A Buffalo Hunt, Found By The Cheyenne

A portion of this post was published earlier, "Found By The Cheyenne."

The next day they came across buffalo; Pony and Baker gave chase.  It was the lieutenant’s first hunt from horseback and he had difficulty closing with the herd. The panicked mass of buffalo spooked his horse, which shied whenever an animal in the herd swerved or stumbled or kicked up a clod.  Baker kept up as best he could for five miles, firing his rifle and every round in his pistol but unable to bring down a single animal.  In the end he dismounted from his exhausted horse and watched the buffalo fade into the distance, enthralled by the waves of dust and thunder.

Pony killed a young cow and that evening the three of them dined on roast and ribs.  Pony and the Indian squatted on their haunches, smacking and chewing, the juices running down their chins as they ate.  When they finished they wiped their hands in their hair and lit pipes and broke out a jug.  Each took a swallow and Pony moved over to where Baker sat apart and offered him a drink.  The lieutenant shook his head, tossed rib bones into the sage.  Catcher said something to Pony in Cheyenne.

Well? said Baker.

Well what? said Pony.

I’d like to know what he said.

Pony squatted next to Baker.

He thinks you’re in a snit about them white men we shot.

I’ve seen men killed before.

You’re a soldier.  That’s your business, aint it?

Duty, Mister Rogers.  That’s how I prefer to think of it.

Well.

It’s your opinion I don’t have the sand for this, isn’t it?

What I think aint important.

Nevertheless…

Look, the Indian reckons you’re angry ye didn’t get to shoot anyone.

And you, Mister Rogers?  What do you think?

Pony took a long pull on the jug, wiped his mouth on his sleeve.  A drop glistened in his sparse moustache.

They meant to do us harm.  Sufficient reason to kill any man.

Any man?  You mean every man.  You killed all of them.

And what would your formulation be?  Ask em to supper?

They might have known something.  Might have seen the Indians we’re after.

Then what, lieutenant? Fare-thee-well and each on his way?

It doesn’t bother you in the least, does it?

Lieutenant, I intend to discover if the girl is alive and then collect the reward.  Whoever tries to prevent that is against me.

Ah yes.  The money.  We finally get to it.

Not finally, lieutenant.  First.

That, Mister Rogers, is what divides us.  You and I.  I believe the money is not your first concern, it’s your only concern.  Nothing else matters.

Pony shrugged.  The child’s predicament is none of my doing.

Baker shook his head, looked away, to the west.  The sky was clear, incandescent, the sun just touching the horizon.  It was unusually warm for September, and insects still hovered above the sage - their wings glowing, everything rimmed in gold.

Pony leaned forward.

Lieutenant, ye don’t approve of me.  I don’t give a good goddamn.  But I’ll say this:  If it helps, feel free to take whatever time is left to count the cost.  I’ll leave that to ye.  As for myself…

He tapped his pipe on the toe of his boot and stood.

…I intend to stay alive, he said, and walked away.

 

---

They rode on, the Indian flanking twenty, thirty rods out to either side.  Periodically he dropped back, scanning the back trail.  After two days they abandoned the Big Sandy and cut southwest, finding no mark of man’s passing until they came upon a scattering of mule bones, bleached and crazed.  Alongside a pelvic arch lay a dried, cracked leather pannier, empty, with a bullet hole in it.  Next to it a bible, half-buried in the sand, its cover weathered and rotting, the remaining pages melded, nearly transparent.  It was open to the book of Revelations, with a verse, barely legible, underlined in ink - And in her was found the blood of prophets, and of saints, and of all that were slain upon the earth.

The following morning, out of the pre-dawn gloom came nine of them, flattened against their ponies, quirting with bows and clubs like jockeys. They had cut the trail of Pony, Lt. Baker and Catcher two days before.  Miners, they thought.  Wandering the country as if they were lost, even with an Indian to guide them.    

A thousand yards out, Catcher saw them.   Then Pony.  They checked the loads in their weapons and gathered the horses in a nearby dry wash, the Indian holding picket ropes while Pony turned packs to form breastworks.  Then he leaned over Baker and shook his shoulder.

Wake up lieutenant, he said.  We got company for breakfast.

Pony turned and said something to Catcher in Cheyenne.

What? said Baker.

Get up lieutenant.  We been found.

Baker blinked sleep from his eyes.  He looked at Pony, who knelt and levered a round into the chamber of his rifle, brought the weapon to his shoulder and slowly, casually, cocked the hammer, took aim.  Baker’s eyes widened.  Five hundred yards.  Faint cries now, like migrating geese.  Baker flipped onto his belly, fumbled with his carbine.

      The Spencer’s report rang in his ears, and Baker saw the lead pony tumble, its rider hurtling forward, disappearing into the sage.  Pony levered another round, cocked the hammer, aimed.

Boom.

The acrid smoke obscured the lieutenant’s vision.  When it cleared, he saw the attackers had spread out; another pony was down.  Its rider staggered to his feet, weaponless.  They were four hundred yards away.  Baker checked his weapon.

Are they Cheyennes? asked Baker.

The horses, lieutenant, said Pony.

What?

Aim for the horses.

Pony fired again; a third mount and rider went down, cartwheeling.  Three hundred yards.  Suddenly the riders reined up and turned their horses in circles, shouting as they sawed the animals around, taunting the camp to fight.  Baker shouldered his trapdoor carbine, but Pony reached over and grabbed the barrel.

See what happens, he said.

Two of the unhorsed warriors doubled up with other riders, the third limped through the sage, cradling an injured arm.   The marksmanship was unexpected, and now the warriors wheeled and rode back in the direction they came, at a trot, their small rawhide shields flashing in the morning light.

They’ve had enough, said Baker, rising.

But the warriors were not quitting, nor did Pony and Catcher believe they would.  Instead, the attackers rode out of rifle range and dismounted in the sage to build a fire and smoke their pipes.  The three without horses sulked; one rocked back and forth, grimacing from the pain of a broken arm.  From behind their packs Baker and Pony could see only the tops of their heads above the sage, a thin vein of smoke twisting upward from their fire.  

What are they up to? asked Baker.

Pony glanced back at Catcher, who shook his head.

Nothin at the back door.  Maybe they’re all in front of us, Pony said.

Think they’ll come at us again? asked Baker.

Pony shrugged.  They know we’ve got good long guns.

He looked at Baker.

If they try us, aim for the ponies.  We come out here to trade, not shoot. 

They mean to kill us if they can, said Baker.

            Pony turned back to watch the warriors.

Cheyennes’re a clannish bunch.  They’re all family and everbody else is a stranger.

Again he looked at Baker.

Shootin the family is impolite.  Just aim for the horses.

They watched the Indians for a quarter-hour.  They could see the Cheyenne gesturing with weapons, animated in discussion.

How long do you think they’ll take? asked Baker.

Until they decide, said Pony, who turned and shouted something to Catcher in Cheyenne.  Catcher waved.

Pony rose.  He propped his rifle against a pack and pulled his pistol, checked the loads.  He stuck it back in his belt.

I’ll try to talk to them, he said.  If it goes wrong, I’ll be back on the double-quick.

He looked at Baker.

The ponies, lieutenant.

Baker nodded.  Pony turned and walked into the sage, his knuckles skimming the tops of the plants as he moved. Far to the west cotton boll clouds flattened and merged and grew dark, and a sudden wind fanned Pony’s gritty hair like flames as he walked.  A change in weather was coming and even the sky seemed anxious, as if the earth itself presaged a reckoning.