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.”
“Let’s see if you can do it.”
Foote took the bait and turned his horse around. He set out on a lope. Fielding didn’t blame the man for not wanting to leave his back exposed for any longer than he had to, and he might also be following the old rule of being the first to get to the place where they were going to fight.
Fielding rode on, his nervousness building, until he came to a spot on the right side of the trail where Foote had dismounted. The big man had his horse tied to a three-inch pine trunk and had hung his hat, vest, and gun belt on the saddle horn. Fielding came down off his horse and tied it to a tree, then tied the pack string to another. As he hung his hat and his gun belt on his saddle horn, he thought he might have one advantage. He knew he had to come out of this fight intact, and he was going to put everything he had into it. In contrast, he thought Foote was looking for an opportunity to beat up or even cripple his rival, but Fielding did not think the man was committed to the whole Argyle plan, if he even knew of it.
The galoot, as Adler called him, came forward with his fists up. He had his head lifted, and his front teeth showed in the sneering smile he wore. Fielding raised his own fists and came within five feet of his opponent. Each man began to circle to the left. Fielding had the impression that Foote was not as nimble in heeled riding boots as he would like, and he stumbled on a raised root from a pine tree.
Fielding leaned forward and put some spring in his step. He danced in, threw a jab that didn’t land, and bounced out. He tried the move a second time, caught the man flat-footed, and came right back in with a punch that landed. Foote came around and squared off, then lunged forward with a left that grazed Fielding’s cheekbone. Fielding skipped out of range, bounced to his right, came back to his left, sprang in with a jab, and stepped back out. Foote was taking slow, heavy steps as he followed.
Fielding continued to move back and forth, widening the arc. When he caught the man with one foot almost square in front of the other, he moved straight in and landed three fast punches in a row. As he backed out, Foote rushed him in a charge of fury. Fielding ducked and caught a glancing blow on the right side of the head, then came up and around and hooked a left into Foote’s jaw. The big man stumbled, as he had been moving forward and the punch knocked him off course. He came up and around, his weight back on his heels. Fielding rushed him, getting clobbered on the ear as he did, but he succeeded in knocking the man off balance as he stepped backward. Fielding hit him square in the mouth, and the man fell to the ground.
Foote came up to his hands and knees, as if he was trying to think of what to do next, and Fielding took advantage of the moment.
“You can get up if you want,” he said, “but you’re not going to beat me. The best you’ll do is land a few more good ones, but you’ll get at least that much back. I don’t think you’ve got it in you to settle it with a gun, but I’m takin’ this, just in case.” He moved to the man’s horse and pulled the .45 Colt from the holster. Then he spoke again. “You might think you could, and you might be able to squeeze off a shot before the whole thing came to you, but let me tell you something. This isn’t your game. They took you on, but what they want is another Mahoney. Here’s what he did. He picked a fight with my wrangler, Ed Bracken, and shot him down. Then he took some potshots at me, and he got some lead in return. He died of it—infection, blood poisoning, you tell me. But he died miserable and stupid because he wanted to be a hard man. If you want to do that, get yourself another gun and stay on with this outfit. See how far it gets you. But I don’t think you want to kill anyone, much less get killed yourself. The best thing you can do is go back where you came from. There’s nothin’ wrong with it.”