“Near an hour. They took all of them, even the ones staked out.” He said, “Will, there wasn’t anything I could do. . . .”

  “I know,” the boy said.

  “They paid for the hides with whiskey.” The boy looked at him, surprised. He had not expected them to pay anything. But now he saw how this would appeal to Clyde’s sense of humor, using the same way the hide buyer had paid his dad four years before.

  “That part of it, Leo?” The boy nodded to the whiskey bottle in the old man’s hand.

  “No, they put three five-gallon barrels in the wagon. Remember... Clyde give me this.”

  The boy was silent. Finally he said, “Don’t touch those barrels, Leo.”

  He sat up the remainder of the night, listening to his thoughts. He had been afraid when Clyde Foss was bullying him, and he was still afraid. But now the fear was mixed with anger, because his body ached and he could feel the loose teeth on one side of his mouth when he tightened his jaw, and taste the blood dry on his lips and most of all because Clyde Foss had taken a month’s work, four hundred and eighty hides, and left three barrels of whiskey.

  Sometimes the fear was stronger than the anger. The plain was silent and in its darkness there was

  The Big Hunt 147

  nothing to hold to. He did not bother Leo Cleary. He talked to himself and listened to the throb in his temples and left Leo alone with the little whiskey he still had. He wanted to cry, but he could not because he had given up the privilege by becoming a man, even though he was still a boy. He was acutely aware of this, and when the urge to cry welled in him he would tighten his nerves and call himself names until the urge passed.

  Sometimes the anger was stronger than the fear, and he would think of killing Clyde Foss. Toward morning both the fear and the anger lessened, and many of the things he had thought of during the night he did not now remember. He was sure of only one thing: He was going to get his hides back. A way to do it would come to him. He still had his Sharps.

  He shook Leo Cleary awake and told him to hitch the wagon.

  “Where we going?” The old man was still dazed, from sleep and whiskey.

  “Hunting, Leo. Down on the Salt Fork.”

  ✯✯✯

  Hunting was good in the Nations. The herds would come down from Canada and the Dakotas and winter along the Cimarron and the Salt and even down to the Canadian. Here the herds were big, two and three hundred grazing together, and sometimes you could look over the flat plains and see thousands. A big outfit with a good hunter could average over eighty hides a day. But, because there were so many hunters, the herds kept on the move.

  In the evening they saw the first of the buffalo camps. Distant lights in the dimness, then lanterns and cook fires as they drew closer in a dusk turning to night, and the sounds of men drifted out to them on the silent plain.

  The hunters and skinners were crouched around a poker game on a blanket, a lantern above them on a crate. They paid little heed to the old man and the boy, letting them prepare their supper on the low-burning cook fire and after, when the boy stood over them and asked questions, they answered him shortly. The game was for high stakes, and there was a pot building. No, they hadn’t seen the Foss brothers, and if they had, they wouldn’t trade with them anyway. They were taking their skins to Caldwell for top dollar.

  They moved on, keeping well off from the flickering line of lights. Will Gordon would go in alone as they neared the camps, and, if there were five wagons in the camp, he’d approach cautiously until he could make out the men at the fire.

  From camp to camp it was the same story. Most of the hunters had not seen the Fosses; a few had, earlier in the day, but they could be anywhere now.

  The Big Hunt 149

  Until finally, very late, they talked to a man who

  had sold to the Foss brothers that morning.

  “They even took some fresh hides,” he told them.

  “Still heading west?” The boy kept his voice even, though he felt the excitement inside of him.

  “Part of them,” the hunter said. “Wylie went back to Caldwell with three wagons, but Clyde shoved on to meet another party up the Salt. See, Wylie’ll come back with empty wagons, and by that time the hunters’ll have caught up with Clyde. You ought to find him up a ways. We’ll all be up theresoon...that’swhere thebig herdsare heading.”

  They moved on all night, spelling each other on the wagon box. Leo grumbled and said they were crazy. The boy said little because he was thinking of the big herds. And he was thinking of Clyde Foss with all those hides he had to dry ...and the plan was forming in his mind.

