to be more careful, not leave things lying around.”
Baker gazed at the rope with an incurious expression.
Fielding stuck the rope into the pannier of Baker’s first packhorse and said, “Let’s get going, then.”
They rode through typical canyon country, where wildflowers and single blades of grass grew in the sparse soil. They went past a spreading pine tree that grew out of a hillside of gray rocks laid out like a row of fallen columns. At midday they rested in a bottom where a clear, sparkling stream flowed through a grassy little valley, crossing the trail and winding into a rock-wall canyon to the northeast.
After watering the horses there, they started to climb. They passed through a country of high, rocky formations—smooth, yellowish bronze rock that rose in heaps and domes made of huge slabs. Toward late afternoon, the canyon opened into broader country again, with grassland rising away on each side and flanked by hills with dark cedar and pine on the ridges. At a place where a small trickle of a stream came down from the left, Fielding decided to make camp.
Baker held the horses as Fielding untied the pack animals from one another. As Fielding made his way to the horse nearest Baker, he said, “It’s good to know your own knots and hitches. You don’t always get to undo ’em in daylight and warm weather. By the way, what did you do with that length of rope that got cut this morning?”
“I never could get that sumbitch untied.”
“You just left it there?”
Baker shrugged. “What good is it anyway? It was on’y ’bout three feet long.”
“By God,” said Fielding. “You never know when you need every last piece of rope you’ve got. I was goin’ to splice it onto the length it came off of, but even if I didn’t, you use it for something. Untwist it and use the strands, if nothing else.”
“It’s not goin’ anywhere. We can get it on the way back.”
The man’s careless tone set Fielding off. “Don’t make me mad, Baker. I’m just tryin’ to get this job done.”
For once, Baker’s voice rose to something like defiance. “Well, so am I,” he said.
Fielding calmed down as he realized that Baker, in his own way, was doing what he thought was a full day’s work. “That’s all right,” said Fielding. “Let’s tie these up, and we’ll separate the others.”
Aggravation came back the next morning when they got ready to mount up. With the loads lighter after the first delivery of supplies, Fielding decided to use the dark horse and the roan for saddle horses for a day. He got the dark horse ready and left it tied as he went to see what was taking the hired hand so long.
Baker stood three feet back from the horse, holding the saddle blankets at waist level.
“What’s wrong?” asked Fielding.
“He doan like me.”
“He won’t give you any trouble. Here, give that to me.” Fielding took the pair of folded blankets, gave them a shake, and looked them over for stickers. Then he laid them smooth as a mat on the roan’s back. “Now give me your saddle.” He swung it up and over, then settled it onto the blankets. Next he reached under the horse, drew up the cinch, and held the ring as he ran the latigo through it. After buckling the back cinch, he held his hand out for the bridle. He tied the halter loose around the horse’s neck and drew the bridle up to the horse’s nose and mouth. The roan took the bit just fine, and Fielding settled the headstall around its ears. After setting the halter aside, he led the horse out for twenty yards, brought it back, and tightened the cinch until it was snug on three fingers.
“Here,” he said, handing the reins to Baker.
The lean man draped the reins around the horse’s neck and onto the saddle horn, pulled some of the slack, and then stuck his foot in the stirrup and stepped over.
As soon as he had his seat, the roan went into a rocking-horse buck. The pale-faced rider let go of the reins and grabbed the saddle horn with both hands. After half a dozen bucks, the horse settled down to a stutter step. Baker’s right leg came up over the cantle, and he bailed off.
“I’m not gonna ride that sumbitch,” he said, pulling off his hat.
“Ah, hell. He’s all done buckin’. And he’s not that much of a bucker anyway.”
“I don’t care. I don’t wanna sit on him all day long and wonder when he’s gonna try it again.”
“He didn’t even throw you. Just get back on him.”
“Not that sumbitch. Not me. Lemme have the one I’ve been ridin’.”
Fielding gave in, figuring he didn’t need any more complications. If Baker was afraid, he would communicate it to the horse, and if he chanced to get thrown off, he could get hurt. “All right,” said Fielding. “We’ll swap him for the brown one.”
That evening they pulled into the Harbison camp, which consisted of a shack and a set of corrals. The two line riders were a couple of older punchers whose job consisted in going out and checking on cattle each day. They looked over the horses as the string came in, and Fielding could tell they were inspecting his diamond hitches as well. They helped unpack and hauled their own supplies into the shack.
“Do we get to put the horses in the krell?” asked Baker when both men were in the shack.
“If they tell us to. Same thing with whether we sleep inside or out.”
One of the men came out a few minutes later and told them they could put their horses in the last corral. “Looks like you’ve got oats,” he said.
“Oh, yeah, plenty,” said Fielding.
“Well, when you’ve got ’em watered and grained, come on in. Charley’s got a pot of beans, and there’s not so many mosquitoes inside. Bring your bedrolls in if you want.”
Daylight was not yet showing when Fielding woke to the clanking of firewood in the stove. From the man’s labored breathing, Fielding could tell it was Charley getting a start on the day.
After breakfast, Fielding walked out into the chilly morning. He had the light, relieved feeling of having delivered the goods he was responsible for and of getting ready for the trip back.
With only their own gear to pack, he and Baker had the horses ready in about an hour. They waved good-bye to the line riders, and the horses picked up their feet as Fielding started on what he hoped was a quick trip home.
They made good time, but the day warmed up in the afternoon, so Fielding called a rest stop before they went into the narrower, rocky part of the canyon. Following a line of trees up a dry creek bed, he found a water hole that hadn’t gone dry. As the horses drank, Baker squatted on one knee and rolled a cigarette.
When the rest was over and Fielding was tying the horses together, he noticed that the canvas bundle of the gear tent had slipped to one side. He pushed it back even and told Baker to tighten it up a little as he tied the other horses. A couple of minutes later, he looked over to see how his wrangler was doing.
Baker stood on his left foot while he had his right against the dark horse’s hip. He must have just given a pull, as he sagged for a couple of seconds. Then he straightened up and pulled for all he was worth, his lean frame and thin arms fighting the task. He sagged again and gave it another pull, and the horse broke wind, short and explosive. Fielding almost laughed out loud, and he could imagine someone like Lodge quoting the old saying, “Pull baker, pull devil.”
Fielding had told Baker more than once to give the lash rope a steady pull instead of yanks and releases, but he knew by now that his hired hand was no kid and was not likely to change for the better.
“Let me give you a hand,” he said. He pulled the rope and tied it off. “That should be good enough.”
That evening they pulled into an open spot that looked good for a campsite. Baker tied the horses as he and Fielding stripped them, but he must have been leery of the roan horse and not gotten him snug. Motion caught Fielding’s eye, and he turned to see the roan trotting away with the rope trailing on the ground.
“Damn,” said Fielding. “You watch these, and I’ll go get him.” He ran to the bay horse, which he had not yet unsaddled. In a few seconds he untied the neck rope, set his reins, and swung aboard.
He set out on a trot after the roan. He did not want to come galloping up behind the other horse, or it might take off in a game of run and walk. Instead, he kept the bay on a fast trot and gained on the roan. Coming up alongside, he leaned over and got hold of the rope, then dallied it to his saddle horn. The roan did not resist, so Fielding turned both horses and headed back to the campsite on a soft lope.
Just before he got to the trees, he felt a tug on the rope and heard the blast of a rifle. The roan horse went down and jerked the bay sideways, and a second shot crashed.
Fielding jerked the dally loose and threw the rope aside, then kicked the bay into a pounding run until he made it to the trees. He pulled the horse to a quick halt and yanked his rifle from the scabbard. On the first shot he
