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"Go back out there? I've been in the saddle for the last six months. It's getting hard to tell where the horse leaves off and I begin." To say I registered surprise would be an understatement.
"I know, Terrance, and I'm sorry. But after reading your report I realize that you are the only man that knows the whereabouts of the
bank heist money.
"Let me give you some background. We always figured that if we got the loot when we nabbed the robbers then we'd bring it back, but we didn't go on any treasure hunts. Our job was to catch the criminals.
"Well, this banker doesn't see it that way. He is inferring that the Rangers might be padding their pockets with recovered money, and that just doesn't fly. It's your job to set the matter straight."
"Didn't I just say that I was itching to get back in the saddle?" I was itching to get out there now. I wanted to show that dumb banker the error of his thinking. "Only trouble is, if the wind has washed out the tracks, I'm liable to have a might of trouble finding the trail."
"We have an old timer here who sometimes acts as a scout. He's an Indian, but I think from a tribe that's died out. He rarely talks, but he understands what we say and always does his job. His name is Albiethy."
The captain had not been fooling when he said that Albiethy didn't talk much.
I had told him the story of my previous trip chasing outlaws, and he grunted and led off.
"Lived here all your life?" I ventured.
Dark eyes regarded me as they might look at a rock. "Not yet."
"Had a neighbor like you once. Come to find out he was dead for five years before anybody noticed the difference. He'd always kept himself pretty well pickled, so the body held up well. Ended up using it in a field as a scarecrow. Always did know a good job would show up for Eugley if we waited long enough."
This netted me a grunt and a nod. I gave up for the rest of the afternoon. Albiethy was in the lead, and I could see he was taking us cross country, not bothering to find the original trail that I went in on. I just sat back in the saddle and watched the countryside, content that I was in good hands.
When the shadows lengthened, the Indian suddenly veered and struck out on a tangent with no visible target that I could see. When we had gone a half a mile, we pulled up the horse to a pool of water below a clump of rocks that looked just like any other clump of rocks in miles. I eyed him closely but he said nothing. Finally I had to ask.
"Did you smell this water?"
He looked at me with no expression. "Yes, good nose," he said as he tapped his prominent beak. As I was turning away he added in a voice so low I barely heard it, "Plus I was through here last week."
I caught on then. He had the sense of humor of a New Englander I once knew. He was amused at the efforts people went through to get him to talk. When he did answer, it was trite and liable to go over the head of the listener.
As we ate our supper, I tried to get him to tell me what tribe he was from, but he just shrugged his shoulders. He wouldn't speak unless it was his idea.
His hair was in two long braids that nearly touched his waste. He wore well worn buckskins, and when immobile on the sand, he was hard to spot. His hands and face were so leathery from exposure to the sun that he looked like he was a hundred years old. For all I knew he could have been.
For some reason I wanted him to understand me, so I told him my whole story—how I had ventured West with the idea of being a gunfighter, and how the allure of that profession had faded. I told him about my job at the ranch, and how I had discovered the plot to put the Indians and white men at war. Finally I told him of how I happened to join the Rangers, and how it was good to have a feeling that I had helped someone as I did my job.
I received no answer, and had not really thought I would get one, when a surprisingly refined voice jumped me from near sleep. "You have grown up. That's good. You have discovered that true satisfaction can only come from helping your fellow man. Many people go their whole lives without learning this. The search for riches is well and good, but it does not bring the well being of the simplest of good deeds.
"You ask of my people. We called ourselves The People, but then most of the tribes do that. My people are ancient. We were a strong band centuries ago, even before Cortez came. We were forest dwellers and did not take to the horse the way many tribes did. My forefathers thought a good runner could outdistance a horse in the forest. In some cases it was true, but only with the very best runners.
"That stubbornness was our downfall. From hundreds our numbers shrunk to a very few. There are still some left, living in the mountains of what you call California. I think we will all be gone soon, with no history left behind." He shrugged. "Does it really matter? I think not. We lived, we enjoyed life, we died. It is the same with all men. It is good."
"How did you come to speak English so well?" I asked.
"In New Orleans. I once traveled with a pair of missionaries. They thought I should go and see the white man's world and maybe go to school in the East. My eyes were opened in New Orleans. I saw that the Indians were fighting a battle that they must lose when they stood against the whites. There were too many of them, and they just kept coming. Their machines were beyond belief.
"I might have gone to school, but I met a French girl of my own age and we fell in love. When this became
known, I was no longer a charming savage but a threat to the white man's honor. One night we were set upon in a park, and Monique was killed by a bullet meant for me. I reverted to a true savage. I killed all three with my hatchet. Then I scalped them and cut their bodies into small pieces. I carried Monique's body to a church, and then I came back out West."
"Do you hate the white man's world?"
"No. For a little while I did. But there are rotten people in any tribe. I work for the white men and take pleasure in helping them. Sometimes I dream the old dream and feel like scalping someone, but that doesn't occur very often. Sleep tight." And with that he rolled over and was almost instantly asleep.
I was tired but had trouble closing my eyes. He had been kidding me, hadn't he?
When morning came I still had my hair so I figured it was a good day. Albiethy
grinned when he saw me reach up and touch my head.
"Something bothering you?" he inquired.
"Nah, just had an itch."
"I'll bet you did. I've felt one myself in certain camps."
Again we struck off cross country, and I wondered how the old man could find his way so unerringly. When I asked him he just said, "Being lost is just a state of mind."
"Well, then, my mind was once lost for three days." I told him.
"That's too bad. You seem so sane."
It came to a point where I just had to laugh, and to my surprise the old man joined me.
"You're okay, Snake. Most white guys don't care enough about some old Indian to ask the right questions. So I give them a hard time, and they figure me for a half crazy old coot. You've got a sense of humor, and you can't ask for much more than that. A lot of white men figure an Indian hasn't got a sense of humor, so they don't listen."
"To answer your first question, I really don't know where we are, but if we keep heading in this direction, we will eventually come to a stream. Then I just have to figure out whether to go up or down. If I can't figure that out, then my mind is lost as well."
He did figure it right the first time, though, and in good time we came to the mouth of the very same canyon I had been in before. When we entered and passed the scree where I had buried the outlaw's body, I was surprised to see an empty hole. Somebody had dug him up.
Then we rounded the next outcrop of rocks and both pulled up short. The bones had been picked clean by the buzzards, and then someone had arranged them into the shape of Cocopelli, the Goatsucker!
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