Appaloosa / Resolution / Brimstone / Blue-Eyed Devil

by Robert B. Parker

  “You work for me, you half-breed cocksucker,” Pike said.

  “No more,” Pony said.

  “Fuck you, then,” Pike said. “I’ll track him myself.”

  He turned and walked back into the Palace.

  “Pike ain’t his usual jolly self,” I said.

  “Twenty men,” Pony said. “Stampede. Be lucky he don’t kill them all.”

  Virgil nodded, looking at the empty doorway where Pike had gone.

  “Be lucky,” Virgil said.

  45

  WE SAT OUR HORSES on the other side of the ford and looked at the muddle of hoofprints that Pike and his posse had left. The pack mule took the opportunity to graze.

  “Don’t make tracking the Indian so easy,” Virgil said.

  “I find him,” Pony said.

  “Pike will assume he’s running,” I said.

  “Not running,” Pony said.

  “He’ll shadow Pike,” Virgil said.

  “If we’re right about him,” I said.

  “So, we shadow Pike, we might come across him.”

  “Might shadow us,” Pony said.

  “He and Pike got a history,” Virgil said. “I ain’t saying he got no interest in us. But they got something between them.”

  “Maybe get everybody,” Pony said.

  “Might be his plan,” I said.

  Virgil was looking at the tracks of twenty horses.

  “Pike much of an Indian fighter, when you was with him?”

  “Very good soldier,” Pony said. “Kill everybody.”

  “And if Buffalo Calf wants to be tracked, Pike won’t have much trouble.”

  “No track like me,” Pony said. “But can track. I teach him.”

  “When you was soldiering, Everett, what you do with a troop of soldiers like this?”

  “They’d be in squads,” I said. “Non com for each. I’d have scouts ahead, maybe some outriders to each flank.”

  “Let’s follow along, see if he does that.”

  “Think you can track them, Pony?”

  “Little girl we save?” Pony said. “She could track them.”

  “If we’re right,” Virgil said, “the Indian’s trying to lead Pike into a trap. Be better if we didn’t ride right into it behind them.”

  “They rode out at sunup,” I said.

  Virgil glanced at the sun.

  “Got ’bout two hours on us,” he said.

  He looked at the horizon in all directions.

  “Land’s flat for a ways,” he said. “Don’t see no place he could hide and watch.”

  “So Buffalo Calf has got to trust Pike to follow him,” I said, “until they get into country where Buffalo Calf can spy.”

  “You know this country, Pony?” Virgil said.

  “Some,” Pony said. “Northwest, maybe two days’ ride, country get rougher.”

  “That where you’d go,” Virgil said, “you was gonna ambush somebody?”

  “Yes,” Pony said.

  Virgil looked at the sun again.

  “We’ll follow them,” he said. “See if they turn that way.”

  “And if they do?” I said.

  “Maybe strike out on our own,” Virgil said.

  He clucked to his horse. The mule heard him and pricked his ears forward and stopped grazing. We rode out after Pike, and the mule trotted on behind us. We all had .45 Winchesters, in the saddle boot, and we all wore .45 Colts. Made carrying cartridges easier. I had the eight-gauge. We all rode together. The mule could have followed Pike’s trail.

  About midday we came to the place where they’d stopped and reorganized. We sat our horses while Pony rode around the area, looking at tracks.

  “Okay,” Pony said. “He send scouts.”

  He pointed out the tracks of two individual horses.

  He rode around the area some more.

  “Outriders,” he said, pointing.

  “Okay,” I said. “He’s getting organized.”

  “Good soldier,” Pony said. “Know how to fight.”

  “Probably got them broken into squads now,” I said.

  “No way to tell,” Pony said. “Horses all walk over each other tracks in troop.”

  “He actually got twenty men?” Virgil said.

  “Cannot tell,” Pony said. “Too many.”

  “Let’s assume twenty,” I said. “He sent two scouts out front, and two flankers. Leaves sixteen. So he breaks the rest of them into three squads of five. And he makes sixteen.”

  “All he needs is a damned guidon,” Virgil said.

  “It’s the way he’s learned to fight,” I said.

  “There’s enough of them to be stupid,” Virgil said.

  “They figure Buffalo Calf won’t turn and fight them?” I said.

  “Yep.”

  “So they could ride right on into an ambush,” I said.

  “Could,” Virgil said

  “Maybe Buffalo Calf has some friends,” I said.

  “None before,” Pony said.

  “Any Comanche villages around?” Virgil said.

  Pony shook his head.

