The Tracker
by Anita Sanchez
“Well, no doubt about it,” said Kid Curry. He looked up at his partner, Hannibal Heyes, and shook his head solemnly. “They’re both dead.”
“Both of them?” Heyes asked, raising his eyebrows. He sank down on the hot, sunbaked rock beside Kid, and wiped the sweat from his forehead with his sleeve. “I told you not to be so hard on them.”
“Yep,” said Kid, with a sigh. “Dead as doornails.” He wiped his brow, too, and glanced up at the sun. “Gosh, it’s hot,” he added.
Heyes sniffed. “I can smell’em already,” he agreed.
Kid sighed again. He was stretched out on the rocks that lined the dry stream bed, trying to get as much of himself as he could under the shade of a sparse-leaved willow, but his feet stuck out into the sun. He looked down at his dusty, patched boots, raised his left foot and tugged the boot off. He stuck his finger through a gaping hole in the bottom, and shrugged. “Worn clear through,” he said. “And the other one’s just as bad. Yep, this pair of boots is dead, all right. Both of ‘em done for.”
“Well, I told you to take it easy,” Heyes took a drink from his canteen, then leaned back into the small patch of shade. “That was quite a dance last night, but you didn’t have to waltz around with every female there.”
“I’m a fair man, Heyes,” Kid said, yawning. They had been at the Picton church sociable till past midnight, and he was still sleepy. “I figured every girl deserved equal time. And if you hadn’t dragged me out of town so fast this morning, I’d have bought another pair of boots by now.”
Heyes shook his head. “I told you, that sheriff was looking at us funny all night, and I don’t think he was admiring your style on the dance floor. You can get a pair of boots in Okaton, we’ll be there by sundown.”
“You know, Heyes, you’re enough to take all the joy out of life,” Kid said severely. “You have to learn to relax and enjoy yourself now and then. When a town we’re passing through has that many pretty girls, I for one am going to take the time to appreciate them.”
“I’ll relax when there’s no wall-eyed sheriff around, looking me up and down like a...” Heyes’ voice trailed off. A few small birds were searching among the sun-bleached rocks for water, and their twittering sounded loud in the silence.
Kid looked up from an inspection of his boot sole. He took one look at his partner’s face, and his grin faded. “What?” he said in a low voice.
“I don’t know,” said Heyes slowly. He was studying the deserted road that stretched back towards the town they had left. He shaded his eyes against the noon glare, squinting into the distance, then gave his partner a glance. They both got to their feet and stood side by side, gazing at the faint puff of white dust on the horizon.
“Storm cloud,” said Kid. He looked up at the clear blue sky uneasily.
Heyes nodded, but didn’t take his eyes off the distance. “Or a dust cloud,” he said. “Wind kicked it up, maybe.”
Kid glanced at the scraggly willow, the gray leaves hanging motionless in the still, heavy air. “I don’t know,” he said. He bent to pull his boot on, then straightened and looked out at the dusty white cloud. It seemed to be a little closer. “I don’t know,” he said again. “Couldn’t be a posse, could it?”
The sun was setting as Heyes limped along the dusty track that led to the town. His head was still spinning from the fall he’d taken, and his feet hurt from the long walk. But he kept trudging. He had to keep going, no matter what; there was no time to lose.
The town of Okaton was just up ahead, dim in the evening shadows. Lamps were starting to gleam in the windows as he approached. It looked like any other small town, a cluster of shops and houses, and a saloon or two. Heyes quietly walked on the shadowed side of the street, careful not to draw any attention to himself. He was weary to the bone, and looked longingly at the warm light from the hotel windows, but he knew he didn’t have time for that. He was too far behind.
Just as he’d feared, there was an excited crowd around the sheriff’s office. As he watched, a dozen men emerged from the doorway, shouting and brandishing rifles. Heyes ducked hastily into an alley, and immediately tripped over something, crashing full length to the ground.
He got to his feet, cursing under his breath, and looked around to see what he had fallen over. It was a man, propped up against a wall, a big hat tipped over his face. “Sorry about that,” Heyes muttered, but there was no answer. A gentle snore issued from under the hat.
