For the second time that day he stood stretching, rubbing a stiffness in his body, but feeling satisfied. He smiled, and even Leo Cleary wasn't watching him to see it. At dusk they saw the string of wagons out on the plain, a black line creeping toward them against the sunlight dying on the horizon.
"Hide buyers, most likely," Leo Cleary said. He sounded disappointed, for it could mean they would not return to Leverette for another month.
The boy said, "Maybe a big hunting outfit."
"Not at this time of day," the old man said. "They'd still have their hides drying." He motioned to the creek back of their camp. "Whoever it is, they want water."
Two riders leading the five Conestogas spurred suddenly as they neared the camp and rode in ahead of the six-team wagons. The boy watched them intently. When they were almost to the camp circle, he recognized them and swore under his breath, though he suddenly felt self-conscious.
The Foss brothers, Clyde and Wylie, swung down stiff legged, not waiting for an invitation, and arched the stiffness from their backs.
Without a greeting Clyde Foss's eyes roamed leisurely over the stakedout hides, estimating the number as he scratched at his beard stubble.
He grinned slowly, looking at his brother.
"They must a used rocks . . . ain't more than forty hides here."
Leo Cleary said, "Hello, Clyde . . . Wylie," and watched the surprise come over them with recognition.
Clyde said, "Damn, Leo, I didn't see you were here. Who's that with you?"
"Matt Gordon's boy," Leo Cleary answered. "We're hunting together this season."
"Just the two of you?" Wylie asked with surprise. He was a few years older than Clyde, calmer, but looked to be his twin. They were both of them lanky, thin through face and body, but heavy boned.
Leo Cleary said, "I thought it was common talk in Leverette about us being out."
"We made up over to Caldwell this year," Clyde said. He looked about the camp again, amused. "Who does the shooting?"
The Big Hunt "I do." The boy took a step toward Clyde Foss. His voice was cold, distant. He was thinking of another time four years before when his dad had introduced him to the Foss brothers, the day Matt Gordon contracted with them to pick up his hides.
"And I do skinning," the boy added. It was like What are you going to do about it! the way he said it.
Clyde laughed again. Wylie just grinned.
"So you're Matt Gordon's boy," Wylie Foss said.
"We met once before."
"We did?"
"In Leverette, four years ago." The boy made himself say it naturally.
"A month before you met my dad in the field and paid him for his hides with whiskey instead of cash . . . the day before he was trampled into the ground. . . ."
THE FOSS BROTHERS met his stare, and suddenly the amusement was gone from their eyes. Clyde no longer laughed, and Wylie's mouth tightened. Clyde stared at the boy and said, "If you meant anything by that, you better watch your mouth."
Wylie said, "We can't stop buffalo from stampedin'." Clyde grinned now.
"Maybe he's drunk . . . maybe he favors his pa."
"Take it any way you want," the boy said. He stood firmly with his fists clenched. "You knew better than to give him whiskey. You took advantage of him."
Wylie looked up at the rumbling sound of the wagon string coming in, the ponderous creaking of wooden frames, iron-rimmed tires grating, and the never-changing off-key leathery rattle of the traces, then the sound of reins flicking horse hide and the indistinguishable growls of the teamsters.
Wylie moved toward the wagons in the dimness and shouted to the first one, "Ed . . . water down!" pointing toward the creek.
"You bedding here?" Leo Cleary asked after him.
"Just water."
"Moving all night?"
"We're meeting a party on the Salt Fork . . . they ain't going to stay there forever." Wylie Foss walked after the wagons leading away their horses. Clyde paid little attention to the wagons, only glancing in that direction as they swung toward the stream. Stoop shouldered, his hand curling the brim of his sweat-stained hat, his eyes roamed lazily over the drying hides. He rolled a cigarette, taking his time, failing to offer tobacco to the boy.
"I guess we got room for your hides," he said finally.
"I'm not selling."
"We'll load soon as we water . . . even take the fresh ones."
"I said I'm not selling."
"Maybe I'm not asking."
"There's nothing making me sell if I don't want to!"
The slow smile formed on Clyde's mouth. "You're a mean little fella, aren't you?"
Clyde Foss dropped the cigarette stub and turned a boot on it.
"There's a bottle in my saddle pouch." He nodded to Leo Cleary, who was standing off from them. "Help yourself, Leo."
The old man hesitated.
"I said help yourself."
Leo Cleary moved off toward the stream.
"Now, Mr. Gordon . . . how many hides you say were still dryin'?"
"None for you."
"Forty . . . forty-five?"
"You heard what I said." He was standing close to Clyde Foss, watching his face. He saw the jaw muscles tighten and sensed Clyde's shift of weight. He tried to turn, bringing up his shoulder, but it came with pain-stabbing suddenness. Clyde's fist smashed against his cheek, and he stumbled off balance.
"Forty?"
Clyde's left hand followed around with weight behind it, scraping his temple, staggering him.
"Forty-five?"
He waded after the boy then, clubbing at his face and body, knocking his guard aside to land his fists, until the boy was backed against his The Big Hunt wagon. Then Clyde stopped as the boy fell into the wheel spokes, gasping, and slumped to the ground.
Clyde stood over the boy and nudged him with his boot. "Did I hear forty or forty-five?" he said dryly. And when the boy made no answer--
"Well, it don't matter."
He heard the wagons coming up from the creek. Wylie was leading the horses. "Boy went to sleep on us, Wylie." He grinned. "He said don't disturb him, just take the skins and leave the payment with Leo." He laughed then. And later, when the wagons pulled out, he was laughing again.
Once he heard voices, a man swearing, a never-ending soft thudding against the ground, noises above him in the wagon. But these passed, and there was nothing.
He woke again, briefly, a piercing ringing in his ears, and his face throbbed violently though the pain seemed to be out from him and not within, as if his face were bloated and would soon burst. He tried to open his mouth, but a weight held his jaws tight. Then wagons moving . . . the sound of traces . . . laughter.
It was still dark when he opened his eyes. The noises had stopped. Something cool was on his face. He felt it with his hand--a damp cloth. He sat up, taking it from his face, working his jaw slowly.
The man was a blur at first . . . something reflecting in his hand.
Then it was Leo Cleary, and the something in his hand was a half-empty whiskey bottle.
"There wasn't anything I could do, Will."
"How long they been gone?"
"Near an hour. They took all of them, even the ones staked out." He said, "Will, there wasn't anything I could do. . . ."
"I know," the boy said.
"They paid for the hides with whiskey." The boy looked at him, surprised. He had not expected them to pay anything. But now he saw how this would appeal to Clyde's sense of humor, using the same way the hide buyer had paid his dad four years before.
"That part of it, Leo?" The boy nodded to the whiskey bottle in the old man's hand.
"No, they put three five-gallon barrels in the wagon. Remember . . . Clyde give me this."
The boy was silent. Finally he said, "Don't touch those barrels, Leo."
He sat up the remainder of the night, listening to his thoughts. He had been afraid when Clyde Foss was bullying him, and he was still afraid. But now the fear was mixed with anger, because his body ached and he could feel the loose teeth on one side of his mouth when he tightened his jaw, and taste the blood dry on his lips and most of all because Clyde Foss had taken a month's work, four hundred and eighty hides, and left three barrels of whiskey.