A Promise Broken

Thus the remainder of the day passed:  while Baker watched, Pony and the Indian smoked a short stone pipe and drank more whiskey.  This went on until sunset.  Under the stars they unspitted the antelope meat and ate heartily.  Pony and Catcher continued drinking until the crock of whiskey was consumed, at which point Catcher stood on unsteady legs and pulled a section of red flannel cloth from his belt.  He raised the cloth in his hand and turned his face to the sky to sing a Cheyenne brave-heart song, but instead lost his balance, doubled over and vomited, collapsed on his side and began to snore.

Pony, cup in hand, belched loudly and rose.  He staggered out onto the prairie and pissed.  He rubbed his belly, turned and staggered over to face the lieutenant by the fire.  He set the cup down and Baker watched as the man collapsed in the dirt,  a reeking amalgam of whiskey and sweat.

Pony struggled to a sitting position and leaned toward the lieutenant, who turned his face to avoid the mephitic gust of breath.  Pony spoke:  Ye mustnt think poorly of the man. 

He pointed at the recumbent Catcher.

He’s had a time of it, Pony continued.  Got into a scrap with another buck over a woman awhile back.  Had to kill him.  Pony shook his head.  Cheyenne don’t hold with that.  Banished him from their camps.

After I done for that forty-niner at Laramie, he said, I lived with the Cheyenne awhile.  At’s when we met. 

Pony picked up his cup and took another swallow of whiskey. 

Done a good little bit of business together over the years, he said.  Horses, mostly.

Strange, said Baker.  He didn’t seem at all glad to see you.

Waugh, said Pony, waving a hand as if to remove the fact. Three summers ago we had a string of ponies.  I drove em to Kearny to sell.  On the way back I stopped in Dobytown.  Paid some attention to a woman there.  Lulu LaPierre.  Sweet little Lulu.

He took another drink of whiskey.

She absconded with our purse, he said, shaking his head.  I tried to explain…

He leaned forward, eyes half-lidded from the whiskey.  I’ll tell you this, he continued, wagging a filthy finger in the soldier’s face.  An Indian will never forgive misdealins with horses.

He tilted back to rest on his elbows.  Sonofabitch shot at me.

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Flies woke Pony.  They tickled his nostrils and walked on his eyelids, explored his ears and swarmed at his lips.  He slapped at them and coughed and tried to spit but was dry from the whiskey.  He rose stiffly and walked to the wagon and lifted a small wooden cask that originally held lamp oil but now served to water Catcher’s animals in dry country.  The taste was worse than the smell, but such was his need that he drank without hesitation.

  He looked at the sky.  The sun was overhead.  Noon, he thought.  The air was hot and the horizon shimmered.  The Indian hadn’t moved from the spot where he fell, his black hair still fanned out over the bare ground, gray with dust. 

One of Catcher’s horses whinnied.  Pony turned and shaded his dry, stinging eyes.  Lt. Baker was coming in from the direction of Cottonwood Springs.  He had awakened before dawn to build a fire and eat and then rode in to send a telegram to Kearny.  It stated that current intelligence indicated the girl was taken by Dog Soldiers from a band led by the Cheyenne Little Wound; the lieutenant, Pony and an Indian recruited by Pony would embark immediately to locate the hostiles.

Another hour passed before the Indian stirred.  He raised himself to a sitting position and then crawled to the shade of the tarpaulin shelter, where he joined Pony, who had sought relief by unstopping another jug of whiskey. 

Baker assembled his camp belongings as the pair passed the jug back and forth.  Their speech became slurred once again and their horses went unsaddled and the packs remained where they had been unloaded yesterday. 

By the time Baker had finished his tasks the sun was low in the sky.  The lieutenant spoke:  You said we would leave today.

Pony and the Indian ignored him.

It’s plain to see the major was correct in his estimate of you, said Baker.

Pony looked at him.

You, sir, are a lying drunkard, said Baker.

Pony wiped his mouth on his sleeve.  True, I am not exactly sober at the moment, he said.  But I don’t recall a single fib since I awoke.

Yesterday you said we’d be leaving today.

Did I?  Well, that was not a lie.  A simple misstatement of fact is all.  No malice, no harm intended.

No harm?  That little girl continues to live at the mercy of the murderers of her family.

Pony took another pull from the jug.  Lieutenant, the horses can use the rest.  And I don’t believe one more day in her present circumstance will alter the outcome for her in any way.

He looked at Catcher, who was dozing.  Besides, he chuckled, I don’t think the Indian will be ready until morning. 

I don’t know anything about that man, said Baker, except he possesses the same bad habits as you.  And I have no agreement with him.

Pony’s smile dwindled.  His lips tightened and he got to his feet.  He picked up the jug and the cob stopper and took two steps toward Baker.  He raised his right arm and pointed to the horizon.

Tariff’s high out there, he said. 

He dropped his arm and continued:  Him and me, we been in a few tight spots.  

He looked at the reclined Indian, then back at Baker, eyes narrowed. 

He’s… he’s four-square in a predicament, is what I’m sayin.     

He leaned toward Baker. 

Which is more than I know about you, lieutenant.

Pony turned and took a step toward the wagon, stopped and turned back to Baker.

You want to ride, go ahead. 

The scout stoppered the jug and walked away.