Gather My Horses

morose ballad. When the applause was done, Foote spoke in his loud way.

“Does anyone want a drink? How about you, kid?”

Bracken held his head up, as if he was trying to keep from sniffling. “Yeah,” he said. “I’ll have one.”

Selby fetched a glass, and Foote poured about three fingers. Lifting the bottle in Fielding’s direction, he said, “Are you about ready?”

“Not yet,” said Fielding, shaking his head. “I’ll wait a little longer.”

“Suit yourself.”

Fielding did not care for the man’s tone, but he let the comment go.

Selby must have sensed an undercurrent as well. In his cheerful voice he said, “Give us another one, Richard. How about one of your own?”

Lodge held the shiny, blackish brown mandolin against his charcoal-colored vest. He had taken off his hat, and his dark, graying hair lay ridged and glossy. His brown eyes moved around the room to take in his audience, and he said, “Over half of you haven’t heard me like this before, so I’m kinda shy, but I’ll do one that Tom and Ed might like. I call it ‘Old Rope Corral,’ and it goes like this.” He tucked the mandolin against him, sounded a few preliminary notes, and delivered the song with his full voice.

“As I sit on a log at the edge of the fire

And another day comes to a close,

Far away from the laughter and gloom of the city,

Far away from the laurel and rose,

“With the song of a stream as it chuckles in moonlight

Over secrets it never will tell,

I relax in the company of two faithful horses

Munching oats in the old rope corral.

“It’s a mighty fine camp in the heart of the mountains

Where I come when my time is my own,

Where the shuffle of hooves and the wind in the treetops

Knock the edge off of being alone.

“As the fire burns down and the coals fall asunder,

There’s a sight that I’ve come to know well—

A gash in the embers as bright as a blossom

Puts a glow on the old rope corral.

“Though I’m far from the plains and the tents of the wicked

And the company of my fellow man,

Just the warmth of the fire on the brim of my Stetson

Lets me think of the times in Cheyenne

“Where the love of a woman in cool dusky twilight

Gave me hopes that I cannot retell

Of a place and a time far away from my refuge

In a camp by an old rope corral.

“For we opened our hearts and discovered each other

And made plans for the future as well;

But the rules of life changed as she pledged to another,

And the curtain of solitude fell.

“So I come to these mountains to stay with my horses

Where the water sings clear as a bell,

Where my tent stands in shadow in pale mountain moonlight

In my camp by the old rope corral.

“Well, the hope never dies that we’ll find love again

Though the future we cannot foretell,

So we gather our strength as we take in the fire

Like the one by my old rope corral.”

The room broke into applause, and Lodge gave a bow of the head as he lowered the mandolin.

“Thank you,” he said. “It always makes me a little nervous to do one of my own, so I think I’ll take a couple of minutes and find my drink. We might have some more later.” He smiled and nodded to a chorus of thank-yous, then made his way to the kitchen. In another minute he was back with his drink.

The talk returned to the same topics as before—the weather, the flies, cattle and horses, and what the range was coming to. Foote, with no apparent sense of wordplay, declared that the homesteaders were getting more and more of a foothold. He said it as if he represented them as their leader and had a phalanx of foot soldiers behind him.

Lodge countered by saying that although that might be the case, the big cattlemen had an interest in keeping things the way they were. Then as a barb he added, “You know that, bein’ a horseman yourself.”

Foote gave a shrug. “Well, yeah, but there’s plenty of land to go around.”

“Say that when they come and cut your fence or club your sheep.” Lodge took a sip of his whiskey.

“I don’t have sheep.”

“Neither do I. And you don’t have to have sheep to know what I’m talking about. You can climb to the top of one of these buttes and it seems like you can see forever and no one’s there. But they are, and even though there’s a hell of a lot of land, it’s not endless. Any range has its limits, and the more people you’ve got on it, the less there is for the ones who want it all.”

It was evident that Foote wanted to hang on to his argument. “Well, some of it’s deeded, so they can forget about it.”

“That doesn’t make ’em think they wouldn’t like to get it. Especially if it’s got a well or a water hole or anything they can use. You watch.”