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.

MacDonald's Ranch

The lieutenant slept for three hours.  He did not know if Pony slept.

They saddled their horses and loaded the pack animals by moonlight, their shadows faded against the silvered ground.  The two men mounted and rode northwest.

The country was dark and quiet, save the occasional wail of a coyote, rejoined by unseen packmates or enemies far out on the prairie, away from the travelers.  Hours passed and the lieutenant’s horse fell behind; Baker looked up and realized he’d been dozing.  He spoke.

They do lend a brightness, don’t they?  These stars.

Pony reined up, sawed his horse around.

Voice carries a long way out here, lieutenant.  I’d recommend against conversation unless you want company.

They crested a low rise.  Pony stopped and the lieutenant rode up.  Ahead lay a broad stretch of tableland, and in the distance, a cluster of yellow lights.  The lieutenant pulled his field glass.

What is it? he said.

MacDonald’s ranch, said Pony.

Baker swung the glass up.  They were a mile out, but the air was clear and crisp, and moonlight edged the crude structures.  

Ahhh.  Looks like three buildings.

Pony clucked his horse forward.

We’ll stop in, he said.  Could be somebody’s heard somethin.  Wont hurt to ask.

There were six horses and two mules dozing in the pole corral next to the main building.  A small sod barn in back and a plank shed, open on the south side.  A root cellar.  Stacks of cordwood, cut and hauled from miles away.  The yard between the buildings was dark with weeds.

The main building was a single-storey soddie.  It had a sagging peak roof, topped with soil in which prickly pear, curly dock and blue grama sprouted.  In the center a black sheet metal stovepipe rose skyward, its faint tail of smoke noting the lateness of the hour.  A rack of elk antlers by the front door.  A broken scythe on the roof, tossed out of the way, the curved handle silhouetted against the glittering starfield.  Interior light poured from the building’s deep window wells on the side, casting a yellow glow on the wall’s courses of sod, highlighting stems of dried grass that poked through the seams like untrimmed whiskers.

Pony and Lt. Baker tied up at the corral.  Baker reached the entrance threshold first and waited, assuming Pony would knock and identify them.  Pony just looked at the lieutenant as he passed and brought his left shoulder hard against the heavy planking of the door.  It gave way, throwing a swath of yellow light out onto the prairie, spilling sudden, deep shadows behind everything in its path, until it weakened and was consumed in darkness.

Across the room Lt. Baker saw a plank and barrel bar and a man moving behind it.  He was large, with meaty hands and stout forearms that looked like short clubs.  He wore a filthy apron over equally squalid buckskins, blackened and greasy.  He reached up to his mouth and removed the stub of a cheroot from the corner.  His teeth were mostly gone and those remaining were little more than snags.  William MacDonald, proprietor.

Hallo, he said.  Come in strangers if yer white.

Howdy yerself you old pirate, said Pony.

The interior air was stale.  Lit by three oil lamps suspended from the rafters and several tallow candles, the room smelled of smoke and sweat, tobacco and sour furs.  MacDonald lifted his right hand to shield his eyes from the glare of the lamp directly over his head.   

Well sir.  Is it?  No.  Pony?  Is that you?  I’ll be damned.

Yes, Bill, I believe you will.

I heard you was dead, boy.

Can’t believe everthing you hear Bill.

Pony stepped up to the bar and shook MacDonald’s hand.

Godamighty Pony boy.  Still got your hair I see.

Still servin that poison Bill?

The lieutenant stepped up next to Pony.

Who’s your friend?

Oh.  This here’s Lieutenant Baker, Bill.

MacDonald reached out and enfolded the lieutenant’s hand in his own.  Although the trader’s hand felt rough and gritty, his grip was remarkably light. 

Howdeedo, Lieutenant.

It was then Baker saw the scar: a jagged furrow that gullied MacDonald’s cheek from the corner of his left eye to his jawline.  Baker couldn’t help it; his eyes were drawn to the wound.  

