(no subject)

[snowy_river_man]

Darkness settles quickly in the low country, but the bunkhouse remains dimly lit by firelight well into the night. Jim begins to think it's part of the game, an assurance that if you can see the faces of the men lying next to you, they dare not stab you in the back.

"They're starting the high country muster in a couple of days," remarks Curly. He and his lackey are playing cards with the man Jim privately nicknamed ‘Beard.’ Twice, Beard had supplied his name in an accent too thick for Jim to understand. He hadn't asked for a third recitation. "Gonna be an early winter, according to Kane."

"Yeah?" asks a ranch hand lying on his bunk, hat over his face.

At the mention of his home, Jim feels his heart clench and helplessly looks up. He hates that he's hanging on anything Curley might say, and forces the hand busy applying saddle soap to his stirrup strap to continue to do so in the same even stroke.

Beard nibbles on the end of his haphazardly rolled cigarette, examining his cards through his spectacles. He's wearing fingerless gloves, and his nails are cracked and dirty. "I thought Harrison controlled the seasons."

"Reckon the boss will hold the muster until Clancy gets here."

Clancy.

Jim lifts his head again, finding the speaker. It's the man with the gravelly voice and large mustache. Moss. He doesn't seem to like Curly very much, either. Jim continues to listen openly, hand hovering above the saddle.

Curly, in his ever present dusty brown suit, hunches over his cards and tries to get a glimpse of what Beard is holding. "Who's he, then? Some kind of top rider, this Clancy mate?"

"He's no rider," corrects Beard, pulling his hand close to his chest. "He's a horseman."

Eyes wide with disbelief, Jim holds his breath.

"Curly, look at this!" cries the third player. Face lit up, he displays his cards. Curly and Beard throw theirs down in disgust. Rolling his eyes, Curly loops his arm over his chair and turns his back on the winner to ask, "What's so special about Clancy, then?"

"I told you. He's a horseman," Beard repeats.

"A horseman," scoffs Moss, tucking a shotgun under his arm. "Clancy's not just a horseman! Clancy's a... a magician! He's a genius."

Jim knows it would be in his best interest to keep his mouth shut. He's not one to brag or show off. But the words bubble up the back of his throat, and he finds it impossible to hold his tongue. "I've met him!"

The others regard him in stony silence.

"When I was young," he finishes lamely. "He and my father were mates."

The room erupts in laughter. Someone says, "Mates? Bullshit."

"Mates," Curly howls. He nearly tips himself out of the chair in his amusement. "Wouldn't know a bloody mate to save his life!"

The innocently hopeful look on Jim's face disappears, wiped away by their scorn. His blush is hard to miss in the light from the fireplace. Clenching his teeth, he scoops up his saddle and takes it outside, away from the laughter. He doesn't notice the considering look Moss gives him before the door shuts.

-- -- --

On a sunny morning full of bright colors and warm smells, a man trots his horse over the hills surrounding Harrison's property. A worn hat covers blond hair, and a thick mustache frames a generous mouth. He regards the scene before him like a man well and truly pleased with his place in the world.

A call rings out from the cattle pens: "Clancy's coming!"

All across the cattle station, men drop what they are doing and race outside to gawk at the legend. Near the front gate to the main house, Curly busies himself straightening his dusty vest and checking his watch chain. He feels he's the one to notice.

Jim simply watches, standing to the side with his thumbs hooked in his front pockets. He isn't about to repeat his earlier mistake. No one there, especially Jim, expects Clancy to dismount and immediately approach young Craig with his hand extended.

"Jim Craig, isn't it?" Stunned, Jim steps forward and shakes the proffered hand. "Been a long time."

"Yes, sir," Jim replies when he remembers how to speak. "I'll see to your horses?"

Smiling amiably, Clancy hands him the reins and jerks his thumb toward the pack horse. "Watch him, he's a hog for water," he says and starts to walk through the gate where Harrison is waiting. "Oh, Jim. I was sorry to hear about your father."

There's a roar in Jim's head. He hears a chain break and a log roll down an embankment with crushing force. Unable to speak, he nods in Clancy's direction.

Clancy returns the nod and continues walking behind Harrison, calling over his shoulder, "He was a good mate!"

Curly looks as if he swallowed something unpleasant.

To a man, the gathered ranch hands stare silently at Jim as he leads the horses toward the stable. Moss tips his hat. Only when he is inside does Jim permit himself a smile.