  Leo Cleary watched from the pines, seeing nothing, thinking of the boy who was out somewhere in the darkness, though most of the time he thought of whiskey, barrels of it that they had been hauling for two days and now into the second night.

  The boy was a fool. The camp they had seen at sundown was probably just another hunter. They all staked hides at one time or another. Seeing him sneaking up in the dark they could take him for a Kiowa and cut him in two with a buffalo gun. And even if it did turn out to be Clyde Foss, then what?

  Later, the boy walked in out of the darkness and pushed the pine branches aside and was standing next to the old man.

  “It’s Clyde, Leo.”

  The old man said nothing.

  “He’s got two men with him.”

  “So . . . what are you going to do now?” the old man said.

  “Hunt,” the boy said. He went to his saddlebag and drew a cap-and-ball revolver and loaded it before bedding for the night.

  In the morning he took his rifles and led his horse along the base of the ridge, through the pines that were dense here, but scattered higher up the slope. He would look out over the flat plain to the south and see the small squares of canvas, very white in the brilliant sunlight. Ahead, to the west, the ridge dropped off into a narrow valley with timbered hills on the other side.

  The boy’s eyes searched the plain, roaming to the white squares, Clyde’s wagons, but he went on without hesitating until he reached the sloping finish of the ridge. Then he moved up the valley until the plain widened again, and then he stopped to wait. He was prepared to wait for days if necessary, until the right time.

  The Big Hunt 151

  From high up on the slope above, Leo Cleary watched him. Through the morning the old man’s eyes would drift from the boy and then off to the left, far out on the plain to the two wagons and the ribbon of river behind them. He tried to relate the boy and the wagons in some way, but he could not.

  After a while he saw buffalo. A few straggling off toward the wagons, but even more on the other side of the valley where the plain widened again and the grass was higher, green-brown in the sun.

  Toward noon the buffalo increased, and he remembered the hunters saying how the herds were moving west. By that time there were hundreds, perhaps a thousand, scattered over the grass, out a mile or so from the boy who seemed to be concentrating on them.

  Maybe he really is going hunting, Leo Cleary thought. Maybe he’s starting all over again. But I wish I had me a drink. The boy’s downwind now, he thought, lifting his head to feel the breeze on his face. He could edge up and take a hundred of them if he did it right. What’s he waiting for! Hell, if he wants to start all over, it’s all right with me. I’ll stay out with him. At that moment he was thinking of the three barrels of whiskey.

  “Go out and get ’em, Will,” he urged the boy aloud, though he would not be heard. “The wind won’t keep forever!”

  Surprised, then, he saw the boy move out from the brush clumps leading his horse, mount, and lope off in a direction out and away from the herd.

  “You can’t hunt buffalo from a saddle...they’ll run as soon as they smell horse! What the hell’s the matter with him!”

  ✯✯✯

  He watched the boy, growing smaller with distance, move out past the herd. Then suddenly the horse wheeled, and it was going at a dead run toward the herd. A yell drifted up to the ridge and then a heavy rifle shot followed by two reports that were weaker. Horse and rider cut into the herd, and the buffalo broke in confusion.

  They ran crazily, bellowing, bunching in panic to escape the horse and man smell and the screaming that suddenly hit them with the wind. A herd of buffalo will run for hours if the panic stabs them sharp enough, and they will stay together, bunching their thunder, tons of bulk, massive bellowing heads, horns, and thrashing hooves. Nothing will stop them. Some go down, and the herd passes over, beating them into the ground.

  They ran directly away from the smell and the noises that were now far behind, downwind they came and in less than a minute were thundering through the short valley. Dust rose after them, billowing up to the old man, who covered his mouth, coughing, watching the rumbling dark mass erupt

  The Big Hunt 153

  from the valley out onto the plain. They moved in an unwavering line toward the Salt Fork, rolling over everything, before swerving at the river—even the two canvas squares that had been brilliant white in the morning sun. And soon they were only a deep hum in the distance.

