Fielding sorted through what Lodge had just told him. Then he said, “I have to admit, I don’t feel guilty about the possibility that I was the one who put a bullet in him. On the other hand, I don’t like feeling satisfied about it. Doesn’t feel right.”
“Take what you can get,” said Lodge. “If it was your bullet, then it was his that killed your horse. Not to mention that kid Bracken.”
“I know that was a setup, but on the face of it, it was a fair fight. But you’re right. I just don’t want to feel too satisfied about it. And besides, even though they’ll deny bein’ anywhere near, they’ll know that I know, and they might want to even the score yet.”
Lodge raised his eyebrows. “That’s a good practical way of lookin’ at it.”
Fielding pushed with the heels of both hands on the bench as he looked forward. “I don’t like it. I don’t like it at all.” Turning to Lodge, he said, “What else have you heard?”
“Not much. Maybe one little thing. Joe Buchanan left on a trip to St. Louis. Took his wife and daughter with him, to see about a school for the girl. Finishing school, or something like that. They don’t expect him back until just before fall roundup.”
“Huh,” said Fielding. “When did he leave?”
“Right after I saw you last. About the time you and the kid were settin’ out on your trip.”
Fielding gave it a thought. “More or less when Steelyard left. Maybe neither of them liked the looks of things.”
“Could be. But Buchanan had a reason for his trip, and he didn’t leave for good, not like that puncher.”
“Half the time, that’s what I think I ought to do. Just pack up and leave.”
“No one would blame you.”
“No, except that I’ve got work I said I would do. And I wouldn’t want to walk out on the rest of you.”
“Us?”
“Yeah, you and Selby and Roe.”
Lodge had a faraway gaze in his brown eyes and then turned to Fielding. “That’s real good of you, and I mean it. But if it comes right down to it, Selby and Roe will look out for themselves. Mark my words. As for me, I can take care of myself, and if I can’t, I don’t know if you could make a difference, unless you were right there.” The older man relaxed his eyes. “Just bein’ practical.”
“I appreciate it. But I think I’d better stay around at least awhile longer. And by stayin’ around, I mean my work, too, which takes me here and there.”
“When’s your next job?”
Now Fielding gazed into the distance. “In a couple of days I’ve got a trip to Cogman’s Hole, off to the east and a ways north.”
“I know the place,” said Lodge. “Been over that way once. Is your new swamper goin’ with you?”
Fielding laughed. “He said he didn’t care for any more wranglin’ in the mountains, and I doubt he wants to do any over this way, either.”
Lodge tipped his head. “Do you need a hand?”
“Do you mean yourself?”
“Why not?”
“Well, you’ve got things to take care of, and besides, I wasn’t plannin’ to take anyone else to begin with. I’m just deliverin’ to one outfit, so I won’t need but five packhorses, six at the most. It’s an easy ride, no mountains or timber.”
“You don’t want someone along, just in case?”
“Thanks, but I think I’ll be all right.”
“How about bein’ alone in your camp before you leave?”
“Oh, nobody has ever bothered me there.”
“You’re welcome to put up here,” said Lodge.
“Thanks again, but I’m really not worried, especially right around here. And besides, a fellow can’t be lookin’ over his shoulder all day every day.”
“I guess.”
Fielding shifted in his seat. “Well, I ought to be movin’ along pretty soon.”
“Care to stay for noon dinner?” “Maybe next time.”
Lodge perked up. “Say, I just thought of something. Wait here.”
He got up from the bench and went around the back corner of the house as before. Fielding heard the door open and close once, then twice. Lodge came back with something in his hand, and as he held it out, Fielding saw that it was a round, bumpy object with a dry, dull scarlet exterior.
“What’s that?” he asked.
“A pomegranate.”
“Oh, I’ve seen them before.”
“Take it,” said Lodge, with a forward gesture. “I’d guess you’ve got more visitin’ to do, and it might make a nice handsel for someone.”
“A what?”
“A gift. A token of goodwill or good luck.”
“Oh, I understand.” As Fielding took the fruit into his hand, he said, “This must have been shipped in from a long ways off. Where would you come across something like this? That is, if you don’t mind my askin’.”
Lodge raised his eyebrows and put on a discreet expression. “In a place where meals are served. Fruit of my labor.”
Fielding caught the trail west of Roe’s place and approached it as if he were coming in from his camp. The road was dusty, and grasshoppers whirred up from the drying grass on either side. On a couple of turns in the road he could see the valley below, greener, and then an intervening hill would close off his view and bring him back to sagebrush, prickly pear, and buffalo grass.
As he rode past the hill that served as shelter on the west side of Roe’s yard and buildings, casual sounds drifted on the air—the cackling of a chicken, the bawl of a calf, the thump of a hoof against a plank, the splash of water as someone tossed out the contents of a bucket or dishpan. Fielding looked back to his right and saw the roofed shelter on poles, falling in on one end and leaning toward the same destiny on the other. Into the lane, he rode past the old crippled wagons and the heaps of salvage—posts and planks and wire and tin. The bawling of the calf became louder, followed by a rising chorus of chickens. Now the two gray geese came out, their wings lifted back and their beaks opened in hissing.
Fielding stopped his horse a few yards from the corner of the house. He did not see Roe’s wagon anywhere, but he did not know the layout of the place well enough to where it might be parked.
The geese hissed. Not caring to antagonize them, Fielding stayed in the saddle.
“Anyone home?” he called out. The noises in back settled down a notch. He was sure someone was at home, because of the sound he had heard of water being pitched. He called again.
The front door opened with a dull scraping sound, and Isabel stepped out. She was wearing a dark brown dress, and her hair fell loose to her shoulders.
“Oh, it’s you,” she said. “Just a minute.” As she turned and went back into the house, he saw her bare feet.
A couple of minutes later she reappeared, wearing a pair of brown leather shoes that might well have belonged to her mother. “I’ve been scrubbing,” she said. “I hope you don’t mind the way I look.”
He raised his hat and said, “Fine to me.” He waited for her to shoo the geese out of the way, and he dismounted.
As she came to stand facing him, she said, “I was worried about you. We’ve heard stories.”
He wavered, not sure how to begin or how much to tell. With a nod toward the buckskin, he asked, “Shall I tie him up?”
“Oh, yes. By all means. Go ahead.”
He tied the reins to the hitching post. Turning to meet her eyes, he said, “The jerky was good.”
“I’m glad.” She had an anxious, uncertain expression on her face as she hesitated and then said, “I was sorry to hear about that poor boy getting killed. How did it happen?”
Fielding grimaced, but the question was too direct for him to go around. “Two of Cronin’s riders met up with us, actually came into our camp, and one of them provoked him into a fight.”
Her eyes tightened. “Just like that?”