-- -- --

Late that evening, Jim knocks on the dining room door and enters with a precariously balanced armful of chopped logs. He has been here twice before; the scarlet walls, chandelier and elegant place settings never fail to remind him that this isn't where he belongs.

Harrison, Clancy, Patterson, Jessica and a woman Jim has seen but not met look up from the table, fingers curled around minuscule glasses that Jim is certain he would break in his rough hands. They must have been toasting each other, he thinks. Kings and queens of the universe.

"Mrs. Bailey said to bring more firewood," he announces, feeling unreasonably guilty for disturbing such a picture.

There's a chorus of half-hearted greetings, as if they are equally distressed at being disturbed. Jim hears this, but he's only aware of two things: Harrison remains quiet, and Jessica says his name.

She has a white ribbon in her hair, he notices. His eyes rest briefly on her before swiftly traveling to Patterson and the fireplace beyond.

"We all seem to be introduced," Harrison says, pointedly.

"Not all of us, Harrison," counters the handsome woman sitting across from the man himself. "I'm Mrs. Hume."

"How do you do, ma'am." Jim nods his head respectfully, drops his logs in the bucket.

Watching this interchange thoughtfully, Clancy leans back in his chair as if he means to prevent Jim's exit. "Jim. Mr. Harrison was just talking of taming the Snowy River country. You know it better than any of us. What do you think?"

Put on the spot, Jim pauses in the act of rolling up his sleeves and shoots Harrison an incredulous look. Harrison doesn't notice. He is too busy eyeing Clancy with consternation, clearly confused as to why Clancy is engaging the boy in conversation.

Jessica looks up, a spark of interest on her pretty face.

"Well, sir." Jim swallows, focus on Clancy now, and finds he can't do anything but tell the truth. "I think you might sooner hold back the tide than tame the mountains."

Silence.

Eyebrows raised, Harrison looks askance at Jim. Patterson’s wide mustache fails to hide a smile. Despite the fact that he's the only one standing, Jim feels as if they tower above him.

"Excuse me, then." Gathering his dignity, Jim wipes his hands and takes his leave. Before the door shuts, he hears Patterson say, "That boy has a quality about him."

Harrison snorts. "A mongrel quality of the mountain people."

"Does that include your brother?" asks Clancy.

"I have no brother."

-- -- --

Another night lit by firelight on wooden walls, not the stars above.

Curly wanders over to Jim and throws a piece of wood on the fire with more force than necessary. "Here. Last time I saw a saddle like that, that was in a circus, you know? Had a monkey riding on it."

It's easier, since Clancy, to give as good as he gets. "Where's your rope, Curly? Give up?" Jim smiles enigmatically and goes back to cleaning his tack.

Scowling, Curly walks away. Every night they play out this little farce.

Kane the foreman enters, hat low over his eyes and duster belted tightly at the waist. "Lads. I want everyone saddled and packed by sunrise. We'll eat at the prairie homestead." The look on his face doesn't invite questions.

"The only time the boss eats his own beef," Moss laughs huskily. "And he don't know it."

Amidst the laughter, Jim approaches eagerly. "Anything special we've got to take?"

"There's been a change of plans. You won't be going on this muster, Jim."

Curly laughs, "Probably seen that ‘alf primed mule of yours, eh?"

"He's a mountain horse," Jim retorts hotly. "And he knows that country even better than I do!"

"I don't make the orders. But when I give them, that's the end of it," Kane reminds him.

Mouth tightening into a thin line, Jim crosses the room in three strides. Curly hurries to hold the door for him, tipping his hat sarcastically, and slams it as if to say: Good riddance. Jim barely notices. He leans against the outside wall in sullen silence, arms crossed against the rest of the world. From the main house comes the sound of a piano being played.

When Kane exits to do one last sweep of the cattle pens, Jim pushes away from the wall to get his attention. "Mr. Kane. Why? Why me?"

Kane pauses, the distracted look in his eyes slowly fading. He regards Jim with something of a silent apology and very deliberately directs his gaze to the main house.

Jim grimaces and looks down. "I think I know," he murmurs as realization hits.

"You'll get your chance, Jim." A slap on the shoulder, and the foreman fades into the night.

As clapping accompanies the end of the sonata, Jim wonders what sort of chance that might be.