Bounty Hunter (9781101611975) by Bill Yenne

had predicted. They had not been hard to follow. It is hard to move a herd of a couple dozen
ponokáómitaa
without leaving ample evidence of their passing.
    Cole could tell by the fragrance of the “ample evidence” that it was more recent than it had been during the previous day. Thanks to Natoya’s having insisted that they break camp very early, they were now only a matter of hours behind their quarry. The fact that the thieves’ pace had slowed meant that the renegades were confident of not being followed. Just like the Porter boys, Cole hoped.
    Gradually, they passed out of the rolling hills dotted mainly with aspen and came to a ridge whose western, windward slope was covered with gnarled and windblown spruce. As they crossed the ridge, they were greeted with a breeze which blew colder than what they had experienced thus far.
    Natoya reined up her horse and pointed through the trees.
    In the distance, they could see a long, slender lake hugging the base of the mountains. The winter, which all expected, had already come to the high country. The jagged peaks were heavily cloaked in snow.
    Natoya identified the lake as Natoákiomahksikimi, but she translated the names of the peaks they saw. There were Red Eagle and Little Chief, and occupying a prominent place above the lake was Going-to-the-Sun. To the left, she pointed out one named for a man called Imazí-imita, whose name, Natoya explained, meant “Almost-a-Dog.”
    A short distance down into the valley of the lake, the horse thieves had steered their purloined herd onto a broad trail. Natoya identified it as being a main thoroughfare for the Siksikáwa which led down into the valley of the lakes.
    The “ample evidence” was now exceedingly fresh, and the Siksikáwa men pulled their rifles from the scabbards. Cole instinctively drew his Colt and spun the cylinder to count the cartridges. He knew it was loaded—this was just a ritual. As he undid the leather thong that secured his Winchester in its scabbard, he noticed that Natoya’s hand was resting on her holstered weapon as well.
    They rounded a bend near the base of the ridge, and the landscape of the valley revealed itself. There, not far below and swirling about in a meadow near a stream, was the stolen herd. Cole counted eight men.
    As he and his companions watched, their number increased by two with the approach of a pair of
nápikoan
riders.
    Cole squinted hard, determining that these white men were not the Porter boys. One might have been, but the other was much too fat.
    â€œBuyers,” Natoya whispered.
    Cole nodded. It was obvious that the two white men had been invited here to purchase the stolen herd.
    â€œI think something better happen before this transaction is completed,” he said under his breath.
    Natoya nodded and repeated this to the Ikutsikakatósi and Ómahkaatsistawa, who nodded their agreement.
    â€œCover me,” Cole said as he spurred the roan forward.
    A few minutes later, the ten riders in the valley turned their heads at his approach. Hands tensed and touched guns.
    Cole raised his hand in greeting and rode toward the two white men.
    â€œGood morning, sir,” the heavyset man said cautiously. “To what do we owe the pleasure of seeing you here?”
    â€œGood morning, sir,” Cole said, extending his hand. “My name is Bladen Cole. If I’m not mistaken, you’re here to buy some Indian ponies.”
    â€œName’s McGaugh,” the man said, taking Cole’s offered hand. “Benjamin McGaugh. You’d be correct in your supposition. We were informed at the Indian Agency that a herd would be available here this morning. I’m here to pick out four or five of the finest of these ponies.”
    â€œWould it make any difference to your plans if I was to tell you that these animals are a herd stolen from my friend White Buffalo Calf, whose lodge stands about two days’ ride