As usual, the horses seemed to know they were on the last stretch. The buckskin picked up his feet, and the rest fell in at the same fast walk. Fielding pulled down the brim of his hat to shade out the midafternoon sun. One stop at the livery stable, and he would be on his way to camp.
As he turned into the main street of town, Fielding saw two horses tied in front of the post office. They looked like the horses he had seen Adler and Cedric riding when they came down the street in Chugwater. The dark horse carried a scabbard with a rifle. Fielding took a closer look in the shade of the overhang, and there sat Cedric on the bench, opening a letter with what looked like a paper knife. His yellowish white hair was conspicuous in the subdued light. At that moment, Adler walked out of the post office empty-handed and made a small wave of greeting. Fielding waved in return.
The two men were still there when Fielding came back from the livery with the two fresh horses tied to the end of the string. Adler in his white shirt and brown hat and vest stood close to the street and seemed to be taking stock of Fielding’s horses. Cedric was perusing the letter.
Fielding thought it might be an opportune moment to call Adler’s hand in front of Cedric. He reined the horse toward the sidewalk and dismounted before he had a chance to talk himself out of it.
Adler’s voice came from the edge of the shaded sidewalk. “Afternoon, Fielding.”
“Good afternoon. If you’ve got a moment, there’s something I’d like to mention.”
“Go ahead.” Adler took out his silver watch and began to wind it. When he looked up, Fielding spoke.
“Well, not to beat around the bush, I need to say that I don’t care for your men harassing me.”
Adler paused in his winding and fixed a stare on Fielding. “I understand that the kid went for his gun first. You even told the deputy that, if I’m not mistaken.”
“He did, but it wouldn’t have happened at all if Mahoney and Pence hadn’t shown up at my camp to begin with.”
Adler waved his eyebrows. “They were on open range as much as you were.”
“A man’s camp is his camp. But that’s not the only incident anyway.”
“What other was there?” The man’s voice had a dead-level tone to it.
Fielding thought Adler was waiting to counter him about the shoot-out when the roan horse got killed, but he skipped to the more recent flare-up. “In addition to the time I got jumped and couldn’t see for sure who it was, I had another run-in. Someone was lurkin’ in the rocks when I was comin’ back from Cogman’s Hole earlier in the day, and when I surprised him, your man Pence came along to get him off the hook.”
“What do you mean, lurking?” Adler put the watch away and pulled his right glove onto his hand.
“He was lyin’ in wait for me, right off the side of that narrow trail. So one time I’m off in the west, and the other time I’m over east, and wherever I go, I run into your men watchin’ my trail.”
Adler gave a slight turn so that his gun and holster came into view. His voice was steady as he spoke. “They say you’re a good hand, Fielding, and you do your work. Even if you’re thick with people like the junk collector. But watch what you say. If my men are out on the range in one place or another, they’re lookin’ after Argyle cattle.”
Cedric was folding up his letter.
Adler went on. “Tell me, then. Who was it you caught lurking, as you put it?”
“A new hand of yours, name of Ray Foote.”
Adler laughed. “A hand named Foote. A galoot who’s still learning not to fall off a horse. Do you think you have anything to fear from him?”
“To tell you the truth, sir—no, I don’t. But he gets his orders from somewhere.”
“He didn’t get that one from me.” Adler paused. “Anything else?”
“Not at the moment.” Fielding led the buckskin away, mounted up, and lined out his string. As he looked back, he caught a glance of the two men on the sidewalk. Cedric seemed to be watching the white horse on the end, while Adler seemed to be taking them all in, one by one.
Chapter Eleven
Fielding sat on a heap of folded canvas with his back resting against one of the two fireside logs. In his lap he had a short length of rope on his right thigh and the end of a longer piece on his left. He untwisted the strands for about six inches back from each end, then stubbed the two pieces together with the strands splayed out and alternated as they met and crossed one another. With a piece of string he tied the strands of the right piece to the tight twisted part of the left piece. Then he rotated the rope on his right so that the strands separated in tense curls, and he tucked the first strand from the left piece over and under a strand on the right. He repeated the operation with the other two strands, then did all three strands again. With the right side finished, he turned the whole rope around and spliced the other side, now on his right. When he was done, he had what he had learned to call a short splice. How strong it was would be seen when a horse pulled against it.
Hoofbeats called his attention to the path that came into his camp from the main trail. Fielding set aside the rope and stood up. As the rider came past the last box elder tree, Fielding recognized the build and posture of Bill Selby. The man slowed his horse from a lope to a walk but did not stop until he was within a few yards of the campfire area. Dust rose to stirrup level, and the horse was barely stopped when Selby swung down and stood away with the reins in his gloved hands.
His face was flushed, and his lower eyelids were puffy as usual. His light blue eyes were full of worry, and his jaw hinges bulged as he took in a deep, nervous breath through his nose.
“We’ve got trouble, Tom. Big trouble.” His chest rose as he breathed again. “Richard Lodge has been shot.”
“The hell. Was he hurt bad?”
“Hurt? He was killed.”
The words stunned Fielding, and he took a few seconds to absorb their impact. “Killed? When did this happen? Where?”
“I went out to his place yesterday afternoon. It looked as if it had happened earlier in the day. He was lyin’ facedown in the dirt, right in front of his cabin. Both horses in the corral. Hoofprints in front, looked like one rider, but no sign of anyone gettin’ off a horse. The deputy’s been out there, but he says he doesn’t have much to go on.”
“Yesterday, you say.”
“That’s right. I didn’t know you were back, or I would have looked you up. But I was busy with all of this until late last night anyway.”
“Yesterday,” Fielding repeated. “I was coming back from Cogman’s Hole. Along about ten to eleven in the morning, probably closer to ten, I ran into that jackass Ray Foote. Turns out he works for Cronin now, and George Pence was along with him. Came out of the greasewood a few minutes later.”
“That’s probably about the time someone shot Richard.” Selby’s eyes were ablaze with worry. “I tell you, Tom, this is bad. Real bad for all of us. Everyone liked Richard except you-know-who.” Selby looked around as he finished his sentence.
Fielding gave a slow shake of the head as he felt his spirits sinking. Lodge was dead, never to pick up another stone in his pasture, and just as he had said, Selby was worried about himself. It took Fielding a long moment to break through the numbness and find words.
“It’s bad, all right. Bad for everyone, but especially Richard. He lost the last thing a man can lose.” Fielding looked off into the distance and came back. “I saw Adler in town when I came through yesterday afternoon. Put it at three or so. He was in front of the post office with his tagalong Cedric, who’ll probably give him an alibi for the whole day. But it would have been plumb easy for Adler to go out there by himself, shoot Richard down in cold blood, and either go back to the Argyle or meet up with Cedric in town. It’ll be hard to prove, but I’d bet ten to one it was Adler.”