I let the hammers down.
“What?” Virgil said.
“More horses,” Pony said.
He pointed to the ground. There was a mingling of tracks, some of them leading behind the rocks.
“Nobody there,” Virgil said.
Pony nodded and got off his horse. He squatted and looked at the tracks for a while. Then he stood and walked along, looking at the ground, around the boulders, and up the hill behind them. Virgil and I waited.
“Shod horses,” I said.
“Yep.”
“Can’t say for sure how many.”
“Pony will know,” Virgil said.
“Could be white men,” I said.
“Could be white men’s horses that some Indians stole,” Virgil said.
“Could be,” I said.
“Maybe Pony can figure that out,” Virgil said.
“Maybe not,” I said.
We waited for maybe an hour while Pony looked at the ground.
“Five white men,” he said.
Virgil smiled.
“How you know they’re white?” he said.
“Boot prints,” Pony said. “Comanche not wear boots.”
“They have to be Comanche?” I said.
“Comanche land,” Pony said. “They Indians, they Comanche.”
“But they’re not Indians,” Virgil said.
“No,” Pony said. “White. Five of them come from south. Stay here, build a fire, cook something. Like they waiting. Our people come in here.”
He pointed to the tracks we’d been following.
“Get off horses,” Pony said. “Man in moccasins, two women. Small footprints. Shoes not like man.”
We followed. With Pony pointing it out, we could see what he saw. I wasn’t sure I’d have seen it without him.
“Then everybody get on horse. All go south, except Indian. He go up the hill and into a canyon. Very stony. Hard to track.”
“Could you?” Virgil said.
“Yes.”
Virgil nodded.
“Women went south with the white men,” he said.
“They were waiting here for him,” I said.
“He sold them,” Virgil said.
I nodded.
Virgil looked up the hill for a time.
Then he said, “We got to get them women back.”
“Yes,” I said.
“You sure they went with the white men,” Virgil said.
“Sure,” Pony said. “See horse tracks. They horses’ feet, much bigger.”
“Wagon horses,” I said.
Pony got back up on his horse, and we headed south.
31
FOR TWO DAYS WE RODE southwest, away from the river, into much rougher country. It made the tracking harder and slowed us down. But Pony kept the trail and told us it was getting fresher. We stopped at sundown on the third day on some high rocky ground at the edge of an arroyo and started to set up camp.
Pony had collected some brush for a fire, and as he set it down, he paused and raised his head, like a hunting dog with a scent. Virgil and I were still.
Then Virgil said, “Smoke.”
Pony nodded. I sniffed at the air and didn’t smell it, and didn’t smell it, and then I did.
“Be surprising if it weren’t them,” Virgil said.
There was grass growing on the slope of the arroyo, and the animals were busy with it. They weren’t likely to make any noise. It was dark, but there was moonlight and all the stars. Virgil picked up his Winchester, Pony took his, and I brought the eight-gauge, and we went very quietly along the arroyo to where the land sloped down. At the foot of the slope we could see a campfire and some people around it.
“Dumb place to camp,” I said softly.
“They been riding what, four days?” Virgil said. “Ain’t seen a soul. If they thought we was following, they figure we lost them when we left the river and the tracking got hard.”
“Almost Mexico,” Pony said.
“Probably where they’re headed,” Virgil said. “They think they’re home free.”
“And they ain’t,” I said.
“They’re in range from here, ’cept for the eight-gauge,” Virgil said.
“Can’t make out who’s who,” I said.
“Pony?” Virgil said.
“Too far,” Pony said.
“Be a hell of a thing,” Virgil said. “We come all this way to save them women, and shoot ’em by mistake.”
We were quiet, looking at the layout.
“We’re really careful,” Virgil said, “we can slither on down behind that outcropping and get a better look.”
“Still too long a shot for the eight-gauge,” I said. “Lemme get my rifle.”
“While you’re there,” Virgil said, “make sure them animals is tethered. Don’t want ’em running off soon’s we start shooting.”
