Catcher

When Lieutenant Baker woke the following day the sky was overcast, the color of gunmetal.  In the distance curtains of rain obscured the southern horizon.

Pony was nowhere to be seen. 

He was tempted to call out but remembered Pony’s caution about noise.  The horses were still hobbled and grazing, so he walked to the top of the draw in which they’d camped.  A low bench of a hill marked the only prominence for miles around.  Baker saw Pony, prone, at the summit.

It took him five minutes to walk to it, and when he reached the base Pony turned and looked at him.  The scout held a finger to his lips and motioned Baker to come forward.  The lieutenant crawled to the top.

At great distance to the north a line of dark spots moved across the open ground.  Unhurried.  Baker counted:  twenty. 

Indians?

Pony nodded.

Cheyenne?

Cant tell.

What do we do? 

Nothin.

Where do you think they’re going?

Dont know.  Away from us is all I care.

Why don’t we follow them?

Pony looked at Baker.

Suit yourself, lieutenant, but my business is west of here…  Cottonwood Springs. For now I’d advise finding some cover.

They moved down from the hill and gathered the horses and checked the loads in their weapons.  They rode west, rifles across their saddle bows, until they came to a sparse grove of cottonwood trees.  They spent the rest of the day among the trees, both men posting themselves at the edge, watching.

In the dimming light they mounted again and rode through the night.  Pony led the pack animals and Baker rode behind.  From the starless night sky a pounding rain fell, their little train visible only in the intervals of lightning, horses with flattened ears and tails dripping, riders hunched at the shoulder, unavailing against the storm.

At length the rain subsided, and just before dawn they came upon a cluster of sod buildings, between which were stacked crates and wagon parts.  Across a wide, muddy thoroughfare stood corrals and a half dozen crude log structures.  The walls featured loopholes for rifles.  A line of wired telegraph poles stretched across the prairie.  Smoke of early morning cookfires spiraled from the stovepipes of several of the buildings.

The horses’ hooves made sucking sounds as they walked between the buildings.  This is Cottonwood Springs? Baker asked.  Pony nodded.  Never been here lieutenant? he said.  No, said Baker.  Never this far west of Kearny.  What is this place? 

Stage station mostly, said Pony.

A man emerged from the back of one of the log buildings.  Pony motioned Baker forward and handed him the lead to the pack horses.  He spurred his horse over to where the man stood.  Baker could see Pony speaking to the man, who pointed in a direction away from the buildings.  Pony touched his hat brim and rode back to Baker.

He’s out that way, said Pony.

Who?

Catcher, the man I’m lookin for.

Catcher?  Catcher who?

Just Catcher.  That’s his name.  A Pawnee.  May know somethin about the girl. 

How’s a Pawnee know what the Cheyenne are up to? he said.  I thought the Pawnee and Cheyenne were enemies.

They are.  Catcher was took by the Cheyenne as a boy.  Lived with em most of his life.  Anyhow he’s one helluva tracker.

They rode south two, three miles.  The camp was in the open, set between a pair of low, naked hills – an open military ambulance wagon, lean-to tarpaulin shelter, three horses.  A Dutch oven hung over a smoldering fire. 

The Indian stood at a skinning rack, bloody to the elbows, stripping hide from an antelope carcass.  He wore a faded cavalry blouse, breechcloth, moccasins.  His shoulder-length black hair was loose, topped by a turban of faded calico cloth.

He looked up as the riders approached.  Next to him a Sharps .50 caliber rifle leaned against a wagon wheel.  He looked at the riders for a long moment and went back to work.

Pony raised his hand and spoke to him in Cheyenne as he climbed down from his horse.

Catcher.  Catcher, my brother.  It’s good to see you again.

The Indian did not respond.  Pony approached him, offered his hand.

Good to see you, my brother, he repeated.

The Indian stopped working.  He was small in stature, but heavy-limbed.  His legs reminded Baker of short, muscular tree trunks.  His wide face wore a scowl, and his dark eyes shifted from Pony to Baker and back again. 

This here’s Lieutenant Baker, said Pony.

Pleased to make your acquaintance, said Baker.

The Indian did not take Pony’s hand, nor acknowledge Baker.

I heard you were dead, he said to Pony in Cheyenne.

Pony smiled and continued speaking in Cheyenne. It’s been many moons since we saw each other, brother.

