“I must say, dear wife, that I am not at all sure why you keep sticking up for him. I’m your husband, after all. If you stick up for anyone it should be me. Not this fellow we hardly know.”
“He saved our lives.”
“So you keep pointing out,” Ship said. “But I was not awake to see it, so you will have to forgive me if I am less than happy that he has attached himself to us.”
Nate simmered inside. That was the last particle of insult he was willing to abide. Especially from someone who, in Nate’s estimation, did not have a lick of common sense. “I will leave right this minute if you want.”
“Whenever you’re of a mind is fine by me,” Shipley said.
“But not by me,” Cynthia said. “How many times must I say the same thing? He saved our lives. He trailed us from Bent’s Fort and arrived just in time.”
Ship’s whole body twitched. “Are you saying he followed us all the way from the trading post? To what end?”
“Shipley Beecher, you stop that.”
“He wouldn’t follow us so far unless he was after something of ours.”
“He’s not after anything!” Cynthia hotly declared.
“Actually,” Nate said, “I am.”
Shipley pushed to his feet. He did it too fast and swayed as if he were drunk, but it was a bout of dizziness from the blow to his head. “Aha! I knew it! He’s out to rob us! What do you say about your buckskin-clad Lancelot now?”
“He is not anything to me except hopefully a friend,” Cynthia said. She looked at Nate in mild bewilderment. “But why, in heaven’s name? Our possessions don’t amount to much, our clothes are plain, and our animals aren’t much good except behind a plow.”
“Steal us blind, that’s what he aims to do!” Ship declared. “Take everything we own!”
“It’s the pitcher and the washbasin,” Nate said.
“The who?”
“The china pitcher and the china washbasin you bought at Bent’s Fort,” Nate clarified. “I ordered them special from back East and the clerk sold them to you by mistake.”
“We owe our lives to a washbasin?” Shipley said, and laughed.
Cynthia appeared fit to cry. “And here I thought you saved us out of the goodness of your heart.”
Ship was grinning from ear to ear. “He has destroyed my faith in human nature, and that’s a fact.”
“Cut it out, Ship,” Cynthia said. “You are not the least bit hilarious.”
“From walking on water to as common as grass in the blink of an eye,” Shipley said. “I believe that is some kind of record.”
Nate let him prattle. “About the washbasin and the pitcher?”
“White with blue flowers,” Cynthia said. “The finest china I ever set eyes on. I had no idea they were yours. No one told us.”
“I would like to look at them,” Nate said, indicating their pack animal. “I would like to look at them very much.”
“You can’t,” Shipley Beecher said.
“I will pay you,” Nate told him. “Pay you whatever you paid for them, and five dollars besides. They’re for my wife. I bought them as a gift and dearly want to give them to her.”
“Well, you still can’t,” Shipley said.
Nate tried counting to ten but it did not help. “Maybe I haven’t made myself clear. They’re mine. I paid for them. They were sold to you by mistake, and I aim to have them whether you agree or don’t agree.”
Shipley gave his wife a smug look. “What do you think of your Lancelot now? Sort of tarnished, I’d say.”
Nate slowly rose and began to open his possibles bag. “I have the money right here.”
“You could pull out a poke filled with gold nuggets and you still can’t have them.” Shipley slapped his leg and snorted. “This is priceless. Isn’t this priceless, dear?”
“Pay him no mind, Mr. King,” Cynthia said. “He keeps saying you can’t have them because we don’t have them.”
“How’s that again? The clerk described the pair he sold the set to, and you two fit the bill.”
“Oh, we bought the pitcher and the basin, all right, but I wasn’t too keen on lugging them across the prairie and maybe having them break on me. So I left them at Bent’s Fort.”
“You what?” Nate was flabbergasted. No one at the post had mentioned any such thing.
“I left them with a man named William Bent,” Cynthia explained. “He promised to hold them for me until we got back.”
