“I’ll give you the hundred and a half,” Sloane said. “The others can settle up with me.” The receipt-writing had obviously bugged him.
“Thanks anyway,” Miller said, “but if it’s all the same to you men, I’d a whole lot rather get it from each man myself. Then I know its right, and there’s no arguments later.”
Sloane shrugged, and we each counted out another thirty dollars. Miller struggled through another five receipts and then took off his glasses. I noticed the sweat running down the outer edges of his mustache.
“There,” he said with obvious relief. “Well, men, this ain’t gettin’ us up into the high country. Let’s go pick out some horses and get ’em loaded up in the truck. We got a ways to drive before we get to the horse trail.”
We all got up and followed him on out of the house. Clint began picking up the dishes as we left. It was still chilly outside, and the morning sun was very bright. Miller stopped out in the yard and waited for us all to gather around. He looked up into the mountains and cleared his throat.
“Just a few more things I want to get straight before we leave, men,” he said, and I could see that he’d have preferred not to say it. “I’ve been known to take a drink now and men myself, but you men are goin’ to be up there with loaded guns, and it’s damn high where you’ll be huntin’. You might be able to drink like a fish down here, but two drinks up there and you’ll be fallin’ over your own feet. I know you’ve got liquor with you, and I’ll probably take a bottle along myself, but I don’t want any of us takin’ a drink before the sun goes down and the guns are all hung up. I sure don’t want nobody shootin’ hisself — or me. OK?”
We all nodded again. He wasn’t the kind of man you argued with.
“And if any of you got any quarrels with each other, leave ’em down here. Any trouble up there, and we’ll all come out, and no refunds. We all straight on that?” He looked around at us, and his face was stern.
We all nodded again.
“Good,” he said, and he looked relieved. “Last thing. I know that country up there and you men don’t. If I tell you to do somethin’, you’d better do ‘er. I ain’t gonna be tellin’ you ’cause I like bossin’ men around. I’ll have a damn good reason, so don’t give me no hard times about it. OK, now I’ve said my piece, all right?”
We nodded again. What else could we do?
“Well then, I guess that takes care of all the unpleasantness. Let’s go on down to the corral and pick out some horses. Sooner we get that done, the sooner we can go hunt deer.” He started off, and we fell in behind him. He took damn big steps.
I began to feel better about this. Miller knew his business, and there wouldn’t be any horseshit nonsense with him around. I looked up at the mountains, blue in the morning light.
God damn, it might just be a good trip after all.
16
It took us the better part of an hour to cut out horses from the herd in the corral down by the big log bam. Miller and Clint leaned across the top rail, pointing out this horse, then that one, calling them by name and telling us their good points — almost like they were selling them. I picked a big gray they called Ned. He looked pretty good at first, but then I caught a glimpse of his other eye and wasn’t so sure. We herded them up into the back of a big stock-truck along with some pack-horses and then began hauling saddles out to a battered pickup.
“Some of you men’ll have to ride in the back of the pickup,” Miller said, squinting into the tangle of saddles, straps, and ropes we’d piled in there. “Might be a bit uncomfortable, but it ain’t too far.”
“I’ll take my car,” Lou said shortly.
“Here we go again,” Jack muttered to me disgustedly, yanking his red baseball cap down over his forehead.
“Road’s pretty rough,” Clint warned.
Miller shrugged, “Suit yourself,” he said. “Couple of you can go with me in the pickup, then, and one of you with Clint in the stock-truck, and one other man in the car with this man here, all right?”
We all nodded and started pitching the sleeping bags and clothing sacks that Clint had hauled down here earlier into the back of the pickup.
“I’ll go with McKlearey,” Sloane told the rest of us, “and we can pile the guns in his back seat.” Sloane was dunking ahead. He was probably the only one of us who could ride five miles with Lou without getting into a fight.
“Good idea,” Miller said. “Guns could get banged around some in the pickup.” He turned to Clint. “You lock up?” he asked.
“Right, Cap,” Clint said, “and I got it all squared away with Matthews. His oldest boy’s comin’ by to feed the stock while we’re gone.”
“Good,” Miller said. “Well, men, let’s get goin’.” He led the way over to the trucks. I hung back a little, letting Jack and Stan go ahead. They both got into the pickup with Miller, so I climbed up into the cab of the stock-truck with Clint. Sloane and McKlearey rode along with us, hanging onto the outside of the cab as far as the main yard where our cars were parked. Then we all got out, put our guns in the back seat of McKlearey’s car, and climbed back in.
We drove on out of the yard and on down the long driveway, the pickup leading, then McKlearey’s weary Chevy, and Clint and I bringing up the rear in the stock-truck. The colt ran along beside us again as we drove on down to the highway.
“Little fella sure likes to run, doesn’t he?” I ventured to Clint.
“Young horse ain’t got much damn sense,” Clint growled. “Just like a damn kid. About all he wants to do is run and play. Older horse rests ever’ chance he gets.”
“Looks like he’s going to be pretty fast,” I said.
“Sure as hell ought to be,” Clint said, “considerin’ what ol’ Cap paid for stud fee. We got this quarter-horse mare — that’s her standin’ over there in the shade. Got good blood-lines, so he goes all out on gettin’ her bred.” He cranked the wheel around, swinging wide out onto the highway. I could hear a thump or two from the back as the horses stumbled around with the sudden shift in direction.
“Sure as hell hope that fella can keep up with ol’ Cap’s pickup,” Clint said, thrusting his stubbled chin toward the blue fog coming out of the tailpipe of McKlearey’s car.
“I wouldn’t bet on it,” I said sourly. “He’s been lagging behind all night. That car of his is a cripple. We have any big hills to climb?”
“Nothin’ too bad,” Clint said, “and we got good gravel all the way after we turn off the tar.”
“That’s a break,” I said.
“What’d he do to his hand?” he asked. I’d seen both him and Miller eyeing McKlearey’s bandage.
“He cut it. It isn’t bad.”
“That’s good.”
We drove on up the highway for a few miles.
“I didn’t catch your name,” he said finally.
“Dan,” I said, “Dan Alders.”
He stuck out a knobby hand without looking away from the road, and we shook. “Just call me Clint,” he said. “Ever’body else does.”
“Right, Clint,” I said.
We wound along the paved road that hugged the bottom of the valley, crossing the narrow bridges that stepped back and forth across the twisting little stream that sparkled in the midmorning sun. I suddenly wished that Clydine were along so that she could see this.
“Many fish in here, Clint?” I asked, looking down into the water.
“I can usually pick up a few,” he said. “I got a hole I work pretty often. Some pretty nice cutthroat in there.”
I glanced down at the water as we crossed the stream again. “Looks pretty shallow,” I said, watching the clear water slide over the smooth brown pebbles.
“It backs up behind rocks and downed trees,” he told me. “Fish’ll hole up in there. Hit ’em with a small spoon or bait, and they’ll go for it ever’ time.”
“Any size?” I asked.
“Lifted a three-pounder this spring,” he said.
“That could get pretty wild and woolly in that fast water,” I said.
“It was sorta fun.” He grinned. “You fish much?”
“When I get the chance,” I said.
He grunted approvingly, and we drove on a ways in silence.
I slid a little lower in the sea, sliding my tail to the edge of the cushion. “Getting a little butt-sprung,” I said, explaining.