Gather My Horses by John D. Nesbitt Page A

of the camp.
    Buchanan spoke again. “What I came to tell you is that we’ve made a pretty good gather so far.” Cupping the cigarette as he held it between thumb and forefinger, he took a puff. “In amongst the stuff we’ve got is a few head of your stock.” He nodded at Selby, Roe, and Lodge. “I believe we’ve got something of each of yours.”
    Fielding had the distinct feeling that Buchanan avoided looking at him. He told himself it didn’t matter, as he didn’t have any cattle. He went on eating his meal.
    â€œIf you’d like to come and get your stock,” Buchanan went on, “sometime today or tomorrow would be a good time. We’ll hold the herd, and you can cut out what’s yours.”
    Selby spoke up. “I think tomorrow would work better for us. About this time of day?”
    Buchanan nodded. “That should be fine. I’ll let the others know, and we can be expectin’ you.” He took another drag on his cigarette and looked around. “This weather is all a man could ask for, isn’t it?”
    Selby smiled. “Couldn’t be better.”
    â€œWell,” said Buchanan, with an intake of breath as he drew himself up straight, “we’d best be gettin’ back.” He turned to Cedric, who met his glance and gave a curt nod.
    â€œBe sure to get something to eat before you go,” said Selby. “There’s plenty.”
    Buchanan gave a short smile. “Thanks, but we ate before we came over.”
    â€œGood enough,” said Selby. “We’ll see you tomorrow.”
    â€œYou bet.” Buchanan and Cedric went out from under the canvas fly.
    When the two men had mounted their horses and ridden away, Roe spoke up. “Who the hell is he?”
    â€œWhy, that’s Joe Buchanan,” Selby answered. “You know him.”
    â€œI mean the dandy with his nose in the air.”
    Selby cleared his throat. “I believe that’s a personal friend of Cronin’s. Isn’t that right, Richard?”
    â€œThat’s right. Name of Cedric. Sociable chap, as you can see.”
    Roe, who had smoked his own cigarette down to a pinch, said, “That’s some kind of case he’s got for his smokes.”
    â€œGoes along with his tin cup,” said Lodge. “Did you see it tied to his saddle horn? He carries it so he doesn’t have to get down on his belly to drink from a spring, or cup water in his hands from a stream. I heard he won’t drink from the same dipper as the other men, either.”
    â€œWell, he’s British,” said Selby.
    â€œWhat is he, some kind of a remittance man?” Roe’s voice had a nasal whine to it.
    Selby shrugged. “I don’t know.”
    â€œWhat’s that?” asked Fielding.
    Selby looked at Lodge, who had leaned over to rest on his right forearm.
    â€œA remittance man,” said Lodge, “is a fellow, usually from England, who lives off his relatives back home. His family sends him money, in remittances as they call it, so he’ll stay over here—in this country or Canada—and not come home and be an embarrassment to them. Usually some prodigal, I guess. But I don’t think our friend Cedric is one of them. From what I heard, his father is one of your foreign investors in cattle. Pal of Cronin’s.”
    â€œWell, I didn’t like his looks.” Roe poked his finger between his neck and bandanna and rubbed back and forth.
    Lodge gave a short laugh. “I doubt that he liked ours, either. But that’s not goin’ to keep me from enjoyin’ a cup of coffee.”
    The four riders left camp after noon dinner the next day, leaving the other workers at their regular tasks—Bracken to keep in the cattle herd, Topper to watch the horse herd, and Mullins and Grant to clean up after the midday meal and start working on supper. Fielding wondered, as he did at times, at the