Free Tie My Bones to Her Back by Robert F. Jones

light of the dying campfire, and squatted with his back to the wind, leaning forward on the butt of his rifle. It was a U.S. Cavalry Springfield carbine, a .50-70 breechloader whose stock had been split in the fight where he won it. He had mended it by sewing a strip of green deer hide around the stock. When the deer hide dried and shrank, it closed the split better than glue. He had decorated the stock with brass-headed tacks in the shape of two shields. He could sit this way until sunup, motionless, recalling the battles of the past, and he would do so this night. If the Snakes came skulking around, his pony would warn him. Many thieves had tried to steal her in the past. None had succeeded. He kept the scalps of the failed horse thieves hidden away in his war bag. It would not do for Mr. Dousmann or Captain McKay to see them. His other scalps he had burned in a medicine fire when he went to live among the white eyes. Some of them were white-spicier scalps. But to throw away the scalps of the horse thieves would be unlucky; it would be asking for trouble.
    He watched his pony moving gracefully through the darkness. He had untethered her from the picket pin. She did not need to be held by a white-eyes rope. He could tell by her ears what was out there in the darkness. If they flicked and went every which way, it was only buffalo or wolves or coyotes. If they pricked forward and remained there, she was listening to enemies. She would make no noise but stay near, waiting for the fight, and come when he whistled. She loved war as much as she loved running buffalo. She loved them as much as he did. He would rather fight mounted if many Snake People came. His pony was fast and brave. Sometimes up close she nipped at the men he fought, or at their horses. Her name was Wind-Blows-Snow-over-Bare-Rock. He called her Wind Blows, or sometimes simply Wind.
    O TTO WOKE SUDDENLY . He looked up at the sky. The Dipper had clocked itself most of the way around the North Star—an hour shy of dawn. Jenny breathed steadily, deep asleep. Otto slid his hand under the rolled jacket he used for a pillow and withdrew the .44 Smith & Wesson revolver. He sat up, reached for his boots, and was just pulling one on when the first shot was fired. He heard a whoop, then two more shots. Another whoop. Some horses whinnied. Jenny sat bolt upright. Otto pushed her down again, then crouched in the wagonbed, peering over the top in the direction of the gunshots.
    “It’s all right, Mr. Dousmann,” Tom Shields said. He was standing at the far end of the wagon, behind Otto. With him stood his pony. He smiled. “Just Poor Lo trying to make off with the stock.”
    “Well, Christ, Tom—let’s get after them!”
    “No need,” Tom Shields said. He raised a hand black with blood. “I got ‘em. Now I’ll kick up the fire again and start us some coffee.”
    Tom sent his horse back to the herd and went over toward the pile of buffalo chips, where a few coals still glowed. Something limp dangled from his belt. No, three things, swinging wet and loose as he walked away.
    “What’s he got there, by his hip?” Jenny asked.
    “Nothing,” Otto said. “Get back to sleep, Jenny, it’s still a ways to go until morning.”

6

    W HEN J ENNY WOKE again, the sun was up. The hide of her antelope lay draped over the wagon’s gate, near her feet. Tom must have completed the skinning last night. She saw that he had fleshed the skin side, too. Neither Tom nor Otto was in sight. They must be down seeing to the stock, she thought. A pot of coffee seethed beside the fire. She was just pouring herself a cup when Tom Shields came up the draw. His face, as usual, was expressionless.
    “Thank you very much for the skin, Tom,” she said.
    He grunted and kept on walking, back to the hide wagon.
    Well, she thought. You’re welcome, I’m sure.
    Now Otto appeared, looking even angrier than he had the previous evening. He grabbed the coffeepot and poured a swallow directly from