The Complete Western Stories of Elmore Leonard - Elmore Leonard [113]
Most of the time he lived in the same jacale his dad had built, providing for his mother and fitting closer into the life of the rancheria than he did before. But when he was about eighteen, he went up to the agency and joined Tudishishn’s police. His mother went with him to live at the reservation, but within a year the two of them were back. Tracking friends who happened to wander off the reservation didn’t set right with him. It didn’t go with his smile.
Tudishishn told me he was sorry to lose him because he was an expert tracker and a dead shot. I know the sergeant had a dozen good sign followers, but very few who were above average with a gun.
He must have been nineteen when he came back to Puerco. In all those years he never once mentioned McKay’s name. And I can tell you I never brought it up either.
I saw McKay even less after the hanging incident. If he ignored me before, he avoided me now. As I said, I felt like a fool after warning him about Mickey Segundo, and I’m certain McKay felt only contempt for me for doing it, after sticking up for the boy’s dad.
McKay would come through every once in a while, usually going on a hunt up into the Nacimentos. He was a great hunter and would go out for a few days every month or so. Usually with his herd boss, Bowie Allison. He hunted everything that walked, squirmed, or flew and I’m told his ranch trophy room was really something to see.
You couldn’t take it away from the man; everything he did, he did well. He was in his fifties, but he could shoot straighter and stay in the saddle longer than any of his riders. And he knew how to make money. But it was his arrogance that irked me. Even though he was polite, he made you feel far beneath him. He talked to you as if you were one of the hired help.
One afternoon, fairly late, Tudishishn rode in and said that he was supposed to meet McKay at the adobe office early the next morning. McKay wanted to try the shooting down southwest toward the malpais, on the other side of it, actually, and Tudishishn was going to guide for him.
The Indian policeman drank coffee until almost sundown and then rode off into the shadows of the Nacimentos. He was staying at one of the rancherias, visiting with his friends until the morning.
McKay appeared first. It was a cool morning, bright and crisp. I looked out of the window and saw the five riders coming up the road from the south, and when they were close enough I made out McKay and Bowie Allison and the three Bettzinger brothers. When they reached the office, McKay and Bowie dismounted, but the Bettzingers reined around and started back down the road.
McKay nodded and was civil enough, though he didn’t direct more than a few words to me. Bowie was ready when I asked them if they wanted coffee, but McKay shook his head and said they were leaving shortly. Just about then the rider appeared coming down out of the hills.
McKay was squinting, studying the figure on the pony.
I didn’t really look at him until I noticed McKay’s close attention. And when I looked at the rider again, he was almost on us. I didn’t have to squint then to see that it was Mickey Segundo.
McKay said, “Who’s that?” with a ring of suspicion to his voice.
I felt a sudden heat on my face, like the feeling you get when you’re talking about someone, then suddenly find the person standing next to you.
Without thinking about it I told McKay, “That’s Peza-a, one of my people.” What made me call him by his Apache name I don’t know. Perhaps because he looked so Indian. But I had never called him Peza-a before.
He approached us somewhat shyly, wearing his faded shirt and breechclout but now with a streak of ochre painted across his nose from ear to ear. He didn’t look as if he could have a drop of white blood