Helluva beauty mark aint she?  MacDonald said.  A gift from my second wife.  Arapaho, she was.    

MacDonald’s brown eyes sparkled beneath his bushy brows.  Bloodshot from decades of exposure to sun and woodsmoke, they yet held an incandescent luster, like Pony’s, the provenance of which the lieutenant correlated to the rigors of life on the frontier, and that peculiar madness induced by vast distances and relentless solitude.

I take it she held strong opinions, said Baker.

MacDonald slammed the bartop with his hand, raising dust.

And a goddamn deer antler, he said.  Haw. 

He reached back to a low shelf and picked up a chipped glass and set it in front of Baker.

What’ll you have, lieutenant?

Whiskey.

MacDonald produced a jug and poured.  Pony leaned forward.

Hows about me Bill?

This here’s for payin customers Pony.  You got cash?

Baker flipped a coin on the bar.

I’ll stand him to a toss, he said.

MacDonald picked up the coin and bit it.  He got a glass for Pony.

Be careful Bill, Pony said.  I’ll take my business elsewhere.

That’ll be the day, said MacDonald.

The lieutenant took a sip, a fireball that seemed to slow down as it slid down his throat.  His eyes watered.  He turned his back to the bar and tried to blink the tears away.  He felt as if he’d been punched in the windpipe.  He gasped.

Oh she’s got a little kick, said MacDonald.  Genuine Monongahela popskull.

Baker looked around the room, hoping to avoid eye contact.  The walls were lined with heavy sacks of beans, flour barrels and crates of tinned goods.  In the corner two men sat at a small table playing cards; an empty bottle lay tipped over between them.  Baker moved to end of the bar, pretending to examine some item while he regained his composure.

Bill I believe I’ll try anothern, said Pony.

You don’t mind lieutenant? asked MacDonald.

Baker merely shook his head.

So what are you two doin out here?

Pony lifted his glass, drained it.

Lookin for information, he said.  Little Dutch girl stole by Indians just west of Kearny last year.  Her family wants to know what happened to her.  You ain’t heard anything bout it, have you Bill?

Ahhhhhhh no.  No, I aint.  Which Injuns done it?

Looks like it might of been Cheyenne.

MacDonald looked at the two men in the corner.  Bus, he said.  Gibby.  Either a you heard anything bout a Dutch girl took by the Cheyenne the year past?  Over near Kurny?

Both men looked up.  Full beards and unwashed, shoulder-length hair.   Soiled clothing, patched and frayed.  They mumbled something to each other and stood, one grabbing the empty bottle from the table.  Around their waists each wore a sash, from the folds of which appeared the handles of large knives.  They shuffled to the bar, bringing with them a fetid reek of sweat and uncured hides and whiskey.  Bussard and Gibeau Batiste - hunters, trappers. 

Hallo, Pony boy, said Bussard.  He set the empty bottle down on the bar.  Bill, we’ll take anothern.  Hey Beau, lookey here.  A dead man.  Pony come back from the dead.

Gibeau, staring at Lieutenant Baker, turned to look.  Lord, he said, smiling.  Never seen a dead man upright before.

Boys, said Pony.  Hows the hide business?

Shit, said Bussard.  Me’n Beau’s pulled a hunert fifty since the snowmelt.  Six barrel of tongue, too.

You two seen or heard anything bout a young Dutch girl, stole by Injuns?

Dutch girl? asked Gibeau.

Over by Kearny, Pony said.  Year ago June.

Gibeau shook his head.  Aint heard nothin.  Bus, you remember that?

No, the brother said.  But we cut the trail on Lo and his brethren down on the Republican a fortnight ago.  Maybe ten of em.

Didn’t see no sign a no little girl though, said Gibeau.  Wasn’t no small bones in their campfire, was there Bus?  He laughed.

Baker turned.  I don’t see the humor in that sir.

