Brimstone - Паркер Роберт Б. (читать книги полностью .TXT) 📗

28

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?”

“Si.”

“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.

29

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.

“Might want to camp this side,” Virgil said. “Kinda hate to get caught in the middle of the river in the near dark by a man with a rifle.”

“We can cross in the morning,” Pony said.

We made a fire and cooked some bacon and beans. I took a jug from the pack, and we passed it around while the supper cooked.

“How long you work for Pike?” I said to Pony.

“Since wild times,” Pony said.

“Outlaw times,” I said.

“Yes.”

“Always the way he is now?”

“Sure,” Pony said.

“Big, friendly bear,” Virgil said. “Everybody’s friend.”

“Sure.”

“ ’Cept when he ain’t,” Virgil said.

Pony frowned for a moment, translating Virgil’s remark into whatever language he thought in.

“You mean when he kill people,” Pony said.

“Uh-huh.”

“He like to kill people,” Pony said.

“I know,” Virgil said.

Pony took a pull on the bottle.

“You no like that,” he said.

“Don’t mind it,” Virgil said.

Pony handed me the bottle.

“You ever fight with us when you was living Apache?” I said.

Pony smiled.

“Blue Dogs?” he said. “Sure, I fight.”

“I was a Blue Dog,” I said.

Pony nodded.

“Maybe we fought each other,” I said.

“Maybe,” Pony said.

“Does it matter?” I said.

“When I with Apache,” he said, “I tell them I fight for them, and I do. Now I with you. I tell you I fight for you. I will fight.”

“Even against another Indian?” I said.

“I am also Mexican,” Pony said, and almost smiled again. “And this man who has stolen the ladies. He not Chiricahua.”

“How do you know?” I said.

Virgil had the whiskey bottle. He took a drink and passed it on to Pony. Pony drank some and looked at me and might have smiled.

“No Chiricahua around here,” he said.

30

IN THE MORNING WE SAT our horses at the ford, looking across the river. There was nothing to see.

“I go,” Pony said.

“Why you?” I said.

“Tracker,” Pony said.

He turned his horse and went into the river. It was shallow. The horse never had to swim. On the other side, Pony rode up the little rise, bending over to study the tracks. He pulled up at the top of the rise and looked around. Then he gestured for us to come. Virgil went in and then me, hazing the mule ahead of me.

Pony pointed when we reached him.

“Go off there,” he said.

And he headed west. The tracks were still clear enough. I could follow them fine. But a mile or so from the river the land began to rise, and the footing became rockier. It was harder to see the tracks. But Pony stayed with it. He was maybe fifty yards ahead of us, near a cluster of boulders, when he stopped. Virgil pulled his horse to the right. I went left. The mule didn’t know who to follow, so he just stood. I had the eight-gauge across my saddle, with both hammers back. We walked the horses slowly around the boulders until we met on the other side of them and were looking at Pony. The mule saw us together and trotted toward us.