“Take ’em a while,” he said. “What’s down below.”
“Pass down there,” Pony said. “Halfway up hill, maybe. All rock. Hoofprints stop in there.”
“You think he’ll lead them in there?”
“He know Pike,” Pony said. “He know Pike not go in there.”
“Nobody would go in there,” I said.
“What’s he do if the trail leads in there, Captain?” Virgil said.
“He splits his troops,” I said. “And stays on the high ground, on each side.”
“And looks for the ambush,” Virgil said.
“Yep.”
“Indian know that?” Virgil said to Pony.
“If he ever fight soldiers,” Pony said.
“If he leads him in there,” Virgil said, “he gets Pike to split his posse, and half of them are on the wrong side of the canyon when the fight starts.”
Pony nodded.
“He that smart?” Virgil said.
“Smart Indian,” Pony said.
“Can anybody get across the pass?” Virgil said.
“Too wide to jump,” Pony said. “Too much straight up to climb.”
“So they can’t?”
“Nope.”
“I figure he wants Pike,” Virgil said. “What if Pike’s on the wrong side from him?”
“Not too wide for rifle,” Pony said.
Virgil nodded.
“So he holes up in the right spot and shoots Pike whichever side Pike’s on,” he said.
“He’ll hole up on this side of the pass,” I said.
“So he can get away into the hills,” Virgil said.
“Otherwise, he got to run down onto the open land,” I said.
“Agree?” Virgil said to Pony.
“Many places to hide uphill,” Pony said. “Indian know the land. Ride light, just him and rifle. White men don’t know land. Many equipment to carry.”
“So that’s where he’ll run,” Virgil said.
“If he run,” Pony said.
“You think he won’t?”
“I him, I won’t,” Pony said.
“Whadda you do?” Virgil said.
“Shoot many, then hide. They come after me. I shoot some more and hide another place. Keep doing that. They run away, I go after them, shoot some more, until they get to flat land.”
“You think they’ll run?” I said.
“White man scared of Indians,” Pony said. “Run away sometimes.”
“ ’Specially if the Indian gets Pike first,” Virgil said.
“Indian want you, too, jefe,” Pony said. “He stay till he get you.”
“You think so?” Virgil said.
“He needs to kill you,” Pony said. “You and Pike.”
“Because?” Virgil said.
“You the ones,” Pony said.
“How ’bout Everett?” Virgil said. “Or you?”
“You the ones,” Pony said. “Pike and you.”
“How do you know?” I said.
“Half Indian,” Pony said. “Know how Indian people think.”
Virgil nodded. He watched through his long glass as the posse plodded toward the hills. Then he collapsed the telescope and put it in his saddlebag.
“We may be all wrong,” Virgil said.
“True,” I said.
“But we might be right,” Virgil said.
“True,” I said.
“Let’s mosey on down along this stream,” he said. “See if we are.”
48
WE WENT AS QUIETLY as we could downhill along the stream. The stream gurgled softly, but maybe enough to mask our footsteps. Pony was out front a little; his moccasins made no sound at all. The rain added some sound, too. In front of us were two boulders, tilted against each other, glistening in the rain. Pony stopped behind them. We stopped. Pony pointed to his nose and sniffed at the air. We sniffed, too. Virgil began to nod. He put his mouth to my ear and said, “Horse shit.” I smelled it, too. We moved up beside Pony.
“I’ll go around the rocks left,” Virgil said. “Pony goes around right. Everett, stay here with the eight- gauge.”
I slid on my belly up onto the more slanted of the two boulders, took off my hat, and edged a look over the rim of the rock. Below there was a sort of hollow with some grass near the stream, then more rocks. The same smallish paint I’d seen before was tethered in the hollow, cropping the grass. There was no sign of the Indian. The horse wasn’t big, but lying there a little above him I could see the thick muscles in his haunches and shoulders. He was strong. He’d go up this hill well. He had a conventional bridle on but no saddle.
Beyond the hollow were more rocks, and beyond them I could see the near rim of the pass. To my left, through the rain, I could see the posse coming closer. Below me the horse raised his head and looked at me. Probably smelled me. He stared at me, and I at him. He blew his breath out softly, then dropped his head and went back to eating the wet grass.
Then I saw the Indian.
He stepped out from the rocks with his rifle, looking around the hollow. He wore his black coat and hat. His face was painted black and I could see where the coat was open red stripes painted on his naked chest. I cocked the shotgun. He heard it and looked up at me, and Virgil stepped out from behind the rocks. He had his Colt but not his Winchester.
“Buffalo Calf,” he said.
The Indian turned slowly and looked steadily at Virgil.
“You,” he said.
“Me,” Virgil said.
“You know my name,” the Indian said.
“I do,” Virgil said.
“What’s your name,” the Indian said.
“Virgil Cole.”
“You are not with Pike,” the Indian said.
“Nope.”
“How many are you?”
“Everett up in the rocks,” Virgil said. “Pony Flores over to your left.”
The Indian nodded.
“Everett has a shotgun,” the Indian said. “I heard both hammers cock.”
“Eight-gauge,” Virgil said.
The Indian nodded.
“I had planned to kill you,” he said. “You and Pike.”
