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Authors: Robert F. Jones
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mouthful while he checked their picket pins. His own pony nickered softly when he came to her.
He always fed her last, so he could talk to her without the other horses getting jealous. She was a spotted-rump pony who had come to him from the Nez Perce country by way of the Yellowstone—an Appaloosa, the white-eyes called her breed. He had stolen her six years ago from a hunting camp of the Absarokas, those wicked Sparrow Hawk People the white-eyes called Crows. He and his friends had taken many horses that night, but of them all he had picked her as his prize. He had watched her running buffalo that afternoon. He had to crawl into the Absaroka camp to get her. Her owner had picketed the spotted-rump pony beside him while he slept, so greatly did he value her. Tom had lain within ten feet of her for a long time, perhaps an hour, looking up into her eyes and thinking hard, “Come with me, Pony, and I will love you always, but do not make any noise when I cut your picket line.” Over and over. She did not nicker but only stood watching him, her ears pricked forward. When her ears relaxed and went back to scanning the night for random sounds, he knew she was ready. He cut the rawhide and crawled away into the darkness. She followed him silently, her unshod hooves making no sound in the damp, sandy soil.
The Absarokas had pursued them, and in the running battle she’d done all that his knees had ordered. She loved gunfire. It made her think of hunting. He had killed two of the Sparrow Hawk People and taken not just their scalps but their war shields as well. He and his pony bore them back home. He won a new name that day, Two Shields. More important, he had won her. She was long-legged and heavier than most Indian horses, but she ran and turned quickly, and she was tireless. She could run buffalo all day with him on her back. She had a sweet, forgiving disposition. Now he spoke to her in a soft, low voice as her velvet lips nibbled the last of the oats from his cupped palms.
He spoke endearments in Sa-sis-e-tas. My good little Pony Woman, did you miss me this evening? I had to follow that ugly white-eyes girl down the gulch to make sure she had no trouble. There are Snake People nearby. I saw three of them today, out on the horizon, riding parallel to us. But never fear, maybe they are only our friends the Crazy Knife People, the Kiowas. It was too far to see clearly. This is far south for the evil Snake People to be, so early in the Deer-Rutting Moon. The white-spider girl threw her poison away. I picked it up and am keeping it for her. She is afraid to die but too ignorant yet to fear the Snake People. Perhaps they will come around here tonight and try to steal you both! But I will not let them. We will kill them all and take their scalps and ride back north across the Greasy River to our Cut-Arm People and gallop into camp the way we used to, with you prancing proudly and tossing your tail and I swinging the scalps on high, and all the girls will come running, the men, too, to praise you for your valor. The old women will sing the Scalp Songs and we will have a big Scalp Dance to honor the Medicine Arrows. We will run races against those weak, puny little Indian ponies, you and I, and win all the bets. Maybe we will bring the white-spider girl with us. She knows how to hunt and cooks good food. You could carry her on your strong back along with me, couldn’t you? Or maybe we shall steal these white-eye horses. And my uncles will give us more horses for you to run with when we get back, and a big, strong stallion to give you babies. All will honor Two Shields and his brave buffalo pony. I will feed you apples and oats and the sugar we take from the wagon trains of the spiders when we kill them, and the girls will play their hands over you and sing your song and weave primrose and desert plume into your mane and tail. All that we will do when the Snake People come!
He walked back up the side of the coulee, well out of the
He always fed her last, so he could talk to her without the other horses getting jealous. She was a spotted-rump pony who had come to him from the Nez Perce country by way of the Yellowstone—an Appaloosa, the white-eyes called her breed. He had stolen her six years ago from a hunting camp of the Absarokas, those wicked Sparrow Hawk People the white-eyes called Crows. He and his friends had taken many horses that night, but of them all he had picked her as his prize. He had watched her running buffalo that afternoon. He had to crawl into the Absaroka camp to get her. Her owner had picketed the spotted-rump pony beside him while he slept, so greatly did he value her. Tom had lain within ten feet of her for a long time, perhaps an hour, looking up into her eyes and thinking hard, “Come with me, Pony, and I will love you always, but do not make any noise when I cut your picket line.” Over and over. She did not nicker but only stood watching him, her ears pricked forward. When her ears relaxed and went back to scanning the night for random sounds, he knew she was ready. He cut the rawhide and crawled away into the darkness. She followed him silently, her unshod hooves making no sound in the damp, sandy soil.
The Absarokas had pursued them, and in the running battle she’d done all that his knees had ordered. She loved gunfire. It made her think of hunting. He had killed two of the Sparrow Hawk People and taken not just their scalps but their war shields as well. He and his pony bore them back home. He won a new name that day, Two Shields. More important, he had won her. She was long-legged and heavier than most Indian horses, but she ran and turned quickly, and she was tireless. She could run buffalo all day with him on her back. She had a sweet, forgiving disposition. Now he spoke to her in a soft, low voice as her velvet lips nibbled the last of the oats from his cupped palms.
He spoke endearments in Sa-sis-e-tas. My good little Pony Woman, did you miss me this evening? I had to follow that ugly white-eyes girl down the gulch to make sure she had no trouble. There are Snake People nearby. I saw three of them today, out on the horizon, riding parallel to us. But never fear, maybe they are only our friends the Crazy Knife People, the Kiowas. It was too far to see clearly. This is far south for the evil Snake People to be, so early in the Deer-Rutting Moon. The white-spider girl threw her poison away. I picked it up and am keeping it for her. She is afraid to die but too ignorant yet to fear the Snake People. Perhaps they will come around here tonight and try to steal you both! But I will not let them. We will kill them all and take their scalps and ride back north across the Greasy River to our Cut-Arm People and gallop into camp the way we used to, with you prancing proudly and tossing your tail and I swinging the scalps on high, and all the girls will come running, the men, too, to praise you for your valor. The old women will sing the Scalp Songs and we will have a big Scalp Dance to honor the Medicine Arrows. We will run races against those weak, puny little Indian ponies, you and I, and win all the bets. Maybe we will bring the white-spider girl with us. She knows how to hunt and cooks good food. You could carry her on your strong back along with me, couldn’t you? Or maybe we shall steal these white-eye horses. And my uncles will give us more horses for you to run with when we get back, and a big, strong stallion to give you babies. All will honor Two Shields and his brave buffalo pony. I will feed you apples and oats and the sugar we take from the wagon trains of the spiders when we kill them, and the girls will play their hands over you and sing your song and weave primrose and desert plume into your mane and tail. All that we will do when the Snake People come!
He walked back up the side of the coulee, well out of the
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