(no subject)

[snowy_river_man]

Twenty strays.

Twenty strays have brought Jim home sooner than expected. Twenty strays have allotted him time to cool down and make the decision he knows he must. Twenty strays have given him needed distance from Jessica. So little, for so much in return. He'd pick them up as Harrison asked.

(Before those mountain men get their grubby hands on them!)

The thoughtless insult doesn't burn as much up here as it had in the flats. Riding past boulders as big as Jessica's fine piano and, in some rare cases, his own home, Jim feels his horse flick his tail, covering the remaining distance to Spur's haphazard looking cabin at an easy canter. Unshod hooves strike up a quick rhythm of joy in the dark, damp earth. Jim smiles. Pleasure at being back in the mountains is something he and his horse share.

~ ~ ~

As is his custom, Spur immediately proceeds with the preparations for a hot meal without waiting for Jim to say he'll stay. It's expected; Jim has come to visit, so Spur will feed him. Most of the time that involves sharing his barely edible wallaby stew, but Jim has never once complained in the face of Spur's generosity and unflinching hospitality. He sits in his usual spot and cups his hands around his tin cup, though he doesn't drink much; there's a chalky, pungent taste to the liquid inside, as if Spur had used the cup to shove away piles of mine shaft dirt in a fit of pique and resourcefulness, always and forever in search of that one strain, that one hint of color he just knows is waiting in there somewhere.

"It's good to be back," Jim says to break the silence. "At least nothing changes up here."

Spur gives a gruff, distracted laugh. Unless Jim is imagining it, there's something hollow about the sound, as if his thoughts had been caught elsewhere in an unhappier time.

"I saw Bess again, with the brumbies. Nearly got her back," Jim continues.

That gets Spur's full attention. He gives Jim a hard look and exclaims, "I told you not to throw effort after foolishness! Forget it." The anger retreats, and Spur is once again his familiar friend -- bushy beard, wild hair and direct gaze. "How things going on down there?"

Jim holds his breath for a few counts. "Not good." Then, "I'm working for a fellow called Harrison."

As Jim expected they might, Spur's eyes widen.

"He reminds me of someone," says Jim. "You never told me you had a brother!"

Spur looks at him askance. "You never asked."

Firmly: "I'm asking now."

Standing, leaning on the table, Spur points an accusing finger at him. "You just concern yourself with Jim Craig." With that, he hops on his good leg to the fire and forks a large piece of meat onto his metal plate from the pan suspended over the flames.

Jim frowns at his cup. "Seems like all you Harrisons have got it in for me."

"Have you seen Jessica?" asks Spur, hesitating only a moment.

"Yeah."

Seen her. Talked and laughed with her. Thought about her constantly.

Spur hops back. "What's she like?"

"She's a Harrison."

It's the best, least incriminating answer he can give. Spur snorts and with a thump drops part of the meat on Jim's plate.

"I'm gettin' out after this muster," Jim confesses. The decision hadn't been made until just now, and Jim still isn't certain; he looks up, awaiting Spur's response with more than just curiosity. It matters what this man thinks of him. Maybe even more than the others.

"Henry Craig's son quitting?" Disappointment washes over Spur's ruddy face. After a moment he shakes his head and reaches for his knife.

The shame isn't unexpected. Jim breathes in and is almost hopeful, almost strident when he asks, "You saying I should stick it out?"

This time, Spur points decisively at him with his fork. "You can learn more from Harrison than you know."

They both fall briefly silent. The flames crackle, their utensils scrape their weathered plates. The meat isn't particularly tender, but Jim would rather have Spur's burnt wallaby right now than Mrs. Bailey's finest cooking.

"I'll be searching for his strays for weeks," he comments.

"Not if you know where to look," says Spur, lifting his intense gaze to Jim's face. "At the first hint of snow, every beast on this plateau heads to the bluff. Warm pocket, good forage?" He waves a hand in the air. "Gather them up with a butterfly net."

"How do you know?" Jim asks suspiciously.

"Well I don't always eat wallaby, son!" He stabs his fork into the meat again, eyes dancing with a sudden merriment Jim is glad to see.

Realization strikes slowly, but Jim laughs when it does. "Grubby hands. Harrison was right." Spur grins in confirmation, watching Jim sample the beef he'd assumed was wallaby. "I'd say prime two year old Hereford." Spur nods. "Fattened on mountain pasture."

"Mmmm hmmm. You might be a good cattleman yet!" Spur guffaws.

They continue eating, each soothed by the other man's laughter.

~ ~ ~

The next morning, Jim rides to the ridge and watches the sun light up the mountains. Some are snow-capped; some look blue in the distance. White clouds hover above and shadows cling to the valleys, making the mountains seem to float on darkness, so high up are they.

Home: never again will Jim let a Harrison make him doubt what matters most.

Hours later, with a storm rolling in and fog leading the way, Jim finds the strays exactly where Spur said they would be. He grins and rests his hands on his horse's withers.

"Now all we need is a butterfly net," he says aloud, knowing no one but the mountains, his horse and the cattle will hear.