Brimstone

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.”

Virgil nodded.

“Now, maybe, you will kill me,” the Indian said.

“Maybe,” Virgil said.

“I would wish to have killed Pike first,” the Indian said.

“Why?” Virgil said.

“Things from our past,” the Indian said.

“Put down the Winchester and we’ll take you back to Brimstone,” Virgil said.

“To a white-face jail,” the Indian said.

“Yes.”

“To be hanged by a white-face judge,” the Indian said.

“Probably,” Virgil said.

The Indian nodded.

“Virgil Cole,” he said.

Virgil said nothing. The Indian bent over slowly and laid the rifle on the ground. Then he straightened and there was a big bowie knife in his hand. He came straight at Virgil. Virgil never moved, until, with no apparent hurry, he drew and fired and hit the Indian in the chest. The Indian kept coming. Virgil shot him twice more before he went down, the knife still in the Indian’s hand. He crawled forward a little farther, then stopped. His whole body seemed to convulse with effort, and then it was still. He was dead at Virgil’s feet. Virgil opened the cylinder, ejected the spent cartridges, and reloaded the Colt. Then he put the gun back in his holster and squatted on his heels and looked at Buffalo Calf.