Heyes peered across the street from the shelter of the alley. The men had split up, some heading for the saloon, others for the general store. Three of the men were heading straight towards him. Heyes considered running, but knew they’d see him; at the last minute, he flopped down next to the sleeping figure, and pulled his own hat low over his eyes.
The three men strode down the alley; Heyes heard their spurs jingling as they walked. Then he heard the footsteps slow, and they stopped right in front of him. Heyes peeked out from under his hat, and saw a dark-faced fellow give the sleeping man next to him a vicious kick. Heyes frowned, but said nothing. He couldn’t afford to call attention to himself.
“Come on, Gates,” said one of the men. “Leave Marvin alone for once.”
“Got to clean the trash out of the alleyway,” said Gates, and gave the seated man another kick. The man made no sound. “Drunk again,” Gates said, shaking his head.
“Oh, yeah?” said Marvin, raising his hat. “Me, too.”
Gates’ two companions roared with laughter, and continued down the alley. “Give it up, Zeb,” said one over his shoulder. “Come on, we’ve got to get going.”
Gates ignored them, and gave the man a savage kick. “Hey!” said Heyes, before he could stop himself. Gates ignored him and drew back his foot again.
“Stop that,” said Heyes, scrambling to his feet.
“Mind your own business, stranger,” Gates said over his shoulder. “It’s only a drunken Indian.” Gates hauled Marvin to his feet, and drew back his fist. “I’ll teach you to answer back to a white man,” he said.
Heyes grabbed the man’s shoulder and spun him around. Marvin slumped to the ground as Heyes and the other man stared at each other, hands hovering near the handles of their revolvers.
Suddenly a shout came down the alley. “Gates, we got to get going! If you want the job, come on right now!” A man stood at the end of the alleyway, a large silver star on his vest. Heyes quickly turned away, drawing back into the shadows.
Gates gave Heyes a cold look. “I’ll settle with you later,” he said. He turned on his heel and strode off down the alley.
“Get a move on!” the sheriff called. “What the heck are you doing, anyway?”
“Oh, just cleaning up some trash,” said Gates.
“Well, never mind that now,” said the sheriff. “We’ve got to get after Curry!”
He was awakened from a dream of buffalo running by the harsh sound of someone banging on the door. The thunder of hoofs pounding the earth slowly faded into a persistent hammering, punctuated by shouts. Marvin blinked in the darkness, as the sun-lit prairie faded away.
It was indeed the sound of someone knocking at the door of his shack, and this was strange. The Okaton townsfolk never came to his door to seek him out. They were more likely to turn their heads away as he shuffled down the street, or look through him as if he were a ghost. Occasionally, a boy would chuck a rock at him.
He rolled over and closed his eyes again, and sought the dark shapes of the buffalo running through golden grass. But there it was again, that strange knocking. He blinked away the last shreds of the dream and sat up. “Stop that!” he shouted.
“Open up!” called an unfamiliar voice--a man’s voice, rough and angry.
“Go away,” he replied, holding his aching head.
“You Marvin?” the voice inquired, muffled through the rickety door. “The Indian? The tracker?”
“Nope,” he called back. “Wrong house.”
“This is the only house for half a mile in any direction,” the voice shouted. “Let me in or I’ll kick the door down!”
There seemed no profit in arguing further, and the door, flimsy as it was, had taken a while to build. Marvin heaved a sigh and rolled out of bed, stumbling over the empty whiskey bottle on the floor. He swung the door open just as the stranger aimed a tremendous kick at it, and was barely in time to jump out of the way. The man almost fell over from the force of the swing, then caught himself on the doorframe. He put a determined smile on his face, and held out his hand. Marvin ignored both.
“I’m looking for a tracker,” said the man. He was a young fellow, with dark hair and a pleasant face. Marvin peered through the darkness and recognized him as the stranger he had seen in the alleyway.
The man took off his black hat and smiled, and then looked over his shoulder as though fearing eavesdroppers, though no one else was near. He leaned forward confidentially, and lowered his voice. “I’m on the trail of a dangerous outlaw. Word is he’s headed into the badlands, and I need a man who knows the country. I’ll make it worth your while.”
“Yeah?” Marvin said with a flicker of interest. He’d spent his last nickel a week ago, and ranch work was hard to get. “Who is it?”
“Kid Curry.”