  Will Gordon was out on the flats, approaching the place where the wagons had stood, riding slowly now in the settling dust.

  But the dust was still in the air, heavy enough to make Leo Cleary sneeze as he brought the wagon out from the pines toward the river.

  He saw the hide buyers’ wagons smashed to scrap wood and shredded canvas dragged among the strewn buffalo hides. Many of the bales were still intact, spilling from the wagon wrecks; some were buried under the debris.

  Three men stood waist deep in the shallows of the river, and beyond them, upstream, were the horses they had saved. Some had not been cut from the pickets in time, and they lay shapeless in blood at one end of the camp.

  Will Gordon stood on the bank with the revolving pistol cocked, pointed at Clyde Foss. He glanced aside as the old man brought up the team.

  “He wants to sell back, Leo. How much, you think?”

  The old man only looked at him, because he could not speak.

  “I think two barrels of whiskey,” Will Gordon said. He stepped suddenly into the water and brought the long pistol barrel sweeping against Clyde’s head, cutting the temple.

  “Two barrels?”

  Clyde Foss staggered and came to his feet slowly.

  “Come here, Clyde.” The boy leveled the pistol at him and waited as Clyde Foss came hesitantly out of the water, hunching his shoulders. The boy swung the pistol back, and, as Clyde ducked, he brought his left fist up, smashing hard against the man’s jaw.

  “Or three barrels?”

  The hide buyer floundered in the shallow water, then crawled to the bank, and lay on his stomach, gasping for breath.

  “We’ll give him three, Leo. Since he’s been nice about it.”

  Later, after Clyde and his two men had loaded their wagon with four hundred and eighty hides, the old man and the boy rode off through the valley to the great plain.

  Once the old man said, “Where we going now, Will?”

  And when the boy said, “We’re still going hunting, Leo,” the old man shrugged wearily and just nodded his head.

  6

  The Boy Who Smiled

  When Mickey Segundo was fourteen, he tracked a man almost two hundred miles—from the Jicarilla Subagency down into the malpais.

  He caught up with him at a water hole in late afternoon and stayed behind a rock outcropping watching the man drink. Mickey Segundo had not tasted water in three days, but he sat patiently behind the cover while the man quenched his thirst, watching him relax and make himself comfortable as the hot lava country cooled with the approach of evening.

  Finally Mickey Segundo stirred. He broke open the .50-caliber Gallagher and inserted the paper cartridge and the cap. Then he eased the carbine between a niche in the rocks, sighting on the back of the man’s head. He called in a low voice, “Tony Choddi . . .” and as the face with the wide-open eyes came around, he fired casually.

  He lay on his stomach and slowly drank the water he needed, filling his canteen and the one that had belonged to Tony Choddi. Then he took his hunting knife and sawed both of the man’s ears off, close to the head. These he put into his saddle pouch, leaving the rest for the buzzards.

  A week later Mickey Segundo carried the pouch into the agency office and dropped the ears on my desk. He said very simply, “Tony Choddi is sorry he has caused trouble.”

  I remember telling him, “You’re not thinking of going after McKay now, are you?”

  “This man, Tony Choddi, stole stuff, a horse and clothes and a gun,” he said with his pleasant smile. “So I thought I would do a good thing and fix it so Tony Choddi didn’t steal no more.”

  With the smile there was a look of surprise, as if to say, “Why would I want to get Mr. McKay?”

  A few days later I saw McKay and told him about it and mentioned that he might keep his eyes open. But he said that he didn’t give a damn about any breed Jicarilla kid. If the kid felt like avenging his old man, he could try, but he’d probably cash in

  157

  before his time. And as for getting Tony Choddi, he didn’t give a damn about that either. He’d got the horse back and that’s all he cared about.

  After he had said his piece, I was sorry I had warned him. And I felt a little foolish telling one of the biggest men in the Territory to look out for a half-breed Apache kid. I told myself, Maybe you’re just rubbing up to him because he’s important and could use his influence to help out the agency . . . and maybe he knows it.

