Gather My Horses (18 page)

“He went to get some merchandise, as he called it. Probably something broken down that he thinks he'll fix up and sell someday.”

That was good news, at least his being gone, but Fielding made no comment. He went to his horse and took the pomegranate from the saddlebag, then returned to where Isabel stood waiting.

“Here,” he said, holding out the unusual fruit on his upturned palm.

“What is it?”

“A pomegranate.”

“Oh, of course. My mother liked them. Is it ripe? Some of them, when they get big and ripen fast, they split open.”

“I think this one traveled a long ways.”

“Probably so. They wouldn't last if they were split.”

“Take it. It's for you.”

She took it in her hand and turned it. “Shall we cut it open?”

“Now?”

“Why not? If it's for me, I'd like to share it.”

“Well, all right.”

“Let's go around back. There's still a little shade.”

He followed her to the back step, where she left him for a moment as she went in for a knife and board. When she came out, she pointed at the three-legged stool inside the lean-to.

“Pull that over for a seat if you'd like,” she said.

He got the stool beneath him and watched as she undertook the task.

Sitting on the step with the board in her lap, she scored the fruit at the blossom end and split it open. A few scarlet seeds fell on the board, and a wall of them stayed intact on one half of the divide. On the other half, a bumpy yellow layer of pith covered the ruby treasure.

With her thumb she worked off a palmful of seeds, which she poured into his cupped hands. Then she rubbed off a similar amount for herself, and with a shine in her eyes she said, “Here goes.” She raised her hand to her mouth.

Fielding popped about a dozen of the seeds in his mouth and mashed down on them, tasting the mixed flavor of astringency and sweetness. “Not bad,” he said. “Actually, pretty good.”

“Kind of exotic,” said Isabel. “Something of a wild taste, like chokecherries, but juicier and not so puckery.” She gave a thoughtful look as she ate a few more of the grainy little juice sacs. “Not so much like chokecherry, really. More like currants,
though it's been quite a while since I've tasted them. No, I think they taste like pomegranate, and that's it.”

“Did you want to save any for your father?”

“Maybe a little, just to taste, but he complains about anything that gets stuck in his teeth. Here, can you get this off?” She handed him the paring knife and pointed at the pale yellow membrane.

As he went about the operation, he asked, “Are you all done with the grain harvest?”

“With my part. The threshing machine moved on north, and some of the crew went with it. I work as long as I can stay with Mrs. Good, but beyond that, it's a little too far from home, and I don't know the people very well.”

Fielding nodded. He wondered if the gallant sack jig had gone on with the crew, but he did not ask. If it mattered at all, he would find out without having to be inquisitive.

“That reminds me,” she said. “I wanted to give something to you. Would you mind holding this?” She handed him the board with the knife and the open fruit on it.

She went into the house and came out with the brown leather case that Fielding had seen before. As she opened it, the shiny needles came into view.

“I wonder if you'd like one of these,” she began.

“Well, um, sure. But I wouldn't want to take something you would need later.”

She smiled as she reached to the board in his lap and picked up a few seeds. “You have a lot of things made of canvas, don't you?”

“Oh, yes, I do.”

“Do you have a needle like this, or could you use
one?” She pointed at the second-largest one, about four inches long, straight with a flare that came back to a spearlike point.

“That's a nice one. I've got one a little shorter, without the flat part. Then I've got a couple of others for regular sewing, of course.”

She took it from the case and handed it to him. “A small token from me to you,” she said. “Even if you don't use it.”

“I might. But I'll keep it here for safekeeping.” He took off his hat and poked the needle through his hatband so that less than an inch showed at either end. He put his hat back on his head and said, “Do you like it?”

Her eyes sparkled. “Ever so much. It's like the way the lady assists the knight in the stories.”

He set the board next to her on the step and took her hand as he leaned. “You know, you're mighty pretty today. Every day, really, but especially so today.”

She laid the leather case aside and stood up as he did. “I'm glad you think so.”