Marvin started to swing the door shut, but the stranger jammed his boot in the door. “Big game,” said Marvin, frowning. “Hard to catch. Dangerous.”
“Like I said, I’ll make it worth your while.” The man’s dark eyes scanned him, peering through the dim moonlight.
Marvin shook his head. It sounded like too much trouble. “Not interested,” he said. “Anyway, you want Zeb Gates, he’s the best tracker in these parts.”
“That’s what I hear, but he’s been hired already.”
“By who?” asked Marvin, surprised.
“The posse, from Picton. They’ve been after Curry all day, but he got ahead of them. They think he headed off into the desert.”
“Yeah, well, you need Gates,” said Marvin. “He knows the badlands.”
“They hired him, I tell you. They’re getting ready to head out after Curry. We’ve got to get moving right away.”
“So you’re a bounty hunter?” said Marvin, looking him up and down curiously. The stranger looked grim, his face unshaven and dirty, his clothes dusty from long riding.
“Yep,” said the man. “And I’m going to get to him first. We leave right now, I’ll pay you double...triple…what the posse’s paying.”
“How much?” Marvin inquired. He rubbed his face, trying to wake up.
“I got twenty dollars now...” the man began. He pulled out a handful of silver dollars and held them under Marvin’s nose. Marvin looked at his warm and comfortable bed, then back at the coins and started to shake his head. Then he looked at the man’s face, and was surprised to see desperation...and fear? “And we’ll split the bounty if we catch him,” said the stranger urgently. “I’ll give you five thousand dollars.”
Marvin raised his eyebrows. “He’s worth that much to you?”
“Oh, yes,” the man said quietly. “Worth all that. Worth more.”
Heyes paced back and forth on the ridge just outside the town of Okaton. His horse stood unmoving on the shadeless rocks, head drooping. Already the heat was beginning to make itself felt, though the morning sun was still touching the horizon. Ahead of him stretched a broad expanse of desert, flat and white, with jagged hills in the distance.
Heyes looked back over his shoulder towards the nearby houses, and sighed with relief when he saw a figure riding slowly towards him. “Finally!” he said out loud, and mounted his horse.
The rider plodded on, and Heyes nudged his horse in the ribs and jogged over to meet him. It was Marvin, riding a skinny rat-tailed mare, whose saddle was festooned with canteens; Heyes counted at least half-a-dozen.
The tracker nodded at him sleepily, as though he’d just woken up. “Where have you been?” Heyes demanded. “The posse headed out an hour ago. They’re out of sight already.”
Marvin yawned widely. “I told you, no sense rushing off into the badlands without food or water. Might as well shoot ourselves in the head and be done with it.”
Heyes snorted impatiently as he swung his horse around. He glanced at the tracker as they rode side by side. Last night he had assumed the Indian was an old man, from his bent back and lined face. But in the morning sun, his face was worn, but not ancient--he seemed not much older than Heyes himself. His skin was the color of saddle leather, and his long black hair was pulled back in a pigtail, which suited Heyes’s notion of what an Indian should look like. But he wore regular clothes, a ragged shirt and vest, and patched trousers, topped off with a high-crowned hat.
Marvin glanced idly at Heyes’ horse, and raised his eyebrows slightly. “That’s Ben Tuller’s horse,” he said. “Been for sale for a while.”
“Yeah, I bought him this morning,” said Heyes. “My horse put his foot in a prairie dog hole yesterday, and I had to shoot him.”
“While you were chasing Curry?” Marvin asked.
“That’s right. He was moving fast, but I’d almost caught up.”
Marvin glanced at Heyes again. “That’s a nasty bruise you got there,” he remarked. “Must have come down pretty hard.”
Heyes felt the side of his face gingerly, and grimaced. “Yeah,” he said.
“Only prairie-dog town around here’s about five miles outside town,” Marvin observed. “Aren’t many left, ranchers shoot’em all. You walk the rest of the way?”
“Mm,” said Heyes, anxious to change the subject. “So shouldn’t you be looking at the ground for signs or something?”
“Oh, you can find signs in all sorts of places,” said Marvin. He drew rein, and they both stopped and looked over the barren land in front of them.
