There wasn’t a lot of traffic yet on Main Street. Two freight wagons appeared, each hauled by four big draft horses, their wide hooves kicking up little scatters of dust as they came. The early stage to Blue Rock went past us, heading north with two passengers and the driver up top next to the shotgun messenger.

“Town don’t bustle much,” Virgil said, “this early.”

“Later,” I said. “It’ll bustle later.”

Virgil nodded toward the north end of Main Street.

“Couple riders,” he said.

I looked.

“So?” I said.

“Recognize anybody?” Virgil said.

“Not yet,” I said.

“One on the left’ll be Pony Flores,” Virgil said.

I studied the riders.

Then I said, “I believe it will.”

9

THE RIDERS pulled up and sat their horses in front of the Boston House.

“Pony,” Virgil said.

Pony nodded at him. His Stetson was tipped forward, shading his face.

“Thought you was going to live Chiricahua for a spell,” I said.

Pony shrugged and tipped his head toward the rider beside him.

“My brother,” he said, “Kha-to-nay.”

We said, “Hello.”

Kha-to-nay had no reaction.

“He speak English?” Virgil said.

“Can,” Pony said. “Won’t.”

“Don’t like English?” Virgil said.

“He raised Chiricahua,” Pony said. “Don’t like white men.”

“He understand what we say?” I asked.

“Sure,” Pony said. “But only listen Chiricahua. Only talk Chiricahua.”

“Should introduce him to Laurel,” I said. “She only talks Virgil.”

“Chiquita,” Pony said. “She is well?”

“Doin’ fine,” Virgil said. “Kinda quiet, is all.” Kha-to-nay was motionless on his horse. As far as I could tell, watching him sit a horse, he was a little shorter than Pony, and a little wider.



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