Craig Johnson: Kindness Goes Unpunished

“The what?”

He turned and looked at me, better than matching my stone face. “The Delaware Indian Association.”

“What the hell is that?”

“It is a rural institute for the advancement of Indian resources in an urban environment. I spoke with a nice young woman there, a Felicia Sparrowhawk, who said that the last contact they had with William White Eyes was when they arranged for a part-time job for him at the Chamounix Stables in…”

“Fairmount Park.”

“Yes.” He navigated the on-ramp for the Schuylkill Expressway alongside 30th Street Station and joined the traffic headed west. “It was a probation program between prison stints.”

“That would fit for numerous reasons.”

“Yes.” I watched as he glided the big, more-than-utility vehicle through traffic like a tiger shark swimming lazily through a school of smaller fish. “There is a contact at the stables, but Ms. Sparrowhawk didn’t have her name. She thought, by the sound of things, that there might have been something more there than an employer/employee relationship.”

I nodded and watched the traffic skitter out of his way; Henry drove smoothly, if slowly, navigating to the exit at the right. I thought of a Gladwyne cowgirl, and how it was all too convenient. “I already know who it is.”

He glanced at me and then nodded. “As do I, but there is more.” He slipped a hand in the inside pocket of his black leather blazer and handed me another note, identical to the ones we had received before. “I returned to the Medicine Man, in hopes that with Toy Diaz even momentarily inconvenienced, William White Eyes may have returned with a note.”

I opened the tiny envelope and read BIG CHIEF.

“You know where this is?” I opened the book in my lap so that he could see the illustration at the upper lefthand corner. He glanced down and nodded. “Close?”

“Very.”

“Tonight?”

“Yep.”

“How is Vic?”

“Good.” I had done pretty well up until now, but I could feel the numbness returning to my face and the stillness to my hands. I slowly unwrapped the bandages from my left, bent the aluminum protector back from my index finger, and dropped it on the floor of the big truck.

He glanced over. “What are you doing?”

“Trigger finger.”

“You are righthanded.”

I watched the trees. “I want both.”

He took the exit, and we drove the same ravines that we had earlier. “The woman teaches horseback riding to urban underprivileged children on Saturday afternoons.”

I nodded. “The Saint of Fairmount Park.”

He shook his head and studied me, his eyes pleading with me to behave. “Maybe it would be best if you were to wait in the truck, since you are angry with the world?”

I folded my arms and looked out the side window at all of the trees. In Wyoming, the silver-green aspens would be in leaf, quivering in the breeze like pinwheels. “I’m not mad at the world. I’m angry with William White Eyes for taking us on this wild goose chase, but the distiller’s choice, single-cask, limited edition, pissed-off I am holding in reserve is for Toy Diaz.”

“Let us try and remember that, shall we?” He pulled into the Chamounix Stables, and we both looked at the sign I had knocked over earlier, still lying in the barrow ditch.

When we got out of the truck, Dog followed, and Henry and I put the sign back against the pristine and manicured garden that led alongside the path to the stables a short walk away.

We each propped a boot on the first rung of the corral, leaned our folded arms across the top of the fence like bookends, and watched as a girl in pigtails who looked like she was in grade school made a strained and determined attempt at keeping her tiny bottom on a Western saddle. A young woman in her early thirties held the lead and twitched the bay’s flanks, keeping the fat mare moving at a regulated pace. The horsewoman looked as though she would have been more at home in Wyoming, and just looking at her brought a longing in my chest. She wore a battered, black quarter horse 60 hat, and a thick brunette braid uncoiled down the back of her sand-colored Carhartt barn coat. When she turned I could see a jacquard silk scarf at her neck, the denim, snap-front shirt, Western belt, and shotgun chaps.

Jo Fitzpatrick.

I felt a little of the preparatory anger fade with the blue of her eyes as she glanced at Henry and me. On the next go-round, she tilted her head and nodded toward the stables. “I’ll be done in just a minute.”

We returned to the main path and entered the barn through a large opening pointed toward the road. It was a pretty good-sized place, with two dozen stalls running the length of the slate flooring. There were about a dozen horse heads that turned and looked at us as we entered, one nickering loudly from only a few stalls down.

Dog and I tagged along behind the Bear as he went straight to the animal that had spoken to him, a large paint, patch-worked like clouds of cream in iced coffee. I pulled up short and looked at the animal, Dog stopping alongside. The big girl swung her head from Henry and looked directly at me, letting loose with a lung-vibrating whinny. Henry followed the horse’s gaze and smiled. “She knows you.”

“Uh huh.”

“Come say hello.”

I walked toward her; the small, brass nameplate read “Creampuff.” She looked exactly like the paint in my dreams. She stuck a prehensile and exploratory nose toward me, and I could see her powerful withers as the large brown eyes blinked. I reached a hand out, palm down, and let her sniff me, rubbing her lips on my knuckles. I pushed a forelock from her face, and Dog nudged my pant leg: jealous.

Henry had walked to the center of the stables to another opening at the side that led toward the corral where we had first seen Jo. There was a large tack shed adjacent to the passageway and next door, a makeshift office. I stopped petting the mare and walked to the doorway as Henry and Dog continued toward the corral. Dog stopped to look back at me when he realized that I was not following. The paint whinnied again, and I looked at her.

Henry spoke. “What?”

“Wait a minute.” I entered the office and pulled the latest note from William White Eyes out of my pocket, extracted it from the envelope, and threaded it into the mechanical typewriter that squatted on the plywood desk.

I struck the O key; it had the dropout.

I stood there, until I could hear a horse approaching at a relaxed pace on the stables’ slate floor. I slowly stuffed the card and envelope back in my pocket and followed after Henry and Dog. Jo Fitzpatrick was leading the little girl in from the corral. She nodded at Henry as he looked up at the smiling child, riding tall in the saddle; she and Henry were eye to eye.

“I hope we did not cut your ride short?”

“You did.” The little girl nodded, and her pigtails bounced up and down.

“She’d stay out there all day if I let her.” Jo glanced at the aspiring equestrian. “She likes the riding part, but not the work afterward part.”

Henry rumbled back. “Who does?”

Joanne led the horse past Henry around a corner and to the left. We followed them to the last stall, and I watched as Henry lifted the little girl from the saddle and placed her on the ground as Jo unhooked the cinch and removed the saddle, placing it on a stand in the walkway. The Bear put his hands on his knees and looked at the child as she spoke to him.

“Are you an Indian?”

He raised a palm to her and spoke with all the seriousness of a Senate subcommittee. “How.”

She giggled and pointed toward me. “Is he a cowboy?”

The Bear regarded me. “Sort of.”

The little girl motioned toward the horse. “This is Thunderbolt.”