Stampede

by Len Levinson

  His only consolation was she’d given the same prediction to Calvin Blakemore, and they figured she sold the identical bill of goods to every cowboy who visited her seedy little parlor, so they’d pay more to find out how to avoid their early funerals.

  Something caught the corner of his eye. Indians at the top of a rise nearby. They numbered about twenty, lances and warbonnets silhouetted against the sky, garish war paint on their faces. He stared at them for a few moments, then Tomahawk broke into a slow trot, heading back toward the herd.

  Stone turned in his saddle and looked at the Indians congregated atop the hill. He didn’t feel up to a fight after chasing the herd most of the night. Were they just paying a social call? A white man couldn’t expect anything good from Indians.

  Stone returned to the herd and found Truscott and the other cowboys and vaqueros gathered together on their horses, checking rifles and pistols, as Truscott addressed them: “I’ll do the talkin’, and don’t nobody shoot less’n I give the word.”

  Truscott and the cowboys prodded their horses and moved toward the hill that the Indians were descending slowly, while Stone surveyed the situation with the eyes of a cavalry officer. A long-range shoot-out would benefit the cowboys, because they had more rifles, but close hand-to-hand fighting was the specialty of the Indian, and they outnumbered the cowboys approximately two to one. If Stone were in charge, he’d order his men to fire warning shots, to make the Indians keep their distance.

  “Look like Osage,” Slipchuck said.

  The Indians and cowboys moved toward each other across the sea of buffalo grass. Stone peered at the creatures from another world, their bodies painted grotesquely, wearing beads, bones, and feathers, led by a middle-aged man wearing a warbonnet and a breechclout, carrying a lance. He was followed by four lieutenants also wearing warbonnets, and then came the mass of warriors with only a few feathers sticking out of their headbands.

  The Indians and cowboys approached each other, and the Indian chief held up the palm of his hand.

  “How, John,” he said. “Ten wo-haw.”

  Wo-haw was the Indian word for a cow or steer, and they called all cowboys John, an irony not missed by John Stone. Truscott raised his forefinger in the air. “One wo-haw.”

  The chief looked angry, and mumbled with his lieutenants, while the warriors brandished their lances and bows and shouted insults.

  The chief turned to Truscott again. “This our land. You go through, you pay ten wo-haw.”

  “One wo-haw.”

  “You not go through.”

  Truscott leaned over his saddle horn. “We got rifles, and my men are brave warriors. If we fight, women will wail in their tepees tonight. Take one wo-haw and go in peace.”

  The chief conferred with his advisers, then turned to Truscott and said, “Four wo-haw.”

  “One wo-haw.”

  “You insult me!”

  “I want to give you one wo-haw. Yer women and babies will fill their bellies tonight.”

  “Not fill bellies with one wo-haw. Give two wo-haw.”

  “One wo-haw. Nice fat one. Taste good.”

  The chief raised his hand and shouted, and his warriors turned around, riding away from the cowboys. The warriors gathered around the chief, and a heated discussion ensued. Stone thought they might attack, and the cowboys should take cover. Touching his heels to Tomahawk’s withers, he advanced to Truscott’s side.

  “Don’t you think we should fall back and set up a skirmish line, Ramrod?”

  Truscott looked at him as if he were a freak. “Get the hell back where you was!”

  “If they attack, we can fight better from a skirmish line.”

  “They ain’t a-gonna attack, you damn fool. Git out’n my road.”

  Stone returned to his position near Blakemore, Duvall, and Slipchuck, his closest friends on the drive, and then faced the Indians, who argued among themselves for several minutes. Finally they re-formed and rode back toward the cowboys, led by their chief. He held up his hand, and the warriors stopped behind him. The chief looked at Truscott and said with as much dignity as he could muster, “One wo-haw.”

  “One wo-haw it is.” Truscott turned to the Mexican vaquero behind him and winked. “Cut out the best steer you can find!”

  The vaquero’s name was Pedro, and he slapped the backs of his fingers against the brim of his sombrero. Wheeling his horse, he rode back to the herd. The Indians moved away and dismounted, sitting cross-legged on the ground. Stone rolled a cigarette as he scrutinized them. They were proud men reduced to begging for cattle on their shrunken ancestral domain, and how they must hate the white cowboys.