Gibeau turned toward the soldier.  Bussard leaned over the bar to get a look at Baker.

Gibeau shoved a glass across the rough plank toward Baker.  Nothing to pout about, general.  Mebbe you just need another taste.  Drink up.  I’ll buy.

Baker picked up the glass and turned it upside down.  No. I don’t believe I will.

Gibeau leaned on the bar.  You know, he said, last year me n Buss run up against a couple of sassy soldier boys down at Fort Hays.  He looked at his brother.  Didn’t we, Buss?

Bussard shook his head. 

Yeah, said Gibeau, they was real uppity.  Thought that blue shirt give em license to insult everbody.  Me n Buss, we was forced to show em the error of their ways.

Right quick, said Bussard.

Gibeau squared himself to Baker.  Heres where you went wrong, he said.  Smart-mouth Yankees don’t prosper here.  If I was you, I’d step on out that door and ride back to wheresomever you come from. 

He reached into his sash and brought forth the large bowie knife.  Happy to lend a hand, he said.

Baker backed up a step, remembering his dragoon pistol was outside, in the holster attached to his saddle.

The sound of shattering glass.  Pony smashed the empty whiskey bottle on the bar, and in the next instant leapt upon Bussard, his right arm around the trapper’s neck, his left hand holding the jagged bottle to the trapper’s eye.

Tell you what Gibeau, he said.  Put that sticker away and I’ll try not to pop your brother’s window.

Gibeau hesitated, then lowered the knife.

That’s it, Pony said.  You know I’ll do it.  Now, lieutenant, go on ahead out that door.  I’ll be right behind you.  Baker moved to the door, Pony with him, dragging Bussard, the broken bottle just inches from the man’s eye.

Careful Pony boy, Bussard gasped.

You’re the one needs to be careful Bussy. 

Baker backed out the door.  Pony stopped at the threshold, still holding Bussard. 

Now you boys have a good evenin.  Bill set em up one on me, will you?  I’d wait a little bit before I hit this door if I was you.  Somebody might mistake your intentions.  Could get you shot.

He let go of Bussard’s neck and grabbed his hair, the broken glass still aimed at the eye.

Nice to be seein everbody again, he said.  He put his foot in the middle of Bussard’s back and kicked, sending the trapper sprawling into the room.  Pony disappeared out the door, shutting it behind him.

Gibeau helped his brother off the floor.

You alright Buss?

By God, Bussard said.  I think he’d a done it.

 

They rode in silence until the eastern skyline glowed.  They came to a shallow draw and dismounted and hobbled the horses, ate some jerked meat.

You think he would have used the knife?  Baker asked.

Hard to say, said Pony.  They have problems with the blue uniform.  The Batiste brothers are from Louisiana.

Southern sympathizers, said Baker.

From boot to hatband, said Pony. Not long ago tried to hire some Pawnee into fightin for the rebels. Hired me to translate for em.

What happened?

Well, they sought to grease the arrangement with a keg a whiskey, said Pony. When the Pawnee realized the price of a drink they inquired after rifles and cartridges so they could help their white brothers by killin ever Sioux they could find.

He shook his head.

Don’t think the heathens ever quite grasped the rebel proposition.  But the brothers kept talking and the Pawnee kept drinkin.  Finally the whiskey run out.  So did the Pawnee.

What did you do?

The only thing I could.  I got drunk.

 

The Search Begins

 

Two days later, on the second of May, as the sun broke the horizon the two men rode west out of Fort Kearny.  Pony led the pack horses through Dobytown in silence.  When they passed the last structure, he turned in his saddle and said, You know, lieutenant, this ain’t a frolic.  I won’t have time to tuck you in. 

    I require neither your permission nor your supervision, Mister Rogers, said Baker.  I’ll take care of myself, I assure you.

That so.

Yes.  It is.

You scrapped with these Indians yet, lieutenant?

