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.