Gus McCullough's Arc

Chapter 2 of 2

A week after the brothers signed on, Gus rode the north line at dawn and found six longhorns he did not own grazing among his herd. Their brands were a lazy Y burned deep into the hip. His were a clean M on the shoulder. The dog circled the strangers and held them loose while Gus counted. Past the last cedar post, the fence ended. Open range ran a full mile before the next man's claim. Any steer with legs could wander in, and any rider with a rope could wander out with one of his. He rode back to the cabin and laid it plain to Clara at the kitchen table. If a Lazy Y hand found his brand mixed with theirs, they would call it theft before they called it drift. He needed that mile fenced by the end of the week. He had two brothers, one dog, and no extra hands. Clara set down her cup. "Post at the feed store again." "No time. A notice takes a week to pull a man out." She thought a moment. "The orphanage in town keeps boys past fourteen with nowhere to go. My aunt sat on their board. They feed them on nothing and pray somebody takes them on." Gus looked at her. "Boys." "Old enough to dig a post hole. Old enough to eat." He rode in that afternoon. The orphanage sat weathered and square on its lot, warm light in the low windows, a hand-lettered board over the porch. The matron met him on the step. He named the work, the wage, the meals, and the bunk in the loft. She brought out four boys between fifteen and seventeen, thin at the wrist, steady at the eye. He took all four. By the second morning they were setting cedar posts along the open stretch. Clara ran water out to them from the pump house by the creek, buckets sweating in the sun. The dog worked the strays back off Gus's grass while the brothers strung wire. On the fourth day a rider came down the line at a walk. Lazy Y on his saddle blanket. He counted the new fence, counted Gus's men, and touched his hat without a word. He rode off the way he came. By Saturday the wire ran tight to the last post. Gus cut out the six Lazy Y steers and drove them clear onto open ground himself, the dog holding them honest. He watched them trot toward their own country and felt the mile close behind him like a door. That night he sat on the porch with Clara. Four new mouths in the loft. Two brothers in the bunkhouse. A herd that was only his now. "We'll need more grass by spring," he said. Clara pulled her shawl tight. "Then we'll need to know whose land runs next to ours."