The dry land stretched bare and sunbaked, the dirt cracked in spider-web patterns. Only on the distant ridges were there a few hints of green. The tracker reached down and checked to be sure each canteen was securely attached to the saddle. “Not much out there,” he said. “We’re at least two day’s ride from water. Got enough food?”
Heyes nodded impatiently. “One’s saddlebag’s full of hard tack, the other one’s full of beans.”
“Yeah, but have you got any food?” said Marvin.
Heyes laughed reluctantly. “I’ll buy you a steak when we catch up with the Kid,” he promised.
“With the reward money?” said Marvin, and showed white teeth in a broad smile. “That’ll buy a lot of steaks.”
Heyes frowned. “Let’s go,” he said.
“Where do we start?” asked Marvin, looking around idly.
Heyes ground his teeth and wondered if he should demand his twenty dollars back. “You’re supposed to tell me!” he said. “Kid Curry was seen riding out this way yesterday, but then it got dark, who knows which way he headed? You’ve got to pick up his tracks.”
Marvin sighed, and climbed off his horse. He strolled along aimlessly, glancing down at the dusty ground from time to time. Heyes dismounted too, and strode over to a broad trail that was clearly recent, leading off into the desert. “This way,” he called.
Marvin ambled over and surveyed the wide swath of hoofmarks and horse droppings. He nodded gravely. “My, you’re quite a tracker yourself,” he said. “What do you need me for?”
“Well, the posse went this way,” Heyes pointed out.
“Bunch of hound dogs chasing their tails,” said Marvin. “That possum’s up a different tree.”
“Think so?” Heyes asked.
Marvin nodded. “Curry’s too smart to start off through a draw like this, where there’s nothing but soft dirt. No, he left a few tracks here on purpose, maybe, but then he’d look for a harder surface.” He continued his rambling walk while Heyes tapped his foot.
Finally Marvin squatted down on his heels, studying the ground, and Heyes hurried over.
“Found something?” he demanded.
Marvin pointed to a solitary footprint in a tiny pocket of sand on the surface of the rock. “Well, someone went off by himself here, about twelve hours ago,” he said. “Could have been Curry.”
Heyes looked at the boot print and his eyes widened. There was the round mark of a hole in the middle of the sole. “That’s it,” he said positively. “That’s him.”
“You sure?” asked Marvin. “How do you know?”
Heyes shrugged carelessly. “Just a hunch.”
Marvin gazed at him for a minute, and nodded slowly. “Well,” he said, looking back down at the rocks. “Could be him--tall man, five feet eleven inches, one hundred’n sixty-five pounds.”
Heyes snorted. “You can’t tell all that from a couple of scuffs in the dirt!” he said. “You don’t fool me, you just read his description on the wanted poster.”
“Sure I can,” said Marvin. “And he’s got sixty-seven cents in change in his pocket, too.” He stood and looked out at the sun-bleached, dry soil, as hard as cement. “Bad lands,” he said softly, as though talking to himself. “Mako sica.”
Heyes tapped an impatient foot. “That what the Indians call it?” he asked, and Marvin nodded.
“Mako sica,” Heyes repeated, not liking the sound of the words. “What’s it mean?”
“Bad lands,” Marvin explained. “‘Course, Indians don’t go there much.” He looked up at the distant cliffs and spires of gray stone. “A man would have to be...well, he’d have to be one of two things to go off into the badlands. He’d have to be pretty desperate.” He glanced at Heyes, who looked away hastily.
“Yeah?” Heyes said. “Or what else?”
“Lost,” said Marvin, gazing at the barren hills. “He’d have to be lost.”
They mounted and set off at an even pace that seemed agonizingly slow to Heyes. Marvin led the way, bending low over the mare’s neck from time to time. Heyes could see no sign of footprints or hoofmarks, but Marvin seemed to be following a clear road. The invisible trail led across the flat plain, and began to meander through hump-backed hills and ridges.
After an hour of slow plodding, they came to a dry streambed, a narrow ravine where water had long ago flowed over tumbled gray rocks. Marvin frowned, and swung off his horse. He bent and studied the ground for a moment. “Ah, good,” he said, nodding.
“What? What?” Heyes demanded.
“When the posse was chasing Curry, think they got close enough to get some shots off?” Marvin asked.
