Lifting the lid of the oven, he saw smoke rising from the bottom of the pot, so he set the first plate inside and covered up. He went about tidying up his materials while the first bunch cooked. After ten or twelve minutes, he lifted the lid and turned the biscuits.
By the time he had dug out another plate, served himself a portion of bacon, and poured a cup of coffee, the biscuits had baked a couple of minutes more, so he lifted out the plate and put in the one with the raw dough.
The biscuits tasted smoky with a hint of bacon, plus a bitterness from the tin plate, but they were good, especially parted in the middle with a piece of bacon stuck in. When the first bunch was gone, the second plate was ready to take out. He set it aside to cool next to the bacon, which he covered with a sheet of newspaper. He would eat the second portions cold.
Although he felt better after taking on a meal, the empty feeling still haunted him. He recalled the previous time in this camp, and others before that, when the kid Bracken had eaten by the same fire. The kid had liked this camp, the horses, the work—Fielding shook his head and tried to get rid of the tightness in his throat. It didn’t do any good to dwell on sadness, but he couldn’t just forget about the kid.
After two cups of coffee, Fielding cleaned up the camp and put things away. It was time to go back out into the world and see if any news had come this way ahead of him.
He saddled the buckskin and corralled the other horses. After taking a look around the campsite, he mounted up and set out upstream. He crossed the creek sooner than he usually did and took a wide way around, to put a line of hills between himself and Dunvil’s camp. Fielding did not know if the wild-bearded man was still around, but if he was, Fielding preferred to wait until later to visit with him.
Angling to the southwest again, Fielding came over the last hill and paused to take a view of the Magpie, Richard Lodge’s little spread. Everything looked the same as on his last visit except that the grass was drier, fading to a pale green, and Lodge was not standing in his pasture. The two sorrels were there, standing head to tail and swishing flies.
As Fielding rode down the hill, he saw Lodge working in the shade of the cabin. It looked as if he was washing something in a tub. Fielding nudged the horse around the front of the house, where he dismounted near the hitching rail.
“Go ahead and tie up,” Lodge called out.
Fielding did so, and as he walked around the hindquarters of the buckskin he saw the pile of stones by the cabin door. He could not tell if it had grown any since he had seen it before. Another couple of steps took him into the shade where Lodge was working.
The man had the sleeves rolled up on his drab work shirt, and his dark gray vest was buttoned, the better to keep it from dipping into the water. The tub itself, round and galvanized, rested on the bench that usually sat against the house. Lodge pushed down with a swishing, burbling sound, then amidst the rushing of water he raised up a dripping saddle blanket. Lodge dunked it again, sloshed it up and down, and pulled it out.
Fielding could almost feel it himself, sodden and heavy, and the smell of wet wool carried in the short distance.
“I’ll be done in a minute or two,” said Lodge.
“No hurry.”
Lodge held the blanket up higher, to clear the edge of the tub, and carried it to the top plank of the corral. There he spread it out lengthwise as he had done to the first one. Returning to the bench, he picked up a tin bucket from the ground and dipped it into the tub. He pulled it up and carried it out front, where he poured the water into the earthen bowl around a knee-high cedar tree. It was one of a pair of trees, fifteen yards from the cabin door, that Fielding hadn’t paid much attention to because the trees were so small.
Lodge returned for a second bucket of water and poured the contents around the other tree. He took two more trips, then lifted the tub to pour the last of the dirty water into the bucket. This last amount he divided between the two trees.
Fielding thought the man might be done, but he pumped half a bucket of water into the pail, rinsed the tub with it, and poured the water back into the pail. Again he gave an equal portion to each tree. After that he took the pail and the tub around back, where Fielding heard the door open and then close a few seconds later.
Lodge came back, picked up the bench, and set it in its usual place. “Have a seat,” he said. “Don’t sit in the wet spot.” When they were both settled in place, he gave Fielding an expectant look and said, “Well, tell me of your travels.”
Fielding took a breath as he thought about how to begin. “Quite a bit happened, as it turned out. Some of it may have gotten back ahead of me.”
“Go ahead.”
“Well, we got loaded up and pulled out of here the next morning after I saw you last. The first day out, nothin’ much to report except we saw Henry Steelyard, who said he was on his way to Rock River.”
“I heard he left.”
“The next day we got into the mountains, and everything went all right until we started to make camp. And who should show up but that smart-talkin’ kid Mahoney and his backup man, Pence.”
“Out there?”
“That’s right. So Mahoney starts needlin’ my wrangler, Ed, and finally goads him into a fight. Ed tries to pull his gun, which he had just bought, and Mahoney puts two bullets through him. I’m sure they were tryin’ to get me to play in—Pence even invited me—but I didn’t go for it, and I think they didn’t want to draw first, just in case everything didn’t go right for them. Then they wouldn’t be able to say it was self-defense, which they could with Ed. I’ll tell you, I felt worthless, knowin’ that I was the cause of it and then couldn’t do anything about it without gettin’ killed myself.”
“No need to do that.” Lodge moistened his lips as he nodded. “Curious how news travels. All we heard was that Ed died and you had to take him into Chugwater.”
“I did that, and while I was at it I hired another man. He wasn’t much of a hand, but he did help out, and we got all our goods delivered. Then on the way back, someone ambushed us as we were unloading. A horse got loose and I went after it, and as I was comin’ back into camp, someone opened up. Missed me and got the horse.”
“Killed it?”
“Dead center. Son of a bitch. Whoever it was, I got a couple of shots at him, and I think I hit him on the second one. I heard him holler. I’m pretty sure someone else was with him and helped him get away. Well, that scared the hell out of my hired hand, but we didn’t have any more trouble. We got back into Chug on one long haul the next day.”
“Whew,” said Lodge as he let out a long breath. “I imagine you’ve got your suspicions as to who it was.”
“I’d guess it was Mahoney and Pence again, but there’s no way I can prove anything.”
“Purely circumstantial.”
“My thought is, they tried it one way, and then they tried it another. But I can’t prove without a doubt that it was them, or that they were shootin’ at me and not the horse, for whatever difference that would make.”
“Interesting circumstances, though,” said Lodge, extending his previous comment. “Word is, young hot-blood Mahoney got hurt in some kind of shooting mishap. Didn’t kill him but put him out of action. He’s laid up at the Argyle, and they had to telegraph for a doctor. Otherwise, I doubt anyone would know that much.”