Not yet.

Yes.  Well, I seen your horses and I seen your troops.

Make it plain, Mister Rogers.

Alright.  Willing aint the same as able lieutenant.  Not out here. 

Those were the last words the two men exchanged for the next ten hours, until late in the afternoon, when they halted near a spring at the mouth of a shallow canyon.  Pony moved among the pack animals as they drank.  Baker dismounted and stretched, loosened his saddle, and shielded his brow with his hat in the yellow afternoon light, surveying the green-gray prairie that overlay the earth in every direction, confusing distance until his eye could discern no scale, nor depth or height of any presence that might break the view of buffalo grass, soapweed, prickly pear.  Empty.  A lonely place.  Perdition.  

He spoke:  It has a kind of desolate beauty.

Pony did not look up. He murmured softly to the horses as his hands ran gently up and down their legs, inspecting hooves.

Far up in the pale, cloudless sky a Swainson’s hawk wheeled slowly in the rise of a thermal draft, its light breast feathers flashing momentarily like a struck match.  Baker uncorked his canteen and took a long pull.  He walked over to Pony and held it out.

Rogers, he said, you think we’ll be able to find the girl?

Pony looked at the canteen and at Baker, but did not drink.

Sooner or later we’ll likely run into somebody’s heard somethin.

So… you think she’s still alive?

Pony lifted another hoof.

If they didn’t want to take her that way you’d have found her with her family.  Indians don’t generally hesitate when it comes to warfare.

Warfare?  Against innocent women and children?

Pony stopped, looked at Baker.

Well now, you need to ask old Squaw Killer Harney about that. Ask him about how he unlimbered his guns on a Sioux village up on the Blue Water.

He turned back to his work.

Teach em a lesson, he said.  Hell, lieutenant, I’d say they learned it.

He dropped the hoof and looked at Baker.

Baker corked his canteen.

Know the heathen character pretty well, do you?

Heathen character? Pony asked.  Lieutenant, I’ll tell you a secret:  Indians is plagued by the same appetites and weaknesses as whitemen. 

He plucked some grass and held it up. 

You want to know what the difference is?  It’s this here.  This makes all the difference.  This country don’t give a damn about a man’s inventions or who he prays to.  Pay attention to this, lieutenant.  If you live long enough it’ll teach you all you need to know about Indians - and yourself, for that matter.

He let the grass blow through his fingers.

Hell, we’re just another tribe out here.    

Baker drew a deep breath.

Think we’ll ever be able to reach a peaceful settlement with them?

Pony smiled.

Well, I’ll ask you…  Think there’ll come a time when all us whites up and leave this country?

Of course not.

Pony shook his head.  Hell, Indian’s born to war anyway.  Most of em don’t want to see old age.  It’s gruesome out here. 

Baker turned and walked to his horse, looped the canteen over the pommel.

Tell me, Rogers, how’d you get the name?

Pony loosened the cinch on his saddle.

My mother’s name was Rogers.

No.  No, I mean Pony.

Pony didn’t reply.  He pulled his saddle and blanket from the horse, carried it to the foot of the slope on the canyon wall.

What are you doing? said Baker.

Horses need rest.  Me too.

Rest?  We could make another ten, maybe fifteen miles before dark.

Pony looked at him.

Suit yourself, lieutenant.  Go on ahead.

But… why stop now? Baker asked.

Pony looked up at the sky.

Sun’ll be down in a few hours.  That’s when I’ll be travelin. 

He spoke as he moved toward the pack horses.  Get outta the heat.  Draw less attention.

Baker paused, thinking.  Well, he said, I’ll gather some fuel.

Pony stopped.  No fires. Smoke’d be seen for miles out here.  It’s cold camps and night travel for now, lieutenant.  You want to be helpful, pull those loads.   I’ll rub the animals down.