Catcher turned back to the carcass.  When I heard you died I was glad, he said.

Pony, still smiling, looked at Baker and spoke in English.  Me n Catcher, we go back a long ways.

The Indian spit.  Pony looked at him.

Catcher, you know I meant to share the money with you.

The Indian did not look at him, but peeled hide away from the carcass, slicing tissue with a short knife.

Your voice, he said, sounds like the buzzing of flies over the squatting ground.  Go away.

I came here to make good with you, brother.  I came here to offer you more money, said Pony.

My ears can’t hear you.  Go away.

Pony walked to the wagon and put his hand on the pile of stiff hides in the barrow.

More money than ten wagons full of hides, he said.

The Indian’s right hand struck out like a serpent, and the skinning knife stuck, quivering, in the wagon box just beneath Pony’s hand.  Baker, still mounted, reached for his pistol.  Pony smiled at him.

Now then, lieutenant.  Me n Catcher’s just renewing our acquaintance.

Still smiling, Pony removed the knife from the side of the wagon box and walked over to Catcher.  He flipped the knife in his hand and, offering the handle to the Indian, spoke to him in English.

Say friend, how’s about a cup of whiskey?

They unloaded the pack animals and uncorked one of the jugs while Catcher finished the skinning.  He butchered the carcass and spitted a saddle of meat over the fire.  The roasting smell filled the air and stirred the men’s hunger as they sat cross-legged in the shade of the tarpaulin next to the wagon, each holding a shiny new tin cup.  Pony and Catcher each drank a cup and filled another before Baker consumed half his portion, all the while Pony smiling and jabbering a mishmash of Cheyenne and English words, among which Baker understood only ‘gold’ and ‘money.’  The lieutenant was unable to follow the thrust of presentation, nor could he read a reaction in the face of the Indian.

Finally Pony began speaking in English.

So Catcher, he said, you hear anything bout that white girl was stole over near Kearny a year last summer?  They say it was Cheyenne done it.

 The Indian shook his head.  I heard a foolish white man and his family were rubbed out near the fort.  No talk of a girl.

Was it the Cheyenne? Pony asked.

There are warriors from Little Wound’s band in this country, Catcher answered.  Hotamitanio – Dog Soldiers.  The old man chief cannot control them.  Now some Arapaho are with them.

To Baker’s surprise the Indian looked at him, then back at Pony.

You and the blue coat, he said.  You look for the girl?

Pony nodded, and the Indian’s mouth turned up at the corners, the shadow of a smile. 

He spoke in Cheyenne:  I think the Dog Soldiers will kill both of you.

What did he say? Baker asked Pony.

Catcher lifted his hand, palm up, to Pony, still speaking in Cheyenne.  Give me what you owe me, he said.  You will be dead soon.

What’s he saying?

Pony smiled.  He answered Catcher in Cheyenne.  The girl’s family will pay to find her.  I’ll share it with you, brother.

Baker watched as the expression on Catcher’s face changed.  Eyes narrowed.  The Indian rose and walked over to the wagon.

Rogers, Baker said, what’s he saying?

We’re negotiatin, said Pony.  Indians love to haggle.

Pony stood up and followed Catcher.

Go away, the Indian said.  Then harsher Cheyenne words:  Go away now, or I will kill you myself.

Hear me, Pony said.  They will pay us.  More than you can count.

Liar.

No.  Only the truth.

The Indian stepped back.

Truth?  He spat in the dirt at Pony’s feet.  No veho-e knows the sound of the truth.

pony made the sign for three hundred.  Listen to me.  They will pay you this much, he said.  The Indian looked at Baker, then back at Pony.

Gold?

Pony nodded.  Catcher’s eyes shifted again to Baker, who slowly uncrossed his legs and stood, brushed his shirtfront and wiped his hands on his trousers.  His palms were sweating.  He did not understand the argument, but the emotion was unmistakable; he would be ready for whatever happened next.

The Indian turned back to Pony and placed a brown hand, streaked with dried antelope blood, on his shoulder.  Catcher spoke in a low voice, the words still in Cheyenne.

My brother, he said.  If you try to cheat me again I will cut out your heart and feed it to the camp dogs.

Pony grinned.  He turned to Baker and threw his arms in the air.  Done, he said.  We start tomorrow.