Poetry Magazines - The best collection of poetry magazines online - Simon Armitage

     He was scared, he was always scared now, it was hard for him to remember the time when he had not been scared. They had been attacked in the early dusk by the buffalo hunters and his hunting party had been slaughtered, only he survived. That had been bad enough but he had made his way painfully back to the small village of his people. He found nothing but the mutilated dead and empty teepees, the buffalo hunters had been there too. Now he was alone, a frightened boy on his first hunt.

     Painted Horse knew that the hunters had gone, following the herd, but the cattle drovers or the wagon train scouts would kill him on sight and there was the ever present danger of the soldiers. He had little choice now, only by heading into the wilderness would allow him some measure of safety. He collected the equipment he would need from the destruction of his village, averting his eyes from the mutilated bodies and knowing that his mother must be one of them. His father had died five years ago when, as a white man, he had tried to argue with an army officer about the treatment of his Indian wife. Despite Painted Horse having white blood he looked more Indian.

     Painted Horse found a pony wandering back into the camp. It had been shot but it had only resulted in a wound along its neck, little more than a graze. He hobbled the horse and treated the wound. He was about to load the mount when the big cavalry horse walked slowly into the camp, slowly because it still dragged the dead soldier by his boot caught tight in the stirrup. Painted Horse went to it, gentled it and slashed the leather strap releasing the soldier’s foot. This horse would be his packhorse and he began to load it.

     When he had finished he made sure that he had the full compliment of weapons, acknowledged the dead and fired the village. Now a man, a warrior, he kicked the pony into action, leading the packhorse.

     He found the soldier sitting against the tree and he was dead with a hole in the chest that would allow a fist to be thrust into it. The kind of wound that a buffalo gun would make. The patrol must have been ambushed, the troopers had retreated leaving their dying comrade.

     Painted Horse picked up the dead man and threw him across his packhorse. There was a fort about five miles away and he turned his pony and train and headed towards it. As he and his burden reached the tall gates a soldier on the parapet challenged him, “Where do you think you’re going, Indian?”

     Painted Horse pointed to the dead trooper on the packhorse. “I bring him home.”

     “Did you kill him?” The soldier brought his rifle up to cover him.

     The Indian wanted to say ‘would I be bringing him in and confessing if I had killed him’ but he was an Indian so he replied, “No, sir, killed with a buffalo gun.”

     “Come in then, let’s have a look at you up close.” He then shouted down and one gate opened enough to let Painted Horse inside.

     Once inside, the Indian was roughly pulled from his pony while other soldiers, more gently, pulled the trooper’s body from the packhorse and carried the body to the doctor’s office. Painted Horse was pushed and shoved towards the wooden building bearing the legend, Commanding Officer. They manhandled him inside and he was standing before a thin, grey haired officer with a bitter expression. The officer looked up at Painted Horse.

     “Why is he in here, Sergeant?”

     “Think he may have killed O’Malley, sir.”

     “What makes you think that, Sergeant?”

     “He brought in O’Malley’s body, sir, and he’s an Indian.”

     The officer’s washed-out pale blue eyes looked at the Sergeant. “He’s not an Indian, Sergeant,” his voice heavy with disgust, “Can’t you see he’s a breed. Anyway, what’s his name?”

     Painted Horse told him.

     “We lost O’Malley on Tuesday, Lieutenant Mills took out that patrol and has reported an ambush by buffalo hunters.” His eyes turned on Painted Horse. “Are you a buffalo hunter, son?”

     Painted Horse shook his head.

     “You don’t smell like one.” Again he turned to the Sergeant, “Leave us, Sergeant.”

     The Sergeant hesitated, robbed of his prey.

     “Out.” The officer’s voice was flat and dangerous and the Sergeant moved out fast.

     Alone the officer looked Painted Horse up and down. “How old are you, son, any idea?” He pulled a book to him. “It doesn’t matter. Want a job scouting? Last scout ran away.”

     Painted Horse nodded, surprised at the offer.

     The officer opened the book and began to write. “Get yourself a pair of cavalry pants, that’s all the uniform you get. Get a box of shells too. You go out with Lieutenant Brown, dawn tomorrow. You can go.” He tore a slip from the book and handed it to Painted Horse. “That’s your authority.”

     Painted Horse met Lieutenant Brown on the steps on the way out, a grizzled, grey haired man of about forty-five, his skin burnt brown by the desert sun. He grabbed the Indian’s arm. “You the new scout?”

     Painted Horse nodded.

     “Right, you’re with me tomorrow. We’re going after those rawhiders, you can’t kill a U.S. trooper and get away with it.” He saw the authorization slip in Painted Horse’s hand. “Let’s get you equipped. Breed ain’t you?”

     The Indian nodded.

     The next morning Painted Horse was on the parade ground before the Lieutenant arrived and before the men came out and lined up.

     Scouting ahead, Painted Horse found the buffalo hunters’ camp, only one man was there and Painted Horse put two fast arrows through his neck. He needed that much personal revenge. He remounted and rode back to meet Lieutenant Brown’s patrol. He led them to the hunters’ camp and when the hunters returned there was a short gun battle. Only two were alive when it was over and they were captured and taken to the fort. Later they were hanged.

     The life of a cavalry scout suited Painted Horse and he had nowhere else to go, if you can’t beat them join them, but one lesson he did learn and that was that if you sup with the devil use a long spoon.