Pony took a pull on the bottle.
“You no like that,” he said.
“Don’t mind it,” Virgil said.
Pony handed me the bottle.
“You ever fight with us when you was living Apache?” I said.
Pony smiled.
“Blue Dogs?” he said. “Sure, I fight.”
“I was a Blue Dog,” I said.
Pony nodded.
“Maybe we fought each other,” I said.
“Maybe,” Pony said.
“Does it matter?” I said.
“When I with Apache,” he said, “I tell them I fight for them, and I do. Now I with you. I tell you I fight for you. I will fight.”
“Even against another Indian?” I said.
“I am also Mexican,” Pony said, and almost smiled again. “And this man who has stolen the ladies. He not Chiricahua.”
“How do you know?” I said.
Virgil had the whiskey bottle. He took a drink and passed it on to Pony. Pony drank some and looked at me and might have smiled.
“No Chiricahua around here,” he said.
30
IN THE MORNING WE SAT our horses at the ford, looking across the river. There was nothing to see.
“I go,” Pony said.
“Why you?” I said.
“Tracker,” Pony said.
He turned his horse and went into the river. It was shallow. The horse never had to swim. On the other side, Pony rode up the little rise, bending over to study the tracks. He pulled up at the top of the rise and looked around. Then he gestured for us to come. Virgil went in and then me, hazing the mule ahead of me.
Pony pointed when we reached him.
“Go off there,” he said.
And he headed west. The tracks were still clear enough. I could follow them fine. But a mile or so from the river the land began to rise, and the footing became rockier. It was harder to see the tracks. But Pony stayed with it. He was maybe fifty yards ahead of us, near a cluster of boulders, when he stopped. Virgil pulled his horse to the right. I went left. The mule didn’t know who to follow, so he just stood. I had the eight-gauge across my saddle, with both hammers back. We walked the horses slowly around the boulders until we met on the other side of them and were looking at Pony. The mule saw us together and trotted toward us.
I let the hammers down.
“What?” Virgil said.
“More horses,” Pony said.
He pointed to the ground. There was a mingling of tracks, some of them leading behind the rocks.
“Nobody there,” Virgil said.
Pony nodded and got off his horse. He squatted and looked at the tracks for a while. Then he stood and walked along, looking at the ground, around the boulders, and up the hill behind them. Virgil and I waited.
“Shod horses,” I said.
“Yep.”
“Can’t say for sure how many.”
“Pony will know,” Virgil said.
“Could be white men,” I said.
“Could be white men’s horses that some Indians stole,” Virgil said.
“Could be,” I said.
“Maybe Pony can figure that out,” Virgil said.
“Maybe not,” I said.
We waited for maybe an hour while Pony looked at the ground.
“Five white men,” he said.
Virgil smiled.
“How you know they’re white?” he said.
“Boot prints,” Pony said. “Comanche not wear boots.”
“They have to be Comanche?” I said.
“Comanche land,” Pony said. “They Indians, they Comanche.”
“But they’re not Indians,” Virgil said.
“No,” Pony said. “White. Five of them come from south. Stay here, build a fire, cook something. Like they waiting. Our people come in here.”
He pointed to the tracks we’d been following.
“Get off horses,” Pony said. “Man in moccasins, two women. Small footprints. Shoes not like man.”
We followed. With Pony pointing it out, we could see what he saw. I wasn’t sure I’d have seen it without him.
“Then everybody get on horse. All go south, except Indian. He go up the hill and into a canyon. Very stony. Hard to track.”
“Could you?” Virgil said.
“Yes.”
Virgil nodded.
“Women went south with the white men,” he said.
“They were waiting here for him,” I said.
“He sold them,” Virgil said.
I nodded.
Virgil looked up the hill for a time.
Then he said, “We got to get them women back.”
“Yes,” I said.
“You sure they went with the white men,” Virgil said.
“Sure,” Pony said. “See horse tracks. They horses’ feet, much bigger.”
“Wagon horses,” I said.
Pony got back up on his horse, and we headed south.
31
FOR TWO DAYS WE RODE southwest, away from the river, into much rougher country. It made the tracking harder and slowed us down. But Pony kept the trail and told us it was getting fresher. We stopped at sundown on the third day on some high rocky ground at the edge of an arroyo and started to set up camp.
Pony had collected some brush for a fire, and as he set it down, he paused and raised his head, like a hunting dog with a scent. Virgil and I were still.
Then Virgil said, “Smoke.”
Pony nodded. I sniffed at the air and didn’t smell it, and didn’t smell it, and then I did.
