Authors: John D. Nesbitt
A voice rose on the air as the man in the dark shirt made a flicker of movement. Fielding tensed, then reined his horse to the left and nudged him to follow the lane into the yard. Fielding glanced back to see that Mahoney was following, caught a curious look from the kid, and turned forward to keep things on course. As he approached the ranch yard, the men and horses stood ahead on his right.
Another voice came up, followed by the loud one. Fielding rode closer, wondering when the men in the yard would hear the footfalls of the nine horses.
As the voices died away, one of the two men holding the visitors' horses came around the front of the nearest one and stared at the oncoming party. He was a clean-shaven man, a little taller than average. He wore a brown hat, brown vest, and white shirt. Fielding strained to try to recognize the man, but he saw nothing familiar about him.
The horses moved on, thirty-six hooves clopping and scuffing. The man in the brown vest raised his head in an expression of authority, then spoke over his shoulder to the large man facing Selby.
The scene ahead shifted, and the large man came to stand next to his associate. Fielding recognized
the tall-crowned hat, dark blue wool shirt, beefy face, and brown side whiskers. It was George Pence, just as he had thought at first glance.
As Fielding brought his horse to a stop, the man in the brown vest spoke. His words had an even tone, neither friendly nor menacing.
“Afternoon, stranger. What's your business?”
Fielding dismounted. He didn't like to ride into someone's camp or ranch and look down on him, just as he didn't like another man to act that way toward him. “Not a stranger,” he said, passing the reins to his right hand. “Don't need to be on business to drop in and see a friend.” He motioned with his head in the direction of Selby, who had come forward but stood a few paces away from the other two.
The brown hat nodded. “We're all friends,” said the man. “That's what we stopped in for. A friendly visit.”
Fielding noted the smooth voice, the polite accent he had heard in others who affected a gentleman's image. “That's good,” he said, “for everyone to be friends.” He flicked a glance at the blocky form of George Pence, met his dull brown eyes, and came back to the clean-shaven man with the clean vest and white shirtsleeves. “My name's Tom Fielding, and I'm a packer.”
The other man smiled without showing his teeth. “I like a man who says what he is.” The dark eyes traveled down the file of horses and came back. “And I like a man who is what he says.” Another smile. “My name's Al Adler. I'm the foreman at J. P. Cronin's Argyle Ranch.” The man pulled a brown leather glove off his right hand and offered to shake.
Fielding obliged, noticing that the firm hand was pale and the fingernails were clean. “Pleasure to meet you.”
“All mine.” Adler tossed his head sideways and said, “I would guess you already know George Pence.”
Fielding nodded in the direction of the big man, whose eyelids halfway closed as he nodded back.
“And here's Henry in back. Do you know him, too?”
Fielding looked across the saddles of the first two horses and caught a smile and a wave from Henry Steelyard. “How do, Henry?”
“Howdy, Tom.”
Adler's smooth voice came out again. “So, as I was saying, we were all just having a friendly visit.”
“Sure.” Fielding turned toward Selby. “And how are you today, Bill?”
Selby's ruddy face was redder than usual, but he said, “Good enough, I suppose.”
Adler's voice cut in. “Did you have any business with Mr. Selby? Any goods to deliver?”
“No more business than I already stated.” Fielding tipped his head toward his packhorses. “I'm travelin' empty, back to my camp.”
“Well, don't let us keep you, then” said Adler. After half a pause he added, “Who's your man?”
Fielding followed the glance of the dark eyes. “That's Fred Mahoney. This is his first job with me.”
Mahoney, who had not gotten down from his horse, raised his hand from the saddle horn in a small wave.
Adler's eyes rested on Fielding again. “Like I said, don't let us keep you.”
“Oh, we're not in a hurry.”
“Maybe you ought to be,” said Pence.
The surly tone was nothing new to Fielding, who felt a spark of resentment. “I said I wasn't.”
Pence stepped forward and squared his shoulders. His right hand hung over his smooth-worn gun belt. “Maybe we think you should. You interrupted a conversation, you know.”
Fielding cast a glance at Selby. “Is that right, Bill?”