Suddenly Nate understood. Bent had not been at the fort when he was there. Ceran St. Vrain had mentioned that Bent was off visiting his wife’s people, the Cheyenne. Odds were, Nate reflected, that Bent had left the pitcher and the washbasin in his office and not mentioned it to anyone, so St. Vrain had not thought to look there during the search.
Shipley Beecher could not stop laughing. “You came all this way for nothing! When I get home and tell this tale around the pickle barrel, my friends will split a gut.”
Turning on his heel, Nate strode into the darkness. The farmer was grating on his nerves. Or was it something else? Preoccupied, he covered a dozen feet before he awakened to the mistake he was making. He stopped in midstride. The feeble glow cast by the fire did not penetrate very far. Blackness enveloped him. He could not see his hand at arm’s length. And One-Eye might be anywhere. “Damn me for a dunce.” Nate wheeled and started back.
The Beechers had not moved. They were still by the fire, but they were not looking at him. They were staring into the cottonwoods to the south, their expressions one of puzzlement. He was about to ask what was the matter when a loud grunt to his right supplied the answer. A huge form loomed, a vague bulk notable for its immense size and a distinct odor.
Byron growled and started forward, but Cynthia grabbed the dog by the scruff of its neck. “Stay, boy.”
Stopping cold, Nate held himself perfectly still. He must not make a sound or move or he might not live out the night.
The creature lumbered off. Almost instantly another took its place, snorting noisily. A curved horn glinted, a natural scimitar that could disembowel man or beast with ease.
Shipley Beecher started to stand, but Cynthia grabbed his wrist and pulled him back down.
“Someone should shoo them off,” Shipley objected.
“No,” Cynthia said. “We don’t know what they will do.”
Nate did. He edged toward the fire, sliding first one foot and then the other. The colossus beside him faded into the gloom, emboldening him to run the rest of the way. Shipley was again trying to rise, but Cynthia would not let him.
“Sit back down!” Nate commanded. “It won’t take much to provoke them.”
“What are they doing here?” Cynthia whispered, apprehensive.
“They’re thirsty,” Nate answered. “But the fire and our scent are keeping them away.” He added, “For now.”
No sooner were the words out of his mouth than a gargantuan apparition hove out of the trees. It made no more noise than the sigh of the breeze. Advancing to within a lance-length of the spring, it regarded them with baleful malevolence.
The buffalo was enormous. Six feet high at the front shoulders, it had to weigh close to a ton. From nose to tail tip was at least ten feet. The horns had a three-foot spread. The brute was a nigh indestructible engine of destruction, a mountain of muscle that could hold its own against any creature in creation.
Abruptly, it whirled, and the spell was broken. On both sides of them passed a seemingly endless stream of shaggy behemoths.
Cynthia’s eyes met Nate’s. She was scared. It showed in her gaze, in her posture. But she did not give in to it. She did not scream, as many would have done, or jump up and bolt. She had the presence of mind to appreciate the consequences, and the self-control to stay put.
Shipley was another matter. Despite his wife’s restraining grip on his wrist, he kept trying to rise. What he hoped to accomplish, Nate couldn’t begin to guess. The huge, lumbering forms, their grunts and snorts, the od
or and the dust they raised, should have been enough to convince Shipley there were too many buffalo for him to do anything about, but he would not stay down.
Nate gouged his Hawken into the farmer’s side. He would never shoot, but Beecher did not know that. “Be still, damn you, or you’ll get us killed.”
“What about our horses? They might run off.”
“Let me worry about them,” Nate said. And he was. That the horses had not panicked was a miracle of no small measure. They were pulling at the picket stakes, their eyes wide, their nostrils flared.
Nate had never seen a herd come so close to a fire. Or, for that matter, to humans. An old Shoshone once claimed that a herd passed through the man’s village when the Shoshone was a boy, but Nate had always regarded the tale as a flight of fancy. Not anymore. “So long as they don’t stampede we’ll be fine,” he whispered.
From out of the darkness came a low laugh tinged with the spite of the man who was laughing. “Can you hear me, King?”
Nate did not respond. Not with the buffalo so near.
