Gather My Horses

don’t. This is public.”

“I know.”

“For every dollar they make, a poor man’s sweated some of his life away. They walk on the backs of the workin’man. Rich as Kreesus, with more than they ever need.”

Fielding shrugged. “Some of these cattlemen don’t have much.”

The hazel eyes flashed. “I’m talkin’ about them that does. Hand in glove with the robber barons, Morgan and Stanford and the rest. For every railroad tie they laid, a laboring-man died. Everyone knows it, but the rich just get richer and keep the poor man under his heel.” As the man spoke, his yellow teeth showed, and flecks of saliva flew out.

“I don’t doubt it,” said Fielding. At first he was surprised at how the man launched into his diatribe, but he was beginning to place the fellow now. Mahoney had said there was a crazy man living out this way. So he had been here over a week at least.

“Everywhere you go,” continued the stranger. “Railroads, cattle barons, slaughterhouses, gold and silver mines. They send men down into hard-rock mines to die in the poison air like canaries. And they wonder why people blow ’em up!”

Fielding winced. That kind of talk made him uneasy. Keeping his voice calm, he said, “This is not a bad place to be. We leave one another alone, at least I do, and so does our good neighbor Lodge, off to the south here. Couldn’t ask for better.”

“Oh, he’s all right.”

“Sure he is. And I’m no robber baron myself. If you ever need anything, don’t be afraid to ask. If I’m around, I’ll help. That is, if it’s within my means.”

“I don’t go visitin’ much.”

“That’s all right, too. By the way, friend, if it’s not too forward of me to ask, what do you go by?”

The stranger had a matter-of-fact expression on his face, as if he were buying a sack of flour. “My name? It’s Dunvil.”

“Good enough, friend.” Fielding held out his hand.

Dunvil shook. He was an average-sized man, and he had a normal handshake.

Fielding stepped back with his horse. “Well, I think I’ll be on my way,” he said. “I’ll see you later.”

“If I’m here.”

Fielding paused at the crest of a hill and looked downslope at Lodge’s homestead. At each corner of the one-hundred-and-sixty-acre parcel, a pile of rocks marked the boundary of what Lodge called the Magpie. It was a hardscrabble place, with sparse grass competing with prickly pear and sagebrush, but Lodge had a neat, clean layout. The house, a two-room cabin made of lumber already weathered, faced south. To the west of it stood an equally grayed stable and a plank corral. Lodge himself was standing in the middle of his property with his two sorrels, so Fielding rode down to meet him.

The horses looked up, and one of them nickered. Lodge turned and waved.

As Fielding came to a stop and dismounted, he saw that the two horses were loose and Lodge did not have a rope or halter with him. To all appearances, he had been having a conversation with the sorrels. They were well matched, each with white socks on the hind legs, and one with a blaze narrower than the other’s.

“How do you do?” said Fielding.

“Came to see me in your time of leisure, did you?”

“Looks like it. Did I interrupt a conversation?”

“Nothing that can’t wait.” Lodge bent over, picked up a reddish pink stone a little smaller than a hen’s egg, and put it in his trouser pocket. He eyed the dark horse and said, “If you want to, we can go up to the house, and you can give him some water.”

“That’s fine.” Fielding turned and walked side by side with Lodge as the two sorrels followed.

“Grass is takin’ a while to grow,” said Lodge.

“It varies. It’s pretty good in the valley.”

“Oh, yeah. My few head don’t wander that far, and if I didn’t keep ’em back here closer, those gunhappy cowpunchers would run ’em off anyway.”

“I imagine.”

They walked the rest of the way up the slope without talking. At the cabin door, Lodge reached into his pocket and dropped a handful of stones, the reddish one among them, onto a small pile. A white stone and a dark one also settled into place. Without a word, Lodge walked to the trough in front of the stable and started pumping.

Lodge was about forty-five by Fielding’s guess, but he was in good shape for his age. No exertion seemed to bother him. After walking up the hill and now working the pump, he was breathing easy. As the water splashed out, he said, “Go ahead.”

Fielding took off his hat and set it on the saddle horn, then bent over and cupped his hands. After washing off his face, he caught water for a drink.

“That’s good,” he said. “Thanks.”

The dark horse had put his lower lip below the surface of the water and was taking in a drink. Lodge pumped a few more times and let the handle rest.

“I’ll put these two away,” he said. He made a clicking sound with the corner of his mouth, and the pair of sorrels followed him to the corral gate. When he opened it, they walked in and turned around. He closed the gate and slid the board latch.

The dark horse lifted his dripping muzzle as Lodge came back.

“Do you want to tie him up?”

“I could,” Fielding answered. He led the horse to the hitching rail and wrapped the reins. As he walked back toward the trough, Lodge spoke.

“What’s new today?”

Fielding reflected. “I met your neighbor, or I guess he’s mine, too. Said his name was Dunvil.”

“Oh, him.”

Fielding settled his hat on his head. “Seems like a powder keg.”

“Might be. He rants like an anarchist. Did he talk about the kings who ride their carriages across the backs of the poor?”

“Not in those words, but along those lines. Says it all in a rush. Seems like he might be a long ways from those that think like him.”

Lodge gave a shrug. “Like as not, he won’t be around here very long.” He laughed. “Unless he’s layin’ low from his last dynamite job. Here, let’s sit in the shade.”

The host led the way to a bench on the west side of the house. When the two men were seated, Lodge asked, “What else is new?”

“Well, let me see. Buchanan said he didn’t want me to do any work for him.”

“Huh. Because of your run-in with Cronin’s boys?”

Fielding nodded. “That seems to be the reason.”

“That figures. They stick together, you know, and Buchanan won’t do anything to get him on Cronin’s bad side. Wouldn’t want to lose his support if he needed it.”

“He doesn’t seem that bad, otherwise.”

“Nah, he’s not,” said Lodge. “He came here early and worked for what he’s got. You can see it in him.”

Fielding recalled the weathered features. “Oh, yeah.”

“But he’s got to keep his fences mended, so to speak. Too bad.”

The trill of a songbird sounded, and Fielding looked over to see a small black bird with white wing patches sitting on the edge of the horse trough.

“That’s a pretty bird,” said Lodge. “Lark bunting. Pretty song, too.” After a couple of seconds he said, “Now, where were we?”

“Buchanan. I think we finished with him.”

“Oh, uh-huh.”

“So, after talkin’ to him, I stopped in to see Roe. I told him I could probably help out on this roundup they’re planning.”