By mid-afternoon, Gordon was aching to set foot on firm ground, needing greatly to relieve himself. Souter showed no such signs of distress and Gordon would not be outridden by an older man. At dusk they came to the downslope of a long hill; beyond them was a great expanse of flat, treeless plain. White patches were visible among sparse grass. There was nothing else for any appreciable distance.
Souter wiped his face with his shirt sleeve. “Them’s the plains o’ San Agustin. We’ll ride out’fore sunrise.”
Camp was reached none too soon. After tending to the bay, Meiklejon saw to his pressing needs in the dubious privacy of brush oak. He had misgivings about his mount; salty foam had been under the saddle pad when he removed it. Perhaps Souter would be more tolerant tomorrow. As Gordon passed close to Souter’s pony, he noticed that the horse showed few signs of fatigue. It tore into the thin grass eagerly.
“You know ranching, Meiklejon?” Now that something bubbled and smelled intriguing over the camp’s fire, Souter would talk.
Gordon edited his response. “My family has run cattle for several hundred years, Mister Souter. I am familiar with keeping records and using the best bloodlines. Does that answer your question, sir?” All his English displeasure was in that last word.
Souter picked over the words. “I don’t think you got the idea of what we’re ridin’. It ain’t polite to ask a man how big his spread is, but Littlefield’s got title to some hundred ’n’ fifty sections. Here a section is six hundred ’n’ forty acres.”
Gordon would not accuse the man of lying. “How do you keep track of the cattle, Mister Souter? And the bloodlines…so you know which bulls are producing the best stock?”
Souter opened a can of thick milk. “We let ’em breed, brand the calves, push the mamas onto new range, and let the bulls do their job. Then we gather the crop come fall and sell ’em. Keep back a few promisin’ bulls and start again.”
Gordon was aghast at the laxity of methods. “Do you not use fencing to maintain certain lines?”
Souter snorted. “Think o’ fencin’ this much land, findin’ the trees big enough to hold back a longhorn bull. Hah!”
“Surely there must be some way.…I intend to bring in Red Durhams. Our family has used them for several generations.” Gordon hoped to introduce sanity into the absurd conversation. Mr. Souter confounded him.
“The only way I know is barbed wire. A beef hits that, stays on its side of the fence.” Souter paused. “ ’Course you lose stock, and good men.”
“Mister Souter, could it be effective here?”
Souter looked up from rotating the pan. “Meiklejon, I’m an old man been ranchin’ one way all his life. You’re askin’ me ’bout a fence that tears man and beast apart, causes wars, some of them deadly. Ain’t no one tried the wire down here. The land’s too rugged.” He allowed a long pause. “Me, I hate the wire for what it does.” The anger was real. Meiklejon had his answer, until Souter surprised him, saying: “If it were me, I’d wire a few sections, buy a damned good bull. If it were my spread. …”
Gordon admired Souter. He was above all practical. But there was a second note to the speech—Souter wanted to own the place and said as much by his comments. Later that wish could color his judgment, but, for now, when Souter spoke, Meiklejon intended to pay attention.
“Meal’s ready. You hungry, you better eat.”
Over a second cup of coffee, Gordon asked his question: “Why do the ranchers tolerate Jack Holden? If you banded together, you could stop him and put him in jail, and your Mister Liddell wouldn’t lose any more stock. No one would.”
Souter looked over the rim of his fire-blackened cup. “Well, now, Meiklejon, it’s early yet, but I figured you’d be tellin’ us what to do.”
That stung. Gordon half raised his right hand, let it drop. Souter was absolutely correct.
Chapter Three
Gordon woke before dawn and all his effort went into getting up. Leaning down to his gear, he was convinced he couldn’t raise any item high enough to slide it on the horse’s back. He knew better than to ask for Souter’s help.
The plains were visible as Gordon’s bay lethargically followed Souter’s mustang. Souter’s pony paced smoothly; Gordon’s bay lumbered into a choppy trot. After miles of sand and sun, the grass and soft trees were a blessing. But it was the hint of water that raised Gordon from a half sleep in the saddle.
Souter reined in his eager pony. “Well done, Meiklejon.” For a foreigner wasn’t said. “Sleeping in the saddle’s the mark of a man’s ridden some.”
Gordon licked his dry lips. “There’s water?”
Souter grinned.
As they rode, the smell became intense. A shallow well greeted them around a clump of lush juniper. Beautiful water surged from the ground.
After wetting his lips, spitting out the first mouthful of water, Souter elaborated: “This here’s Datil Wells.”
The two horses were watered, and, with a full measure in the canteens, the men rode out energized. The land erupted in tall grass and high pines where the ground rose and fell in hills bounded by steeps cliffs and rock outcroppings. Several times Souter dismounted and ran knowing fingers through scuffed dirt. Gordon watched, and, when Souter looked out to the land they’d crossed, Gordon listened.
“Ground’s dryin’ too fast.”
They rode from before sunrise into the early night. High up in a chilled meadow, Souter made camp. The fire got built while Gordon cared for his bay. Beans, bacon, coffee. Gordon was content.
“Hey the fire!”
Gordon remained on his log. Souter’s hands moved toward the rifle too far out of reach, then stopped.
Souter spoke: “Come in careful.”
Gordon readied himself. Souter shook his head in warning.
The horse appeared first. Its eyes were red, its forelock tangled. The animal blew slobbers of thick foam as it walked toward them. Aman was barely visible on the horse’s offside. As Gordon stood abruptly, the horse shied and a hand reached for its muzzle. A voice spoke softly and the horse quieted.
“Coffee?”
It was then that the man appeared. The fire’s shadows drew out each spare line. Gordon thought of the tribesmen he’d fought on other continents and figured he was about to see the American counterpart. He had believed the manifestation would be a red Indian, yet this was a white man. A small man, nowhere near Gordon’s six feet and not wide and blocky like Souter. Narrow, face burned by raw winds.
Souter spoke. “You’ll be wantin’ this.” Deliberate movements to pick up a tin cup and pour it full, lace the coffee with canned milk, and extend the cup across the fire.
The man stepped closer, the horse stepping with him. A soft word stopped the horse, a hand took the cup, brought it to a thinned mouth. White teeth glowed briefly, then were covered by the raised cup. The noise of drinking was all Gordon could hear.
The eyes circled the fire and found Gordon. All color was lost in the flames, then a turn of the face, a differing light, and the eyes became a harsh green. The man set the cup down, returning his gaze to Gordon in unsettling inspection. Gordon drew a sharp breath.
Under the shapeless hat, the hair was black. The slight frame was weighed down with an animal-skin coat that dispensed an unpleasant odor. The exposed shirt was stained and badly mended. The pants were hard wool, layered along the inside with leather.