  Pedro returned a short while later with a spavined half-blind cow whose ribs were showing. The cowboys sat their horses as Pedro drove the cow toward the Indians. The cow was befuddled by the sudden change in plans, and saw the Indians rush toward her, knives in hands. She turned to run, but then they were all over her, blades flashing in the sunlight. She collapsed onto the ground, and they slit her from top to bottom, pulled out her warm entrails, and devoured them raw, blood dripping down their chins.

  ~*~

  Late in the afternoon, Ephraim arrived with the repaired chuck wagon, followed by Cassandra in her buckboard. Ephraim built a fire, and the cowboys returned to the encampment for supper, driving a steer before them.

  They butchered the steer much like the Indians, and slaked their thirst with its blood. Slipchuck carried a battered tin cup full of maroon fluid to Cassandra. “Have a drink, boss lady!”

  “Is that what I think it is?”

  “Fresh blood!”

  “I’m not that thirsty.”

  “If you don’t want it, ma’am, mind if I take a sip?”

  “Help yourself,” she replied, and shuddered as she watched Slipchuck guzzling the blood; she felt she was back in some prehistoric cave. Ephraim cut off a big chunk of fat and carried it to the chuck wagon, where he hacked it to pieces and threw some into a big skillet over the fire.

  The fat sizzled as it hit the pan. Some cowboys dragged a haunch of steer toward the fire and dropped it onto Ephraim’s cutting board. Ephraim pulled his long butcher knife out of its sheath, tested its edge with his thumb, ran the stone over the blade a few times, and proceeded to carve thick steaks. Cassandra watched muscles ripple on Ephraim’s back as he worked.

  The other cowboys gathered around the fire, holding their banged-up tin plates and cups, and grinned like dogs. Ephraim threw steaks on the skillet, and a ball of smoke rose into the sky. The cowboys lined up with their tin plates, and the sun sank behind basins and bald knobs in the west, giving the sky a reddish glow.

  Cassandra picked up her tin plate and walked toward the front of the line, since she was boss lady. The cowboys stepped back to make room for her, and she felt the intensity of their eyes. They could do anything they wanted to her, and the segundo stood at the head of the line, a crooked smile on his face.

  Cassandra moved in front of him, and could hear the segundo breathing noisily behind her. Ephraim speared a steak with his long fork and dropped it on Cassandra’s plate. The fragrant meat overflowed the edges, and Cassandra carried it to her buckboard, got on her knees, and sliced off a piece.

  The line moved forward and Ephraim threw steaks on plates. Stone was midway in the line, and when his turn came, Ephraim placed a steak on his plate with such force that the steak fell off and dropped to the ground. Ephraim ignored it, and plopped a steak on the next plate. The line kept moving. Stone looked at his steak on the ground. Ephraim had done it on purpose, but there was nothing Stone could do. The fight, when it came, would have to be in solitude, so no one would stop it. Stone tramped to the end of the line and worked his way forward again. Ephraim turned to him and said gruffly, “No more.”

  “Cut me another steak.”

  The other cowboys moved away from the fire. Ephraim looked at Stone and said curtly, “Cut it yourself!”

  Ephraim walked toward the wagon tongue with
his plate. Stone pulled out his Apache knife, bent over, and looked at the steer’s carcass. The choicest cuts were gone, but he was able to slice off a decent chunk of sirloin.

  He threw the steak into the skillet, and fat spit into the air. During the war he’d lived outdoors for nearly all of five years, and this wasn’t the first time he’d cooked over a campfire. He dropped the steak onto his plate, and carried it to a spot near Blakemore and Duvall.

  “Knew I shouldn’t’ve signed up for this drive,” said Duvall, who looked like a ferret, chewing steadily. “Things is gonna git nasty around here, we don’t run into water soon.”

  “Got to be water someplace,” Blakemore replied, his old Yankee forage cap slanted over his eyes. “This ain’t no desert. If we dug a hole we’d hit water.”

  “You could dig clear to China, and not find a drop. I seen a whole wagon train full of dead folks, their mouths open and their tongues black. No water.”

