had come forward but stood a few paces away from the other two.
The brown hat nodded. “We’re all friends,” said the man. “That’s what we stopped in for. A friendly visit.”
Fielding noted the smooth voice, the polite accent he had heard in others who affected a gentleman’s image. “That’s good,” he said, “for everyone to be friends.” He flicked a glance at the blocky form of George Pence, met his dull brown eyes, and came back to the clean-shaven man with the clean vest and white shirtsleeves. “My name’s Tom Fielding, and I’m a packer.”
The other man smiled without showing his teeth. “I like a man who says what he is.” The dark eyes traveled down the file of horses and came back. “And I like a man who is what he says.” Another smile. “My name’s Al Adler. I’m the foreman at J. P. Cronin’s Argyle Ranch.” The man pulled a brown leather glove off his right hand and offered to shake.
Fielding obliged, noticing that the firm hand was pale and the fingernails were clean. “Pleasure to meet you.”
“All mine.” Adler tossed his head sideways and said, “I would guess you already know George Pence.”
Fielding nodded in the direction of the big man, whose eyelids halfway closed as he nodded back.
“And here’s Henry in back. Do you know him, too?”
Fielding looked across the saddles of the first two horses and caught a smile and a wave from Henry Steelyard. “How do, Henry?”
“Howdy, Tom.”
Adler’s smooth voice came out again. “So, as I was saying, we were all just having a friendly visit.”
“Sure.” Fielding turned toward Selby. “And how are you today, Bill?”
Selby’s ruddy face was redder than usual, but he said, “Good enough, I suppose.”
Adler’s voice cut in. “Did you have any business with Mr. Selby? Any goods to deliver?”
“No more business than I already stated.” Fielding tipped his head toward his packhorses. “I’m travelin’ empty, back to my camp.”
“Well, don’t let us keep you, then” said Adler. After half a pause he added, “Who’s your man?”
Fielding followed the glance of the dark eyes. “That’s Fred Mahoney. This is his first job with me.”
Mahoney, who had not gotten down from his horse, raised his hand from the saddle horn in a small wave.
Adler’s eyes rested on Fielding again. “Like I said, don’t let us keep you.”
“Oh, we’re not in a hurry.”
“Maybe you ought to be,” said Pence.
The surly tone was nothing new to Fielding, who felt a spark of resentment. “I said I wasn’t.”
Pence stepped forward and squared his shoulders. His right hand hung over his smooth-worn gun belt. “Maybe we think you should. You interrupted a conversation, you know.”
Fielding cast a glance at Selby. “Is that right, Bill?”
Selby’s voice seemed to have a quaver in it as he answered. “I suppose so, in a way. Pence here was trying to tell me where to run my cattle, or where not to. I said it was open range, and his boss didn’t have any more right to it than I do.”
Pence cut in. “That’s a mealymouthed way of puttin’ it. What I said was, he’d better keep his rib-racked cattle off the Argyle meadows.”
Selby came right back, his voice steadier now. “And I told him that if any of that land was private, it was up to the owner to fence it off. That’s Wyoming law, and everyone knows it.”
The big man made a sound like “Pah.”
Selby’s jaw muscles tightened, and his eyes blazed. “They just came here to bully me. They ride in here, the three of them, and they put this one on me like a bulldog.”
Pence made a quick turn and, with spurs jingling, moved toward Selby, who backed up. “Stand still,” barked Pence, “and take what you’ve got comin’.”
Selby’s blue eyes flickered from one side to the other as he took another step backward. He was short and sturdy, but no match for the larger man. “Just a bully,” he said. “All the courage in the world when you’ve got someone three to one.”
Pence doubled his fists, and his voice came out gravelly as he said, “I’ll take you one on one.” He moved forward.
Fielding dropped his reins, took about five quick steps, and came between the two men with his shoulder almost touching Pence’s chest. “I think that’s enough,” he said. “There’s no need for any more.”
Pence laid his left hand on Fielding’s shoulder and gave him a shove. “This pissy little nester called me a bully.”
Fielding squared around. “Maybe you are. Look at you. And you’re callin’ names just as much as he is.”
The big man surged forward and shoved Fielding with both hands, throwing him off balance but not knocking him down. Fielding went back a couple of steps, regained his footing, and got ready for the other man as he came hulking toward him. As long as it was just a shoving match, Fielding did not want to throw a punch. He hovered with his weight forward, and then he pushed off.
He went between Pence’s two hands, which were poised above waist level and were not yet tensed for another shove. The thumbs gave way. Grabbing the big man by the shirt and putting the toe of his boot on Pence’s right spur, Fielding pushed hard and sent the man backward, arms flailing for balance. Pence landed with his butt on the ground, and his high-crowned hat went rolling away. His pale forehead showed where his dark brown curly hair was receding. As he turned in a smooth motion and came up with his .45 Colt, the beginning of a bald spot showed in back.
Adler stepped in to block Pence’s view, though the barrel of the six-gun was still raised in Fielding’s direction.
“This has gone far enough,” said the foreman. “Put it away, George.”
Fielding, having stepped out of the line of fire, saw the gun barrel lower and withdraw.
Adler turned to Fielding. “Maybe I’ll say it a third time, my friend. Don’t let us keep you from going on your way.”
Fielding gave him a cross look. “So you can pick on Bill some more?”
Adler jutted his chin and shook his head. “No one’s pickin’ on anybody. We’re about to leave, too. That’s the secret of a friendly visit, know when to leave so you don’t stay too long.”
Fielding turned to Selby, who was standing off by himself with his hands at his sides. “Are you all right, Bill?”
“Oh, I’ll be fine.” Selby had a subdued tone, but he did not seem afraid. His eyes followed Pence, who had gotten up and found his hat and was now walking back to the horses.
Fielding shrugged. “I guess we’ll go, then.”
Adler raised his eyebrows. “All the best.” Then after giving a closemouthed smile, he added, “Good to meet you, Fielding.”
“The same here.” Fielding returned to his horse, a calm sorrel that stood hipshot with its head forward. Fielding gathered the reins, turned the sorrel, and found the lead rope for the first packhorse where it lay in the dirt. Positioning the sorrel to avoid throwing his leg over the lead rope when he swung aboard, Fielding held the reins and the rope at the saddle horn as he mounted up. He transferred the reins to his right hand, and with his left he waved to Bill Selby and Henry Steelyard.
Adler was turning out his stirrup and had his back to Fielding, as did Pence in his dark hat. That was just as well, thought Fielding. As he turned the packhorses and led the way out of the yard, he looked across at Mahoney, who had not gotten down from his horse the whole time and who gave no expression in response. That was just as well, too.
The campsite on the west side of Antelope Creek was a welcome sight as Fielding brought the pack train in off the trail. He and Mahoney worked together to untie the packs, lift the panniers off the sawbucks, strip the gear, and water the horses. They picketed two, a dun and a gray, then belled the rest of the packhorses and turned them loose. They tied the two saddle horses to the corral for the time being.
Next they set up two tents, using the poles that Fielding had left stacked. They set up one tent for living quarters and one to stow the gear, including the tepee tent they had used on their recent trip. When they had the