“Yeah, why?” Heyes answered uneasily. He remembered his last, half-dazed sight of Kid riding desperately, bent low over his horse--leading the posse away from where Heyes lay sprawled in the dust, while the pursuers blazed away, close behind.
“Well, they got him,” said Marvin. “That’s good, it’ll make our job easier.”
“How do you know?” Heyes demanded, feeling a cold weight on his chest. “I don’t see any blood or anything.”
“Well, he got off here to see if he could fill his canteen, and he’s favoring his right leg. He almost fell when he got off his horse, leg must have buckled underneath him.” Marvin ran his finger over a scrape in the dirt, then stood and traced the marks with his eye. “Went over this way to look for water, limping pretty good, looking over his shoulder every few steps.”
“How on earth do you know he was looking over his shoulder?”
“See that left footmark? Deeper pressure on the outside of the foot as he turns his head to the right--he’s right-handed, yes?”
“Yeah,” Heyes admitted.
“Short, uneven steps, looking over his shoulder every few feet.” Marvin looked at the watercourse, where even Heyes could see that rocks had been pushed about. “He was looking for a seep under a rock. Looking pretty hard, too. Nothing but sand under here, though, this stream’s been dry a long time.” Marvin returned to the starting point. “Took him three tries to get back up on his horse.” He pointed to three almost invisible scratches in the dirt.
Heyes rubbed a hand over his eyes, and tried to look happy. “Well, so far, so good,” he said, in a hearty voice. “What else can you tell?”
Marvin looked up. “Well, it’s good news for us all around,” he said cheerfully. “He’s hurt, he’s running out of water, and pretty soon he’s going to start doing stupid things.”
“I thought you said Kid Curry was so smart,” Heyes said. “What makes you say he’ll start doing stupid things?”
Marvin shrugged. “He’s getting scared.”
The tracker strolled along the streambed, then began to circle in his usual aimless way, glancing up at the sky as often as he did at the ground. Heyes waited, drumming his fingers on his saddle horn. Finally he got off the horse and began to scout around for himself. He approached the spot where Marvin was ambling.
“Get out of here,” Marvin said, not looking up. “Leave your tracks someplace else.”
Heyes bristled. “You may not believe this, but I was the champeen tracker of southern Utah.”
“Mm,” Marvin grunted. Heyes wandered off, staring down at the ground intently.
Suddenly he spotted a distinct track, two curved lines facing each other a couple of inches apart: the print of a boot-heel. “Here!” he called. Marvin ignored him. “Over here, I picked up his track.”
Marvin came over and glanced at the marks. “Hmm,” he said, nodding. “Well, you’re certainly on to something.”
“It’s a track, right?”
“Well, yes, but...”
“But nothing, who else could it be?” Heyes spotted a similar mark in the dirt, about two feet away. “Come on. He’s heading in this direction.” Marvin shrugged and followed obediently as Heyes scrambled up a ridge, following the tracks. “He went this way, right?” Heyes demanded, and Marvin bent and looked closer.
“Yes, this way, but actually I’d say it’s a female.”
“What!”
Marvin nodded gravely. “And a young one at that...five, six months.”
“That’s impossible,” said Heyes, staring at him.
“Oh, no, there’s a few fawns around here,” Marvin said. “Hoof prints that size, with that narrow straddle, got to be a doe.” Heyes opened his mouth to argue, but Marvin pointed to a neat pile of oval, brown pellets that were unmistakably the droppings of mule deer.
They clambered back down the ridge, and Heyes stood patiently by his horse while Marvin resumed his circling. Finally he swung himself on his mare, and they headed off towards the cliffs that rose high over the flat plain.
The steep ledges looked unclimbable from a distance, but as they drew closer, Heyes could see faint paths running up along the canyon walls. They came to a spot halfway up a ridge, where the sandy dirt turned to solid rock underfoot. Marvin got off his horse and scouted around again, but this time it seemed to take forever; he squatted down here and there, then knelt, then lay flat on the ground for a long time, so that Heyes, fuming and fidgeting in the saddle, wondered if he’d gone to sleep.
Finally Marvin got to his feet, and gave his usual shrug. “Well, couple of ways he could have gone,” he said, rubbing his chin. “Too rocky here to be sure. We’ll have to try both ways and see.”