  Ephraim boiled water he’d found at the bottom of a stove-in barrel, and floating amid the bubbles were leaves, grass, and twigs. “Made some range coffee for you fellers!” he said. “Ain’t as good as the real thang, but it’s the realest we got!”

  Ephraim always acted dumb and servile to avoid trouble with the white cowboys, but was a powder keg ready to explode, Stone knew. The cowboys lined up in front of the fire, and Stone walked toward the end of the line. Cassandra took her place at the front again, and Ephraim ladled his range coffee into her cup. The line passed along, and Cassandra stepped out of the way, raising the cup to her lips.

  It had a strong bitter taste, but she drank it anyway, while worrying about bedding down with the cowboys, because God only knew what they’d do close together on the ground. But she didn’t dare move too far from them either, because of Indians. Maybe I’ll sleep in the wagon, and I won’t have to worry about snakes.

  Stone approached Ephraim, who jerked his wrist suddenly, splashing hot scalding brew onto Stone’s hands.

  “Sorry.”

  Stone didn’t let the pain show, but realized he’d have to be careful whenever he came near Ephraim. “I’ll pour my own,” he said.

  Ephraim stepped backward, and Stone filled his cup. Sometimes he worried Ephraim would poison him, so he never ate or drank anything that didn’t come from a common pot. He sipped the liquid, far different from hot black coffee, but better than nothing.

  “What is this pisswater!” shouted the segundo, pouring his range coffee onto the ground. “Goddamn burrhead—what the hell you tryin’ to give us!”

  Ephraim went into his dumb nigra routine. “Just my mammy’s range coffee, boss. Thought you might like it, since there ain’t no real coffee.”

  The segundo stomped toward him. “Who told you thet you know how to think, burrhead?”

  “You don’t like it, you don’t drink it, boss.”

  “I don’t like it, but you sass me, I’ll throw you right in thet pot!”

  Ephraim shuffled and smiled. He didn’t dare fight a white man and win in Texas, because they’d hang him from the nearest tree, or burn him alive. Stone watched carefully. The son of a bitch knows how to hold it in.

  Cassandra didn’t like the segundo’s bad manners, and didn’t understand why Truscott hadn’t reprimanded him. She wanted to say something herself, but the incident passed, and the segundo slouched off toward his spot of ground. “Goddamn burrhead thinks he owns the world.”

  He dropped to the ground and rolled a cigarette. Slipchuck shuffled by and sat near him. He leaned toward the segundo and said softly, “I wouldn’t talk to him that way if I were you.”

  The segundo scowled at him. “Get the hell away from me, you old fart, or I’ll throw you in the pot with the burrhead.”

  Slipchuck arose and walked away from the segundo, heading for the range coffee. He filled up his cup, smiled respectfully to Ephraim, and sat on the ground next to his saddle.

  Slipchuck was scared to death of Ephraim. One night, back at the Triangle Spur, he’d peered through a crack in the window of Ephraim’s room, and seen Ephraim seated on the floor, playing with beads, bones, candles, and skulls. Ephraim had worn white robes and a strange blue African turban, and chanted a weird melody in a strange language.

  Slipchuck’s momma had warned him about the old hoodoo religion. “Stay away from them nigras,” she said. “They’ll turn you into a turtle, or a frog, or maybe even a fly.”

  Slipchuck still believed what his momma told him, and knew the segundo’s days were numbered. Ephraim was a hoodoo priest in his secret spare time, and the segundo had been insulting him steadily ever since Slipchuck was hired. Slipchuck had warned the segundo, and could do no more.

  He didn’t dare tell the cowboys what he’d seen, because Ephraim would surely kill him. He wouldn’t even tell John Stone, his pard.

  He looked across the campsite and saw the ex-cavalry officer fast asleep, his plate of half-eaten steak beside him. Stone’s chest rose and fell steadily with his breathing, and the sight of him made Slipchuck realize he was tired too. He stretched out and laid his weary head on his saddle. Goddamn, what a day. Crazy fuckin’ cows, crazy injuns, crazy segundo. I’m the only sane man on this drive.

  The sun had set and cowboys crawled beneath their ragged blankets, while those who had no blankets cuddled against the ground. Cassandra climbed into the wagon and lay on the hard floorboards, with a pile of dirty clothing for her pillow. It wasn’t too uncomfortable if she stayed on her back, but even in that position her spine was bent out of shape and her hips hurt. She’d get through the night somehow, but what about the herd? If the cattle stampeded again, they might get away, and if they got away, she was ruined.

