“I’ll see to it.” After a second’s pause she added, “Thanks for stopping in.”
“My pleasure. Hope to see you again before long.” He turned the buckskin around, swung aboard, and set off. After a few paces he touched his spur to the horse, and they left the Buchanan place on a lope.
In town, Fielding went to the livery stable, paid for the day’s keep, and saddled the brown horse. He put the bridle and reins in his saddlebag and led the horse by a neck rope. He had not ridden two blocks when he met Joseph Buchanan, who had just walked out of the grain dealer’s office. He was putting on his tall dark brown hat with four dents in the peak, and he had his leather gloves in his left hand. Fielding reined his horse over and swung down.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Buchanan. How do you do?”
“Oh, I’m fine. And yourself?” Buchanan’s dark blue eyes went from Fielding to the two horses and back.
“Fine as well.” After a second’s pause, he added, “I just came by your place, but I missed you.”
Buchanan’s eyebrows went up and down. “I was on my way home now. Anything urgent?”
“Oh, no. I was just passing by, so I stopped there. I know it might be early in the season for you, but I’ve already started packing, so I thought I’d let you know I’m ready whenever you might need me.”
Buchanan looked at the brown horse again, stroked the underside of his jaw with his thumb and first two fingers, and cleared his throat. He was clean-shaven and had a trim mustache, but his weather-tanned face was starting to go heavy and the lines were setting in. He looked tired, as if he had to work himself up to what he had to say. He took a breath and said, “I’ll tell you, Fielding, I need to take things into consideration.”
“Of course.”
Buchanan seemed to hesitate and then said, “I heard you had a little trouble with the Argyle men.”
“Not much, but there was a small incident.”
“Sure. And we don’t need to go through it. You’re your own man.”
“Thank you, sir.”
The blue eyes wandered and then came back to Fielding. “But after considering it, I’ve had to decide that it would be better if I didn’t have you transport goods for me if there was any possibility of mishaps.”
“Oh, I don’t think there would be, sir.”
“You can’t tell, but at any rate, that’s what I’ve decided.”
“I see.” Fielding felt a sinking of the spirits.
Buchanan’s voice, in contrast, picked up. “That doesn’t mean I don’t value your work. I’d be happy to put in a good word for you, any time.”
“Why, thank you, sir. I appreciate that.”
“Just fine, and good luck to you, boy.”
“All the same to you, sir.”
Buchanan turned and walked away, his heavy brown boots thumping on the board sidewalk.
Fielding led the buckskin out into the street and swung aboard again. The conversation with Buchanan had left him almost in a daze, as he had been hit by the main point when he thought he was still working up to it. Fielding thought it was polite of Buchanan to make it seem as if Cronin’s men were the problem, but he could see that it was a nice piece of condescension as Buchanan cut off business with him.
Then came the second part. Fielding was left to interpret that he probably didn’t have much welcome at the Buchanan ranch house anymore. Now that he thought of it, Susan had not said to come back again. Fielding frowned and then shrugged. So much the better for the hatless, red-faced young gentleman.
Out on the trail, the brown horse stepped right along as the buckskin kept up a fast walk. Fielding rode past Selby’s, where no activity stirred in the ranch yard. He thought that was just as well, as he didn’t care to see Selby again quite so soon. A couple of miles farther, as the road curved through the rolling country, he came to Andrew Roe’s place, also on his left. Thinking that it wouldn’t hurt to have a word with Roe, Fielding turned in.
As he rode along the lane, he realized it was the first time he had come in from the road and had seen the layout up close. Roe had a good location for his homestead. The house and other buildings lay in a corner formed by two hills, which gave protection from the strong winds that came from the southwest, west, and northwest from November to May.
Although the place was well situated, Fielding thought a man could make better use of it. At some point, Roe had planted a windbreak of trees on the north side, but now it consisted of three rows of dead stumps. At the far end of the windbreak and a little to the left, a roofed shelter on poles had fallen in on one end and was leaning on the other. Farther to the left, the stable and then the house looked east, which made for good sunshine on winter mornings and shade on summer afternoons, but the whole front yard was littered with heaps of salvage.
Roe’s accumulations had some order, as the fence posts lay in a pile next to the warped planks, the rusty barbed wire had its own mound with weeds growing up through it, the wagon parts leaned against or lay on top of a couple of crippled old spring wagons, and the scraps of curled and perforated tin roofing were held down by a rusted iron bedstead tipped on its side.
To give the man his due, Fielding reflected that Roe had not had it easy. His wife had died a few years back, and he had finished raising his daughter by himself. If the wife had been healthier or the girl had been big enough, someone might have watered the trees. The last time Fielding had seen her, a year or so back, the girl was big enough to do the cooking and cleaning. She probably did the chores as well, as Roe had a reputation for dropping in on other homesteaders or idling about town, picking up scraps of gossip along with items of perceived value. He was not very open about having people come to his place, perhaps because of the girl, but perhaps because he would rather have a bite to eat or take a nip at someone else’s place and not have to return the favor. So the talk ran, at least.
Two large gray geese came around the side of the house, lifting their wings and honking. From somewhere in back a calf bawled, and the cackle of chickens rose and fell.
As Fielding stopped his horse, the front door opened. He expected to see Andrew Roe appear, rubbing his face or running his fingers through his hair, but the person who stepped outside was the girl.
Her name came to him. Isabel.
The house had no porch, but the front step lay in the first of the afternoon shadow. The girl’s dark, shoulder-length hair and her dusky complexion reminded him of the little he had heard about her mother—that she had come from New Mexico and had Spanish in her background. He had not connected that information with the name Isabel until now.
“Good afternoon,” he said. “I stopped in to see if your father was at home. My name’s Tom Fielding, and I’ve got a camp a couple of miles farther out. He knows me.”
The girl’s dark eyes took in the rider and the two horses. Then her voice came floating from the shadow, musical as the lark’s song. “He’s not at home right now. You’re welcome to wait for him if you’d like.”
“Well, I wouldn’t want to—”
“There’s a trough over there, if you’d like to water your horses. It shouldn’t be long.”
He turned to where she pointed. A wooden trough with a hand pump stood in front of the stable. “I suppose so,” he said. Holding the lead rope out of the way, he drew back his right leg and dismounted. When he came around in front of the buckskin, the girl was gone.
He led the two horses to drink, then took them back to loiter in front of the house.
The door opened again, and the girl Isabel came out carrying a three-legged stool. “Here,” she said. “You can sit in the shade if you’d like.”
The paint was yellowed and chipped, but the stool looked sturdy enough. “I guess I could,” he said.