While the horse snorted, the man spoke: “Obliged.” Then he backed the horse, making a clucking sound until the pair disappeared. Souter and Gordon could hear a few hoof steps and then nothing.
“Who was that?” Then Gordon rephrased his question: “What was that?”
“Mustanger. Don’t see many of ’em.” Gordon cocked his head. “Locals call ’em mesteñeros. I heard ’bout this one. He’s been after a small herd.” Souter hesitated. “Not many of the wild ones left. That wire we talked ’bout…it’s takin’ their range.”
Gordon wasn’t certain if “wild ones” related to horses or the singular man.
“You see him…stay upwind of the smoke? Sure smelled ripe. Yep, he’s after a herd. A mesteñero picks a bunch o’ bronc’s and follows close. Don’t wash, don’t cook. Smells like a bronc’…gets the herd use to him. Guess this one got cold and took the risk. Coffee’ll do that to a man if he’s ridden long on cold camps.”
“You mean he follows the animals until he quite literally wears them down? But how could he catch an entire herd by himself? It isn’t possible.”
“He’ll take the young ’uns hangin’ ’round. Young ’uns ain’t got their own bunch yet. It can be good pickin’s. It’s a rough life, but he’s his own boss.” Souter paused, a peculiar light in his eyes. “That ’un looks as old as a mesteñero ever gets.”
Souter retrieved the cups and filled them. Gordon accepted the dollop of canned milk. Then Souter carved out burned beans and bacon. “That horse he was leadin’…mustang. Same’s the pony I ride. Hell, Meiklejon, you know.” Gordon would never dismiss the small local ponies after this arduous trek. “The man’s got a good hand. That roan listened to him, wasn’t feared of us, neither. Says a lot about a man, the horse he rides.” Souter actually grinned. “Best turn in now. More miles tomorrow.”
They had been seeing cattle all morning. As Souter described the qualities in each herd, Gordon marveled at their fine condition despite what he considered an appalling lack of decent grass. A good bull or two put to these hardy cows, and the improvement would be dramatic.
Ransom Littlefield proved to be bowed in the legs and browned to a dark patina. The old man coughed and spat, looked up only when Souter made his introductions. His face was collapsed on a barren mouth. Littlefield talked only to Souter.
“Don’t matter how funny the man talks, iffen the money’s good, we’ll cut a deal.” That sounded as if an agreement were already in place. Littlefield cackled. “Sonny, the word come in yesterday, so I got Miss Katherine to cook up a meal in your honor, seein’s how you been eatin’ Souter’s grub the last day or two.”
A woman appeared at the main door. Gordon surmised she was another pretty Western woman. The country seemed well populated with attractive ladies. As she walked into sunshine, he was forced into a reappraisal. Her features were severe, the eyes unremarkable, the sorrel hair pulled back into an unflattering knot. But her figure was excellent.
Littlefield’s face twisted with glee. “This here’s Miss Katherine Donald. Keeps me from goin’ back to the wild ’fore I die.”
The woman directed her eyes toward Littlefield. She might be a hired woman, but she had her own mind, and her stare quite plainly told Littlefield to watch his manners.
Gordon climbed down from his bay and the woman produced her hand, waiting for Gordon to accept the gesture. He must revise his opinion once again. She was neither plain nor shy; there was high intelligence and sharp wit in her face. This was a woman who looked straight into a man. Her hazel eyes crinkled and softened, and her hand was strong as it gripped his. The scent of soap and fresh bread moved with her.
Littlefield purely cackled with delight. “That’s enough, sonny. Don’t you be courtin’ our Miss Katherine. She’s right persnickety. Given time she might take to you, but don’t go bettin’ on that. She’s smart by damn, our Miss Katherine is.”
She neither demurred to the old man’s frankness, nor blushed at his affection. “Gentlemen, dinner will be ready as soon as you see to the horses. Mister Meiklejon, there is a room for you in the house with hot water and towels.”
A ranch hand took the bay’s reins, saying: “ ’S all right, mister.”
Souter, too, gave up his mottled pony. Walking alongside Littlefield, they entered the house, moving slowly to accommodate the old man’s staggered limp.
After a meal of spiced stew, fresh biscuits, and a yellow cake covered in syrup, Gordon joined his host outside where a group of men were assembling. He recognized the horse handler from earlier. Bit Haven he was named, bandy-legged and smiling. Haven nodded eagerly when introduced.
Next was Stan Brewitt—tall, with sloping shoulders and a protruding belly, hands as slender as a woman’s. Red Pierson was no more than a boy, seventeen he admitted when Gordon asked, but his eyes were clear and few doubts showed in his face.
The last man was also tall and lean, with straight blond hair thinning at his brow, a small, childishly round face set atop a long, awkward body. There was a calm certainty in the hazel eyes. Davey Hildahl he was called. A man worthkeeping, Gordon decided, and recognized that he had accepted ownership.
He walked with Littlefield while Souter discussed acres and sections, concepts so immense that Gordon struggled to visualize the breadth and width of his purchase.
In the morning he and Littlefield spoke privately. An agreement was reached. Littlefield was to be paid half the purchase price now and the remainder over ten years. It was a deal that benefited both sides.
As Gordon accepted the reins of a horse chosen by Hildahl, he felt the effect of his decision. His life now depended on luck, weather, cattle, and the loyalty of his men.
The new horse was an animal of fourteen hands, a clay color with a black mane and tail, a black stripe down its back. As Gordon settled into the saddle, the pony plunged forward and kicked out. Gordon hauled up the big head and steadied the excited animal. Then he turned to Souter, who sat on his mustang.
“I’m ready now. Lead on, sir.”
Katherine Donald would have a job, or she would not. Ransom Littlefield rarely let her clean the ranch house. He wanted only her company and her cooking. Now, watching the English gentleman move among the hands, she knew she had to decide whether or not she wanted the job before being asked.
She had seen Jack Holden at her father’s cabin. Jack was a gossip by nature and had talked incessantly about the Englishman. Her papa, Edward Donald, had been out making rounds. It usually took him a week or more as he sold horses to the poorer ranches and sheepherders. But it was due to Katherine’s hard work and persistence that she and her father had been kept from debt. Consequently she kept her friendship with Jack Holden a secret. Furthermore, if the good women knew of Katherine’s involvement with Jack, they would brand her indecent.
Jack didn’t often come to Quemado. He and Melicio Quitano were enemies, and Jack rarely invaded the man’s home territory. Despite his reputation, Jack owned a rare delicacy and chose to leave Quitano some pride.
Katherine decided that if she began scouring the place, she might create a need for her services in the Englishman’s transition from itinerant lord to local rancher. She would be surrounded by men and left alone by her unassailable virtue. And Jack Holden would not venture here. By making the decision, she would force herself into solitude while retaining a worthless dignity.
She opened her eyes, closed by her thinking, and found Davy Hildahl watching her. Katherine glared at him. “Mister Hildahl, you must get back to work. I do not care for idle men.” With that she returned to the Littlefield house, and started putting into effect her plan for insured employment.