  Actually I had more respect for Mickey Segundo, as a human being, than I did for T. O. McKay. Maybe I felt I owed the warning to McKay because he was a white man. Like saying, “Mickey Se-gundo’s a good boy, but, hell, he’s half Indian.” Just one of those things you catch yourself doing. Like habit. You do something wrong the first time and you know it, but if you keep it up, it becomes a habit and it’s no longer wrong because it’s something you’ve always been doing.

  McKay and a lot of people said Apaches were no damn good. The only good one was a dead one. They never stopped to reason it out. They’d been saying it so long, they knew it was true. Certainly any such statement was unreasonable, but damned if I wouldn’t sometimes nod my head in agreement, because at those times I’d be with white men and that’s the way white men talked.

  I might have thought I was foolish, but actually it was McKay who was the fool. He underestimated Mickey Segundo.

  That was five years ago. It had begun with a hanging.

  ✯✯✯

  Early in the morning, Tudishishn, sergeant of Apache police at the Jicarilla Agency, rode in to tell me that Tony Choddi had jumped the boundaries again and might be in my locale. Tudishishn stayed for half a dozen cups of coffee, though his information didn’t last that long. When he’d had enough, he left as leisurely as he had arrived. Hunting renegades, reservation jumpers, was Tudishishn’s job; still, it wasn’t something to get excited about. Tomorrows were for work; todays were for thinking about it.

  Up at the agency they were used to Tony Choddi skipping off. Usually they’d find him later in some shaded barranca, full of tulapai.

  It was quiet until late afternoon, but not unusually so. It wasn’t often that anything out of the ordinary happened at the subagency. There were twenty-six families, one hundred eight Jicarillas all told, under my charge. We were located almost twenty miles below the reservation proper, and most of the people had been there long before the reservation had been marked off. They had been fairly peaceful then, and remained so now. It was

  159

  one of the few instances where the Bureau allowed the sleeping dog to lie; and because of that we had less trouble than they did up at the reservation.

  There was a sign on the door of the adobe office which described it formally. It read: d. j. merritt— agent, jicarilla apache subagency—puerco, new mexico territory. It was a startling announcement to post on the door of a squat adobe sitting all alone in the shadow of the Nacimentos. My Apaches preferred higher ground and the closest jacales were two miles up into the foothills. The office had to remain on the mail run, even though the mail consisted chiefly of impossible-to-apply Bureau memoranda.

  Just before supper Tudishishn returned. He came in at a run this time and swung off before his pony had come to a full stop. He was excited and spoke in a confusion of Apache, Spanish, and a word here and there of English.

  Returning to the reservation, he had decided to stop off and see his friends of the Puerco Agency. There had been friends he had not seen for some time, and the morning had lengthened into afternoon with tulapai, good talking, and even coffee. People had come from the more remote jacales, deeper in the hills, when they learned Tudishishn was there, to hear news of friends at the reservation. Soon there were many people and what looked like the beginning of a good time. Then Señor McKay had come.

  McKay had men with him, many men, and they were looking for Mickey Solner—the squaw man, as the Americans called him.

  Most of the details I learned later on, but briefly this is what had happened: McKay and some of his men were out on a hunting trip. When they got up that morning, McKay’s horse was gone, along with a shotgun and some personal articles. They got on the tracks, which were fresh and easy to follow, and by that afternoon they were at Mickey Solner’s jacale. His woman and boy were there, and the horse was tethered in front of the mud hut. Mickey Segundo, the boy, was honored to lead such important people to his father, who was visiting with Tudishishn.

  McKay brought the horse along, and when they found Mickey Solner, they took hold of him without asking questions and looped a rope around his neck. Then they boosted him up onto the horse they claimed he had stolen. McKay said it would be fitting that way. Tudishishn had left fast when he saw what was about to happen. He knew they wouldn’t waste time arguing with an Apache, so he had come to me.

  When I got there, Mickey Solner was still sitting McKay’s chestnut mare with the rope reaching from his neck to the cottonwood bough overhead. His head drooped as if all the fight was out of him, and when I came up in front of the chestnut, he