A Girl's Guide to Guns and Monsters - Martin Harry Greenberg [5]
One pony had apparently been struck by a rock and was now trying to bolt. Only the handler’s considerable strength kept it from doing so. A laughing group of men on the porch of the saloon across the plaza made amply clear where the rock had come from.
Despite being dressed in jeans and a button down shirt, the man now quieting the frightened pack pony was obviously an Indian—Navajo or Apache, Prudence guessed. He wore his dark hair to brush his shoulders, beneath a high-crowned hat that shaded the sculptured lines of his face.
“Nathan Yaz,” Reverend Printer said quietly. “He’s courting Maria—the woman who cooked your lunch.”
“He doesn’t seem overly welcome,” Prudence said.
That was an understatement. None of the several people watching Nathan Yaz’s ordeal were coming to his aid. A tall man wearing a sheriff’s star pointedly turned and walked into the nearest building.
“We’ve had Indian trouble lately.” Reverend Printer said, pushing back his chair and heading for the door.
Prudence thought about joining the minister, but decided that the appearance of a woman in trousers might only make matters worse.
She settled for easing open the window and resting her rifle barrel on the sill. She was a good shot, and if those rock-throwing drunks threw another rock, a warning shot might make them think twice.
But there was no more trouble. Reverend Printer escorted Nathan Yaz around the side of the hotel. There was a sound of angry voices from the kitchen. When these quieted, he returned, bearing the coffee pot.
Prudence had already slid her rifle back under the table, but kept it where she could get to it quickly.
When Reverend Printer had filled her cup and resumed his seat, she asked quietly, “Indian trouble?”
“Sheep killed—messily. Cattle stolen. In a few cases, cows were found mutilated. Worse, a little boy who lived on one of the outlying ranches disappeared. Later, a little girl, not more than three, also went missing. Her mother—a reliable woman—claimed the child had been stolen out of her bed.”
“And folks are sure it’s Indians?” Prudence said.
“Who else?” Reverend Printer’s tired voice said that he knew there were other options, but also that in a case like this people took sides along race lines pretty fast. “Rustlers would sell cattle, not butcher them. Still, until the children vanished, it could have been rustlers. When the children started going missing, well . . . Everyone knows that the Indians keep slaves.”
“So did white folk,” Prudence said softly, “not that long ago.”
“I know. I know.”
“So that’s why Nathan Yaz got such a warm welcome?”
“Not so long ago the Navajo were the enemy,” Reverend Printer said. “Never mind that they’ve been relocated to lands where it’s a full time job keeping body and soul together. People don’t forget.”
“Neither have the Navajo, I bet,” Prudence said. “They’re going to be saying things like, ‘Look. We live peacefully, and still they blame us. Why should we stay peaceful? What is there to gain?’ ”
“So you can see why I wondered at you coming to town as you did, asking questions like you did,” Reverend Printer said. “As editor of the local paper, I’ve been exercising a little censorship, playing down the sensationalism, but people do talk.”
“And you wondered if I came following that talk?” Prudence nodded. “In a sense. I’ll assure you, though, I have no desire to stir up further trouble.”
She didn’t say more, and she guessed something on her face told the fat man that she wasn’t going to do so. He sipped the last of his coffee and rose.
“Pleasure meeting you, Miss Bledsloe.”
“Pleasure,” Prudence echoed, and meant it.
After Reverend Printer had left, Prudence sat thinking over what she’d learned. She didn’t think it was Indians causing the trouble, but if she told Reverend Printer her suspicions, it wouldn’t help. No one would believe her. No one who hadn’t lived through what she had.
The dining room was cool and pleasant compared to outdoors, but if she was to pitch her camp she should get moving. Prudence found