I got my Winchester, checked the tethers, and walked softly back to where Virgil and Pony were lying on the ground, looking down at the camp.
“Jack a shell up into the chamber,” Virgil said. “Do it when we get closer and they might hear it.”
We did as he said, and eased the hammers off. Then, on our bellies, trying to be silent, we crawled and slithered our way downhill over the shale-littered ground to the rocks, halfway to the camp. All of us were scraped and bloody by the time we got there.
The five men looked to be Mexican. The two women sat close to each other, away from them to the left.
“Can’t ride in among ’em,” Virgil said. “Or walk in, for that matter. All them rocks underfoot, make too much noise going down the hill.”
Neither Pony nor I said anything. We both knew Virgil wasn’t talking to us. The men were passing a bottle around. The women were still.
“Okay,” Virgil said. “Pony, can you shoot one of those fellas from here without hitting the women?”
“Yes.”
“Okay, then we’ll shoot the first three, left to right from the women. I’ll take the closest one, fella in the hat. Everett takes the next one, with the striped shirt. Pony shoots the third one, buckskin shirt.”
Virgil was silent. Neither Pony nor I said anything.
“Then I’ll shoot the fella in the black vest,” Virgil said, “and Everett, you and Pony shoot the other one. Fella with the beard. Recognize each one of them. Even if they get up and move around before we start shooting, you fire at the one I said.”
Pony murmured, “Sí, jefe.”
I said, “Yep.”
“We don’t shoot if we lose sight of anybody,” Virgil said.
He cocked the Winchester. Pony and I did the same.
“You’re sure there’s only five,” Virgil said. “I don’t want there to be some fella out taking a leak to get ruckused up and shoot them women, ’fore we kill him.”
“There are five, jefe,” Pony said.
“Okay,” Virgil said. “Pick out your target, get him in your sights.”
All three of us took aim.
“Know who you’re going to shoot, and who you’re gonna shoot next,” Virgil said.
We waited. I had the middle button on the man’s striped shirt sitting on top of my sight.
“Ready?” Virgil whispered.
Pony said, “Ready.”
I took a deep breath and let it out.
I said, “Ready.”
Virgil said, “Fire!” and I squeezed the trigger. It all moved at the stately pace these things always seemed to. I barely heard the shots. I saw my man go down, and as I shifted to the man with the beard, I levered another round up into the chamber and settled on his chest. He was leaning forward, frozen maybe, by the shock of the surprise, looking for a place to hide. There was no place to hide. I shot him in the chest and saw his body jerk as Pony shot him, too. Beside me, Virgil was on his feet and slip-sliding down the slope toward the campsite. Pony and I followed him. The two women were flat on the ground, one on top of the other.
When we reached the campfir
e, Virgil took out his Colt and put a bullet through the head of the first man he passed.
“They’re dead,” he said, and walked to the women. “But make sure.”
Pony and I shot the other four men once each in the head. The smell of gunfire was strong when we finished.
Virgil was sitting on his heels beside the two women. They were still huddled, one on top of the other.
“We come to rescue you,” he said. “My name is Virgil Cole. I’m a deputy sheriff in Val Verde County, and the big fella is a deputy, too. His name is Everett Hitch. The slim gentleman is Pony Flores. He’s our tracker. He’s the one found you.”
The women didn’t move or speak. The one on top was older.
“I know you been through hell,” Virgil said. “We’ll take you up the hill to our camp, and feed you and let you sleep, and tomorrow we’ll take you home.”
The woman on top began to cry, harsh, ugly sounds that seemed to hurt as they came out. The woman underneath neither moved nor spoke. She still clung to the older woman.
“No rush,” Virgil said. “When you’re ready.”
She was still making the retching sobbing sound, but the woman looked at Virgil, and seemed to see him, and nodded her head.
“Everett,” Virgil said. “Whyn’t you boys saddle up a couple horses, so these ladies don’t have to walk up the hill.”