“Of course you can,” One-Eye Jackson said. “I’ve been here all damn day, so close I could have chucked a stone and hit you. And you never spotted me. I bet you feel mighty stupid right about now.”
Nate still did not reply.
“That’s all right. Don’t answer me. We wouldn’t want to spook all these buffs.” Jackson gave vent to more laughter. “Funny how things work out, huh? Here I was, racking my brain for a way to get back at you, and look what happens. Life hands me revenge on a silver platter.”
The sound of his voice was agitating the buffalo. They were grunting and snorting more loudly.
“I’m perfectly safe. A couple of minutes ago I shimmied up a tree, real careful like,” Jackson said. “But you’re on the ground. You and those other two. And on the ground is no place to be.”
“He wouldn’t!” Cynthia breathed.
“I heard that, sweet thing,” One-Eye Jackson chortled. “I can’t pass up a chance like this. I’d rather kill King with my own hands. But this will do just as well. Can you think of anything more horrible than being trampled to death?”
Nate broke his silence. “Not with the woman here.”
“So? You think I give a damn? This is where I pay you back for letting those Shoshones cut my eyeball out.”
“What will he do?” Shipley whispered.
The answer came in the form of a shriek worthy of a mountain lion.
Buffalo were fickle creatures. For all their size and strength, it did not take much to spook them. They were like horses. They frightened easily. Sometimes the crash of thunder whipped a herd into mindless flight. Other times it might be something as simple as the howl of a wolf or the brittle rattle of a rattlesnake. Indians exploited their fickle temperament by sometimes swooping down on a herd and yelling and yipping to drive the herd over a nearby bluff or cliff.
Noise was the common factor. It might be a loud noise or it might not. The shriek of a mountain lion, or a close imitation, was more than enough to ignite the flight impulse in every brute within earshot.
The instant Jackson’s cry shattered the night, Nate was in motion. But he did not leap to the side of the Beechers, as might be expected. His first act was to streak his bowie from its beaded sheath and dart to the horses. Four swift slashes, and the horses were free of the picket ropes and could try to save themselves. Which they did by whinnying and galloping off in the direction the buffalo were stampeding.
Only then did Nate run to the Beechers, who had sprung to their feet and were gazing about in wide-eyed consternation.
As well they should.
Panic was spreading like a prairie wildfire. On all sides buffalo were exploding into violent motion. Within seconds the entire herd had been transformed into a frothing, roiling river of horns and hooves.
Nate had moments in which to do something. The buffalo were pressing in close, the flickering flames of the fire no longer enough to deter them. The rumble of hooves, the snorts and bellows and grunts and the crash of undergrowth, rose to a nigh-deafening din.
Shipley threw an arm around his wife. “What do we do?” he cried.
Nate glanced right and left. None of the trees were within swift reach. To try to climb one invited a horrible death. Nor would running accomplish anything other than to land them in an early grave. There was no cover to be had, no boulders or logs that might offer some slight degree of protection. They were in the open next to the spring. The spring! Suddenly grabbing hold of the Beechers, Nate propelled them toward it.
“See here!” Shipley blurted. “What are you—”
Nate did not stop or slacken his speed when he came to the water’s edge. He hurtled into the spring, taking the husband and wife with him. The water closed about them like a clammy fist. He did not go all the way under but managed to find footing. The level only came as high as his shoulders.
Shipley and Cynthia were not as fortunate. Both sank from sight, then reappeared flailing and sputtering.
The farmer was incensed. “What the hell! Why did you do that?”
“Don’t you get it?” Cynthia shouted. “He’s trying to save us. Look!”
Paddling furiously to stay afloat, her husband twisted.
All around them the ground shook and rumbled. A horde of buffalo were plowing through the stand. A force of nature unleashed, the great brutes smashed into, through, and over anything and everything in their path. Vegetation was churned beneath thousands of pounding hooves. Whole thickets were reduced to pulp. Trees crashed down, uprooted like so many cat-o’-nine-tails. Clods of grass went flying.
“Dear God!” Cynthia exclaimed.