They finished and spread their blankets and laid upon them, chewing pieces of jerked meat in silence, rifles beside them.  Both men stared into the distance as shadows of the hills lengthened in the hazy air.  The only sounds were the swish of the horses’ tails and the rip of the grass as it was grazed.  Pony spoke.

When I first come out here I worked for an old Frenchman who traded with the Indians.  Furs, ponies, all manner of things.  It was him give me the name.  Pony boy, he called me. I tended his stock.

What was his name? Baker asked.

Roubidoux.

He still around?

Pony shook his head.

In forty-nine a drunk pilgrim shot the old man dead over a game of cards at Laramie.

They hang him for it?

Weren’t necessary.  I run a skinnin knife through his windpipe.     

  ---

Meta Bauer was not dead.  In the months following her disappearance from the wagon she lived among her captors.  She walked in their caravans across trackless vaults of earth and sky; heard their laughter and their speech and gained understanding of it; saw them dance and weep and sing and pray and also die, young and old alike, bathed in fever sweat or awash in blood, their black eyes glassy with pain. 

She learned to eat their pungent broths, the roots and herbs and marrow bones, the dried berries and roasted meat and raw organs that sustained them, and she endured with them the lack of these when the trees were naked and the rivers frozen and the snow lay deep.  She knew the name they called themselves.  And in time though still a child she saw revealed in their hunts and their warfare and in the stories they told in the glow of their night fires the warrant of blood that bound each unto all, and to the horses and dogs that lived with them and to the merest of things.

Meta Bauer was not dead, except to the life she lived before they made her one of them.

Pony Gets Hired

The following morning as the stagecoach carried Stipple past the fort’s crude palisade revetments the major called a meeting with his staff and informed them of the orders regarding Meta Bauer.

He asked for suggestions.

There was coughing and shuffling of feet followed by silence except for irregular ticking of a large horsefly against the window panes that silhouetted the major, whose color rose at the absence of response, creeping above his collar, tingeing his earlobes as it invaded the hanging flesh of his cheeks, moving quickly to the crow’s feet that webbed the corners of his narrowed eyes.  Casual observers might well have expected steam to issue from his wide nostrils in the next instant had it not been for Sergeant Connolly, who spoke up softly, solemnly, as a man might in admitting to a great guilt.

Sir, there’s Pony Rogers.  Word has it he drifted into Dobytown two days ago.

The major’s crimson flush did not fade.  Rather, it seemed suddenly to drain from his face.  He pretended not to hear.  

That will be all, he said.

His officers stood for a long moment, uncertain.  Then the major turned his back on them and they knew the meeting was ended.  They filed out of the room, their boots scraping the floor’s cupped, uneven planking as they moved through the door.  All but Lt. Baker, who remained where he stood. 

The door closed and Wood turned from the window and saw him.

Yes, lieutenant?

I’m afraid I don’t understand major.

Don’t understand what?

Are we going to embark sir?  Are we going to hire this man, Pony?

Wood turned back to the window.  He crossed his hands behind his back.

This is your first posting on the frontier, isn’t it lieutenant?

Yes sir.

You’ve been here for what?  A year?

Thirteen months sir.

This man… Pony Rogers.  Do you know anything about him?

No sir.

Two years ago I had him in irons for attempting to persuade a 14-year-old Mormon girl to run away with him.

He looked at Baker.

He is notorious.  A thief and bounder.  The lowest form of humanity.
 

The major sat down at his desk.

For years now this country has been home to men like Rogers, he said.  Some of them have rendered valuable service, while others have turned… feral.  That’s the only term I can think of.  Their experience among the savages has erased any semblance of Christian rectitude from their behavior and they, like the Indians, cannot be trusted.

Yes sir, replied Baker.  I wasn’t aware. 

It’s true, the major continued, Rogers does speak Cheyenne.  The problem is he acts like one as well.  No moral conscience whatsoever.  If that little girl is still alive, lieutenant, I wouldn’t subject her - even for a minute - to the company of Pony Rogers.