“That’ll take time, though,” said Heyes anxiously
“Yeah, if we guess wrong.” Marvin’s dark eyes looked up at him. “Well, you’re the champeen tracker, what do you think?” He pointed down the ridge. “If we’re lucky, he went that way, downhill. Good chance to find water, but there’s no cover--good chance to get caught.”
Marvin looked up at the sun-bleached crags and ridges of rock above them. “If he was a stubborn cuss, though, he’d go to high ground--no water, but he’ll be a lot harder to find. What do you think?”
Heyes looked up at the ridge. The black silhouette of a vulture drifted by the sunlit cliffs, and he watched it in silence for a moment, rubbing his chin and pretending to consider. He didn’t want to let on what an easy question it was. “High ground, I guess,” he said after a while. He looked back up to where the vulture still soared, tilting lazily in the sun. “High ground,” he said again.
They followed a narrow path along the canyon rim. Marvin rode ahead, and Heyes could see the sparse, black pigtail bobbing between his shoulders. From time to time Heyes heard a low, droning noise, and he glanced around, wondering what it might be. It sounded like the droning of bees in a hive, but he certainly couldn’t see any sign of insects in the hot glare. “Too hot for flies, even,” he murmured, rubbing the sweat off his face with his sleeve. The droning noise continued, though, till he began to wonder if it came from the rocks themselves. Finally he realized that the sound was Marvin, singing: a lazy, low-pitched chant that went on and on, blending with the plod of the horses.
After a long while the droning stopped, and Marvin drew rein and turned in the saddle. “Good guess,” he said, with an odd glance at Heyes. “You must know how Curry thinks.”
“Sure,” said Heyes warily. “It’s the sign of a good bounty hunter, gotta know the quarry.”
Marvin pointed to the ground. “Well, he came this way, all right.”
“I don’t see anything.” Heyes fanned himself with his hat as he glanced down. The rock surface had given way to bare, sandy soil, but there was no sign of footprints or hoofmarks.
“Exactly,” said Marvin. “He swept this stretch to hide his tracks. Did a pretty good job, too. Used a willow branch. See the marks of the long, thin leaves, and the twig scratches?”
Heyes got off his horse and stared at the ground, then got to his knees. He bent over till he could smell the dusty, dry scent of the earth, and by nearly putting his nose in the dirt he could see faint parallel lines, back and forth across the path.
He climbed back on his horse, and they plodded on. Marvin rode with his head bobbing and eyes almost shut, and Heyes would have thought he was asleep, except that the droning song had broken out again. It had a contented sound, almost like the purr of a big cat, and Heyes was beginning to suspect that it was a sign they were on the right trail.
Heyes began to scan the ground intently. Kid’s branch had swept the dust into a smooth blank page, and the marks of everything that had passed since were plainly recorded. He could see the tiny tracks of a lizard, like dainty stitching on the sand, and the dots and dashes of jackrabbit tracks, the big hind feet leaving long lines next to the round forepaw tracks. Even the passing of a beetle had left a series of prints, a long row of dots like pinpricks in the dirt.
He spotted a footprint, with the familiar hole in the center of the boot sole, and looked up excitedly. “Here’s where he stopped erasing the tracks,” he called to Marvin. The tracker nodded, and pointed to a broken-off willow branch with wilted leaves, lying on the ground a few feet off the trail. Heyes eagerly followed the stumbling footprints, where Kid had limped and dragged his feet while leading the horse towards a low rock outcropping. He saw the faint scrape on the rock where Kid had used it as a stepping stool to pull himself up into the saddle. The hoofmarks of Kid’s horse led up the hill, the prints uneven and close together; the tired horse had traveled at a slow walk as the ground began to slope steeply upwards.
Marvin glanced at a hoof print. “Six hours old,” he said. “The edge is just starting to crumble. We’re gaining on him.”
They rested for a few minutes under the shade of a rocky overhang, and took a drink from their canteens. Marvin gave a satisfied nod. “Well, so far we’ve got Curry all to ourselves, no sign of that posse.” He sniffed. “Zeb Gates thinks he knows everything, but he couldn’t track a herd of cows. Claims his grandmother was Pawnee, but if you ask me, he’s pure white.”
“How about you?” Heyes asked, glancing curiously at his companion. “You a real Indian?”