Selby's voice seemed to have a quaver in it as he answered. “I suppose so, in a way. Pence here was trying to tell me where to run my cattle, or where not to. I said it was open range, and his boss didn't have any more right to it than I do.”
Pence cut in. “That's a mealymouthed way of puttin' it. What I said was, he'd better keep his rib-racked cattle off the Argyle meadows.”
Selby came right back, his voice steadier now. “And I told him that if any of that land was private, it was up to the owner to fence it off. That's Wyoming law, and everyone knows it.”
The big man made a sound like “Pah.”
Selby's jaw muscles tightened, and his eyes blazed. “They just came here to bully me. They ride in here, the three of them, and they put this one on me like a bulldog.”
Pence made a quick turn and, with spurs jingling, moved toward Selby, who backed up. “Stand still,” barked Pence, “and take what you've got comin'.”
Selby's blue eyes flickered from one side to the other as he took another step backward. He was short and sturdy, but no match for the larger man. “Just a bully,” he said. “All the courage in the world when you've got someone three to one.”
Pence doubled his fists, and his voice came out gravelly as he said, “I'll take you one on one.” He moved forward.
Fielding dropped his reins, took about five quick steps, and came between the two men with his shoulder almost touching Pence's chest. “I think that's enough,” he said. “There's no need for any more.”
Pence laid his left hand on Fielding's shoulder and gave him a shove. “This pissy little nester called me a bully.”
Fielding squared around. “Maybe you are. Look at you. And you're callin' names just as much as he is.”
The big man surged forward and shoved Fielding with both hands, throwing him off balance but not knocking him down. Fielding went back a couple of steps, regained his footing, and got ready for the other man as he came hulking toward him. As long as it was just a shoving match, Fielding did not want to throw a punch. He hovered with his weight forward, and then he pushed off.
He went between Pence's two hands, which were poised above waist level and were not yet tensed for another shove. The thumbs gave way. Grabbing the big man by the shirt and putting the toe of his boot on Pence's right spur, Fielding pushed hard and sent the man backward, arms flailing for balance. Pence landed with his butt on the ground, and his high-crowned hat went rolling away. His pale forehead showed where his dark brown curly hair was receding. As he turned in a smooth motion and came up with his .45 Colt, the beginning of a bald spot showed in back.
Adler stepped in to block Pence's view, though the barrel of the six-gun was still raised in Fielding's direction.
“This has gone far enough,” said the foreman. “Put it away, George.”
Fielding, having stepped out of the line of fire, saw the gun barrel lower and withdraw.
Adler turned to Fielding. “Maybe I'll say it a third time, my friend. Don't let us keep you from going on your way.”
Fielding gave him a cross look. “So you can pick on Bill some more?”
Adler jutted his chin and shook his head. “No one's pickin' on anybody. We're about to leave, too. That's the secret of a friendly visit, know when to leave so you don't stay too long.”
Fielding turned to Selby, who was standing off by himself with his hands at his sides. “Are you all right, Bill?”
“Oh, I'll be fine.” Selby had a subdued tone, but he did not seem afraid. His eyes followed Pence, who had gotten up and found his hat and was now walking back to the horses.
Fielding shrugged. “I guess we'll go, then.”
Adler raised his eyebrows. “All the best.” Then after giving a closemouthed smile, he added, “Good to meet you, Fielding.”
“The same here.” Fielding returned to his horse, a calm sorrel that stood hipshot with its head forward. Fielding gathered the reins, turned the sorrel, and found the lead rope for the first packhorse where it lay in the dirt. Positioning the sorrel to avoid throwing his leg over the lead rope when he swung aboard, Fielding held the reins and the
rope at the saddle horn as he mounted up. He transferred the reins to his right hand, and with his left he waved to Bill Selby and Henry Steelyard.
Adler was turning out his stirrup and had his back to Fielding, as did Pence in his dark hat. That was just as well, thought Fielding. As he turned the packhorses and led the way out of the yard, he looked across at Mahoney, who had not gotten down from his horse the whole time and who gave no expression in response. That was just as well, too.
