I don’t, I suppose,” Hank admitted, crestfallen.
“Then you leave the Indians to us, Farmer. And we’ll leave minding the raising of peas and beans and taties to you.”
Hank dropped back, deeply chagrined. “He had no business comingdown on me so hard. I ought to have thrown it back at him,” he said to the Englishman’s boy.
“I wouldn’t,” said the boy.
“Why not?”
“Because I ain’t a fool,” said the boy.
Late in the morning, a halt was called. Vogle, who had been scouting in advance, returned with a report that a hundred yards ahead he had discovered a dead colt. Recently gelded, it appeared to have bled to death with the effort of trying to keep pace with the fugitive herd.
“That’s one of Mr. Robinson’s,” Hank confided to the Englishman’s boy. “He cut him two days ago.”
The real news was that where the colt had fallen, the trail forked. The Indians had split the herd and one lot of horses had been driven northwest, the other northeast. Everyone dismounted while Evans, Hardwick, and Vogle convened a council, squatting on the ground.
Hardwick asked Vogle if he could estimate how many Indians were in the raiding party. Vogle said he wasn’t sure, but he could find no unshod-pony tracks, which suggested not many.
“How many?” demanded Hardwick.
Vogle shrugged. “Two, maybe three. Can’t swear to it.”
Hardwick considered a moment. “If there’s only two or three, they’re from the same band. They haven’t shaved off to take their share of the loot home to different camps. They’re going to swing back and join up again further north. They’re just aiming to lead us on a wild-goose chase.”
“So what do we do?” asked Evans. “Split up? Me lead one party of men west, you one party east?”
“I don’t like it,” said Hardwick. “Not with the head start they’ve got.” He laid a pebble on the ground. “That’s us,” he said. He traced two lines in the dust with his knife, radiating northeast and northwest from the pebble. “That’s them. If they do figure to powwow up north, say here,” he mused, laying down another pebble to mark the imagined meeting place, “they’ve got to hack back from the line they’re riding now.” He curved the lines to converge on the upperpebble. “The longest way between where we are and where they’re going is riding the loop. And if either one of us loses the trail of the scallywags we’re chasing, you and me’ll be like the fat couple with the big bellies. We ain’t never going to get it together.”
“Speak your mind,” said Evans.
“But if we split the difference and strike due north,” said Hardwick, drawing a straight line with the tip of his knife between the pebbles, “we’ll make time on them. And sooner or later, no matter where the pebble sets, as long as we keep bearing north, one of their trails is going to cut ours. When it does, we pick it up and go hard after them red rogues.”
“If that’s their plan.”
“There’s the kicker. But I’ll bet on it.”
“All right,” said Evans, standing. “We’ll ride north.”
Hardwick allowed the horses an hour to graze the short, tough grass while the men gnawed hard biscuit and scooped pemmican out of rawhide bags with their fingers. Berries and lard and buffalo meat all scrambled together and poured hot into a leather bag to harden didn’t sit well with Hank, who had been raised in civilization, in the East. He said it was like stirring apple pie into your gravy and pork chops. No different. The Englishman’s boy held his tongue. Hardwick was listening, watching them.
The man the wolfers called Scotty, a Canadian who had ridden down the Whoop-Up Trail with them from north of the line, pulled a bottle of whisky out of his saddlebags, and passed it around to each man for a swig. He said it was Scotch whisky. The Englishman’s boy had never tasted Scotch whisky before, but he drank his swallow and thanked him.
Scotty said, “You’re
“Then you leave the Indians to us, Farmer. And we’ll leave minding the raising of peas and beans and taties to you.”
Hank dropped back, deeply chagrined. “He had no business comingdown on me so hard. I ought to have thrown it back at him,” he said to the Englishman’s boy.
“I wouldn’t,” said the boy.
“Why not?”
“Because I ain’t a fool,” said the boy.
Late in the morning, a halt was called. Vogle, who had been scouting in advance, returned with a report that a hundred yards ahead he had discovered a dead colt. Recently gelded, it appeared to have bled to death with the effort of trying to keep pace with the fugitive herd.
“That’s one of Mr. Robinson’s,” Hank confided to the Englishman’s boy. “He cut him two days ago.”
The real news was that where the colt had fallen, the trail forked. The Indians had split the herd and one lot of horses had been driven northwest, the other northeast. Everyone dismounted while Evans, Hardwick, and Vogle convened a council, squatting on the ground.
Hardwick asked Vogle if he could estimate how many Indians were in the raiding party. Vogle said he wasn’t sure, but he could find no unshod-pony tracks, which suggested not many.
“How many?” demanded Hardwick.
Vogle shrugged. “Two, maybe three. Can’t swear to it.”
Hardwick considered a moment. “If there’s only two or three, they’re from the same band. They haven’t shaved off to take their share of the loot home to different camps. They’re going to swing back and join up again further north. They’re just aiming to lead us on a wild-goose chase.”
“So what do we do?” asked Evans. “Split up? Me lead one party of men west, you one party east?”
“I don’t like it,” said Hardwick. “Not with the head start they’ve got.” He laid a pebble on the ground. “That’s us,” he said. He traced two lines in the dust with his knife, radiating northeast and northwest from the pebble. “That’s them. If they do figure to powwow up north, say here,” he mused, laying down another pebble to mark the imagined meeting place, “they’ve got to hack back from the line they’re riding now.” He curved the lines to converge on the upperpebble. “The longest way between where we are and where they’re going is riding the loop. And if either one of us loses the trail of the scallywags we’re chasing, you and me’ll be like the fat couple with the big bellies. We ain’t never going to get it together.”
“Speak your mind,” said Evans.
“But if we split the difference and strike due north,” said Hardwick, drawing a straight line with the tip of his knife between the pebbles, “we’ll make time on them. And sooner or later, no matter where the pebble sets, as long as we keep bearing north, one of their trails is going to cut ours. When it does, we pick it up and go hard after them red rogues.”
“If that’s their plan.”
“There’s the kicker. But I’ll bet on it.”
“All right,” said Evans, standing. “We’ll ride north.”
Hardwick allowed the horses an hour to graze the short, tough grass while the men gnawed hard biscuit and scooped pemmican out of rawhide bags with their fingers. Berries and lard and buffalo meat all scrambled together and poured hot into a leather bag to harden didn’t sit well with Hank, who had been raised in civilization, in the East. He said it was like stirring apple pie into your gravy and pork chops. No different. The Englishman’s boy held his tongue. Hardwick was listening, watching them.
The man the wolfers called Scotty, a Canadian who had ridden down the Whoop-Up Trail with them from north of the line, pulled a bottle of whisky out of his saddlebags, and passed it around to each man for a swig. He said it was Scotch whisky. The Englishman’s boy had never tasted Scotch whisky before, but he drank his swallow and thanked him.
Scotty said, “You’re
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