32
AT THE TOP OF THE HILL, they were both silent as we built up the campfire and gave them some blankets. Pony made fresh coffee. I got out some cups and the whiskey jug.
It was hard to tell what they might have looked like when they were living on the farm. What was left of them was pretty straggly. The older one had red hair, and some freckles. There was the hint of plumpness vanished about her. As if she had been full-figured and lost weight during her ordeal. The girl was blonde and smaller. Half developed. More than a girl, still less than a woman. They were dirty. Their clothes were barely clothes. And they were enveloped in a glaze of terror, which made them almost unrecognizable.
“Would you like some coffee?” I said to the older woman.
She nodded.
“Whiskey in it?” I said.
She nodded again.
“How ’bout the young lady?” I said.
The young lady had no reaction. The older woman nodded. I poured coffee and whiskey into both cups and handed one to each of them. The older woman blew on the surface of the coffee, and drank some. The young woman took a careful sip, and showed no reaction.
After her second cup, the older woman began to speak. Her voice was half swallowed, and she spoke very fast. They were mother and daughter. The mother’s name was Mary Beth. The kid was Laurel. Mary Beth was thirty-seven. Laurel was fifteen. They both looked a lot older.
“My husband walked out the front door and the Indian shot him,” Mary Beth said. “Didn’t say anything, just shot him and stuck that arrow in him, then he made Laurel and me get on our horses and go with him, never even looked at my husband again, just made us ride away with him. At night he made us . . . do things with him . . . both of us right in front of each other, and he said we should get used to it because he was going to sell us to some men who would take us to Mexico ....”
She stopped and drank from her cup. Laurel said nothing; she sipped at her coffee. The two women were wrapped in blankets. They sat close to the fire, more, I thought, for light than warmth. Virgil still sat on his heels beside them. Neither woman ever took her eyes off him.
“And then they came and took us and . . .”
She looked at her daughter. Her daughter’s face was blank, her eyes fixed on Virgil. She drank more.
“You don’t need to talk about it,” Virgil said.
She nodded.
“Anything you can tell me ’bout this Indian?” Virgil said.
“He . . .” She drank again. “English. He talked good English.”
Virgil nodded.
“And he was big; he was a very big Indian,” Mary Beth said.
“What did he wear,” Virgil said.
“Black coat,” Mary Beth said. “Long. And a funny hat.” Virgil nodded. Mary Beth was drunk. Laurel seemed unchanged.
“Buffalo Calf,” Mary Beth said.
“Buffalo Calf?” Virgil said.
“He said name Buffalo Calf.”
Virgil nodded again. He glanced at Pony; Pony shrugged and shook his head.
We were quiet for a time. Outside the circle of firelight, one of the horses stirred.
“Oh, God,” Mary Beth said.
“Just one of the horses,” Virgil said.
“But what if they come back?”
“Can’t,” Virgil said. “They’re all dead.”
“You kill them,” Mary Beth said.
“We did.”
“What if the Indian comes back?”
“He won’t.”
“But if he does?”
“We’ll kill him, too,” Virgil said.
“You don’t know what he’s like,” Mary Beth said.
“No,” Virgil said.
He smiled at her.
“But I know what I’m like,” Virgil said.
33
MARY BETH AND LAUREL SLEPT pressed together, with Laurel holding on to Virgil’s sleeve through the night as he slept next to them. Pony and I took turns staying awake. At sunup we had coffee and some cold biscuits, and started north. The women rode on two of the saddle horses whose owners we’d killed. We turned the rest of the horses loose.
“I want my horses,” Mary Beth said when we got her mounted.
“You’ll ride a lot more comfortable in a saddle.”
“Can’t we put the saddles on my horses?”
“Saddles ain’t big enough,” Virgil said. “Horses’ll trail along, just like the mule.”
