Fielding was thinking that he and Lodge could stand back and hold the horses, but Selby turned and said over his shoulder, “Don’t lag behind, boys. Come right in behind me.” So Fielding and Lodge followed the other two up to the edge of the shade, and Fielding moved to one side so he could see the men seated.
Closest to him, sitting upright with his hands on his knees, was J. P. Cronin. Fielding guessed him to be somewhere in his fifties, as he had blond hair running to silver, eyes bulging in a florid face, and a waistline spreading beneath his waistcoat. He was clean-shaven, and he showed a mouth full of teeth as he smiled. He wore a cream-colored hat, furrowed on top with a dent along each side, then a tan, frock-style coat with matching pants and vest, a gold watch chain, and an ivory-colored shirt with pearly buttons all the way down. His dark gun belt and dark-handled revolver matched his stovepipe boots, which rested flat on the ground and were trimmed with small silver spurs. Still smiling, Cronin rotated his head to take in the four visitors, and with his left hand he raised a dark cigar to his mouth.
He took a puff, and as the cloud drifted up, he said, “Hello, boys.”
Cedric used the moment to take out his cigarette case, open it, and offer it to Buchanan and Adler. Buchanan accepted a cigarette, while Adler declined with a shake of the head. The foreman tugged on a watch chain, pulled out a silver watch, and began to wind it.
Selby answered, “Good afternoon, sir.”
“Come for your stock, did you?”
“That’s right, sir.”
Cronin smiled as he rested his cigar hand on his knee. “I’m glad you did.” His body heaved upward and then relaxed as he took a breath. “Here’s how I think we can do it. We didn’t separate your cattle because we didn’t have a place to put them, so you can ride in and cut ’em out. A couple of our boys’ll hold ’em for you, and when you’re done you can each sign for what you got, and be on your way. Shouldn’t take long, really.”
Selby put on his smile. “Sounds good. We appreciate the trouble you’re goin’ to. We should have sent a rep, but we didn’t have anyone to spare.”
“It’s quite all right,” said Cronin. “As soon as you’re done we’re going to brand, so no one’s going anywhere this afternoon anyway.”
Fielding glanced at the punchers lounging around, and he noticed both Pence and Mahoney as well as Henry Steelyard and a handful of others he recognized.
“Real good,” said Selby. He turned to the other three and said, “Let’s go, boys.”
They led their horses around the back of the tent, mounted up, and rode to the herd. Fielding was riding the sorrel, and he hoped the horse would do all right if he had to do any cutting.
The puncher who was riding the edge of the near side of the herd turned out to meet them. “I believe we’ve got thirteen cows, eleven calves, and seven steers,” he said, “but you can see for yourselves.”
Selby sent Fielding and Lodge to the far side of the herd while he and Roe worked the near side. The plan, as Fielding learned, was for one man to ride into the herd and cut out a cow and pass her off to his partner. If the calf didn’t follow right away, the second fellow waited, and if the calf still didn’t come out, he took the cow around to the men who were holding the cut. All these punchers of Buchanan’s and Cronin’s would have been keeping an eye on the other brands, and between them they would know which cows had calves and which didn’t.
Lodge rode into the herd and brought out a red cow, and a calf came trailing a few yards behind. Fielding pushed the cow around the edge of the herd until he came to the day herder, who pointed to an area a couple of hundred yards to the south, where two men sat on horses. Fielding delivered the cow and calf, nodded, and loped back.
The herd was not packed tight, so Lodge moved in and among the animals without getting jammed very much. In a little while he emerged with a brindle cow right ahead of him.
“I think this one’s by herself,” he said. “She looks dry.”
Fielding concurred and took the cow around.
Two hours passed, and little by little the men made their cut. They had all the animals they had expected to find except for one calf. The mother cow bellowed nonstop and kept trying to break out and go back to the main herd.
Selby nodded as he looked over the small herd and took a count. “Not a yearling heifer in the bunch,” he said.
“If there was, they probably ate her and buried the hide,” said Roe.
“No use worryin’ about it.” Selby pulled his gloves snug. “Let’s ride over to the tent and sign for these, and maybe that last calf’ll come out by the time we get back.”
Fielding held the horses while the other three men went under the canopy. Cronin, Cedric, and Buchanan held the same seats as before, while Adler stood in the sunlight, his silver watch chain glinting as he turned in conversation with three of the men. A couple of other punchers stood by with saddled horses, while a couple more got their mounts ready for the afternoon’s work. The rest, who would be wrestling the roped calves and holding them down for the hot iron, were standing in groups of two or three. Mahoney and Pence stood in the group closest to the canopy.
Selby and the other two small cattlemen took a while talking to Cronin and Buchanan, writing out their statements of receipt, and signing. On a couple of occasions, Selby’s voice rose in an artificial note as he tossed back his head and laughed. Roe took out his jackknife and sharpened his stub of a pencil while Cedric watched. Lodge seemed to be keeping track of where Adler mingled.
At last the voices took on a tone of finality, and Selby gave a closing laugh. He and Roe and Lodge turned away and headed toward Fielding and the horses. As they walked within five yards of Pence and Mahoney, the big man said something that Fielding didn’t catch from where he stood. Selby shrugged and kept walking.
Mahoney’s voice came out with a challenging ring. “He said something to you.”
Selby stopped and turned halfway. Roe and Lodge stopped as well. “I heard him,” Selby replied.
“He said he lost a sack of Deuce.”
Selby’s face colored. “That’s no concern of mine. I don’t smoke.”
“He said he lost a sack of Deuce.”
“Are you his parrot?”
“He thinks one of you might have picked it up.”
Mahoney struck an antagonistic pose as he stood with his chin lifted and his thumbs in his gun belt. The sun shone full on his upturned brim and reddish hair, and his nostrils seemed to flare. His voice had a sneer in it, and Fielding thought he saw a method taking place. Mahoney would get the person riled, and Pence would take it from there. From the way the kid had gotten under Selby’s skin, it looked as if Mahoney knew what he was good at.
“Well, we didn’t.”
“What did you put in your back pocket?”
“My gloves. I took ’em off to sign those papers.” Selby reached back, pulled out his gloves, and reached up to give them a shake as he showed them. Before he could give them a second flick, Pence came out of nowhere with his right fist and punched Selby on the side of the face.
Selby fell back a step and a half, got his footing, and charged forward. Pence landed another punch, this one a haymaker that snapped Selby’s head back, sent his hat flying, and knocked him to the ground. Before Selby could get up, Mahoney kicked him in the head.
Fielding dropped the reins and launched in. As he did, Lodge came into the scuffle as well, saying, “Hey, we’ll have none of that.”
Fielding got between Selby and Mahoney and gave the kid a shove. As the kid went backward, Lodge appeared at Fielding’s right, to stand between the fallen Selby and the aggressor, Pence.