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his hand as though he had something in it, an apple,
maybe. The roan kept looking at him while the other
two continued to graze. He spoke to them in Co-
manche because the Creator gave the horse the ability
to understand his brother Comanche.
The roan snuffled and let him approach and in a
moment he was rubbing his hand along its neck and
stroking its mane, saying, You look like a real good
horse, and, I bet whoever lost you is pretty sorry,
ain t they, nice big old horse like you?
156 Bill Brooks
The horse dropped its head and cropped grass
without answering.
Well, I guess you belong to me now, eh? You and
your brothers here.
He stepped into the saddle. The roan was nice and
tall, fifteen, sixteen hands, maybe. He liked the view
from up on its back a lot better than he liked the view
from walking. He gathered up the reins of the other
two horses and said, I guess we better go before
somebody else comes along and wants to fight me for
you.
He walked the roan off toward where the sun was
standing just above the land, leading the others by
their reins. It seemed as good a direction to go as any.
He hadn t gone very far when he heard someone
shouting.
He looked back over his shoulder and three men
had risen out of the grass and were yelling something
at him and shaking their fists, and he saw one of them
draw his six-gun.
I guess they must be the ones who used to own
you, he said to the roan, knocking his heels against
its ribs. We better get the hell out of here.
The bullets came close enough he could hear them.
They sounded like angry bees buzzing around his
head. He stayed low over the roan s neck hoping he
wouldn t get shot in the ass or nowhere else as he
heeled the horse into a full-out gallop.
The Stone brothers had fallen into a nice lazy
drowse after having their pleasure with the women.
That sort of thing always made men sleepy afterward.
They weren t in any hurry to be anywhere in particu-
Dakota Lawman: Killing Mr. Sunday 157
lar since they weren t sure exactly when or where
they d catch up with the man they were after. And it
had been quite a long time since they d had the plea-
sure of a woman. And the weather was decently
pleasant and the grass nice and thick and inviting. So
they d lain down thinking to just catch a little siesta
under their hats till they got their energy back.
Trouble was they never counted on some big fat In-
dian coming along and stealing their goddamn
horses. And by the time they discovered their mistake,
that big fat Indian was too far out of range though
they hoped they might get lucky and shoot him, any-
way. But when that failed, all they could do was
stomp and cuss and watch him ride off with their
horses toward the horizon, and that s exactly what
they did.
The night came on early, rolled with thunder in it,
lightning dancing off behind the dark sky. The storm
had been brewing for hours and now swept along the
dark horizon. Martha thought she saw a light, per-
haps the town, she thought, and ran toward it. But it
wasn t a light from the town at all, but rather a small
fire someone had built. She was cautious in her ap-
proach. But the sky threatened to burst open at any
moment and a few drops of rain fell as a prelude,
striking her as hard and cold as nickels.
S cuse me, she called.
The man sitting cross-legged at the fire looked up.
He had something cooking on a stick thrust into the
fire some small game creature prairie dog or rab-
bit. The fire s light glittered in his dark eyes.
158 Bill Brooks
Big Belly was pleased to see a woman, even if she
was a white woman. He was relieved, too, that it
wasn t the three owners of the horses who d found
him. He spoke to her, told her to come to the fire,
made a motion with his hand.
Martha said, Huh?
She could see the man was an Indian of some sort,
dressed in greasy buckskins, his black hair parted
into long braids, what looked like a ragged old turkey
feather poking out. He had a broad face and a nose
shaped like a hawk s beak. Next to him set a hat that
looked like horses had stomped, one or two holes in
its crown as well.
I m nearly froze, she said, stepping to the fire
and stretching out her hands toward the flames. That
a rabbit you re cooking?
Big Belly knew a little English mostly cuss
words but not enough to know what the woman
was saying to him. But the way she looked at his
prairie dog, he surmised she was talking about it,
probably wanting him to share it with her. It was a
pretty small prairie dog. How he came across it fell
right in line with the rest of his luck that day: an eagle
had dropped it. Big Belly was just riding along when
all of a sudden this dark shadow floated across his
path and thunk! the prairie dog fell from the sky and
landed right in front of him and he looked up to see
an eagle circling and he guessed the eagle had
dropped it not meaning to, or perhaps the Creator
was still watching over him and had sent the eagle to
give him a gift of food to go along with the gift of
horses. For he had seriously thought about eating one
of the horses and now he wouldn t have to.
Dakota Lawman: Killing Mr. Sunday 159
Big Belly had made camp early, seeing the storm
forming off in the distance, he thought it best to make
a fire and eat his gift of prairie dog before it rained
and made it too wet for a fire. Now the Creator had
sent him a woman as well. This is the best damn day
I ve had in ten moons, he thought.
He told her to sit down and he d share his prairie
dog with her.
And when she just looked at him, he motioned for
her to sit and she did.
Fire feels good, she said.
Big Belly looked her over pretty good. He never
had a white woman before. He wondered what it
would be like to fornicate with one. He said, You
like Comanche?
Martha had no idea what the fat Indian was saying
to her, but he seemed friendly enough and she felt a
little less apprehensive. Still, she knew that men were
pretty much men, no matter what color their skin
was. She knew Indians could be dangerous, but then
so, too, could buffalo hunters and teamsters and min-
ers and youngsters who robbed banks and were dope
addicts.
My name is Martha, she said.
Marda . . . he said.
Yes, she said. Martha. And what s yours?
She pointed at herself when she said her name and he
took it to mean she was telling him what her name was.
He tapped his chest with a thumb and said, Na-
han-o-hay.
That s a real nice name, she said.
He asked her if she d like to fornicate with him af-
ter they ate.
160 Bill Brooks
She smiled, not understanding a single word of
what he said. He took that as a good sign.
She watched as he turned the critter over in the fire,
its carcass already burnt black. She couldn t help but
swallow down her immense hunger.
Marda . . . he said, looking at her.
Yes, she said. That s my name, don t wear it
out. But she said it with a smile in order that he not
take it in his head to scalp her or worse, like she d heard
Indians did to white women at least the bad ones that
used to be around before the army killed most of them.
He had a face round as a fry pan, and only some
teeth, and the way his eyes were fixed at a slant made
him look scary with the fire s light flickering over his
features. She d only seen one other Indian in her
life one that traveled with a medicine show that had
come through Sweet Sorrow two summers previous.
She remember his name was Chief Rain in the Face
and he whooped and did a war dance when the Pro-
fessor of the show gave him a bottle of his special
elixir to drink in order to demonstrate its curative
powers, the Professor saying, Why this poor crea-
ture was lame with a severe case of lumbago and gout
when I first found him near dead of half a dozen
maladies . . . and so on and so forth, the Chief sit-
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