Free Gather My Horses by John D. Nesbitt Page B

knew the run of the valley better than the rest, had picked a good site for a camp. It lay about seven miles south of the town of Umber, on a stream called Richeau Creek. The crew had stayed here one night and planned to stay another, taking advantage of water for the cattle and horses as well as deadfall for firewood.
    Across the valley to the east, a lone formation stood out from the ocher-colored bluffs. It was ofthe same height and color, but time and the elements had separated it. If it had stood farther out by itself, it might have been called Courthouse Bluff or Courthouse Rock, as such formations were called in other places, but it had no name that Fielding knew of. Named or not, it served as a good landmark for someone coming into the valley from the hills to the west.
    Fielding yawned as he rode toward the camp. One day had stretched into the next on this drive—warm weather, with an occasional afternoon shower but no hail or lightning so far. The crew picked up a few head of stock each day and branded every three or four days. Although each day cost money in wages and grub, Selby did not push the crew.
    At the moment, he and Lodge and Roe were seated in the shade of the canvas fly that Mullins set up in front of the entrance to the tent. Out in the open between the tent and the wagon, faint wisps of smoke rose from the fire pit, where two Dutch ovens and a coffeepot hung from the iron rack that ran lengthwise above the bed of coals. Mullins himself stood at the tailboard of the wagon with his hands in a metal mixing bowl. At his side, around the far corner of the work area but not out of sight behind the chuck box, Mullins’s son, Grant, stood with a clean lard can, pouring small splashes of water as his father commanded.
    Fielding swung down from the bay horse, walked in for the last few steps, and tied the reins to the front wheel of the wagon. He glanced in the direction of the horse herd, where the granger kid named Topper, who had hired on at the last minute as daywrangler, seemed to be practicing the art of sleeping on his feet.
    Fielding picked up a tin plate and a fork.
    â€œYou’ll need a spoon,” said Mullins. “Beans are in the first pot, biscuits are cookin’ in the second one.”
    â€œThanks,” said Fielding as he nodded at the cook.
    Mullins was a slender man with a thin, worried face, but he did his work well and without much comment. Unlike other cooks who acted as if they owned the chuck wagon and everything related to it, Mullins had the air of working in someone else’s domain and using someone else’s equipment. The kid was mindful in the same way.
    The two of them had joined the crew with nothing more than one bedroll and one duffel bag between them. The father slept in the same tent as the other men and got up every morning between three and four. On nights when Fielding rode that shift watching the herd, he saw Mullins hang the lighted lantern from a pole on the end of the wagon. The kid, who was horse wrangler by night and cook’s helper by day, slept when he could on his father’s bed, or beneath the wagon, or in the shade of the tent.
    As Fielding passed the kid on his way to the grub, he saw the heavy eyelids and tired face. He felt sympathy for the kid, who was likeable in his quiet way. He did not complain, and he worked alongside his father to make a go of things.
    At the fire pit, Fielding picked up the wooden pothook, lifted the lid from the first Dutch oven, and set it on a length of firewood that lay close by. Steam wafted from the pot, carrying the promise of beef and beans together. Fielding took the spoonfrom the end of the rack and served himself a plateful.
    The other men were finishing up as he sat on the ground near them.
    â€œGood grub today,” said Selby.
    Lodge set his plate aside. “It’s all good. Just some of it’s better.”
    â€œWe’re a long ways from the café,” Selby