And they did. Mary Beth kept looking back for them every few minutes. Laurel simply sat on her horse, with the reins wrapped around the saddle horn. She held on to the horn, and made no attempt to direct the horse. If he paused to graze, turned off the trail, Pony or I would ride up and nudge him back. She showed no sign that she was aware of us. She kept her eyes focused on Virgil, who was riding ahead of her with her mother.
At noon we stopped near a stream and let the horses graze on a long tether. There was some shade from a couple of cottonwoods.
“I want to wash myself,” Mary Beth said.
“Sure,” Virgil said.
“I want to wash myself all over,” she said. “Laurel, too.”
“We won’t look,” Virgil said.
“Will you come down and stand close while we go in the water?” Mary Beth said.
“Sure,” Virgil said.
He went with them, and when they got to the stream he turned his back. I made fire out of some dead cottonwood branches. Didn’t make a good fire. But it would be enough to cook. Pony was slicing salt pork into a fry pan. After I got the fire built I put some biscuits in a Dutch oven and put it next to the fire.
After a time, the women came up from the water, wearing a couple of blankets. Their clothes were draped in the warm wind over the lower branches of one of the cottonwoods. They sat close to Virgil while we ate lunch. By the time we were ready to move on, their clothes were dry enough to wear, and we looked away again while they dressed.
We rode northeast all the rest of the day. Laurel stayed close to her mother, and her mother stayed close to Virgil. As far as they were concerned, it was as if me and Pony were along to carry Virgil’s ammunition.
When it was dark, we made camp and sat around the fire with the whiskey jug.
“When we get to Brimstone,” Virgil said, “you gonna be able to handle the farm by yourselves?”
“Oh my God,” Mary Beth said. “My cow. She has to be milked. What happened to my cow?”
“She’s okay,” Virgil said. “Got somebody looking after her.”
Mary Beth nodded and looked at Laurel. Laurel looked blank. She had a little whiskey in a tin cup and sipped it
now and then. Otherwise, she was still. Mary Beth drank some of her whiskey.
“You asked me something,” she said to Virgil.
“Can you work the farm by yourself?”
Mary Beth took another swallow of whiskey and let it rest in her mouth for a time before she swallowed.
“I don’t know,” she said. “I can cook and sew and milk the cow and grow vegetables. I don’t know about plowing and digging and hauling. My husband always did that.”
“Got any money to hire a hand?” I said.
She seemed startled that I was there. She looked at me long enough to say “No.” And then looked back at Virgil.
“Maybe Brother Percival would donate somebody,” I said to Virgil.
“But we can’t be alone,” Mary Beth said.
“Maybe we can arrange a hand,” I said.
“No,” Virgil said. “She means she can’t be alone.”
“Anywhere,” I said.
Mary Beth nodded. Laurel was still.
“Anywhere,” Virgil said.
“That makes it a little harder,” I said.
I handed the whiskey jug to Pony; he took a pull and passed it on to Mary Beth. She fastidiously wiped the mouth of the jug with the bottom of her skirt, and poured some whiskey into her cup.
“Can’t be alone,” she said.
34
THE NEXT DAY WE CAME to the Paiute, and a day later, riding up the low rise from the river, we saw the Ostermueller farm. The draught horses that had followed us all the way broke into a trot and went past us, heading for the stock shed. We paused. Virgil glanced at the women. As we sat, tears started down Mary Beth’s face.
“Want to stop off here?” Virgil said.
Mary Beth shook her head.
Laurel suddenly kicked her horse in the ribs and hung on to the saddle horn as he broke into a gallop. Pony went after her and caught her as her horse, getting no instructions from its rider, slowed to a walk. He caught the bridle and they stopped. Laurel stayed hunched over the saddle horn, her face turned away from the farmhouse. Pony looked back at Virgil. Virgil gestured toward town. Pony shrugged and let go of the harness, and rode beside her as they went toward Brimstone. As soon as we were past the farm, Laurel slowed her horse until Virgil came up.
Appaloosa / Resolution / Brimstone / Blue-Eyed Devil Page 42
