Gather My Horses by John D. Nesbitt

countered.
    â€œOh, I meant this was a lot better than a good deal of the chuck wagon grub I’ve eaten. Boiled beans, without a pinch of salt.”
    â€œYou must’ve ate with the Mexicans,” said Roe. “That’s the way they cook ’em.”
    â€œThat’s not who I was thinkin’ of, though I’ve eaten with them, too. And even the boiled beans aren’t bad.” Lodge shook his head. “Better than boiled cabbage, refried the next day in old grease, or cornmeal mush with bacon grease mixed in. Sorry, Tom. Didn’t mean to spoil your appetite.”
    â€œNo danger there,” said Fielding.
    Roe took out the makin’s and went about rolling a cigarette.
    Selby picked at the drying grass next to him and said, “Well, this is slow goin’, but we knew it was goin’ to be that way.”
    â€œIt’s all right,” said Lodge.
    Roe spoke without looking up. “You got nothin’ at home to be lookin’ after.”
    â€œEveryone’s got somethin’,” said Lodge. “Well, almost everyone.”
    Mullins appeared with a tin plate of biscuits. “Here, Tom,” he said as he lowered it.
    Fielding took two.
    â€œAnyone else?” asked Mullins. When the other three shook their heads, he said, “I’ll leave this at the wagon, Tom. Ed can have what you don’t eat, and I’ll make some more for the rest of us.”
    No one spoke for the next few minutes as Fielding ate his meal and Roe smoked his cigarette. Fielding went for a second helping and two more biscuits, and he had just gotten settled in the shade again when Lodge spoke.
    â€œLooks like someone’s comin’.”
    Fielding turned where he sat, and following Lodge’s gaze, he peered to the northeast. Two riders were coming toward the camp. Fielding returned to his meal.
    A few minutes later, the two men stopped their horses at the wagon and dismounted. They spoke to Mullins, handed their reins to the kid Grant, and came forward. Fielding recognized the man on the right as Joe Buchanan, while the one on the left took a few seconds to identify.
    The man was of the same height as Buchanan. He wore tan canvas pants and a matching jacket, the latter open in front and not quite concealing a small gun and holster that rode high on his hip. He also wore a tan, high-crowned hat that sloped down in front. The wide brim shaded his features, and it was not until Fielding noticed the blond hair and searching eyes that he recognized Cedric the Saxon.
    The two men walked in under the fly and stood in the shade. Cedric’s gooseberry-colored eyes took in the men seated on the ground, and he arched his eyebrows as the corners of his mouth turned down. Buchanan smiled at nobody in particular.As usual, he was dressed in dark brown from his hat to his boots, and he wore dark spurs. Fielding glanced at Cedric’s tan boots and saw a pair of silver spurs.
    â€œAfternoon, boys,” said Buchanan.
    The four men on the ground returned the greeting.
    â€œI hope your roundup’s going all right,” Buchanan continued.
    â€œSlow but sure,” Selby replied.
    â€œThat’s good. We’re movin’ along, too.” Buchanan took a breath and continued. “As you know, my outfit is in together with the Argyle’s. We’re runnin’ a full crew, and right now we’re on the other side of the valley and a little ways north.”
    He paused as the men on the ground nodded.
    Cedric took the occasion to reach into his jacket and bring out a tan leather case. He pressed a brass button, and the case opened. He offered it to Buchanan, who took out a tailor-made cigarette, and then he lifted out one for himself. As Cedric put the case away, Buchanan produced a match and lit the two cigarettes. Cedric held his between the tips of his first two fingers as he blew away the smoke. Then, wrinkling his nose, he turned around to look at the rest