  She hadn’t said her prayers, but was too tired to climb onto her knees. “Please, Lord,” she whispered, “don’t let the cowboys rape me.”

  ~*~

  The cattle were thirsty, and moaned pathetically in the moonlight. Some wanted to go back to the last water, and others wanted to look for new water. They couldn’t sleep, hadn’t forgotten the lobos, and were thoroughly spooked. It wouldn’t take much to set them off.

  The Osage warriors appeared on the crest of a hogback, in the light of the full moon. The feathers in their headdresses pointed at the stars, and they carried bows and spears, and their faces still were covered with war paint. They were led by the same chief who’d begged for cattle earlier in the day, but now their numbers had grown to more than fifty battle-hardened warriors. The cowboys had given them a sick old cow, the height of contempt and disrespect.

  Their opportunity to pass in peace was over. Now they must pay. The warriors came to the bottom of the rise and the cattle were straight ahead, turned in their direction, sniffing. The old chief raised his war lance in the air, and moved it forward.

  The warriors shrieked, kicked the flanks of their horses, and their horses sprang toward the cattle. Screaming at the tops of their lungs, the warriors raced across the plain, aiming their arrows at the cattle.

  One moment the night was silent, and the next it was filled with a tornado. The Indians charged into the cattle, shooting arrows into their thick hides, and the animals mooed as they crashed bleeding to the ground, to be trampled by other cattle.

  At the campsite, the earth trembled. This time Joe Little Bear was the first to open his eyes. He jumped to his feet and screamed: “Stampede!”

  The cowboys only had slept a few hours, but leapt up with alacrity, guns in their hands, cattle heading their way again. The cowboys turned and ran toward the remuda, jumped on their horses, and were off.

  John Stone rode a hundred yards before he realized Cassandra wasn’t among them, which meant she was still sleeping soundly in her wagon. Stone pulled Tomahawk’s head back toward the campsite, and Tomahawk balked. Stone slapped him over the head. “We got to get the boss lady!”

  Tomahawk broke into a reluctant gallop, angling toward the campsite, while Cassandra stirred on the buckboard. Something was making it shake, and she wished it would go
away. Yawning, she rolled over onto her side, and felt wooden planks against her tender hip. The pain prodded her to alertness, and she became aware of galloping hooves.

  Raising her head, she gazed at the herd careening toward her out of the night, and nearly fainted. She heard hoofbeats behind her, and spun around. John Stone and Tomahawk galloped toward the buckboard. Cassandra was in shock. Stone pulled back his reins, Tomahawk raised his front hooves into the air, and Stone wrapped his arm around Cassandra’s waist. He picked her up, dropped her astraddle Tomahawk, and the sleek black stallion bounded away.

  Tomahawk felt the added weight on his back, and exerted himself to the maximum as he galloped out of the path of the marauding cattle. Cassandra looked at the ominous dark mass rolling by, hooting and mooing, moonlight glinting on their horns.

  “They nearly killed me,” she whispered, trying to understand how such a thing could happen to a belle of New Orleans.

  “You say something?” he asked.

  She patted the horse’s mane. “Thank you, Tomahawk.”

  Stone was looking back at the herd rumbling in bestial panic through the night, and saw Indians riding among the longhorns, sliding up and down the sides of their horses, firing arrows into the cattle from all positions. The longhorns crashed to the ground as the Indians charged forward, and each dead steer or cow was money out of Cassandra’s purse.

  Tomahawk galloped into the mesquite, leaving the stampede behind. Stone became aware of Cassandra’s body rubbing against him, and could smell the fragrance of her hair. She wore a thin dress and he a thin shirt, and their mutual warmth passed through the material. But fifty yards away lunatic Indians were screaming ancient brain-shriveling cries.

  Cassandra held the saddle horn to keep from falling off, and Stone wrapped his arm around her waist to steady her. She could feel his chest against her back, and his body was practically wrapped around her.

  Stone pulled back the reins when they were far from the Indians. He and Cassandra rested against each other for a few seconds, feeling the press of each other’s bodies.