7 – The Red Pony

I'd discovered that pretty much all of the roads in the area were straight forward connecting point A to point B. So, the road that took me north, out of town, toward the Cheyenne Reservation, was no exception.

During our conversation yesterday, Henry had invited me to a place called The Red Pony, where he worked. It was a bar and grill between the Rez, as he called it, and the town. I figured that being the middle of the afternoon on a Wednesday, it would be pretty quiet, and therefore, a safe bet that I wouldn't disturb anyone at their job.

Pulling off the road at the large, red, neon sign of a running horse, my little Ford Escort jolted onto the packed dirt drive and parking lot. The Red Pony was a rustic building, polished wood and beams, two benches lined either side of the red door that served as the entrance, animal horns and western signs decorated the front of the building, and what looked like a hitching post ran the length of the front between the support posts. It was located in what appeared to be the middle of nowhere but was only about ten minutes out of town. Dry dirt and tall, brown grass surrounded it. My grin turned into a light chuckle. Raha Mahali Fulani on the road between Wajir and El Wak had the same feel – secluded – but a popular oasis in the desert. It was a local joke that Raha, the Somali owner, had named the place "somewhere", because then people had "somewhere" to go. It was a great place, and I continued to grin at the memory.

A tall man in jeans, dark brown coat, and a brown Cattleman's hat leaned against the hood of a scuffed up, brown and white Ford Bronco with the Absaroka County Sheriff's logo on the side. He was talking with Henry, and as I drove in, they looked up. Henry flashed a bright smile, saying something to the other man before moving to the driver's side of my car.

"Welcome," he cheerily greeted as he opened the car door. "I am glad you decided to come."

I made sure the back windows were rolled down some for the dog before getting out and locking the doors.

I smiled back. "The car had a mind of its own. I was in Durant, and before I knew it, I was heading out here. I hope you don't mind. You didn't specify when it would be convenient."

"Anytime is convenient." He gestured that we move toward the Sheriff. "Walt, this is Julia. Julia, our esteemed sheriff, Walt Longmire."

I held out my hand in greeting. "It's a pleasure to meet you." He shook it hesitantly, almost shyly. "I hope there's no trouble." I turned to Henry.

"No," he assured with a smile. "Walt and I are old friends. I am helping someone out, and Walt was just checking on the situation."

"I gotta go," the sheriff quietly stated moving to get into his truck. "Pleasure to meet you, Ma'am." He tipped his hat to me. "Call me if you need anything," he directed to Henry.

They nodded at each other before the sheriff drove off.

Henry gently placed his hand on the center of my back steering me toward The Red Pony.

"Come on in. I will give you a tour," he invited pleasantly.

As we turned, a sharp, double bang sounded, and I hit the dirt grabbing hold of Henry's sleeve and dragging him to the ground with me. My eyes were wide, searching the area, my feet still solidly under my crouch ready to run. Henry placed his hand on my shaking arm.

"Hey," he said quietly. "Hey, it's okay. It was just a truck backfiring."

My eyes did another quick survey seeing an old pickup clanking down the main road. I looked at Henry and pressed my lips together, taking a deep breath and releasing it slowly through my nose.

He put his hand under my elbow and gently helped me to my feet.

"Some reflexes," he said concerned with my reaction. "Are you alright?"

"Fine." I closed my eyes for a second shaking my head at myself. "Now that I've completely embarrassed myself."

"Nonsense. Quick reflexes are good." He smiled reassuringly as we entered the building.

Henry guided me around the restaurant and bar, introducing me to Kelly, the blond, twenty-something waitress, and Carl, the cook who looked like he belonged in a military mess. Tommy was sweeping the floor near a large pool table at one end of the long room. I remembered him from a few days ago, the boy with his mother coming out of the police station. Was this the "someone" Henry was helping out? I wondered.

Leading me to a table near a shiny jukebox, Henry pulled out a chair for me to sit.

"You didn't ask," I cautiously said watching for his reaction.

"If you want to tell me, you will. Otherwise, you are entitled to your privacy." He sat opposite, casually leaning back, seriously studying me. "Mathias said that you have been travelling. That you are far from home," he began conversationally.

My brow furrowed. "Who's Mathias?"

"Chief of the Tribal Police. He helped you with your tire. He said you were either brave or stupid for wandering so far onto Cheyenne land alone." He held his hands up at my raised eyebrows and bristled back. "His words, not mine." He smiled. "Personally, I think he was impressed by how far you have journeyed. Though, with Mathias, I doubt he would admit it."

My lips curled up uneasily, a bit wary that I had been talked about. "And here, I thought he was nice for helping me. Not a man of many words."

Henry nodded. "He is a good man. Strong minded. Devoted to his people."

"Proud and tough were the words that came to my mind. I don't regret my choice, but I suppose it was foolish. I should know better but following the beaten path is not my forte. The land around here is amazing, and I got distracted. And, for the most part, the people I've met have been kind and generous. I guess I just didn't foresee the consequences." I'd let my guard down and that could get me killed. I was losing my touch. Not good.

"Where are you from? He said you had a map and had travelled far but didn't say where you started."

"I started in New York City." My expression clearly showed that New York was not where I wanted to be.

"Not a city girl I take it," Henry chuckled lightly.

"Not even close. It's a long story and not one I'm sure I want to tell. Suffice it to say, I'm a gypsy, living in a two-person camper, travelling the United States, exploring."

"No family? No job?" he asked lightly.

I smiled broadly. "Is that the serial killer asking?"

He laughed, a good, hearty laugh, deep from his chest. "Kelly." He signaled the waitress who immediately came over. "Am I a dangerous man?"

"You?" she snorted loudly then turned to me. "Honey, you couldn't get much safer. Henry's a fixture in these parts, been here forever, best friends with the Sheriff. A good man." She winked at me. "Can I get you two something?"

Henry and I both ordered ice tea and as she went to fill our orders, I comically asked, "You pay her to say that?" He just grinned.

For the next hour, we sat munching on pretzels and sipping our tea. I asked about the area and the people. He asked about my travels and tried to get at the root of why I was on sabbatical. He didn't pump for information, but I could tell he was curious.

Slowly people began to trickle in, and he asked if I would like to stay for dinner.

"Don't you have to get to work?" I asked. "Won't your boss notice?"

Henry shrugged. "My work gets done," he explained. "And, we make the best burgers and cheesy fries around."

I watched as a heaping plate of something came out of the kitchen to be served to a table of three young men.

"Is that the usual portion?"

"This is the West. We do things big."

"Do you have kiddie sizes?" I laughed. Big portions. Greasy food. Beef? Things I was still having problems with.

"Tell you what. You tell me what you would like, and I'll make it personally."

"They'll let you in the kitchen? What exactly do you do here?"

He smiled openly. "Pretty much everything."