Fiddlefoot by Luke; Short Page A

stretched across the canyon’s mouth.
    Two hours before dusk the dozen horses inside the corral lifted their ears alertly and looked out toward the meadow. Twenty-odd horses broke out of the aspens now into the meadow, loping for the creek.
    Frank reined in at the edge of the timber, letting the band he had been driving seek water. Looking over the near peaks to the east, he saw a long flat slate-covered cloud drifting mares’ tails of rain onto the boulder fields to the north. If rain came, it would be after dark, and he had a good hour of working light.
    His camp lay under three stunted pines along the stream; passing it now he saw the tarp covering his gear pooled with water from the rain that had soaked him that afternoon.
    At the corral, he herded the dozen horses already inside back into the canyon, and stretched a pair of ropes from one side of the canyon across to the other to hold them there.
    Leaving the corral gate open now, he mounted and swung in a wide half-circle around the twenty new horses he had been driving, and came up behind them. They moved docilely into the corral and Frank closed the gate.
    On this, his second evening out of Saber, he still moved with a stiff weariness as he off-saddled and turned his horse loose to graze. Back in camp, he built up a fire, filled a coffeepot from the creek and set it to boil. Afterward, he rummaged around and found a cold biscuit to chew on, then took up his rope and headed back for the corral. His step was slow; a grinding weariness was on him, and the day’s riding which had begun before sunup had been a minor torture. His ribs were so sore that even breathing was an effort, and every movement this day had reminded him of the welcome he had received at the hands of Saber’s crew.
    Inside the corral, he stubbornly set about the wearisome job of cutting out his own horses from the general bunch and pushing them back into the rope corral with the others. It had taken him two days of hard work to round up and cut out a third of his own string—a job that, with another man, would have been a bare day’s job.
    At deep dusk, he was finished. He turned out the unwanted horses, and looked briefly at the eighteen he had kept. Even now, he had no certain idea why he was doing this, except that these horses represented his fortune and his future, and he must use them.
    Back at camp he made a quick supper of bacon and biscuits and coffee, and afterward sat back on his tarp, his back against a tree, and watched evening come to the meadows. Tomorrow, he would take this bunch down to the home ranch, and return for the rest, and this week would find his bunch together. Afterward, he must tell Carrie of his decision to give up Saber, and he wondered what she would say.
    He was pondering this when he saw the rider come out of the aspens and head across the meadow for his camp. It took him a few moments to identify the spare, sinewy figure of old Cass Hardesty, and he felt the caution gather in him, remembering Cass’s part in the fight.
    Cass crossed the creek, his horse kicking up ribbons of water that the dusk turned to pure silver as they rose and fell. Cass was one of the oldest Saber hands, a dour and taciturn man who, for all his surliness, had been kind enough to Frank in the past. The short pipe that barely cleared his heavy black mustaches and which was removed from his mouth only when he ate and slept, jutted straight out from his heavy jaw.
    He reined in by the fire, and Frank, as custom dictated, said, “Light and eat, Cass,” in no friendly voice.
    â€œSure you want me?” He was embarrassed, Frank saw.
    At Frank’s nod, Cass stepped out of the saddle and looked about him. His glance settled on the corral with its eighteen horses, and he looked over at Frank. “That’s a man-killin’ job. Why didn’t you ask Jess for the loan of a couple of hands?”
    â€œI guess you know.”
    â€œYeah,” Cass said