“I wouldn’t be too worried about that thing right now,” he said. “As soon as we get to Selby’s, you’re going to have to put it in your saddlebag anyway.”
“I know. I’m just tryin’ it out, to see how it fits.”
They got to Selby’s right at dusk and turned their horses into a corral. Two of Roe’s horses, which Fielding knew well enough by now, were in the next corral, and one of Lodge’s sorrels had a pen to itself.
Inside the house, Isabel and her father were sitting in wooden chairs in the sitting room, while Lodge was in the kitchen tuning a mandolin. Fielding said good evening to all present, took off his hat, and turned to where father and daughter sat.
As he gave his hand to Isabel in fuller greeting, he was struck by her beauty. Although she looked fine to him in her everyday clothes, she was enchanting now. Her dark hair, clean and shiny, was held in place with a hair band that crossed her head a few inches back of her brow, and she wore a pair of garnet earrings. Her clean white blouse was set off by a black velvet vest and matching ankle-length skirt, with a pair of narrow black boots barely showing. As he met her eyes a second time, he caught a trace of perfume that made him forget where he was.
Her voice brought him back. “I’m glad you could make it.”
“Oh, uh-huh.” He widened his eyes and collected himself. “Say, I don’t think you’ve met my wrangler, Ed Bracken. Ed, this is Miss Roe.”
The kid had gone easy on his new clothes, wearing mostly his old ones during roundup, so his better set was clean but no longer stiff. He had followed Fielding’s example and had taken off his hat, which he held in front of him as he nodded.
“Pleasure,” he said.
“And a pleasure to meet you,” she answered.
Roe sniffed and said, “Ed worked with us.”
“Yes, I thought so.” Isabel gave the young man a kind smile.
The expression on her face changed as more voices sounded at the open door. Fielding turned to see who else had come.
Selby was throwing his head back and giving his manufactured laugh. “Come on in, come on in,” he said.
Across the threshold came a tall, husky young man with Mullins behind him.
Fielding nodded to Mullins and stood back so that the new arrivals could make a round of greetings. As he did, he made a quick study of the young man who made a beeline for Isabel.
Leaning forward at the waist and sporting a broad smile, the fellow took off his hat with a sweep. When he stood up, Fielding saw that he had a square-topped head, heavy cheekbones, and a long jawline tapering to a broad chin. He had a filmy complexion and light brown eyes that went with the tone of his dull, light-colored, coarse hair. As he put his hat back on, Fielding was impressed with how clean it was, and he imagined the man had taken it out of the box for this occasion.
Roe looked up from where he sat, and as he held out his hand he said, “Evenin’, Ray.”
The other man dwarfed Roe’s hand with his own. “Same to you. Good to see you.” Then he turned toward Fielding and said, “Ray Foote.” With his elbow lifted, he brought around his large, thick hand.
Fielding met the impact and said, “Tom Fielding.”
The light brown eyes carried a look of self-assurance as Foote released his grasp. “You’re the horseman,” he said, his voice a little louder than before. “I have a few myself.”
“That’s good.”
Selby’s voice came up from behind. “You shoulda been with us on roundup.”
The smile came back. “Maybe next time I will.” Then with a nod, Foote said, “Pleased to meet you,” and moved on to introduce himself to Bracken.
“Likewise,” said Fielding. He took measure of the man, who was more large-boned than broad-shouldered, though he filled out the starched, wheat-colored shirt that he wore. He was thick at the hips as well, and his tan corduroy pants covered the tops of a pair of heavy boots.
After Foote had made the rounds, he went outside and came back in with a narrow package wrapped in newspaper.
Roe sat up in his chair as Foote walked toward him.
“Thought you might like to open this,” said the big man.
Roe took the item and peeled off the newspaper to reveal a quart of whiskey. “That’s the good stuff,” he said. Then he handed the bottle to Foote and said, “You can open it if you want.” As Foote took out his pocketknife to trim the seal, the older man reached under his chair and brought up a tin cup.
Lodge, who had come out from the kitchen, said, “That’s a handy cup you’ve got there. It’s the same kind Cedric uses.”
Roe cocked his eyebrow, and without taking his eye off the bottle he said, “You won’t find me puttin’ any water in this.”
Foote poured a generous amount into the tin cup, then lifted the bottle as he turned to Lodge. “Care for a snort?”
“I’ll have a little.”
Fielding took advantage of the distraction to meet eyes with Isabel. She pointed to a chair nearby, so he crossed the room, drew the chair near her, and took a seat.
He looked up in time to see Bracken shaking his head at the offer of a drink as Foote held the bottle in front of the kid. Foote went on to pour a drink for Selby, and when he came around to Fielding, a look of displeasure crossed his face. He made a quick recovery of his smile, however, and said, “Have a drink?”
“I’ll wait, thanks.”
“Pour one for yourself,” said Roe.
“I think I will.”
Mullins, who had taken a chair by himself near the kitchen, sat with his arms folded and did not seem in the least as if he felt left out.
Selby, Foote, and Lodge remained standing. Selby kept the conversation going with the usual topics of the weather, how the grass was drying out, and how the crops were doing. He recalled years when the rain had never come, and years when the grasshoppers had been a plague.
“If it’s not one thing it’s another,” he said. “You get good rain and no hoppers, and then you get hailed on.”
“Isn’t that the truth?” said Roe. He held out his cup toward Foote, who picked up the bottle from the floor where he had set it out of the way.
“I’m just glad that the roundup went so well,” Selby continued.
“You got a good count on your cattle?” asked Foote, who seemed to adopt the knowing way of a cattleman as he squeaked the cork out of the bottle.
Roe held his cup forward. “Good as you could expect.”
The talk subsided, and after a minute of silence, Selby spoke again. “Say, Richard, were you going to give us a song or two?”
Lodge swirled his glass, which he had not yet emptied. “I guess I could.” He carried the glass to the kitchen and came back with his mandolin. “Any requests?” he asked.
“Do ‘Lorena,’ ” said Selby. “I never get tired of it.”
Lodge plucked at the strings, got set, and delivered the song with smiling melancholy. When he had finished and the applause died away, he asked, “Something else?”
Selby spoke again. “Oh, do ‘Cowboy Jack’ to go along with it.”
Lodge’s face lit up. “That’s nice and sad and mournful. Let’s give it a try.” The mandolin made a thin, weepy sound as Lodge began to sing.
“He was just a lonely cowboy,
But his heart was kind and true;
He won the heart of a maiden
With eyes of heaven’s own blue.”
Fielding saw Bracken shift and look at his feet. The kid coughed, and Lodge sang on.
“They learned to love each other,
And named their wedding day;