“Damn,” said Fielding. “You watch these, and I’ll go get him.” He ran to the bay horse, which he had not yet unsaddled. In a few seconds he untied the neck rope, set his reins, and swung aboard.
He set out on a trot after the roan. He did not want to come galloping up behind the other horse, or it might take off in a game of run and walk. Instead, he kept the bay on a fast trot and gained on the roan. Coming up alongside, he leaned over and got hold of the rope, then dallied it to his saddle horn. The roan did not resist, so Fielding turned both horses and headed back to the campsite on a soft lope.
Just before he got to the trees, he felt a tug on the rope and heard the blast of a rifle. The roan horse went down and jerked the bay sideways, and a second shot crashed.
Fielding jerked the dally loose and threw the rope aside, then kicked the bay into a pounding run until he made it to the trees. He pulled the horse to a quick halt and yanked his rifle from the scabbard. On the first shot he had thought that Baker in a perverse moment had shot at the roan, but he placed the second shot as coming from across the opening, where pine trees grew in a slope of jumbled rocks.
He searched the hillside, which lay in shade, and when he saw movement he placed the object in his sights and fired. It moved again, a man crouched and running uphill. He picked up the target, got a bead on it again, and squeezed the trigger.
The gunshot split the evening, and then the wallop of a bullet hitting a body came echoing back. A man’s cry lifted in the air.
Fielding waited. He thought he heard a second voice, the rattle of rocks, a scuffling sound. Dusk began to draw in. Baker had not moved from his position behind the dark horse, which he clutched by the headstall and packsaddle.
Fielding held still awhile longer. As the evening grew darker, he concluded that the man or men had made it up the hill and gotten away. “I think they’re gone,” he said to Baker in a low voice. “Whoever it was, I don’t think they were shootin’ just to get the horse.”
Baker’s pale face was visible in the dusk. “What are we gonna do?”
“I guess we finish unpacking and keep the horses tied close in. We’ve got plenty of grain left. We’ll use the tent for a tarp to cover the gear, not set up the sleepin’ tent.”
“What if they come?”
“I don’t think they will, but there’s no need to give them an easy target. It looks like a night for a cold camp. No fire.”
Baker swore under his breath.
“I think they’re long gone,” said Fielding. “I think I hit one, and the other one’s got his hands full trying to get him away. Let’s get these animals taken care of and get a bite to eat for ourselves.”
In the morning, the dead horse lay where it had fallen. Baker would not even go to the edge of the trees, so Fielding went out and got the halter and rope. When he came back to camp, Baker was smoking a cigarette and had a heavy sulk on his face.
“Look,” said Fielding, “I don’t like this any better than you do. If they were shooting at anybody, it was me and not you. Like I’ve already said more than once, I think they’re long gone. As for us, there’s no point in stayin’ holed up here. The sooner we get on the trail and out of this canyon, the better. I think we can make it back to Chug in one long day if we get a move on.”
Baker muttered something.
“I didn’t catch that,” said Fielding.
“I haven’t even had a cup of coffee yet.”
“Oh, don’t worry. We’ll have breakfast. If you want to get a fire going, I’ll feed the horses.” Fielding took a breath and shook his head. “One less to feed anyhow.”
They rode into Chugwater at nightfall, coming in by the northern edge of the huge bluffs that overlooked the town. Below them to the east, lights showed in a few windows.
Ten minutes later, they halted the pack string in front of the livery stable and dismounted. Faint light filtered out of the stable door, and out of habit Fielding counted his horses.
“I’m going to put up here for the night,” he said. “I can take care of the animals, and you can go on home if you’d like. I’ll give you this now.”
He handed Baker a ten-dollar gold piece, which the man held up close to his face and then dropped into his pocket. He gave the reins and lead rope to Fielding, then took his duffel bag out of the pannier on the white horse.
Out of courtesy more than anything else, Fielding said, “I’ll have a little more work comin’ up later on. Don’t know if you’ll be interested.”
“I don’t think so,” said Baker. “I’ve had enough of wranglin’ in the mountains.” In his slow way he walked to the bench, sat down, and began to roll a cigarette.
Holding two sets of reins and two lead ropes, Fielding led his eight horses to the stable door.
Chapter Nine
The campsite on Antelope Creek looked the same as when Fielding had left it ten days earlier, with the exception that it now lay in midafternoon sunlight and did not have the freshness of morning.
Fielding unloaded all the gear and turned out the horses. The poles were where he had left them, so he set up the gear tent and his sleeping tent. By then he was tired and sweaty, and he could tell he had been on the trail awhile. He went to the creek and had a bath, changed into clean clothes, and washed the ones he had been wearing.
The sun was slipping in the west. He felt worn out and empty but not hungry. After taking a last look at his horses, he went into the small tent and went to bed.
Flies in the tent woke him, and he saw he had slept past sunrise. The sun was beginning to warm the tent, and that was what got the flies going.
He rolled out of bed, pulled on his clean clothes, and went out to check on the horses. Everything seemed to be in order. He moved the picket horses and gave grain to the buckskin in the corral. Having no pressing business in town and being in no hurry to talk to other people, he decided to make some biscuits.
Once he went to the trouble of getting a bed of coals, it was worth his while to make a full batch. A half batch often did not come out as well, and besides, he had plenty of provisions.
First he sliced the amount of bacon he thought he would need to give him enough grease. He laid the slices in the cast-iron skillet and set it on the coals to cook as he got out the dry ingredients and mea sured them.
In less than ten minutes, the smell of frying bacon seeped out from the covered skillet. Fielding picked up his wooden pothook, a little over two feet long, and lifted the lid. A cloud of steam rose as the crackling sound came alive. Fielding set the lid on a log, took up his fork, and turned the pieces. Then he settled the lid onto the skillet again, to keep the drifting bits of ash from landing in the food.
With the same two-pronged roasting fork, he mixed the dry ingredients he had measured out—flour, baking powder, and salt. He stirred round and round one way, then the other. He shook the metal bowl and leveled the mix, then worked the middle with up-and-down circular strokes.
Setting the dry mix aside, he handled the pothook again and took the lid off the skillet. The bacon had all turned brown and crisp, so he lifted the skillet off the fire and forked all the pieces onto a tin plate. It looked as if he had just enough grease, so he poured it into a tin measuring cup. When the grease rose to the half-cup level, all he had left in the skillet was grains and crumbs of bacon with less than a spoonful of grease, so he set the skillet aside.
Dry heat rose from the coals as he settled the Dutch oven into the place where the skillet had been. With the pothook he set the hot lid on the oven, as the lid fit both cast-iron implements.
Now he poured the grease into the mixing bowl and stirred with the big fork. He stirred and folded, stirred and folded, until he had an even consistency of dough. He set aside the bowl and the fork. With a small piece of cloth he swabbed grease from the skillet and wiped it onto two tin plates. Then with a large tablespoon he dropped gobs of dough—a star of five, with a lump in the center—so that he had six biscuits ready in each plate.