Nate’s left eye twitched, and his right eye opened wide. “He’s not a bronc, is he?”
“Oh, no. This is the one I start my wranglers out on.”
As Fielding stood by and watched, the older man went to work. He seemed plenty familiar with the routine, and he talked a streak as he went through the tasks. The railroads were going to be the death of the free country, he said. They seemed like a blessing, made it possible to ship cattle to Omaha. But they cut up the country, and they brought out people who could never make it when things were tough. Brought out doors and windows and ice and pianos, so that men who didn’t want to work could sing in whorehouses. Brought out machinery to harvest grain, crush rocks. Mill your own lumber to build more towns. And the engines, they scared everything they didn’t kill on the tracks. No tellin’ how many times horses had spooked, then cut themselves on barbwire and bled to death. “That’s another thing they bring, barbwire.”
“They sure do,” said Fielding.
“That’s why I wanta go to the far-look country.”
“There’s no rails where we’ll be goin’, that’s for sure.”
“That’s the kind of country I like. You either pack it in, or it don’t git there.”
“Uh-huh. Can you get three fingers in?”
“You bet.” Nate put three fingers between the cinch and the horse’s body.
“Here’s the bridle, then.”
The horse would not open its mouth for the bit, so Fielding put on the bridle. He worked the bit into the mouth and drew the headstall over and behind the ears. After straightening the bridle, he handed the reins to the older man and said, “Let’s lead him out a ways, to be clear of everything, and check the cinch again.”
Nate led the horse into the broad sunlight and stopped. He seemed to be stalling, as he pulled and picked at the cinches, shook the saddle horn, turned the stirrup this way and that, and led the horse forward a couple more paces. He draped the reins with quite a bit of slack and then had to try a couple of times to get his foot in the stirrup. With a whoosh of breath he grabbed the saddle front and back and began to pull himself up. When he had his weight over the saddle, he moved his right hand from the cantle to the horn, and with continued labor he swung his leg over and settled onto the saddle.
Before he could catch the right stirrup, the brown horse started bucking. It pushed higher with the front quarters than the rear, and it did not seem as if it was trying to throw the rider as much as it was just being uncooperative.
Nate pulled the slack in his reins and hollered, “Whoa! Whoa!”
The horse continued raising its front feet, and Nate pulled back on the reins, so that the horse began to stumble backward as it rose in front. Just before it fell onto its left hip, the older man jumped free and staggered back. Fielding caught him. The reins had pulled out of Nate’s hand, so the brown horse fought its way back onto its feet. Fielding moved fast, jumped in front of it, and was able to grab the reins.
“Son of a bitch,” said the older man. “Does he do that every time?”
“Not that I’ve seen. And that’s the one the wrangler usually rides.”
The eye twitched. “Well, I don’t know how much I want to ride him.”
“I don’t know. We could put you on another one. But like I said, it’s a long ways out there and back.”
The man raised his chin and looked over the length of the brown horse, then turned to glance at the livery stable horse. “I’m not married to any of this,” he said.
“It’s not the best work for everyone,” Fielding offered.
“I don’t think it is for me.” Nate pulled up the waist of his trousers. “How often do you go through help?”
“Not countin’ you, I had three others since I started this season in May.”
“Well, good luck with number four when you find him.”
“Thanks. It probably won’t be on this trip. I’m supposed to pull out tomorrow.”
As Nate and the livery horse rode away out of sight, Fielding pursed his lips. He was no worse off than he had been an hour earlier. He was still on his own.
Fielding rested the horses on a level spot halfway up the switchbacks. The first part of this trip was the hardest, but none of it was easy. The trail ahead, as he remembered it, ran through the bottom of one rock-wall canyon and along the side of another canyon where there was no passage for horses or men in the bottom. On some of the high stretches, there wasn’t room to turn around a horse, and the mountainside fell away into dizzying space.
He counted his horses again, out of habit. Seven was as many as he cared to handle by himself, especially in rough country. As for count, it was just as well he didn’t have another rider. He needed all seven of these to carry the salt and the camp provisions for the Half Moon as well his own camp and supplies. It took the equivalent of one and a half horses just to carry the grain for a trip like this.
On up the switchback, he came out onto a stretch of trail that ran along the top of a ridge. Here he let three of the horses go on their own. The land broadened out on each side, with timber and deadfall on the right and boulders and grass on the left. Interspersed among the gray rock formations were live trees, mostly pine, with plenty of dead snags and fallen, twisted trunks. The air was fresh here, and he expected it to get chilly at night, so he was glad to see the firewood.
That evening he let the horses graze until nightfall and then tied them up for the night. The wind in the pines sounded like rushing water, and the creaking of trees blended with the shuffle of horse hooves as he rolled out his bed. The night was dark, and the rest of the world seemed far away. At times like this he felt at home in the spareness of what they called the high lonesome.
With daylight he was back to work and business. He knew the way ahead was going to get narrow as it went down and through a canyon with close walls. He tied all seven horses in a line and hit the trail.
The sun was straight overhead when he hit the bottom of the canyon. The trail ran alongside a clear creek, so he took the time to untie the horses and let them drink. Their hooves clattered on the smooth rocks, and the packs rubbed as the horses pushed their way to the water. A light, sucking sound came from the horses drinking. Tails swished. A faint hum of gnats carried on the air when motion ceased. Fielding ate a cold biscuit and a handful of raisins, then drank from his canteen and went upstream to fill it. He splashed water on his face. A few minutes later, he got the horses in line again and led them out.
The path ran level for half a mile and then began to climb. For a while, the trail had crossed and recrossed the creek a few times, but now the creek stayed on the left. Large boulders rose on the right wherever the canyon wall sat back. The sky above was a swath of blue where hawks and eagles floated in and out of view. The afternoon was warm, and Fielding began to drowse.
He came alert when the horse stopped beneath him. A large man on a tall horse blocked the way in front. The rider and horse seemed taller than they were because of the rise in the trail, but Fielding had them both placed. The man wore a gray hat and black vest, and the sorrel wore a brand of interlocking diamonds. The sight of them gave rise to a feeling of dislike.
“You get around a lot for a sack jig, don’t you?” said Fielding.
The sorrel shifted position, and Foote’s sidearm came into view. “Who’s to say?” asked the man.
“Don’t push yourself too far,” answered Fielding. “I’ve got work to do, and you’re blocking my way.”
“Do you own it?”
“I think we went through this before, but I don’t expect you to understand things very fast.”
“If you’re so smart, why don’t you try to make me move?”
“Because you might make a bad choice and hurt yourself with that hog leg.”
“If you think I don’t—”
“And besides,” Fielding cut in, “I want to give you a chance to make good on your threat of the other day.”
Foote’s eyes opened. “What was that?”
“You said anytime, you and me. I believe you said, ‘Fists is my favorite way.’ How about it?”
“Here?” Foote’s eyes darted to both sides of the trail.
“Not here. There’s no room. Turn around, and we’ll go up to a wide spot.”
“And let you shoot me in the back?”
“Don’t be a fool. Why would I want to do that, when I can punch you in the face?” Fielding did not add that he assumed Pence was somewhere not far away, and a gunshot would bring him on the double.
“By God, I’m gonna love rubbin’ your face in the dirt.”
