Robert Parker - Brimstone

We rode in silence, following Pony as he tracked.

“Probably took Stroud an hour to walk in from where his horse got shot,” Virgil said. “And it took us maybe another hour to find Pony and saddle up and get out here and look around.”

“So, say he’s got two hours on us,” I said.

“And he’s pushing his horse,” Virgil said.

“Can’t push him forever,” I said.

“Unless he got more than one,” Virgil said. “And even if he don’t, he can widen the gap between us.”

“So he isn’t trying to walk us into an ambush,” I said.

“Don’t seem so,” Virgil said. “He was doing that, he’d want us to catch up.”

“He wants us out of town,” I said.

“Seems so,” Virgil said.

“We could head back to town now,” I said.

“Yep.”

“But if we’re wrong,” I said, “we lose the chance to catch him.”

“Yep.”

Pony turned to the riverbank, which was probably twenty feet high at this point.

“Jefe,” Pony said.

Virgil and I moved up beside him. Pony pointed at the horse tracks.

“Into the river,” Pony said.

“From here?” I said.

Pony pointed again.

“Horse go down,” he said.

We looked at the gouges and drag marks in the riverbank. “Why not wait for the ford,” I said, “downriver?”

“It’s what he’s hoping we’ll do,” Virgil said.

Pony patted his horse’s neck.

“We go down,” Pony said, and kicked the horse toward the bank. The horse balked. Pony kicked him again, leaning over the horse’s neck. He was speaking to him in Apache, too fast and soft for me to make any of it out. The horse went over the edge, front legs stiff out ahead of him, back legs bunched, and began to slide and scramble down the near-vertical slope, with Pony crouched up over his neck. Pony let the reins drape over the saddle horn and held on to the horse’s mane, still talking to him in Apache.

And then they were down and into the river. It was deep here, so the horse had to swim. Pony slid out of the saddle as they went in and they swam together, with Pony’s hand on the saddle horn to the other side. When they reached the other side, I saw why the Indian had gone in here. There was a short strip of dry land at the foot of the far bank, and a narrow arroyo, cut by spring rains, that Pony was able to lead his horse into. We lost sight of them for a little while, and then they appeared at the top of the bank on the other side.

“That would have been the place for the ambush,” I said.

Virgil nodded.

Holding his horse’s reins, Pony crouched again and looked at the sign. Then he swung up into his wet saddle and pointed north, back the way we’d come, and began to follow the tracks.

I looked at the riverbank.

“Nothing says we have to go across here,” I said.

“Nope,” Virgil said. “But I’m thinking that one of the reasons he went across is if you went after him, you couldn’t get back.”

“So you’d get back to town at least two hours after he did,” I said. “No shortcuts.”

“Yep.”

“But,” I said, “we ain’t over there, and if we head straight northeast, and don’t stay with the river, we can probably close that by an hour.”

“And if we ain’t got it figured right,” Virgil said, “we’re leaving Pony to go up against this fella by himself.”

“Pony ain’t no bank clerk,” I said. “ ’Sides, what would we do for him over here.”

“You’re thinking ’bout the eight-gauge,” Virgil said. “With a Winchester I could hit a jackrabbit from here, never mind a big Indian in a black coat.”

“So, which is it?” I said. “The town, or Pony?”

“We get back to town quick as we can, we’re still an hour after him,” Virgil said.

“And it don’t figure that whatever he’s doing, he’ll spend an hour doing it,” I said.

Virgil nodded.

“So, it’s Pony,” I said.

“It is,” Virgil said.

“Good,” I said.

We rode north along the river, with Pony on the other side. At the ford near town, Pony stopped beside a riderless horse. The horse wore no saddle or bridle. Pony got down and looked at his hooves. Then he looked at the ground for a moment and got back up on his horse. He came across the river.

“Other horse,” he said.

“Hid him near the ford,” Virgil said.

Pony was looking at the ground.

“Ride him to town,” Pony said.

“So he’s got a fresh mount,” I said.

Virgil nodded.

“Let’s see what he did,” Virgil said.

And we rode into town, following the fresh tracks of the new horse straight down Arrow Street.

THERE WERE A LOT OF PEOPLE standing around on Arrow Street as we rode into town. There was a crowd in front of Pike’s Palace, looking at the shattered front windows in the swinging doors.

Pike came out of the saloon and stood on the porch.

“Pony,” he said. “Where the fuck were you?”

Pony grinned and made a big circular motion with his hand.

“Round and round,” he said.

“And you fucking deputies,” Pike said. “Where the fuck you been?”

With no expression on his face, Virgil looked at Pike for a long silent moment.

Then he said, “Round and round.”

“Fucking Indian rode in here, dozen people saw him, big as life,” Pike said. “Like he’s the fucking mayor or something. Rides right up Arrow Street. Hauls out a shotgun and unloads both barrels through my windows. You know how much those cocksuckers cost me? They come all the way from fucking Saint Louis, and that fucking red nigger blows them apart and rides out.”

“Anybody hurt?” I said.

“Couple of drunks got nicked,” Pike said. “They’ll live.”

Virgil was looking at the street in front of the saloon.

“Left him an arrow,” Virgil said.

I nodded.

“I don’t give a fuck what he left. What are you gonna do about it.”

“We’ll probably chase him again,” Virgil said.

“Don’t bother,” Pike said. “I sent Kirby and J.D. after him.”

“Anybody else?” Virgil said.

“J.D. and Kirby’s usually enough,” Pike said.

Virgil nodded.

“You know why this fella shot up your saloon,” he said.

“ ’Cause he’s a fucking prairie coon, and he don’t know what else to do,” Pike said.

Virgil nodded.

“Figured there’d be a reason,” he said. “Pony, come on down to the office with us.”

“I want Pony here,” Pike said.

“None of us cares much what you want, at this here moment,” Virgil said. “Me and Everett are deputy sheriffs, and we’re planning to question Pony.”

Pike looked at Virgil. Virgil looked back. The crowd began to open up a little. I stepped away from Virgil and rested the eight-gauge barrel up on my shoulder, and thumbed both hammers back. It was so quiet that I could hear the sound of cicadas singing.

They sang for a while.

Then Pike said, “Pony, when you’re through with the deputies, come on back here, if you would.”

Pony nodded, and turned and walked down to the office with me and Virgil. Behind us, Pike went back into his saloon, and the crowd began to thin out.

“WHADDYA THINK?” Virgil said to Pony as we sat out front of the sheriff’s office and looked at things.

“J.D. and Kirby town men,” Pony said. “Good with guns, but…” He shook his head.

“Not so good on the prairie?” Virgil said.

“No,” Pony said.

“Not as good as the Indian,” Virgil said.

“No.”

“You as good as the Indian?” Virgil said.

Pony nodded.

“Better,” he said.

The stage from Barrow went past, heading for the St. Louis Hotel, the big draft horses walking easily. The driver held the reins loosely. They’d made the run so often that the horses knew when to slow down and where to go.