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.