As she moved toward him, his hand touched her waist on the side, then moved up to the small of her back. He held her close as their lips met, and although his eyes were shut, he had a clear vision of pomegranate seeds like shiny jewels next to a lance of polished steel.

When the last packhorse came up onto level ground, Fielding dismounted to check the lash ropes and to give all the animals a rest. The sun had risen to midmorning, and heat rose from the crusty soil at his feet. The valley below looked cool in comparison as the green rangeland stretched away to the west and the north.

With the sun overhead at his back, he did not have to squint to see the country he had passed through—the far hills where he had rolled out before dawn and gathered his horses, the town of Umber where he had loaded the five pack animals in the morning shade of the general store, the trail that led across the broad meadow and up the steep grade to the top.

At the far left of his view, before the rim closed off the valley and foothills, he could imagine Richard Lodge out on the Magpie, maybe saddling one of his two sorrel horses for a ride into town to a place where meals were served. Across in the middle of his view, Isabel would be going through her tasks. And back in town, the white speckled horse and the brown one were corralled at the livery stable for a few easy days.

The five he had with him were all doing fine, and the packs rode even and snug as he pulled at the lashes. The buckskin, which walked at his side, gave a stamp of the foot. Fielding turned and passed the reins to his left hand. It was the third or fourth time the saddle horse had stamped. Up and around came the tail, swishing both ways. Fielding moved to the off side, transferring the reins again. There he saw a horsefly rising and settling, rising and settling, just behind the saddle blanket and on the fore part of the hip. The large black-and-gray insect was easy to pick out against the tawny hide.

Fielding ducked under the horse's neck, wormed his hand into the saddlebag for his gloves, and pulled them out. He slipped the left one onto his hand as the buckskin stamped again and swished its tail. Fielding came up on the other side of the animal and found the horsefly circling above and coming down in the same place. As he tightened his grip on the reins, the horse braced itself. Down came the gloved hand, and the large fly, the size of the last joint of a man's little finger, fell motionless to the dirt.

After taking a last look at the valley and casting another glance over his pack string, Fielding led the buckskin to the front of the line. He took the lead rope from where he had draped it over the neck of the gray horse, and after positioning the buckskin he mounted up. With a click-click sound, he got the pack train into motion.

Travel across the flats was hot and dry. The wind up here on top had a parching quality, and it raised bits of dust and chaff from the wheat stubble as Fielding rode past the fenced parcels. Most of this
country was open range, where the short grass was turning thin and curly, and the longer grass had dry flags and seed heads.

From time to time he saw cattle, many of them with the familiar brand of interlocking diamonds. Not all of the Argyle cattle were on summer range, that was for certain, and in another month or so, this range would be sere and brittle. Come winter, most if not all of the growing Argyle herd would be grazing in the valley.

Fielding continued riding east-northeast. He figured he had about twelve miles to cross, plus a ways after that until he came to water, so he kept his eyes out for a place to water the horses in the meanwhile.

Most of the wheat farms lay behind him now, and the country was wide open. An occasional hawk soared on the air currents above, while here below, grasshoppers took to their wings and clacked like a wind-up toy. Fielding startled little gray birds out of their shade in the sagebrush, and at one point he came within two hundred yards of three buck antelope. As he saw their curved horns and black cheek patches, he recalled that it was the time of year when the bucks ran together and the does were with their fawns.

Two light green trees in the distance suggested water, so he veered northeast toward them. After a mile, they still looked a mile away. He rode on.

As he came within a quarter of a mile of the actual site, he saw that the trees grew on the bank of a man-made reservoir. Closer, he could see the depression itself, where most of the water that had gathered in the spring was gone. Cakes of dried
mud led down to a water hole ten feet across and two inches deep, with a skim of bugs and green matter. Fielding watered the crowding horses one by one, then led them back up onto the flat and off in the direction he wanted to go.

