading cottonwood, a level area where he pitched his camp, and a grassy creek bottom where he turned out his horses. He couldn’t rightly call it his because it was on the public domain, with no fences or boundaries to separate it from the rest of the open range; but it was his base, the place he left and returned to when he went on pack trips.
Fielding brought his attention back to the trail as his weight shifted with the horse. He had come almost to the bottom of the steep part, and the ravine on his left opened up like the mouth of a small canyon. On the far edge stood a thicket of chokecherry bushes, leafed out and grazed across the bottom like so many trees in cow country. The earth all around the thicket, except on the uphill side, was worn bare where cattle took to the shade.
Behind him he could hear the horses coming down the last part of the grade, thirty-some hooves swishing in the soft earth, nicking on stones, as the horses heaved and snorted. Fielding looked back and appreciated the procession, rocking and jostling, sometimes lurching as a hoof slipped, but orderly all the same.
The kid Mahoney rode easy, the reins in his left hand and the lead rope in his right. The young man had reddish brown hair and a light, freckled complexion, and the upturned brim of his hat did not keep the sun off his face as he turned in the saddle and gazed off to the northwest.
At the bottom where the trail leveled out, Fielding stopped the animals to let them rest for a couple of minutes. All the packs were riding even, which was to be expected, as they carried nothing but ropes, empty cloth and burlap sacks, folded canvas, and the camp items. Out of habit, Fielding counted the packhorses.
Mahoney rode up alongside and stopped. He pulled on the tag and string that hung out of the pocket of his black vest, and out came the bag of makin’s. After giving the lead rope a couple of dallies around his saddle horn, he kept the reins in his left hand as he went about rolling a cigarette. He narrowed his blue-green eyes, which never seemed to be open all the way, and paid close attention to his work. He rolled a tight one, licked the free edge, and tapped the seam. Then he popped a match, held it to the end of the quirly, and drew a deep lungful of smoke. Ten seconds later he exhaled, with his head tipped again toward the northwest.
“Horses are all takin’ this trip real good,” he said, wrinkling his round nose and turning halfway around to look backward on his left.
“Uh-huh.” Fielding thought the kid had become pretty knowledgeable in a short while. Give him a couple more days, and he’d be telling the boss how to throw his hitches and pull the slack.
Mahoney turned to his normal position without looking at Fielding. He took another drag on his cigarette and fixed a hard glance at the valley, as if it were going to yield to his scrutiny.
Fielding took a deep breath to keep himself from getting impatient. He told himself Mahoney was just a green kid trying to prove himself. From the looks of him, he had just gotten his new outfit a short while back in Cheyenne. His round-crowned hat, striped shirt, denim trousers, and brown boots were all close to brand-new. So were his nickel-plated spurs with one-inch rowels, and so was his .44 with the clean wooden grips and the new bluing. Just a kid with a fuzzy mustache.
Fielding waited until Mahoney finished his cigarette. Then he put his horse into motion and looked back. The other horses no doubt knew they were on the way home, as they picked up their feet and jogged along. Mahoney fell in behind with his three horses, and the little pack train moved in order as before.
The group stopped in town long enough for Fielding to leave off the mail he had brought down from the flats and for Mahoney to water the horses. When Fielding came out of the little wooden building that housed the post office, he saw the kid slouched by the water trough, a cigarette drooping from his lips and his right thumb on his gun belt. His left hand held the ropes for the two strings of pack animals, and the saddle horses were hitched to the rack. Fielding gave an upward toss of the head as he moved to untie his horse, and when he had the reins, the kid handed him a lead rope. Fielding led his horse out, checked the cinch, and swung aboard. The afternoon sun had still not dipped below the tip of his hat brim when he crossed the tracks and headed westward.
Traveling light as he was, he figured he could cover the four miles to his campsite in less than an hour. If he were pressed for time and riding alone, he might save from a quarter to a half hour by straightening out the route rather than follow the trail as it wound through the low hills. But he had no reason to hurry today. He was on the tail end of an easy trip, with plenty of daylight left.
After the first curve in the trail and going into the second, which set the course westward again, Fielding saw the light green shades of box elder and young cottonwoods that marked Bill Selby’s place. Fielding had seen it from across the valley and up a ways, but from the valley floor to here, swells in the rising land closed off all but the fringe of the treetops. Now the ranch site came into view, a quarter of a mile to the left.
It looked as if Selby had company. He was facing three men who stood by their horses. The men had their backs to the lane that came in from the main trail.
Fielding gave the scene a close study as his horse clip-clopped along. A feeling of displeasure rose within him as he noted the layout. Selby stood hatless in the middle of his ranch yard, face-to-face with a larger man in a dark shirt. From this distance, the man looked like George Pence, one of J. P. Cronin’s riders and not the most likeable. The other two men were standing back holding the horses, with not much more than their hats visible.
A voice rose on the air as the man in the dark shirt made a flicker of movement. Fielding tensed, then reined his horse to the left and nudged him to follow the lane into the yard. Fielding glanced back to see that Mahoney was following, caught a curious look from the kid, and turned forward to keep things on course. As he approached the ranch yard, the men and horses stood ahead on his right.
Another voice came up, followed by the loud one. Fielding rode closer, wondering when the men in the yard would hear the footfalls of the nine horses.
As the voices died away, one of the two men holding the visitors’ horses came around the front of the nearest one and stared at the oncoming party. He was a clean-shaven man, a little taller than average. He wore a brown hat, brown vest, and white shirt. Fielding strained to try to recognize the man, but he saw nothing familiar about him.
The horses moved on, thirty-six hooves clopping and scuffing. The man in the brown vest raised his head in an expression of authority, then spoke over his shoulder to the large man facing Selby.
The scene ahead shifted, and the large man came to stand next to his associate. Fielding recognized the tall-crowned hat, dark blue wool shirt, beefy face, and brown side whiskers. It was George Pence, just as he had thought at first glance.
As Fielding brought his horse to a stop, the man in the brown vest spoke. His words had an even tone, neither friendly nor menacing.
“Afternoon, stranger. What’s your business?”
Fielding dismounted. He didn’t like to ride into someone’s camp or ranch and look down on him, just as he didn’t like another man to act that way toward him. “Not a stranger,” he said, passing the reins to his right hand. “Don’t need to be on business to drop in and see a friend.” He motioned with his head in the direction of Selby, who