No sir.  I just thought…

She’s better off with the Cheyenne.

 

---

 

He had not intended to linger in Dobytown.  He was on his way to Laramie to reconnoiter a cavvy of Shoshone ponies he reckoned could be purchased for five dollars a head and driven to road ranches along the trail and sold to freighters and stock-poor emigrants for as much as twenty dollars apiece.  That was his plan.  Before the whiskey and the whores and faro emptied his pockets.  Then his horse and his saddle and rifle were gambled away, and even the heavy-bladed Mexican knife, the one he’d won in a bet with a Kioway scout at Fort Hayes, who claimed it had been used to saw the heads off a dozen Lipan Apaches. 

He was not yet sober when he awoke late in the afternoon.  His trouser pockets had been turned out; dried vomit crusted the front of his torn and faded red woolen shirt.  His canvas coat was gone. 

Fortunately for Pony Rogers his years on the plains had taught him how to live in the margins of penury.  He had survived life among the heathens for seasons at a time, sharing their dangerous, comfortless freedom, navigating the sharp edges of misfortune.  Ignore the gnawing belly.  The lice, the toothaches, the hatless cold.  

He sat up, cross-legged in the dirt beside the swayed sod wall of the Dobytown saloon.  He found a short-stemmed, broken clay pipe where he’d lain and he worked it around his lips, squinting down the wide, rutted road which led east to the fort.  Gnats swarmed in the warm humid air.  He heard a winner’s whoop at the faro table and felt a sudden, wafting breeze and smelled the evening’s first cookfires and the stink of the jakes behind the saloon.  He was on the shady side of the building so he leaned back and recrossed his legs at the ankles and smiled as he looked at the holes in the knees of his trousers and pondered the possibility of cribbing a pickled egg from the bar. Not likely. The owner, a red-faced Irishman who called himself Lucky Ted held tick on Pony for fifty dollars since February.

The setting sun burnished the rippled glass windows of the harness shop next door into glowing orange rectangles, surrounded by uneven lapboard siding which ran weathered and mouseholed, without straight course, from corner to corner.  The reflection held his blurred gaze. 

A distant clopping of hooves.  He closed his eyes and when he opened them again the dark silhouette of a horse and rider held the middle of the road. 

 

It had taken three days for the major to decide to send Lt. Baker for him.

---

 

The next morning he walked the two miles to the fort.  With the five dollar gold piece the lieutenant had given him he had purchased a bath, a new set of drawers, a shirt, a pair of patched woolen army trousers, and a fried egg breakfast with coffee.  Then a drink of whiskey.  And two or three more, and the money was gone before he thought of a haircut and a shave.  His memory of what the lieutenant told him was vague - only that the army held no paper on him and something about a thousand dollars.  He wondered who they would have him kill for that kind of money.  He didn’t object to killing; he’d killed six men since he made his way west.  Three were Indians who were trying to take his scalp.  Two were white men who deserved killing, and the third was a Mexican who fell on his own knife in a cantina fight down in Santa Fe.  But he forgave Pony before he died. 

No, he didn’t object to killing; he figured he’d probably be sent under himself one day.  Never done it for money, though.  And a thousand dollars was one hell of a lot of money.       

He arrived midmorning.  He saw the green, untested troops drilling bleary-eyed and stoop-shouldered on the parade ground and he watched their shuffling movements and saw their horses muddy and uncurried and a stack of weapons gritty with rust.  He knew the war in the east had not been going well. There was nothing about this army that betokened victory, here or anywhere else. 

He didn’t know what time it was; he didn’t care.  But he could tell when he entered the major’s office they had been waiting for him.  No handshake offered.  To hell with them.  He sat heavily in the chair in front of the major’s desk, the bright sunlight from the windows pooled around him.

