When the man seemed to have his attention free, Fielding answered, “Lodge mentioned that, too. I think I might be able to help out.”
Roe looked up with the cigarette hanging in his lips. “Just you? Selby said you had a kid workin’ for you, looked like he might be a hand.”
“I can’t speak for him. He just did this one job for me, and now he’s on his own.”
Roe lit his cigarette. “Oh. I thought he was workin’ for you.”
“He was.”
“Hmm.” Roe flicked the match on the ground.
“Anyway, that was the main reason I dropped in. If I’d known you were at Selby’s, I’d have stopped there.”
“All the same.” The pale brown eyes wandered across Fielding’s two horses. Then Roe walked to the chair Isabel left out, and he sat down with a sigh. “Sit here in the shade,” he said. He glanced at the stool. “You in a hurry?”
“Not really,” said Fielding. “I picked up this horse in town, and I was takin’ him back to my camp. And I’ve got things to do there.”
“I imagine.” Roe lifted the cigarette to his lips as he gazed off to the east.
Fielding waited for the man to say more, but he didn’t. After a long moment, Fielding said, “Well, I guess I might be movin’ along before it warms up any more.”
“Oh, yeah,” said Roe. “Thanks for stoppin’. I’ll tell Bill I talked to you.”
“That’ll be fine. What do you think, in about a week?”
“Somethin’ like that. We’ll let you know ahead of time. And if you can get that kid to go, we could use him, too.”
Fielding saw a bit of humor in Roe acting like a roundup boss, but he just said, “I’ll mention it if I talk to him.”
“Do that.” Roe gave a backhand swipe at the goat, which had drawn near.
“Well, so long, then,” said Fielding.
“Sure. We’ll see you later.”
Fielding turned the two horses and led them away. When he stopped to get them into position, he looked toward the stable. He expected to see Isabel, and there she was. She had unsaddled her papa’s horse and was leading him out into the sunlight. Fielding waved, and Isabel waved back. Then he stepped up into the saddle, nudged the buckskin, and set out with the brown horse at his side.
Chapter Three
The song of the lark fluted in the morning air as Fielding drank his coffee. Seated on a pile of canvas and using one of the two log sections for a workbench, he devoted his attention to putting a D-ring on a lash cinch. With his smallest punch he had made two sets of matching holes in the leather. Now, with the ring in place and the strap folded over, he was doing the stitching with two strands of waxed thread, each pulled with a two-inch needle. After a whole winter in which to go through his gear and make repairs, it took but one trip to bring this detail to his attention. The rope knot was about to pull through the eye of the leather, and putting on a D-ring now would save a lot of trouble later. Fielding was glad to have the time, and the peace and quiet, to tend to it.
When he was done with his work and had his equipment put away, he saddled the dark horse he had kept in the corral overnight. Shading in color from deepest brown to black, the horse was well built for packing, with close quarters and a thick body. He was also a good saddle horse, poky at times, and Fielding had to ride him every once in a while to keep him in tune.
With the horse rigged and ready to go, Fielding went out to gather the loose stock and bring them, with the picket horses, into the corral for the day. He looked over each one as he took the bells off, and finding no cuts or scratches, he climbed through the poles and put the bells and picket ropes in the gear tent. Then he led the dark horse out a few steps and mounted up.
He rode south through the grassland, following the course of Antelope Creek but staying up and away from the cutbanks and debris. Lodge’s place was about four miles off, and the first half of the way had easier riding on this side of the creek. Fielding relaxed in the saddle and gazed at the rangeland as it rolled out to the southwest.
The dark horse seemed restless, however. He was throwing his head and snorting, so Fielding put him on a lope for half a mile. When they slowed to a walk again, the horse settled down.
Fielding rode on until the little valley narrowed. He reined the horse to the left, went down a short bank, and crossed the creek in a wide, shallow spot where he could see pebbles in the silt below. The creek was less than a foot deep here, so the dark horse splashed right through and climbed up on the opposite bank. Fielding pointed the horse south again, with the creek now on his right.
A quarter of a mile later, Fielding thought he saw movement through the trees where the watercourse made a bend in front of him. Riding out and around and then veering to his right, he came upon a camp. Foremost in the site and a little to the left stood a small box elder tree about ten feet tall with a curved trunk and full foliage. In the background, a grove of young cottonwoods rose to a height of twenty feet or so. Midway between the box elder and the cottonwoods sat a pyramid-shaped tepee tent, and to the right edge of the site a blackish mule stood tied to one of the cottonwoods. A human form stepped into view from behind the mule and called out.
“What do you want?” The voice came in a growl.
Fielding reined his horse to a stop and took a full look at the man. He was a dark, wild-looking character, topped with a battered, full-crowned hat with a flat brim. Long hair flowed out on the sides and matched the spreading beard in its unruly appearance. The man was not armed, so Fielding did not sense a great deal to fear. He knew that some men, especially prospectors but other loners as well, were jealous about their campsites, so he dismounted and held his reins. If the man was camped in this area, it was worthwhile to know what he was up to.
“Mornin’,” said Fielding.
“What do you want?” came the voice again.
“Nothin’ in particular. I saw your camp, so I thought I’d stop and say hello.”
“Well, hallo, then.”
Fielding walked forward with the horse tagging along. The wild-looking man took a few steps forward as well, and when Fielding was within five yards he stopped and smiled at the man. “Name’s Tom Fielding,” he said. “I’ve got a camp myself, about two miles downstream on the other side.”
“Cattleman?”
“No, I’m a packer.”
The man’s eyes widened, and Fielding saw that they were of that changeable color called hazel. “I don’t like these sons a’ bitches that think they can run cattle through your camp. Think they own the whole range, but they 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!”