Stands a Calder Man by Janet Dailey Page B

buggy with his wife, Ruth, and Bull Giles. The muddy ground was getting thicker as it slowly dried in the hot sun. It was like walking in glue as Webb untied his horse’s reins and moved to the near side to mount.
    As he stepped into the stirrup, Nate backed his horse away from the post to give Webb room. The driver of the bench-seated wagon closest to them was a blackcowboy dubbed Jingles because of the belled spurs he wore. He pretended not to see the Triple C riders filing past to accompany the buggy.
    But Nate forced an acknowledgment, stopping his horse beside the wagon seat. “Jingles, what are you doing in that box?” He frowned. “A top hand like you oughta be in the saddle.”
    â€œThe ranches around here are layin’ off top hands. They ain’t hirin’ ’em.” His voice was hollow with resentment for the menial job he was doing, but he had a wife and family to support. “At least I’m gettin’ paid to ferry these pilgrims across this ocean of grass.”
    â€œYou keep ferryin’ em,” Nate replied, “and it won’t be grass no more. Without grass, there won’t be cattle. You’re gonna wind up puttin’ us all on the grubline.”
    Jingles pushed his hat lower on his forehead to cover the guilt in his eyes as his chin came down. Nate urged his horse after the rolling buggy. Webb said nothing to add to the black cowboy’s miseries as he rode by. The plummeting cattle market had made hard times for all ranchers. To cut expenses, most of them were operating with skeleton crews. The Triple C hadn’t hired its usual contingent of seasonal riders, running strictly with its corps of permanent hands.
    His father had said change wasn’t always good. Jingles would agree with him. As Webb scanned the homesteaders’ wagons scattered up and down the street of Blue Moon, he recognized they welcomed the change, and so did the merchants. Whether change was good or bad seemed to depend on a person’s perspective.
    A team of pale sorrels stood placidly in the trace chains of the wagon parked in front of the new bank. Their feathered fetlocks were encased in mud, disguising their white-socked legs. But the Belgian bloodlines of the two draft mares were unmistakable. For a cowboy, it was second nature to study animals and note their owners; almost as automatic as breathing.
    When Webb spied the Belgian draft mares, he knew without taking a second look this was the team hitchedto the wagon the girl Lillian had been sitting in earlier. But the wagon seat was empty now. And he didn’t see her among the pedestrians walking on the boards laid across the mud.
    A long breath sighed from him as he looked around. A rawness worked on his nerves and coiled his muscles. That edgy feeling was back, a sense of dissatisfaction without knowing for what. Webb wasn’t sure if it had ever left him. He didn’t understand this restlessness, or its source. Was it the drylanders and the change they were bringing that was working on him? Or was it something inside himself?
    His horse broke into a trot, reacting to the restlessness of its rider. Webb checked its pace with an irritable tug on the bit and clamped his jaw down on the urge to sink his spurs into the horse and ride away while he could.

6
    The mug of beer in front of Webb was warm and flat. He had taken only one swallow from it. His father and Bull Giles were discussing politics, but he wasn’t listening.
    The other Triple C riders had gathered along the bar, supervising a billiard competition in progress. Their loud, rowdy voices and guffawing laughter emphasized the distinction between themselves and Webb’s brooding silence. He felt tied and bound by the Calder name, not one of them. He reached for the beer mug, then pushed it away and stood up. He turned to avoid the sharply questioning look his father sent him. “Where are you going, Webb?”
    â€œMy mother and Ruth