It took the major five minutes to explain what the army needed.  Not once during that time did he lift his eyes from the desktop nor did he pause; he spoke quickly, precisely, as though reading an order.  Then he finished and raised his eyes to look at Pony.  His disgust was plain.

You understand? he said.

Pony rubbed his temples; he was headachy.

How the hell do you know it was Cheyenne done it?

The major looked at Lt. Baker, who handed Pony the arrow.

We pulled this from one of the bodies, he said.  Pony took the arrow, held it to the light.

So, he said, what if the girl ain’t alive?  I still get paid?

The major let out a deep sigh.  You bring proof, you get paid, he said.  No proof, no money.  The major glanced at Lt. Baker, who shifted in his chair.

Pony twirled the arrow, fingered the fletching.  I want it in specie, no greenbacks.

Agreed, said the major.

Well sir, it’s sure as hell Cheyenne, Pony said, handing the arrow back.  Don’t mean it was Cheyennes done it.  I seen ‘em trade arrows, bows, most anything with Arapahoes.  Could a been Sioux, too.  None of ‘em too fond of whites these days. 

Then he smiled.  Hell. Even you know that major.

The major’s face darkened. He stood.

Pony rose too.  His expression had not altered, but anyone who lived among men in that time and place would have recognized the moment's potential for violence.  Pony’s voice was very quiet.

She said she was seventeen.

Drunk, said the major.  You’re drunk.

Said her goddamn pap was diddlin’ her… she needed to get away.

Get out.

SHE LIED. AND YOU SON OF A BITCH, YOU LOCKED ME UP FOR SIX GODDAMN MONTHS.

Baker rose and stepped forward, his hand on the butt of his revolver.  Pony turned to face him.

You’re the wrong fuckin man, shavetail.

His hand held a skinning knife, its worn blade shining in the angled light.   Baker hesitated.  Before him stood a ragged man.  Willing.  Dangerous.  And for the first time in a long while the young lieutenant was afraid.

I will not wear your iron again, Pony said, still looking at him.

And I will not parley the fate of an innocent child with a sot, replied the major.

Pony wheeled and drove the knife blade into the desk top.  It quivered in the bright light, the reflection flashing on the walls like a butterfly.

Here is what I require, he said.  Eight goddamn horses.  Of my choosing.  No wagon-pulling remounts, no broke-down plow ponies.  A Spencer fifty and Colt’s revolver.  Cartridges. Powder and lead. I will need good wool blankets.  At least a dozen.  Iron pots.  Knives, ladles, tin cups, needles, combs, mirrors, beads.  Flour, coffee and sugar.  Plenty of sugar.  And three crocks of whiskey.

The major leaned forward over the desk, arms outstretched, knuckles planted on either side of the knife.

No.

You will not succeed otherwise, major.

I said no. 

Pony smiled.  He reached between the major’s hands and pulled the knife from the desk top.

Then I’ll take my leave.  He turned and walked over to the door, put his hand on the wooden pull and turned back to face the soldiers.

Who knows? he said. Could be the girl’ll just show up one of these days.  He opened the door and walked out.

The major’s head dropped.  Son of a bitch, he said.

Sir?  said Baker.

Son of a bitch, he repeated.  He moved to stand in the open doorway, watching Pony walk across the parade ground.  Baker came up beside the major.

Shall I arrest him?  he asked.  The major closed his eyes and repeated:  son of a bitch.  He stepped outside into the sunlight.

When can you be ready? he called.

Pony stopped and turned.

Me?

When? repeated the major.

Two days.

Make a list for the quartermaster.

I’ll do that major, Pony said, and waved.  He turned and continued walking.  Lieutenant Baker joined the major.

Pardon me, sir, he said, you said he’d be paid…

The major interrupted.  Look at him.  Scum.  Whatever we give him will be too much.  Circumstances force us…  Is that clear?

Yes sir, but… how do we know he won’t abscond?

The major looked at Baker.  Because you’ll go with him, he said, and walked back into the office.