Robert Parker - Brimstone

Pony made a steep gesture with his hand.

“Get to be like short mountain,” he said. “Many rocks. Many arroyo.”

“It’s straight northwest,” Virgil said, pointing in the direction the tracks took.

“Sí, jefe.”

“So we go straight north awhile,” Virgil said, “and turn straight left, we might come in behind the Indian.”

Pony nodded.

“What you think, Everett,” Virgil said.

“This is a smart Indian,” I said.

“We’re all smart,” Virgil said. “See who’s smarter.”

We turned north. We weren’t tracking now, so we could go hard.

“You know what we’re trying to do, Pony,” Virgil said. “Tell us when to turn west.”

We crossed the outriders’ tracks as we rode north, and went several miles beyond them. Then Pony turned his horse west, and we followed. In the late afternoon we saw the high ground in the distance stretching north. The flat land from which it rose was well to our south.

“Pretty good,” I said to Pony.

“Sí,” he said.

The going became harder as we went up the eastern slope of the hill. It was as Pony had said, full of rock outcroppings, laced with shale-sided arroyos. We went on up with Pony in the lead. He was leaning out of his saddle now, looking at the ground. I took the eight-gauge out of its scabbard and held it across my saddle. It was dark when we reached the top of the rise. There was no moon or stars. If there was anything to look at, it would have to wait until morning. Pony dismounted and walked ahead, leading his horse. We followed him, also leading the animals. In a while we came to the place Pony was looking for. A stream emerged from between two boulders and ran off downhill into the darkness.

“No fire,” Virgil said.

We let the animals drink. There wasn’t enough forage here, so we fed them some corn from a sack that the mule carried. We fed ourselves more jerky and biscuits. We drank a little whiskey, and decided who would take the first watch. It was Pony. Virgil and I wrapped ourselves in saddle blankets and went to sleep on the ground. About the time Pony woke me for my watch it had begun to rain. We wrapped ourselves in our slickers and hunched against the rock.

IT WAS STILL RAINING AND overcast in the morning, and much cooler than it had been. But in the gray light we could see the flat land to our southeast, and on it, in the distance, Pike’s posse. Virgil got a brass telescope from his saddlebag and gazed through it for a while.

“Christ, he brought everybody but the whores,” Virgil said.

He handed it to me.

“I count twenty,” I said.

Virgil nodded.

“You see the Indian?” he said to Pony.

Pony shook his head.

“This stream the only water around?” Virgil said.

“Yes,” Pony said.

“Horse got to drink,” Virgil said. “Him, too.”

“So if he’s camped here,” I said, “he’s probably beside the stream.”

Below us on the plain, Pike’s posse set out toward the hills. Virgil watched them for a little while. Then he put down the glass and glanced up at the dark sky and shrugged.

“Take ’em a while,” he said. “What’s down below.”

“Pass down there,” Pony said. “Halfway up hill, maybe. All rock. Hoofprints stop in there.”

“You think he’ll lead them in there?”

“He know Pike,” Pony said. “He know Pike not go in there.”

“Nobody would go in there,” I said.

“What’s he do if the trail leads in there, Captain?” Virgil said.

“He splits his troops,” I said. “And stays on the high ground, on each side.”

“And looks for the ambush,” Virgil said.

“Yep.”

“Indian know that?” Virgil said to Pony.

“If he ever fight soldiers,” Pony said.

“If he leads him in there,” Virgil said, “he gets Pike to split his posse, and half of them are on the wrong side of the canyon when the fight starts.”

Pony nodded.

“He that smart?” Virgil said.

“Smart Indian,” Pony said.

“Can anybody get across the pass?” Virgil said.

“Too wide to jump,” Pony said. “Too much straight up to climb.”

“So they can’t?”

“Nope.”

“I figure he wants Pike,” Virgil said. “What if Pike’s on the wrong side from him?”

“Not too wide for rifle,” Pony said.

Virgil nodded.

“So he holes up in the right spot and shoots Pike whichever side Pike’s on,” he said.

“He’ll hole up on this side of the pass,” I said.

“So he can get away into the hills,” Virgil said.

“Otherwise, he got to run down onto the open land,” I said.

“Agree?” Virgil said to Pony.

“Many places to hide uphill,” Pony said. “Indian know the land. Ride light, just him and rifle. White men don’t know land. Many equipment to carry.”

“So that’s where he’ll run,” Virgil said.

“If he run,” Pony said.

“You think he won’t?”

“I him, I won’t,” Pony said.

“Whadda you do?” Virgil said.

“Shoot many, then hide. They come after me. I shoot some more and hide another place. Keep doing that. They run away, I go after them, shoot some more, until they get to flat land.”

“You think they’ll run?” I said.

“White man scared of Indians,” Pony said. “Run away sometimes.”

“ ’Specially if the Indian gets Pike first,” Virgil said.

“Indian want you, too, jefe,” Pony said. “He stay till he get you.”

“You think so?” Virgil said.

“He needs to kill you,” Pony said. “You and Pike.”

“Because?” Virgil said.

“You the ones,” Pony said.

“How ’bout Everett?” Virgil said. “Or you?”

“You the ones,” Pony said. “Pike and you.”

“How do you know?” I said.

“Half Indian,” Pony said. “Know how Indian people think.”

Virgil nodded. He watched through his long glass as the posse plodded toward the hills. Then he collapsed the telescope and put it in his saddlebag.

“We may be all wrong,” Virgil said.

“True,” I said.

“But we might be right,” Virgil said.

“True,” I said.

“Let’s mosey on down along this stream,” he said. “See if we are.”

WE WENT AS QUIETLY as we could downhill along the stream. The stream gurgled softly, but maybe enough to mask our footsteps. Pony was out front a little; his moccasins made no sound at all. The rain added some sound, too. In front of us were two boulders, tilted against each other, glistening in the rain. Pony stopped behind them. We stopped. Pony pointed to his nose and sniffed at the air. We sniffed, too. Virgil began to nod. He put his mouth to my ear and said, “Horse shit.” I smelled it, too. We moved up beside Pony.

“I’ll go around the rocks left,” Virgil said. “Pony goes around right. Everett, stay here with the eight-gauge.”

I slid on my belly up onto the more slanted of the two boulders, took off my hat, and edged a look over the rim of the rock. Below there was a sort of hollow with some grass near the stream, then more rocks. The same smallish paint I’d seen before was tethered in the hollow, cropping the grass. There was no sign of the Indian. The horse wasn’t big, but lying there a little above him I could see the thick muscles in his haunches and shoulders. He was strong. He’d go up this hill well. He had a conventional bridle on but no saddle.

Beyond the hollow were more rocks, and beyond them I could see the near rim of the pass. To my left, through the rain, I could see the posse coming closer. Below me the horse raised his head and looked at me. Probably smelled me. He stared at me, and I at him. He blew his breath out softly, then dropped his head and went back to eating the wet grass.