Robert Parker - Brimstone

THE HOUSE WAS LITTLE MORE than a cabin, with a stock shed next to it. In front of it, in the trampled dirt yard, was a dead man facedown with part of his head blown off. An arrow protruded from his back below the ribs. In the stock shed, a milk cow was making some noise.

Virgil and I dismounted and went into the house. There were three rooms. All of them empty.

“There’s women’s clothes in both bedrooms,” I said to Virgil. “But no women.”

“And there’s a wagon and a plow in the yard but no horses,” Virgil said.

“Somebody took ’em both?”

“Maybe our Indian friend,” Virgil said.

We went back into the yard and squatted on our heels beside the body. I shooed the flies away and pulled out the arrow.

“Same kind of arrow,” I said. “No point.”

The cow was still complaining in the shed.

“Needs to be milked,” Virgil said.

“Sounds that way,” I said.

“You know how to do that?” Virgil said.

“Nope.”

“I do,” Virgil said, and went to the shed.

The cow was in one stall; the other two stalls were empty. Virgil found a milking stool and began to milk the cow, letting the milk soak into the hard earth of the shed.

“Shame to waste it,” I said.

“Cow don’t think so,” Virgil said.

While he milked the cow I studied what little sign there was on the hard-packed earth. When Virgil was through, he pitched some hay from the loft into the feed trough, and left the shed gate open.

“We’ll take her back to town when we go,” Virgil said. “Maybe Allie can do something with her.”

“Can’t read much here,” I said. “Ground’s too hard. But over there, leading toward the river, there’s the tracks of maybe three horses. Two of them probably shod, one of them not. I think.”

We stood together over the dead body.

“Killed the man,” Virgil said. “Took the horses and the women.”

“A while ago,” I said.

“He is getting kind of ripe,” Virgil said.

“We don’t smell good when we’re dead,” I said.

“Especially after a while,” Virgil said.

“Probably don’t care, though.”

“Probably don’t,” Virgil said.

He was looking off in the direction where the hoof prints led.

“Got a start on us,” Virgil said.

“Yep, but if he’s traveling with two women,” I said, “he might be going slower than we will.”

Virgil glanced suddenly over his shoulder back toward town. I could see dust rising along the road from town, and in another minute I heard the sound of horses and a wagon.

“Be the undertaker,” Virgil said. “He can take the body. We’ll take the cow.”

VIRGIL WAS FEEDING SHELLS into his Winchester when Pike came into the sheriff’s office with a dark, lean, hard-looking man.

“Virgil,” Pike said. “Everett.”

We both nodded.

“This here’s Pony Flores,” Pike said. “One of my employees.”

“From the old days?” I said.

Pike nodded.

“Old days,” he said.

Virgil and I both nodded at Flores. He nodded back.

“Understand some Indians killed Tom Ostermueller, and took his wife and daughter.”

“Something like that,” Virgil said.

“You going after them?”

“Yep.”

“Posse?”

“Nope.”

“Posse’d just get in the way,” Pike said.

“It would,” Virgil said.

“Bunch of townspeople with guns,” Pike said.

“Probably shoot their own horse, they ever have to clear a weapon,” Virgil said.

“Lend you some of mine,” Pike said.

Virgil shook his head.

“Me ’n Everett will do,” he said.

“Got a tracker?” Pike said.

“Everett can track some,” Virgil said.

“Pony can track a butterfly two days after,” Pike said.

Virgil looked at me.

“Where’d you learn to track?” I said.

“Apache,” Flores said.

“Pony’s mother is Apache,” Pike said.

“Chiricahua,” Flores said.

“That your real name?” Virgil said.

Pony shook his head and said something in Apache. “Means what?” Virgil said.

There was a brief expression on Pony’s face that might have been amusement.

“Pony Running,” I said.

“Okay if we stick with Pony?” Virgil said to Flores.

“Okay.”

“Father’s Mexican,” Pike said.

“Can he talk for himself?” Virgil said.

Pike smiled.

“Try him,” Pike said.

“Live with your mother’s people?” I said.

“Some.”

“Track as good as Pike says?”

“Yes.”

“Speak English okay?” I said.

“Speak it good,” Pony said.

“Just not often,” Virgil said.

Pony looked like he might have smiled for a moment, but he didn’t say anything.

“Speak Spanish?”

“Sí.”

“Any Comanche?”

“A little bit,” Pony said.

“Shoot?” Virgil said.

“I can shoot,” Pony said.

“Will you?”

“Sure.”

“Why do you want to track for us?” I said.

“Two women,” Pony said.

“You know them?”

“No.”

“But you want to help us save them,” I said.

“Yes.”

Virgil and I looked at each other.

“He’s good,” Pike said. “Been with me a long time.”

“Good how?” Virgil said.

“Colt, Winchester, knife,” Pike said. “Best tracker I ever saw.”

“Keep his word?” Virgil said.

“I do,” Pony said.

Virgil looked at me.

“Everett?” he said.

“He can probably track better than I can,” I said. “What I learned I learned from Apache scouts.”

Virgil nodded.

“Okay,” he said. “I can pay you half a dollar a day. You supply your own horse and saddle, your own weapons and ammunition.”

“Yes,” Pony said.

WE SAID GOOD-BYE TO ALLIE on the front porch of the house we were renting. It was just after sunrise, and she was barefoot and in her nightgown. She and Virgil put their arms around each other. But they didn’t kiss, and when he stepped back and swung up onto his horse, she smiled at me and patted my cheek.

“Take care of each other,” she said.

I got up on my horse.

“Have somebody milk that cow every day,” Virgil said.

“I will,” she said.

None of us moved. Virgil looked down from the saddle at Allie.

“I’ll come back,” he said.

Then he wheeled the horse and I followed with the pack mule on a lead, and we rode up Third Street toward Arrow. Pony was mounted and waiting outside Pike’s Palace, and he swung in beside us as we rode south out of town. We stopped at the Ostermueller farm shack. Pony got down and spent maybe ten minutes looking at the ground, then mounted his horse and led us out toward the river where the tracks led.

Once we were into the open, I took the mule off the lead. He’d follow the horses, and if he didn’t, one of us could haze him back.

“You see more than one Indian?” I said.

“No,” Pony said.

“And two shod,” I said.

“Yes.”

“Tell if anyone’s riding the shod horses?”

“Need to see tracks when no one rides them, and tracks when someone does,” Pony said.

We rode south along the river most of the day. Pony rode quietly, looking at the tracks. Occasionally he would lean out of the saddle and study them, then he would resume.

“Don’t seem worried ’bout covering his tracks,” Virgil said.

“No,” Pony said. “But he don’t know I the one following.”

Virgil grinned.

“Figures we can’t track?” he said.

“Yes,” Pony said.

We came to a ford at the end of the day, and the tracks led into it. The sun was down, and it was hard to see the bank on the other side of the river.