The fire went out, the brands were scattered. All that could be seen of the buffalo were humpbacked silhouettes and the dull glint of the twin scimitars that jutted from their huge heads.
From out of that living river of sinew came several barks and a sharp yelp.
“Byron!” Cynthia cried. “I forgot about Byron!” She paddled toward the water’s edge, but Shipley grabbed her and would not let go.
Dust rose, fast and thick. It became a cloud. A fog that shrouded all around them.
So far not one buffalo had plunged into the spring. Buffalo were not averse to fording rivers, but they generally avoided water. Too, the brutes had been filing past on either side when the stampede began and continued to do so, impelled by the ages-old instinct that caused the great beasts to follow one another as blindly as lemmings.
Any instant, though, that might change. And if just one of the brutes veered into the spring, others were bound to follow. The three humans would be reduced to pulverized meat and crushed bone. A possibility of which Nate King was all too keenly aware. Every nerve taut, every muscle rigid, he peered into the dust and strained his ears to catch the rush of movement that would foreshadow their end.
On and on the stampede lasted. Thousands upon thousands of buffalo pounded past.
Between the dust and the darkness, the Beechers were indistinct shapes. Cynthia leaned close to him so he would hear her and shouted, “How much longer?”
There was no telling, and Nate said so.
Some herds were small. Some were immense. This one was one of the latter. Half an hour went by. Three-quarters of an hour. Gauging the passage of time was difficult with the dust blocking out the stars.
Then came signs the stampede would soon end. The thunder, the riotous bedlam, dwindled by slow degrees until finally the herd was reduced to small clusters that in turn gave way to solitary stragglers.
Not long after, the pounding ceased. In the distance to the north the rumbling ceased. A deep and profound silence fell.
“Is it over?” Cynthia asked breathlessly.
“It seems to be, but stay put just in case.” Nate started to climb out.
“Like hell,” Shipley Beecher said, and scrambled ahead of him. Coughing and swatting at the dust, Shipley stood. “That was an experience I would not care to ever rep
eat.”
Uncurling, Nate shook himself like a waterlogged bear. His buckskins and moccasins were soaked. Were he alone, he would strip and wring out his clothes.
Cynthia was trying to lever herself out of the spring. She kept slipping.
“Permit me,” Nate said. Her hand was small and warm in his. He lifted her effortlessly and steadied her once she was out. “There.”
“Thank you,” Cynthia said. “And thank you for saving us. If you hadn’t done what you did, we would be dead.”
Shipley’s snort was remarkably like that of the buffalo. “Nonsense. It was the spring that saved us.” He did more swatting. “Our horses have run off, but all in all, we’re not in bad shape.”
Nate disagreed but did not comment.
“Where did Byron get to?” Cynthia wondered. “I hope he escaped those ugly monstrosities.”
Nate was thinking of One-Eye Jackson. If Jackson were still alive, he might try to catch them off-guard. Nate gripped his Hawken in both hands, then looked at it. Like his clothes, his rifle and pistols had been drenched and were dripping water. The same with his powder horn. He could not use his guns until the powder dried.
Cynthia cupped a hand to her mouth. “Byron! Byron! Come here, boy!” She started to walk off.
Grabbing her wrist, Nate said, “Stay here. And no yelling.”
“I don’t understand,” Cynthia said. “The buffalo are gone. Why can’t I look for my dog?”
“And have Jackson get his hands on you?”
“Oh.”
“No one could live through that,” Shipley Beecher scoffed. “It’s a wonder we did. The Almighty was looking out for us.”
“We should wait until daylight to look around,” Nate insisted.
“Spend the rest of the night twiddling our thumbs?” Shipley said. “I should say not.”
Nate was spared further argument by the drum of approaching hooves from the south. He crouched, pulling Cynthia beside him. “Get down!”
Shipley Beecher did no such thing. Instead, he turned toward the hoofbeats and shrugged free of the cord with which he had slung his rifle across his back. Tucking the stock to his shoulder, he thumbed back the hammer.
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