“You proved you can ride,” Ferguson growled. “Now let’s see if you can shoot that fancy rifle of yours.”
Royce’s eyes never left Ferguson’s face. The other man’s words were a challenge. “My Pa was sheriff in more hole-in-the-wall towns than I can remember,” Royce replied, secretly watching for Ferguson’s reaction. He was not disappointed. “I cut my teeth on a pistol barrel. I don’t think much of sheriffing,” he scoffed. “Too little pay for dodging bullets. Ranching ain’t much better. You eat dust from sunup to sundown in blistering heat and freezing cold. With teaching, I get to sit indoors all winter and idle away the summers.” Having completed his say, Royce heeled the chestnut gelding and galloped across the field behind Cook’s Feed and Grain Store. He turned in the saddle and saw Ferguson and Layfield arguing heatedly. He had set bees among the honey pots. Sure Ferguson was chewing on Layfield for including him in on their hunt.
The chestnut horse jumped and bucked to a stop tossing his big head. He was anxious for a run. “You coming,” Royce shouted.
Ferguson snarled an answer.
Ferguson was the older man. He was also the one in control. Layfield was impulsive. A follower and not a leader. Royce had meet men like Layfield before. Men with too little initiative and too much time on their hands. They followed another man blindly never questioning authority. That was Layfield in a nutshell. He was more dangerous than Ferguson because of his impulsive nature. The young man would shoot first and reckon the consequence of his action afterwards.
They rode silently towards the mountains. The sky overhead was a deep blue. The grass was turning yellow with a few late blooming wildflowers bobbing their blossoms on long slender stems. The air smelled fresh. Royce realized just how much he missed the freedom of the outdoors. A schoolroom was stifling.
The chestnut gelding was chomping at his bit. Royce had to keep a tight rein or the horse would take off like a roman candle. Layfield rode beside Royce. His engaging grin spread wide his lips. “I was sure he would have you lying in the dust by now,” Layfield called with admiration sounding in his voice as they approached the foothills.
“Sorry to spoil your fun,” Royce retorted.
Layfield laughed. He heeled the gelding he was riding, leaning over his horse’s neck raced towards a notch separating two mountains. Royce let the chestnut run. The ground was flying beneath his hooves. The horse jumped brush rather than riding around. Royce felt his teeth jar against each other. If he made it back to Junction City in one piece he might consider shooting the horse. For now, he hung on and let the horse have his head.
Royce and Layfield were watering their horses when Ferguson rode up. The creek was a trickle of water flowing over stones. Vegetation was sparse. Mountains in the background were barren rock pillars reaching into the sky. The ground covered with thorn bushes and stones.
Ferguson sat on his horse while the animal dipped his nose in the creek. The man’s blue eyes glistened in his sun browned face, a snarl ever present on his lips. Goose pimples stood up on Royce’s flesh and a chill slid down his spine when Ferguson stared at him.
Layfield looked over tracks cut into the ground around the creek. “I’d say a Buck was here watering not more than an hour ago,” he announced.
“I want the Buck,” Ferguson stated, his snarl more pronounced. Royce wondered if the man was asserting his authority. Seeing how far he could push Royce before he would respond.
Royce turned his interest towards the hoof prints clearly marking the ground. “He has a couple of Does with him,” Royce replied. “I’d rather have a Doe.” Layfield made no comment. Royce had not expected him to.
Leading his horse, Royce started after the Buck on foot. He was not surprised when Ferguson chose to ride his horse. The man had trouble walking. The rocks and bushes would add to the man’s difficulties.
Purple shadows were stretching across the landscape when they spotted the Buck. He was a large specimen and carried a full rack of antlers. He was partway up the side of the mountain in among a stand of stunted cedars. Royce dropped to one knee his other foot flat against the ground. He raised the Henry to his shoulders and sighted along the barrel.
“The Buck is mine,” Ferguson growled coming off his saddle.
The Buck leaped into the air carrying him a good twenty feet before landing and leaping again. Royce pulled the trigger catching one of the Does in mid air. She hit the ground and lay still. “I wasn’t aiming at the Buck,” Royce replied softly.
“This is your fault,” Ferguson roared. His body was held taut with his eyes blazing.
“You said the Buck was yours,” Royce stated calmly. “You had plenty of time to make the kill.”
Ferguson mumbled under his breath. His breathing was labored.
“Hargadon is right,” Layfield said. “I got a Doe and so did Hargadon. We knew you wanted the Buck all you had to do was sight and pull the trigger. It is nobody’s fault he got away.” Ferguson snarled at Layfield. His long arms swinging back and forth and his face tilted sideways against one shoulder. He did not look human. “We can share the meat with you or help you track down the Buck,” Layfield cajoled. “Which do you want?”
Ferguson followed Royce up the side of the mountain dragging one foot as he walked. His back hunched over and his arms swaying like pendulums his mumbled sounds not making sense. He was mad dog enraged. Royce seemingly ignored Ferguson while at the same time was fully alert to the man’s every move.
“I want the Buck,” Ferguson roared. He foamed at the mouth spittle running down his chin.
“Sure,” Royce replied. He worked at gutting the Doe. Layfield was leaning over his Doe knife in hand.
“I want him now,” Ferguson roared.
Royce stood after