He had to travel southeast along the rim to find the descent he was looking for. It was a narrow trail threading down through grayish tan bluffs, formations of layered sandstone with pine and cedar growing on ledges, in clefts, and on the slopes. He rode down in, past a turret-shaped rock on his left, which gave the effect of a gateway as the trail wound past it and led into Cogman's Hole.

The Hole, as it was called, was a broad, grassy basin enclosed on all sides but the east by a rim of bluffs such as the one he was going down through. The country below him was light green, then took in a darker hue that shaded into blue as the grassland stretched away beneath a thin cover of afternoon clouds.

Fielding twisted in the saddle to see how his animals were doing. They shifted and turned as each one found its footing, the off-white packs moving like train cars on a bad stretch of road bed. Shod hooves made pocking, grinding sounds on the rock and large-grained sand. Sweat trickled down Fielding's back, and a dryness came to his mouth, but he was glad to be making his way down into the Hole.

At the bottom, he followed the base of the slope that came from the foot of the bluffs on his left. The shadow of the rim was beginning to stretch out, but it would be a while until Fielding and the horses would have the benefit.

He rode on to a place he had in mind, where a small creek came down from the rim and threaded a row of trees across the grassland. Near the base of the slope he found the spot, a well-worn area where roundup outfits had camped. The ground was bare and hard-packed, and a person had to look out for the stubs of old picket stakes, but it was a good site. It had two campfire circles, plus a pool where men had built a low dam of rocks to back up the water.

Fielding stripped the horses and watered them, brushing their wet, shiny backs with a burlap bag. He picketed two horses and belled the rest, then set the packs in a row with saddles on top and the pads draped over, wet side up to dry. Later he would cover the provisions and gear with the tent as a tarpaulin.

He had to walk along the slope quite a ways to gather firewood, but it was a peaceful job. He meandered in the lengthening shadows, keeping an eye out for snakes as well as deadfall, and casting an occasional glance at the horses.

The smoke from the campfire came in thick, pungent puffs until the blaze took hold. When the sticks burned down to coals, Fielding set the skillet on a triangular layout of rocks. As he often did, he had brought fresh meat for the first night out, so he enjoyed the sound and smell of searing steak as he sat on his bedroll and waved away wisps of smoke. Camping by water in this part of the year meant mosquitoes, and it was worth enduring a little smoke to keep the whiners away.

Before going to bed, Fielding went out to check on his picket horses. They were both doing all
right, and he could hear the four different bells of the horses that were grazing farther out. The moon was up, growing to a half-moon, and the night was clear. Fielding had a sense of where he was. Cogman's Hole ran about twenty miles west to east and fifteen miles south to north. He was on the western edge, roughly halfway along the rim that curved around.

As he walked back toward camp, the shadow of a large bird passed over and beyond him, and as his heart jumped he heard the soft flap of wings. The surge of alarm came from deep within, and his head felt vulnerable. Then his rational half came back into control. He had his hat on. It was just a bird of the night, must have been an owl, looking for small furry creatures beneath the prairie moon.

Back in camp, he set up the tepee tent with its jointed pole. He could hear the bells on the horses as he rolled out his bed, and he did not worry about much of anything as he closed his eyes.

Morning broke fresh and clear as Fielding sat on his bedroll and drank his coffee. He figured he had about ten miles to go until he came to Wald's sheep camp. If he got there early enough, he could turn around and come part of the way back the same day.

He gathered the horses, rigged them, and put on the packs. He was sweating by the time he mounted up, but a light breeze cooled his shirt and his cocked hat as he set out on the day's ride. Relaxed, he heard the song of a meadowlark rise above the prairie as the horse hooves clomped and swished through the grass.

Fielding and his string rode into the sheep camp in early afternoon. Wald himself lived up by Fort Laramie, so he had a couple of hired hands at this place—a camp tender as well as a herder—and the tender was usually at camp alone. As Fielding rode into the dusty site, a long-haired black-and-white dog came out of the shade and barked until the tender emerged from the tent and rasped a couple of words.