have to ask you to take that man down. He's under bureau jurisdiction and will have to be tried by a court.'
McKay said nothing, but Bowie Allison, who was his herd boss, laughed and then said, 'You ought to be afraid.'
Dolph Bettzinger was there, along with his brothers Kirk and Sim.
They were hired for their guns and usually kept pretty close to McKay.
They did not laugh when Allison did.
And all around the clearing by the cottonwood were eight or ten others. Most of them I recognized as McKay riders. They stood solemnly, some with rifles and shotguns. There wasn't any doubt in their minds what stealing a horse meant.
'Tudishishn says that Mickey didn't steal your horse. These people told him that he was at home all night and most of the morning until Tudishishn dropped in, and then he came down here.' A line of Apaches stood a few yards off and as I pointed to them, some nodded their heads.
'Mister,' McKay said, 'I found the horse at this man's hut. Now, you argue that down, and I'll kiss the behind of every Apache you got living around here.'
'Well, your horse could have been left there by someone else.'
'Either way, he had a hand in it,' he said curtly.
'What does he say?' I looked up at Mickey Solner and asked him quickly, 'How did you get the horse, Mickey?'
'I just traded with a fella.' His voice shook, and he held on to the saddle horn as if afraid he'd fall off. 'This fella come along and traded with me, that's all.'
'Who was it?'
Mickey Solner didn't answer. I asked him again, but still he refused to speak. McKay was about to say something, but Tudishishn came over quickly from the group of Apaches.
'They say it was Tony Choddi. He was seen to come into camp in early morning.'
I asked Mickey if it was Tony Choddi, and finally he admitted that it was. I felt better then. McKay couldn't hang a man for trading a horse.
'Are you satisfied, Mr. McKay? He didn't know it was yours. Just a matter of trading a horse.'
McKay looked at me, narrowing his eyes. He looked as if he were trying to figure out what kind of a man I was. Finally he said, 'You think I'm going to believe them?'
It dawned on me suddenly that McKay had been using what patience he had for the past few minutes. Now he was ready to continue what they had come for. He had made up his mind long before. 'Wait a minute, Mr. McKay, you're talking about the life of an innocent man. You can't just toy with it like it was a head of cattle.'
He looked at me and his puffy face seemed to harden. He was a heavy man, beginning to sag about the stomach. 'You think you're going to tell me what I can do and what I can't? I don't need a government representative to tell me why my horse was stolen!'
'I'm not telling you anything. You know Mickey didn't steal the horse. You can see for yourself you're making a mistake.'
McKay shrugged and looked at his herd boss. 'Well, if it is, it isn't a very big one--leastwise we'll be sure he won't be trading in stolen horses again.' He nodded to Bowie Allison.
Bowie grinned, and brought his quirt up and then down across the rump of the chestnut.
'Yiiiiiiiiii . . .'
The chestnut broke fast. Allison stood yelling after it, then jumped aside quickly as Mickey Solner swung back toward him on the end of the rope.
IT WAS TWO weeks later, to the day, that Mickey Segundo came in with Tony Choddi's ears. You can see why I asked him if he had a notion of going after McKay. And it was a strange thing. I was talking to a different boy than the one I had last seen under the cottonwood.
When the horse shot out from under his dad, he ran to him like something wild, screaming, and wrapped his arms around the kicking legs trying to hold the weight off the rope.
Bowie Allison cuffed him away, and they held him back with pistols while he watched his dad die. From then on he didn't say a word, and when it was over, walked away with his head down. Then, when he came in with Tony Choddi's ears, he was himself again. All smiles.
I might mention that I wrote to the Bureau of Indian Affairs about the incident, since Mickey Solner, legally, was one of my charges; but nothing came of it. In fact, I didn't even get a reply.
Over the next few years Mickey Segundo changed a lot. He became Apache. That is, his appearance changed and almost everything else about him--except the smile. The smile was always there, as if he knew a monumental secret which was going to make everyone happy.
He let his hair grow to his shoulders and usually he wore only a frayed cotton shirt and breechclout; his moccasins were Apache--curled toes and leggings which reached to his thighs. He went under his Apache name, which was Peza-a, but I called him Mickey when I saw him, and he was never reluctant to talk to me in English. His English was good, discounting grammar.
Most of the time he lived in the same jacale his dad had built, providing for his mother and fitting closer into the life of the rancheria than he did before. But when he was about eighteen, he went up to the agency and joined Tudishishn's police. His mother went with him to live at the reservation, but within a year the two of them were back.
Tracking friends who happened to wander off the reservation didn't set right with him. It didn't go with his smile.
Tudishishn told me he was sorry to lose him because he was an expert tracker and a dead shot. I know the sergeant had a dozen good sign followers, but very few who were above average with a gun.
He must have been nineteen when he came back to Puerco. In all those years he never once mentioned McKay's name. And I can tell you I never brought it up either.
I saw McKay even less after the hanging incident. If he ignored me before, he avoided me now. As I said, I felt like a fool after warning him about Mickey Segundo, and I'm certain McKay felt only contempt for me for doing it, after sticking up for the boy's dad.
McKay would come through every once in a while, usually going on a hunt up into the Nacimentos. He was a great hunter and would go out for a few days every month or so. Usually with his herd boss, Bowie Allison. He hunted everything that walked, squirmed, or flew and I'm told his ranch trophy room was really something to see.
You couldn't take it away from the man; everything he did, he did well. He was in his fifties, but he could shoot straighter and stay in the saddle longer than any of his riders. And he knew how to make money.
But it was his arrogance that irked me. Even though he was polite, he made you feel far beneath him. He talked to you as if you were one of the hired help. One afternoon, fairly late, Tudishishn rode in and said that he was supposed to meet McKay at the adobe office early the next morning.
McKay wanted to try the shooting down southwest toward the malpais, on the other side of it, actually, and Tudishishn was going to guide for him.
The Indian policeman drank coffee until almost sundown and then rode off into the shadows of the Nacimentos. He was staying at one of the rancherias, visiting with his friends until the morning.
McKay appeared first. It was a cool morning, bright and crisp. I looked out of the window and saw the five riders coming up the road from the south, and when they were close enough I made out McKay and Bowie Allison and the three Bettzinger brothers. When they reached the office, McKay and Bowie dismounted, but the Bettzingers reined around and started back down the road.
McKay nodded and was civil enough, though he didn't direct more than a few words to me. Bowie was ready when I asked them if they wanted coffee, but McKay shook his head and said they were leaving shortly. Just about then the rider appeared coming down out of the hills.
McKay was squinting, studying the figure on the pony.
I didn't really look at him until I noticed McKay's close attention.
And when I looked at the rider again, he was almost on us. I didn't have to squint then to see that it was Mickey Segundo.
McKay said, 'Who's that?' with a ring of suspicion to his voice.
