He tied the gray horse to the corral and led out the speckled white horse. After that he loaded the dun, the dark horse, the roan, the bay, and the sorrel. Next he saddled the buckskin for himself, tying on the scabbard so that the rifle rode butt-up in front on the right side, where he could protect it from branches or pull it if he needed it. Meanwhile, Bracken saddled the brown horse.
Sunlight was coming in over the treetops as Fielding tied the horses three and three. With the sorrel he passed the lead rope up through the headstall and snugged it around the neck so the horse could travel on its own. Fielding took one last look around the camp, positioned his saddle horse and the lead rope to his string of three, and climbed aboard. Bracken mounted up as well, and the party moved out of camp.
The horses made good time, and the packs rode even. By early afternoon the group made it to Brush Creek, where Fielding decided to stop for a rest and water the horses.
“We’ve come over ten miles,” he said. “Fifteen is all right, but in easy goin’ like this I’d like to make a little more. We’ll be goin’ southwest after we cross here, and we can camp somewhere along Sybille Creek this evenin’. There’s good grass all along there.”
They found a good spot as he had hoped. They stripped the horses and watered them, picketed the dun and the gray, and turned out the rest except the roan. Fielding decided to keep it close for a night horse, and he gave Bracken another bit of instruction.
“Always tie your horse to a live tree, about four feet up like this. Don’t give him more than a couple of feet of rope. Horses always pull backward when they get in a jam, and they don’t know to let up. So don’t put him where he’ll pull a dead tree into his face or get a foot caught over the rope.”
They went on to set up the gear tent, and they were just getting it pegged out when the roan horse nickered. A horseman was riding toward their camp.
As the man came closer, Fielding could see it was Henry Steelyard. The young man waved, came within twenty yards of camp, and dismounted. His round hat was set back on his head, with his wavy brown hair falling over his forehead, and he looked cheerful as always.
“Evenin’, boys,” he said. “Didn’t know whose camp this was, but with that many horses, it figures.”
“You’re welcome to stay,” said Fielding. “Private room, elegant dining.”
Steelyard smiled. “Oh, that’s all right. I was hopin’ to make it a little further today. Just thought I’d stop and say hello.”
“Goin’ far?” Fielding did not want to seem inquisitive, but he saw gear on the back of the horse, and he thought Steelyard was a ways from home to be riding alone.
“I’m headed to Rock River. Know of a place out that way where I can get on.”
“Oh. Did you—”
Steelyard’s casual tone seemed deliberate as he said, “Yeah, I gave notice and rolled my blankets.” He smiled as he looked up and around. “Thought I might see some different country.”
“That’s not all bad.”
“I hope not.” The young puncher’s eyes took in the camp and came back to Fielding. “Well, Tom, I’d better be goin’. It’s good to see you.”
“Likewise, Henry. Good luck where you’re goin.”
“Thanks, Tom. You ever get out west of Rock River, don’t be a stranger.” Steelyard turned to his horse, poked his boot in the stirrup, and swung his leg up and over his bedroll and war bag. He waved to Bracken, touched his hat to Fielding, and rode off at a lope toward Sybille Canyon.
“Who’s that?” asked Bracken.
“Oh, I guess you don’t know him. His name’s Henry Steelyard. He worked for J. P. Cronin for a couple of years, but it sounds like he drew his wages. Don’t know why, in the middle of the season. He’s a good-natured sort, minds his own business. Nice of him to stop in and say hello. You know, it seemed as if he wanted to let me know he was leavin’ there.”
“He didn’t say why.”
“Nah, and it’s not the kind of thing you ask a fella.”
Fielding and Bracken and the two sets of packhorses made good time the next day. They rode a full ten miles west through foothill country and watered the horses where a creek came out of a broad canyon. Higher up on both sides, pine and cedar trees grew among the rocks. Down below, most trees grew in the drainages, such as this one. Pale willows and dark cedars grew here, where the water flowed out of the canyon and rippled over smooth, speckled stones.
Bugs rose from the waterside plants as Fielding and Bracken walked upstream to drink the cool water and wash their faces. Fielding handed Bracken a stick of jerky and took a bite from his own.
“There’s a place about five miles up where there’s a set of pole corrals. It’s worth our while to try to get that far today. Horses don’t seem too tired, but it gets hotter in the canyon, especially in the late afternoon.”
The kid nodded. His eyes had a faraway look, but he came back to the moment and said, “That sounds fine with me.”
They finished the jerky, drank more water, and tied the packhorses together again. Fielding led the way as they went into the canyon.
When they got to the place Fielding had in mind, the corrals were no longer there. A couple of spikes in pine trees showed where poles had been nailed, and the ground was still roughed up from the last year’s wear, but nothing of the corral itself remained except a few stubs in the fire pit.
Fielding let out a long, tired breath. “Isn’t that something?” he said. “Someone took down the whole damn thing for firewood. Must have got stuck here in a cold spell.”
“What’ll we do, then?”
Fielding glanced around as he answered, “Well, we’ve got to make camp one way or another, and these horses need a rest. No reason to let them stand around with their packs on, so we’ll unload everything and decide how to put ’em out. We’ll have to cut some green stakes.”
“And drive ’em deep.”
“That’s right.”
They stripped the horses one by one and tied each horse to a tree where he was clear of the others.
“We need to set up the gear tent,” said Fielding. “That’s it there, and the rope is in the pack next to it.”
As the kid went for the bundle of canvas, Fielding heard the sound of boot heels and spurs. Two men, who hadn’t been on the trail a minute earlier, had appeared on foot at the western edge of the camp area. Fielding’s stomach tightened as he recognized the upturned brim and reddish hair of one man and the high-crowned hat and dark side whiskers of the second. Mahoney and Pence had come to call.
“What do you need?” asked Fielding.
Bracken rose without picking up the canvas. “Who are they?” he asked.
“A couple of Cronin’s men. Just stand by.” When Mahoney and Pence did not answer his question, Fielding asked again, “What do you need?”
“Don’t need anything,” said Pence.
“Aren’t you a ways off of your range?”
Pence wagged his head. “The Argyle runs cattle up here, too, you know. Or maybe you didn’t know that.”
Fielding shrugged. “What do you want here, then?”
Mahoney spoke up. “Who’s that tramp you’ve got with you?”
Fielding felt a spark of anger jump inside. “What’s it to you?”