The stable man said that he had thought of one person who “might could use some work.” His name was Baker, and he was no great shakes, but the stable man would send for him if Fielding wanted.
Fielding said he would give it a try. He sat on a bench in the shade outside while a boy ran the errand.
About fifteen minutes later, a tall, slender, pale fellow showed up. He was not wearing a hat, and although he was only about twenty-five, his strawberry blond hair was receding on both sides above his forehead. From the way he moved he seemed to run on low energy, and he talked that way as well.
“Said you’re lookin’ for help.”
Fielding stood up to talk to him. “I am. I need a man to go to the mountains with me and help with my packhorses.”
“What’s it pay?”
“Dollar and a half a day. We start out today, we call it a full day. Same comin’ back.”
The man gave a slow nod and seemed to be looking at nothing in particular.
“You know how to work around horses?” asked Fielding.
“Been around ’em.” The man raised his head and turned it side to side. “Where are they?”
“The one you’ll ride is in here, along with mine. We’ve got to pick up the rest where I left ’em in the mountains.” Thinking that he might as well level with the man from the beginning, Fielding added, “I had to leave ’em there because my other man got hurt. Killed, actually. But it wasn’t the horses. Some-thin’ personal between him and another fella. But they’ve got nothin’ against you.”
The man took on his vacant look again. “Lemme have a cirrette and I’ll think about it.”
Fielding thought he was asking for a cigarette, but the man reached into the pocket of his loose trousers and took out a sack of tobacco. He shuffled over to the bench, sat down, hooked one leg over the other, leaned forward, and rolled a cigarette. He lit it and smoked it down halfway, resting his elbow on his elevated knee. Then he turned, and with his pale eyelids open a little more than before, he asked, “How many days we be out?”
“I’d say six, altogether.”
He took another drag and said, “I guess I can do it. I’ll go tell my ma.” He stood up.
Fielding looked him over again. “If there’s anything you don’t have, we’d better get it before we leave town. You’ll need a hat, a coat, a change of clothes, boots, a bedroll, a slicker if you’ve got it.”
“I’ve got all that. I’ll be back in a li’l bit.”
“I’ll wait here. By the way, did I hear this man correct, that your name’s Baker?”
“Yeah. I just don’t like to be called Slim.”
Baker came back in about half an hour, wearing a dust-colored hat with a narrow brim. He was carrying a cotton sack by the neck, and it didn’t look as if it held much more than a shirt, a pair of trousers, and maybe a pair of socks.
Fielding eyed the sack. “Is there anything you need to get?”
“It’s all in here,” said Baker.
Fielding settled with the stable keeper and brought out the horses. He showed Baker which one he was to ride, and after getting the duffel bag tied on and the man up into the saddle, he adjusted the stirrups by letting them out a couple of inches.
The first night out, the lanky blond man slept under horse blankets with his nose straight up and his mouth open. The second night, after Fielding and his new wrangler had picked up the packhorses and gotten them on the trail again, Fielding gave Baker the bedroll he had made up for the kid. Baker took it without question or comment.
By the second morning, Fielding caught himself getting impatient with the man. Baker seemed to do everything with the least amount of effort possible, as his arms hung at his sides most of the time and his feet did not come very high off the ground. At one point when they were breaking camp, Fielding was rolling up a canvas top pack when Baker appeared at his side and mumbled, “You better come n’ see ’bout this horse.”
Fielding had heard some thrashing, but the sound had subsided, so he had not quit in the middle of his task. Now he got up and went with Baker to see what the problem was.
The roan horse lay on its side in the midst of foot-high pine and aspen trees. It was wild-eyed and heaving slow, with its chin tucked to its chest as the lead rope held taut between its headstall and a four-inch-thick aspen. Fielding could see at a glance that Baker had given the horse too much slack and it had straddled the rope, tripped itself, and pulled back by nature. After each loud breath, the horse kicked in the air. It rocked to one side, pushed partway up, and fell again.
Fielding shook his head. The knots were pulled tight, and it was hard to get any slack on a horse in this position. Losing no time, he took out his knife and opened it, decided not to risk getting cut or kicked, and cut the rope where it was tied at the tree.
The roan’s head jerked back, its legs flailed, and it clambered to its feet in a cloud of dust.
“Why didn’t you do something sooner?” asked Fielding.
“I din’t wanna get kicked.”
Fielding took a short, heavy breath. “Well, go get that horse—no, I’ll get him. You untie that rope from the tree. I’ll have to splice it later.”
Fielding went after the roan and caught him without much trouble. On his way back, he realized he had not told Baker how to tie up a horse. The man didn’t show much interest when Fielding did tell him something, and Fielding felt a futility in trying to teach what someone didn’t care to learn. Nevertheless, if he was going to get any use out of the man, he was going to have to go through the same things he went through with the kid. He led the roan back to the aspen tree, where Baker was pushing the heel of his hand against the tight knots.
“Here,” he said. “Let me show you how to tie a horse so he doesn’t get in trouble like this one did. Tie him at this height and give him only a couple of feet of slack.” He glanced at Baker, who looked on with indifference. “All right,” he went on. “Go ahead and get that piece untied, and we’ll get back to work. We’ll load this fella later, give him a while to cool down. But he’ll be all right.” He patted the roan on the neck and moved away.
As they were getting the horses lined out, Fielding made another effort at explaining the work to his new wrangler.
“Notice how none of these horses is very tall. Fifteen hands at the most.” He started with this point because he imagined it was something Baker could recognize in his own terms, as the man did not have to lift his foot very high to step into the stirrup. “That’s good in a packin’ horse, not only so you can get the load on easier but so it doesn’t scrape on as many branches. And as you can see, we try to keep the top packs low.”
Baker nodded but did not look at the horses.
“Let’s get going, then. We’ll do the same as yesterday. I’ll go first with my four, and—”
“Lemme roll a cirrette first.”
Fielding took a quick inward breath. “Go ahead. I’ll take a last look around.” As he did, he found where Baker had left the tent rope, uncoiled, lying in the thin grass. Words ran through Fielding’s mind. Slow, lazy son of a bitch. Drops everything at his ass. He picked up the rope and coiled it as he walked back to the pack string. He waited for Baker to finish lighting his cigarette, and then he held up the rope and said, “We need to be more careful, not leave things lying around.”