Both men’s attention was suddenly drawn to the trail that came up out of the wash on the other side of the holding pens where the herd was kept. Henry stood to get a better look at the string of riders and packhorses slowly filtering up out of the dust. The rider in front was dressed in old-time cowboy garb, led the pack horses loaded with gear, sat his horse pretty well and appeared as tired as he did dirty. The three men on horses in a row behind him were obviously less experienced riders, evident by the slouch in their backs, lack of structure in their bodies, and the fact they all had to hold on to the horn of the saddle as the horses they were on climbed the barely substantial grade from the bottom of the wash up to the flat area by the holding pen. They were also wearing light tan fishing vests with numerous pockets and small floppy hats with fishing lures attached to them. The rider in front brought the string to the hitch rail closest to the catch pens, dismounted, tied his horse and pack animals to the rail, then helped the other riders dismount. It was a process that looked extremely painful for all but one of the riders.

“Looks like Chad’s back,” Jim said matter-of-factly, his voice much clearer now that the threat of death or serious injury by Henry’s hands had apparently been removed. “He’s the head wrangler. Been here a few years, I guess.”

Not terribly interested, Henry sat down and went back to oiling his saddle.

“He took a fishing trip out about a week ago,” Jim continued. “He says nobody else knows the country well enough to do ‘em, but the truth is the tips are real good.”

Almost as if on cue, Chad went to the three men, shook their hands, and all three of them, smiling and slapping each other on the back, pulled money from their wallets and handed it to him. Chad smiled and shook their hands again, stuffing the money in his shirt pocket. The three men turned and headed toward the guest housing, while Chad turned and headed for the bunkhouse, his smile fading as soon as he did.

“Looks a little mad,” Jim said under his breath.

Chad stopped abruptly at the foot of the steps and looked up and Jim and Henry.

“Chad Collins, Henry McBride,” Jim said making the introduction. “Henry’s been helping us out these last few days.”

Henry barely acknowledged Chad’s presence. He’d had his fill of men like Chad Collins, and he could spot their type a mile away. They usually had just enough skill to get by, but not much more. Probably tried rodeoing but wasn’t talented enough to make it very far in the sport. Don’t know enough about stock to work a cattle outfit—not for long anyway—and their gift of gab usually overshadows their substantial personality flaws. It was already obvious to Henry that Chad was not someone he needed to spend time getting to know.