  “Mostly reservation Indians now,” Pony said.

  “Don’t mean they always stay on the reservation,” Virgil said.

  “Nope,” Pony said.

  “You think he knows we’re out here?” I said to Pony.

  “Probably think we with Pike,” Pony said. “Even mission-school Indian don’t understand white people much.”

  “You understand white people?” I said.

  “No,” Pony said.

  His face was blank. I grinned at him.

  “Well,” I said. “We ain’t typical, anyway.”

  “Typical?” Pony said.

  “Like everybody else,” I said.

  “No,” Pony said. “You not like everybody.”

  46

  WE HAD A COLD CAMP that night, no fire, beef jerky and hard biscuits for supper, some whiskey to wash it down. In the morning, more biscuits and jerky, and some water from the canteen. Not long after sunrise, the tracks turned northwest.

  “How far to this high ground you talking about,” Virgil said.

  “Half day,” Pony said. “Less, if push horse.”

  “Okay,” Virgil said. “Take a look, see how far he sends his outriders.”

  Pony nodded and turned his horse and rode in a widening circle around the main tracks until he found the outriders. We sat our horses and waited.

  “Both side,” Pony said, when he came back. “Maybe far as you shoot Colt.”

  Virgil nodded.

  “Want to get beyond the outriders,” he said.

  Pony nodded.

  “Tell me ’bout this high ground,” Virgil said.

  “Start like short hill,” Pony said. “Go up.”

  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 sa
id, 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.

  47

  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.”

  48

  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.

  Then I saw the Indian.

  He stepped out from the rocks with his rifle, looking around the hollow. He wore his black coat and hat. His face was painted black and I could see where the coat was open red stripes painted on his naked chest. I cocked the shotgun. He heard it and looked up at me, and Virgil stepped out from behind the rocks. He had his Colt but not his Winchester.

  “Buffalo Calf,” he said.

  The Indian turned slowly and looked steadily at Virgil.

  “You,” he said.

  “Me,” Virgil said.

  “You know my name,” the Indian said.

  “I do,” Virgil said.

  “What’s your name,” the Indian said.

  “Virgil Cole.”

  “You are not with Pike,” the Indian said.

  “Nope.”

  “How many are you?”

  “Everett up in the rocks,” Virgil said. “Pony Flores over to your left.”

  The Indian nodded.

  “Everett has a shotgun,” the Indian said. “I heard both h
ammers cock.”

  “Eight-gauge,” Virgil said.

  The Indian nodded.

  “I had planned to kill you,” he said. “You and Pike.”

  Virgil nodded.

  “Now, maybe, you will kill me,” the Indian said.

  “Maybe,” Virgil said.

  “I would wish to have killed Pike first,” the Indian said.

  “Why?” Virgil said.

  “Things from our past,” the Indian said.

  “Put down the Winchester and we’ll take you back to Brimstone,” Virgil said.

  “To a white-face jail,” the Indian said.

  “Yes.”

  “To be hanged by a white-face judge,” the Indian said.

  “Probably,” Virgil said.

  The Indian nodded.

  “Virgil Cole,” he said.

  Virgil said nothing. The Indian bent over slowly and laid the rifle on the ground. Then he straightened and there was a big bowie knife in his hand. He came straight at Virgil. Virgil never moved, until, with no apparent hurry, he drew and fired and hit the Indian in the chest. The Indian kept coming. Virgil shot him twice more before he went down, the knife still in the Indian’s hand. He crawled forward a little farther, then stopped. His whole body seemed to convulse with effort, and then it was still. He was dead at Virgil’s feet. Virgil opened the cylinder, ejected the spent cartridges, and reloaded the Colt. Then he put the gun back in his holster and squatted on his heels and looked at Buffalo Calf.

  49

  WE LAID THE INDIAN SIDEWAYS over the back of his horse, and tied him in place. We got our own animals and went down the slope, leading the paint horse with Buffalo Calf’s body. We rode for maybe half an hour on the flat plain before we came up to the posse. Pike was riding in the lead. When he saw us he stopped the posse and sat waiting for us, peering at us through the rain, until we got close enough for him to make everything out.

  “You got to him first,” Pike said to Virgil.

  “We did,” Virgil said.

  Pike swung off his horse and walked to the dead Indian. He took hold of the Indian’s hair and raised his head and looked at his face.

  “Buffalo Calf,” Pike said.

  “Buffalo Calf,” Virgil said.

  Still holding the Indian’s head up, Pike reached behind him and took a knife from his belt.