The campsite on the west side of Antelope Creek was a welcome sight as Fielding brought the pack train in off the trail. He and Mahoney worked together to untie the packs, lift the panniers off the sawbucks, strip the gear, and water the horses. They picketed two, a dun and a gray, then belled the rest of the packhorses and turned them loose. They tied the two saddle horses to the corral for the time being.
Next they set up two tents, using the poles that Fielding had left stacked. They set up one tent for living quarters and one to stow the gear, including the tepee tent they had used on their recent trip. When they had the gear put away, Fielding stood back and looked over the whole layout.
“I think that's pretty good,” he said, turning to Mahoney. “If you want, we can call it a day.” He brought out a ten-dollar gold piece and handed it to the young man. “Here's this. We can call it square for the six days.”
Mahoney's eyebrows went up. “Thanks,” he said.
Fielding waved toward the corral. “Go ahead and take the horse you've been riding. You can leave him at the livery stable in town, and I'll pick him up when I go in. Probably tomorrow.”
Mahoney nodded, turned to walk toward the brown horse, and stopped. Someone was riding into the camp from the main trail.
As the horse came to a stop about twenty-five yards out, Fielding recognized the features of the young range rider. “Come on in, Henry,” he called.
Steelyard rode his horse another fifteen yards and then dismounted. Leading the animal by the reins, he walked forward with his usual easy air about him. His round hat with the ranger's peak was set back on his head, and his trimmed, wavy brown hair combined with his clean-shaven face to give him a look of innocence.
“Evenin', Henry. What brings you to this side of the valley?”
“Oh, I just thought I'd drop by to see if everything was all right.”
“I hope so.”
“That's good. You know, I felt kinda awkward, bein' in the middle of that scrape earlier in the afternoon.”
Fielding waved his hand. “Ah, don't worry about it. I didn't think you had anything to do with it.”
Steelyard shrugged. “Well, I was there, and I wouldn't want to have any hard feelin's.”
“None on this side, not towards you. As for Penceâwell, I'll just have to wait and see if he wants to start somethin' again. You know as well as I do that some of these things go away on their own, and some don't.”
Steelyard pushed out his lower lip. “I don't blame you for steppin' in,” he said. His words hung on the air until he added, “But I don't know how good an idea it would be to take sides.”
Fielding's eyebrows pulled together. “What do you mean, take sides?”
“I didn't say you did.” Steelyard laid his hand out, palm up. “I meant something you might or might not do later on.”
“Such as . . .”
“Better not to burn bridges.” Steelyard gave a tip of the head.
“Ah, as far as that goes, I figure I already lost any work I thought I might have with Cronin.”
“Well, that, or anything else. Just thought I'd mention it.” The young man's brown eyes were steady.
“I'm glad you did. Good of you to drop by.”
Steelyard gave a backward wave. “Think nothin' of it.” He glanced at the sun, which was about to set. “Huh,” he said, “looks like I'd better be headin' back.”
“Are you goin' by way of town?”
“I could. Do you need somethin' done?”
Fielding motioned toward Mahoney, who had been standing by and taking things in. “I don't, but Mahoney here was about to leave. He could ride along if it was no bother to you.”
Steelyard looked at Mahoney and smiled. “Not at all. Glad for the company. Was your name Pat?”
“Fred.”
“Good enough. Well, I'm ready to go when you are.”
Mahoney untied the brown horse, led it out a few yards, tightened the cinch, and mounted up.
Steelyard swung aboard also, and the two young men waved good-bye and rode away.
As the hoofbeats faded on the trail, Fielding unsaddled the sorrel and put him in the corral. He gave the animal a bait of grain and went to look for a canvas bucket. When he came out of the gear tent holding the bucket by its rope handle, he paused to appreciate the sunset over the skyline. Shades of orange and scarlet shot through a layer of lowlying clouds, and the rangeland was falling into shadow.
The bells of the grazing horses tinkled in the still air, and the creek made a light, rippling sound as Fielding walked toward it. He washed his hands and face in the stream, then dipped the bucket and brought it up swelled and dripping.