“Big Bend Saloon closed,” I said.
“I know,” Virgil said.
“Last one,” I said.
“ ’Cept for Pike’s Palace,” Virgil said.
“Nice for Pike,” I said.
“ ’ Less Percival closes him down,” Virgil said.
“Think that’ll happen?” I said.
“Percival’s getting to be a pretty grand fella in town,” Virgil said.
“I hear people want him to run for councilman,” I said.
“Uh-huh.”
“On the other hand, there’s something going on between Pike and Percival,” I said.
“Uh-huh.”
Virgil was looking down Arrow Street. A man in a gray vest and striped pants was walking toward us.
“He shot my horse,” he said, when he got close enough.
“Who shot your horse?” Virgil said.
“The Indian.”
“Which Indian,” Virgil said.
“Big one, black coat and hat,” the man said. “Shot my horse right out from under me.”
“How come he didn’t shoot you?”
“Don’t know,” the man said. “Sat on his horse ten feet away and looked at me, then he took an arrow out of his boot and tossed it on the ground and rode off.”
“You armed?” Virgil said.
“No.”
“Where’d it happen?”
“Right outside town, just past the ford.”
“What’s your name?” Virgil said.
“Stroud.”
“Okay, Mr. Stroud,” Virgil said. “We’ll take a look.”
“I liked that horse,” Stroud said.
“See what we can do,” Virgil said. “Everett, try to find Pony.”
I took the eight-gauge and headed for Pike’s Palace.
An hour later the three of us were sitting on our horses, looking at Stroud’s dead horse. Pony climbed down and picked up the arrow that lay on the ground near the horse. He looked at it for a moment and handed it to Virgil.
“Same thing,” Virgil said, and handed it to me.
“No arrowhead,” I said.
Pony circled the dead horse in steadily widening circles. Twenty feet from the horse, he stopped and sat on his heels and studied the ground.
Then he pointed south, along the river.
“Gone this way,” Pony said. “Come this way same.”
“Okay,” Virgil said.
We rode south along the river. The hoofprints were plain enough. I could have followed them, too.
“Going fast,” Pony said after a while.
I could see that the prints were deeper and farther apart, with a little rim of dirt pushed up in back of each print.
“Why you suppose he didn’t kill that fella?” Virgil said.
“Stroud?” I said. “I’m guessing he wanted us to hear about it quick.”
“So we’d come out looking for him quick,” Virgil said.
“Maybe,” I said. “Why would he be in a hurry?”
“Mighta been a day, maybe longer, ’fore someone found the dead man and told us,” Virgil said.
We rode in silence, following Pony as he tracked.
“Probably took Stroud an hour to walk in from where his horse got shot,” Virgil said. “And it took us maybe another hour to find Pony and saddle up and get out here and look around.”
“So, say he’s got two hours on us,” I said.
“And he’s pushing his horse,” Virgil said.
“Can’t push him forever,” I said.
“Unless he got more than one,” Virgil said. “And even if he don’t, he can widen the gap between us.”
“So he isn’t trying to walk us into an ambush,” I said.
“Don’t seem so,” Virgil said. “He was doing that, he’d want us to catch up.”
“He wants us out of town,” I said.
“Seems so,” Virgil said.
“We could head back to town now,” I said.
“Yep.”
“But if we’re wrong,” I said, “we lose the chance to catch him.”
“Yep.”
Pony turned to the riverbank, which was probably twenty feet high at this point.
“Jefe,” Pony said.
Virgil and I moved up beside him. Pony pointed at the horse tracks.
“Into the river,” Pony said.
“From here?” I said.
Pony pointed again.
“Horse go down,” he said.
We looked at the gouges and drag marks in the riverbank. “Why not wait for the ford,” I said, “downriver?”
“It’s what he’s hoping we’ll do,” Virgil said.
Pony patted his horse’s neck.
“We go down,” Pony said, and kicked the horse toward the bank. The horse balked. Pony kicked him again, leaning over the horse’s neck. He was speaking to him in Apache, too fast and soft for me to make any of it out. The horse went over the edge, front legs stiff out ahead of him, back legs bunched, and began to slide and scramble down the near-vertical slope, with Pony crouched up over his neck. Pony let the reins drape over the saddle horn and held on to the horse’s mane, still talking to him in Apache.
And then they were down and into the river. It was deep here, so the horse had to swim. Pony slid out of the saddle as they went in and they swam together, with Pony’s hand on the saddle horn to the other side. When they reached the other side, I saw why the Indian had gone in here. There was a short strip of dry land at the foot of the far bank, and a narrow arroyo, cut by spring rains, that Pony was able to lead his horse into. We lost sight of them for a little while, and then they appeared at the top of the bank on the other side.
“That would have been the place for the ambush,” I said.
Virgil nodded.
Holding his horse’s reins, Pony crouched again and looked at the sign. Then he swung up into his wet saddle and pointed north, back the way we’d come, and began to follow the tracks.
I looked at the riverbank.
“Nothing says we have to go across here,” I said.
“Nope,” Virgil said. “But I’m thinking that one of the reasons he went across is if you went after him, you couldn’t get back.”
“So you’d get back to town at least two hours after he did,” I said. “No shortcuts.”
“Yep.”
“But,” I said, “we ain’t over there, and if we head straight northeast, and don’t stay with the river, we can probably close that by an hour.”
“And if we ain’t got it figured right,” Virgil said, “we’re leaving Pony to go up against this fella by