“My mother was Lakota,” Marvin said. He took a long swallow from the canteen.
“That an Indian?” Heyes asked. He took a sip from his canteen; the water was warm and gritty, but it tasted like nectar.
Marvin smiled. “Kind of,” he said, shrugging.
“Don’t know much about Indians,” said Heyes. “There weren’t any around where I grew up. We just heard stories about them when we were kids.”
“Yeah?” Marvin inquired. “What kinds of stories?”
Heyes shrugged. “Oh, you know, all kinds of stories about massacres and scalpings and such.”
Marvin took another drink, then screwed the canteen top on tightly. He said nothing, and Heyes went on, “I remember there used to be big round scrapes on the prairie, and people said that they were old buffalo wallows. People said buffalo used to graze on the prairies, and the Indians used to hunt them. But the buffalo are all gone, too.”
“Never saw a buffalo?” Marvin asked him.
Heyes shook his head. “Nope. Nothing but cows where I grew up. You ever see any buffalo?”
“Some,” said Marvin. “Well, let’s get back to work.”
They followed the trail for a long time, as Marvin hummed his endless song, and the shadows moved and lengthened. The sun floated low in the hazy sky, and birds flew overhead, heading for the clusters of stunted trees on the ridge-tops and in the valleys. “Only an hour of tracking light left, when the birds start to roost,” said Marvin, glancing at the sun.
Birds twittered sleepily from a clump of scrub oaks nearby. “Well, let’s hurry, then,” Heyes said.
“I am hurrying,” said Marvin, and continued on at what seemed to Heyes a snail’s pace. Heyes fidgeted, looking over his shoulder every few minutes; he kicked his horse to a trot, then pulled him back to a walk. Still Marvin plodded on, his droning song blending with the wind that moaned around the tall rock outcrops.
Marvin looked up, tilting his head as though listening. “We’ve got company,” he said in a low voice.
Heyes strained his ears to listen, but the darkening landscape was silent. “I don’t hear a thing,” he whispered.
Marvin nodded, frowning. “No birds,” he said. “They stop calling and lie low when a predator comes by.”
Heyes glanced back over his shoulder, but saw nothing but bare rock and a few stunted cedars. He dismounted and lay on his stomach to look over the edge of the steep path. He caught a movement in the canyon below, and felt a sudden jolt of fear. In the shadows he could make out a group of riders moving along the canyon floor. “It’s them,” he said.
Marvin joined him and peered over the edge. “It’s getting too dark to track,” he said quietly. “They’ll have to camp where they are if they don’t want to lose the trail. So will we, for that matter,” he added.
Heyes watched, peering through the shadows as the group slowed and came to a halt in a ring of low, scrubby trees. There were ten or more men, each with a rifle in a saddle holster. “You say their tracker’s not much good, eh?” Heyes said thoughtfully.
Marvin snorted. “His grandmother may have been a Pawnee, but he can’t tell a rabbit track from a prairie dog.”
“So you think if they saw the tracks of a lone horse, they’d figure it was the Kid?” Heyes went on.
Marvin shrugged contemptuously. “Gates can’t tell one horse’s trail from another,” he said.
“Can you?” asked Heyes.
“Sure,” said Marvin, rolling over on his back and closing his eyes. “Horse-shoes, nail prints, stride...all different.”
“How’d you learn all this stuff, anyway?” Heyes asked curiously.
“My uncle, my mother’s brother,” said Marvin, pulling the big hat over his eyes. “He was a tracker.”
Heyes nodded, still looking down at the posse below. “What’d he track, buffalo and such?” he asked.
Marvin snorted. “Actually it isn’t too hard to track a herd of buffalo,” he said. “A thousand buffalo leave a bit of a trail. Track a mouse, now, that’s hard. Or a lizard.” He smiled reminiscently. “He could track a bird in the air.”
Heyes laughed. “Sure,” he said, and got to his feet. “Well, you wait here, I’ll be right back.”
“You’re crazy,” said Marvin, lifting the hat brim and staring up at him. “They catch you leaving a false trail, they’re liable to shoot first and ask questions later.”
“Hey, they’ll never catch on,” said Heyes, and smiled at him. “They haven’t got a real Indian tracker.”
