Also tied to the saddle were a short sword in a scabbard and a large bow case. On the rear of the saddle there was a large pack, a blanket roll, a quiver of arrows and a bag of feed for the horse. Despite the size of the rider and the weight of the equipment, the horse bore the load with no sense of worry. It stamped after a moment, but that seemed more impatience than fatigue. The rider shushed at it and the horse settled down without another shiver.
The rider, his panoply and the horse were all covered in a thick layer of dust.
Despite the battered armor and weather-beaten look, the rider was a young man, good looking in a hard-faced way with short black hair and green eyes. It was hard to tell from his expression but he had just passed his nineteenth year. And a good bit of the fields he was looking at were his.
They were being harvested in a late autumn Indian summer with the skies blue and warm above. On the far side of the large field two men were managing the take from a combination harvester. One drove the harvester while the other drove a wagon that was capturing the grain. The grain was short and as the ox-drawn harvester passed it left behind stubble and straw that was laid out in rows for baling.
The rider paused, indecisively, then turned his horse into the field. The near end of the field hadn’t been harvested yet and the horse whickered at him until he paused to let it strip a mouthful of the grain.
“Go ahead, Diablo,” the young man said, humorously. “Mike shouldn’t begrudge it.”
The harvester looked up at a shout from the man driving the wagon and pulled the oxen to a stop. They nuzzled at the grain but since their mouths were covered by feed bags they couldn’t emulate the horse. He said something to the man on the wagon then climbed down off the harvester and walked across the fields towards the rider. At that the rider pulled the horse’s head up with a word and tapped him into an easy trot. When he approached the other man he reined in and smiled.
“ ‘I will feast my horse on the standing grain,’ ” he said, then dismounted, hooking his reins onto the saddle to tell the horse to stay.
“Herzer,” the harvester said with a smile, holding out his hand. “It’s good to see you, man.”
“Good to see you, Mike,” the young man replied, clasping his friend’s forearm and gesturing with his hook at the fields. “Damn, you’ve been working hard.”
“Yeah, but it’s paying off,” Mike said, looking at his friend and shaking his head. “You look tired.”
“I am,” Herzer admitted. “And I’m glad to be home. But I’m due for a tour at the Academy, so maybe I can chill there for a while.”
“What do you have to learn?” Mike asked.
“What do you have to learn about farming?” Herzer replied.
“Lots.”
“Yeah, same here. But Edmund’s talking about an instructor position. I figure I’ll be doing some research at the same time. Time to brush up on my ancient Greek.”
“Makes sense,” Mike said, wiping at his brow. “What are we doing talking about this out here? Let’s go up to the house.”
“What about the field?” Herzer asked.
“It’ll keep,” Mike said. “The rain’s supposed to hold off for another couple of days and this is the last one I have to cut. I saved mine for last.”
“Yours?” Herzer asked, waving at the horse to follow as they walked back towards the reaper.
“I could scratch up enough capital to float a loan for the reaper,” Mike said. “I’ve been harvesting half the fields in the valley the last month. And, yes, this is actually your field.”
“That wasn’t what I meant and you know it,” Herzer said with a grin. “I wouldn’t know the first damned thing about farming this place.”
“Well, I’m learning,” Mike admitted. “I’m learning every day.”
The helper had been watering and feeding the oxen during the break and he nodded at Mike and Herzer as they walked up.
“Harry, this is Herzer Herrick,” Mike said. “Herzer this is Harry Wilson. He’s got a small farm down the river.”
“I’ve heard of you,” Harry replied, wiping his hand and shaking Herzer’s.
“I’m taking Herzer up to the house. Go ahead and use the basket on the reaper, then cross-fill. I’ll be back in a while.”
“Okay,” Harry said, getting on the reaper and clucking the oxen into motion.
“Slower that way, but it’ll get some of the field done,” Mike said.
“You want a ride up to the house?” Herzer asked, gesturing at the horse.
“I can walk,” Mike replied gruffly.
They strode up the side road towards a distant hill, passing through a screen of trees that was apparently kept as a windbreak. On both sides of the road, before and after the trees, there were fields. Some of them were ready for harvesting, in grain and corn, others had plants that were not quite ready for harvest and a few were apparently fallow. The latter were covered in an odd golden plant that looked like a weed.
“Cover clover,” Mike said at a gesture from Herzer. “Very good for fixing nitrogen and it forms a ‘standing hay’ that horses and cattle can eat in the winter.” He gestured to one of the fields where low bushes were covered in purple-green berries. “Olive bushes. I’m hoping to get a good crop of olives off them.”
“I thought olives grew on trees,” Herzer said, fingering the eagle emblem at his throat. In the left talon it held a bundle of arrows and in the right an olive branch. The eagle’s screaming beak was pointed to the left.
“They do. And the trees take decades, centuries really, to grow to maturity,” Mike said with a shrug. “These grow in a season and you can get more olives per acre than with trees.”
“Seems like cheating,” Herzer grumbled. “You know why the olive is the symbol of peace?”
“No.”
“Because it takes so long for the trees to grow. If you have olive trees it shows that armies haven’t fought over the land in a long time. Take away the long maturity and what does it mean? Nada.”
“Great, but I’m getting fifty chits a barrel for mature olives,” Mike said, with apparent grumpiness. “And I can get two crops a year off the bushes. Even with the cost of field hands and preparation I’m getting ten- or elevenfold profits per season. So you can take your philosophical objections and stuff them.”
Herzer laughed and pointed to a group of trees on the back side of the olive field. They were short and had broad glossy leaves that were a dark, rich green.
“Rubber plants,” Mike replied. “I’m trying them out. They’re supposed to be freeze resistant and fast growing. They grow fast, that’s for sure, but this is the first winter they’ve been out so we’ll see how they do.”
There was more. Growing fruit and nut orchards, stands of hay, partially cleared fields with cattle on them. Herzer pointed to the latter in question.
“I got together with some other farmers and we rounded up more ferals last year,” Mike said as they passed the last field. “That’s where I got the oxen, too. And you’ve never lived until you’ve tried to turn a feral bull into a plow-ox.”
Herzer laughed again as they came in sight of the house. It was a low, log structure, rough in appearance but sturdy and well made. The barn to the side of it was much larger and made of a combination of logs and sawn wood. There were two or three other outbuildings as well.