“Looks like someone’s comin’.”
Fielding turned where he sat, and following Lodge’s gaze, he peered to the northeast. Two riders were coming toward the camp. Fielding returned to his meal.
A few minutes later, the two men stopped their horses at the wagon and dismounted. They spoke to Mullins, handed their reins to the kid Grant, and came forward. Fielding recognized the man on the right as Joe Buchanan, while the one on the left took a few seconds to identify.
The man was of the same height as Buchanan. He wore tan canvas pants and a matching jacket, the latter open in front and not quite concealing a small gun and holster that rode high on his hip. He also wore a tan, high-crowned hat that sloped down in front. The wide brim shaded his features, and it was not until Fielding noticed the blond hair and searching eyes that he recognized Cedric the Saxon.
The two men walked in under the fly and stood in the shade. Cedric’s gooseberry-colored eyes took in the men seated on the ground, and he arched his eyebrows as the corners of his mouth turned down. Buchanan smiled at nobody in particular. As usual, he was dressed in dark brown from his hat to his boots, and he wore dark spurs. Fielding glanced at Cedric’s tan boots and saw a pair of silver spurs.
“Afternoon, boys,” said Buchanan.
The four men on the ground returned the greeting.
“I hope your roundup’s going all right,” Buchanan continued.
“Slow but sure,” Selby replied.
“That’s good. We’re movin’ along, too.” Buchanan took a breath and continued. “As you know, my outfit is in together with the Argyle’s. We’re runnin’ a full crew, and right now we’re on the other side of the valley and a little ways north.”
He paused as the men on the ground nodded.
Cedric took the occasion to reach into his jacket and bring out a tan leather case. He pressed a brass button, and the case opened. He offered it to Buchanan, who took out a tailor-made cigarette, and then he lifted out one for himself. As Cedric put the case away, Buchanan produced a match and lit the two cigarettes. Cedric held his between the tips of his first two fingers as he blew away the smoke. Then, wrinkling his nose, he turned around to look at the rest of the camp.
Buchanan spoke again. “What I came to tell you is that we’ve made a pretty good gather so far.” Cupping the cigarette as he held it between thumb and forefinger, he took a puff. “In amongst the stuff we’ve got is a few head of your stock.” He nodded at Selby, Roe, and Lodge. “I believe we’ve got something of each of yours.”
Fielding had the distinct feeling that Buchanan avoided looking at him. He told himself it didn’t matter, as he didn’t have any cattle. He went on eating his meal.
“If you’d like to come and get your stock,” Buchanan went on, “sometime today or tomorrow would be a good time. We’ll hold the herd, and you can cut out what’s yours.”
Selby spoke up. “I think tomorrow would work better for us. About this time of day?”
Buchanan nodded. “That should be fine. I’ll let the others know, and we can be expectin’ you.” He took another drag on his cigarette and looked around. “This weather is all a man could ask for, isn’t it?”
Selby smiled. “Couldn’t be better.”
“Well,” said Buchanan, with an intake of breath as he drew himself up straight, “we’d best be gettin’ back.” He turned to Cedric, who met his glance and gave a curt nod.
“Be sure to get something to eat before you go,” said Selby. “There’s plenty.”
Buchanan gave a short smile. “Thanks, but we ate before we came over.”
“Good enough,” said Selby. “We’ll see you tomorrow.”
“You bet.” Buchanan and Cedric went out from under the canvas fly.
When the two men had mounted their horses and ridden away, Roe spoke up. “Who the hell is he?”
“Why, that’s Joe Buchanan,” Selby answered. “You know him.”
“I mean the dandy with his nose in the air.”
Selby cleared his throat. “I believe that’s a personal friend of Cronin’s. Isn’t that right, Richard?”
“That’s right. Name of Cedric. Sociable chap, as you can see.”
Roe, who had smoked his own cigarette down to a pinch, said, “That’s some kind of case he’s got for his smokes.”
“Goes along with his tin cup,” said Lodge. “Did you see it tied to his saddle horn? He carries it so he doesn’t have to get down on his belly to drink from a spring, or cup water in his hands from a stream. I heard he won’t drink from the same dipper as the other men, either.”
“Well, he’s British,” said Selby.
“What is he, some kind of a remittance man?” Roe’s voice had a nasal whine to it.
Selby shrugged. “I don’t know.”
“What’s that?” asked Fielding.
Selby looked at Lodge, who had leaned over to rest on his right forearm.
“A remittance man,” said Lodge, “is a fellow, usually from England, who lives off his relatives back home. His family sends him money, in remittances as they call it, so he’ll stay over here—in this country or Canada—and not come home and be an embarrassment to them. Usually some prodigal, I guess. But I don’t think our friend Cedric is one of them. From what I heard, his father is one of your foreign investors in cattle. Pal of Cronin’s.”
“Well, I didn’t like his looks.” Roe poked his finger between his neck and bandanna and rubbed back and forth.
Lodge gave a short laugh. “I doubt that he liked ours, either. But that’s not goin’ to keep me from enjoyin’ a cup of coffee.”
The four riders left camp after noon dinner the next day, leaving the other workers at their regular tasks—Bracken to keep in the cattle herd, Topper to watch the horse herd, and Mullins and Grant to clean up after the midday meal and start working on supper. Fielding wondered, as he did at times, at the efficiency of having four workers in camp and only four men to make the gather, but Selby seemed satisfied with the progress they were making.
The men rode two abreast, with Selby and Roe in front and Fielding with Lodge a few paces back. Unlike Roe, who slouched in the saddle and listed to one side or another, Selby rode straight up, with his chin lifted. He kept a cheerful air about him, which struck Fielding as being maintained for effect. Although Selby had shown resistance in the set-to with Cronin’s men a couple of weeks earlier, he now seemed willing to go out of his way to get along with men from the other camp. Fielding had noticed also that Selby did not join in on the casual remarks about Cronin, Cedric, and the others. If he was hoping to avoid confrontation, he was giving it a good try.
The four riders made it to the other roundup camp in less than an hour. Fielding had seen it from a mile away, as it sat on high ground and had a thin cloud of dust hovering over it. Selby brought his horse to a stop at the edge of the camp, and the other three did likewise, as it was common courtesy to let the horses relieve themselves before going in as well as to stir up less dust.
At present, the Argyle and Buchanan crew was having dinner and taking noontime rest. Fielding counted fourteen punchers either sitting cross-legged or stretched out on the grass. To the left of them, under a canopy that came off the big tent, four men sat on folding chairs. Fielding identified them as Cronin, Cedric, Buchanan, and Adler. To the right, the chuck wagon cook and his helper moved between the fire pit and the tail end of the wagon. Farther back, to the right, an empty wagon that would serve as the bed wagon for hauling bedrolls between camps now stood as the base for the rope corral that held the horse herd. Fielding estimated over a hundred head in the bunch, plus the day wrangler’s horse, tied to a wagon wheel, another horse tied to the chuck wagon, and four or five that were ground-hitched beyond the tent and canopy. Farther back yet, two day herders on horseback rode around the cattle herd, which looked as if it held from three to four hundred head. The mooing and bawling of the cattle rose in the constant din a man got used to on roundup grounds.