The Complete Western Stories of Elmore Leonard - Elmore Leonard [99]
But whenever anyone laughed, the boy would feel that the laughter was not meant for him but for his father.
Leo Cleary went to work with a frown on his grizzled face, wetting his dry lips disgustedly. He squatted up close to the nearest buffalo and with his skinning knife slit the belly from neck to tail. He slashed the skin down the inside of each leg, then carved a strip from around the massive neck, his long knife biting at the tough hide close to the head. Then he rose, rubbing the back of his knife hand across his forehead.
“Yo! Will…” he called out.
The boy came over then, leading his horse and holding a coiled riata in his free hand. One end was secured to the saddle horn. He bunched the buffalo’s heavy neck skin, wrapping the free end of line around it, knotting it.
He led the horse out the whole length of the rope, then mounted, his heels squeezing flanks as soon as he was in the saddle.
“Yiiiiiii!” He screamed in the horse’s ear and swatted the rump with his hat. The mount bolted.
The hide held, stretching, then jerked from the carcass, coming with a quick sucking, sliding gasp.
They kept at it through most of the afternoon, sweating over the carcasses, both of them skinning, and butchering some meat for their own use. It was still too early in the year, too warm, to butcher hind- quarters for the meat buyers. Later, when the snows came and the meat would keep, they would do this.
They took the fresh hides back to their base camp and staked them out, stretching the skins tightly, flesh side up. The flat ground around the wagon and cook fire was covered with staked-out hides, taken the previous day. In the morning they would gather the hides and bind them in packs and store the packs in the wagon. The boy thought there would be maybe two more days of hunting here before they would have to move the camp.
For the second time that day he stood stretching, rubbing a stiffness in his body, but feeling satisfied. He smiled, and even Leo Cleary wasn’t watching him to see it.
At dusk they saw the string of wagons out on the plain, a black line creeping toward them against the sunlight dying on the horizon.
“Hide buyers, most likely,” Leo Cleary said. He sounded disappointed, for it could mean they would not return to Leverette for another month.
The boy said, “Maybe a big hunting outfit.”
“Not at this time of day,” the old man said. “They’d still have their hides drying.” He motioned to the creek back of their camp. “Whoever it is, they want water.”
Two riders leading the five Conestogas spurred suddenly as they neared the camp and rode in ahead of the six-team wagons. The boy watched them intently. When they were almost to the camp circle, he recognized them and swore under his breath, though he suddenly felt self-conscious.
The Foss brothers, Clyde and Wylie, swung down stiff legged, not waiting for an invitation, and arched the stiffness from their backs. Without a greeting Clyde Foss’s eyes roamed leisurely over the staked- out hides, estimating the number as he scratched at his beard stubble. He grinned slowly, looking at his brother.
“They must a used rocks… ain’t more than forty hides here.”
Leo Cleary said, “Hello, Clyde …Wylie,” and watched the surprise come over them with recognition.
Clyde said, “Damn, Leo, I didn’t see you were here. Who’s that with you?”
“Matt Gordon’s boy,” Leo Cleary answered. “We’re hunting together this season.”
“Just the two of you?” Wylie asked with surprise. He was a few years older than Clyde, calmer, but looked to be his twin. They were both of them lanky, thin through face and body, but heavy boned.
Leo Cleary said, “I thought it was common talk in Leverette about us being out.”
“We made up over to Caldwell this year,” Clyde said. He looked about the camp again, amused. “Who does the shooting?”
“I do.” The boy took a step toward Clyde Foss. His voice was cold, distant. He was thinking of