by Terry Grosz
Jacob and Martin rose from their snowy beds, their rifle barrels steaming hot to the touch. Ben and Buffalo Calf rose almost as if on the same cue as well and the four of them looked over their morning’s deadly but life-giving work. The remaining buffalo, upon seeing man for the first time, moved off to the east in typical fashion, grunting and shuffling out of sight with their tails held high. But not without leaving thirty-nine of their fellow travelers on the cold snow, to move no more.
The men and Singing Bird moved to the first buffalo. With several quick cuts from a very sharp and heavy bladed gutting knife, Jacob removed a large steaming liver. He then cut open the gall bladder and sprinkled its green liquid contents over the outside of the liver for the mineral salts it possessed.
The five of them greedily cut off and ate great chunks of the steaming hot, raw delicacy until it was no more. With their lips and chins smeared a ghoulish red, they moved to the next buffalo and did the same until all had their fill of the rich “bile salted” liver. Then the butchering work began in earnest.
Singing Bird returned to the draw and soon had a roaring fire going. The men in the meantime skinned the buffalo and removed great slabs of meat from the carcasses. Placing the meat on the clean snow for cooling, they continued their hard work for several hours.
Then a special whistle from Singing Bird snapped Buffalo Calf to instant alert.
Looking around, Buffalo Calf saw fifteen mounted warriors some hundred yards distant quietly looking on.
“Rifles!” A sharp word directed at his companions.
All four trappers filled their bloody and tallow-coated hands quickly with their Hawkens.
They are just watching and not attacking, Buffalo Calf observed.
Jacob hurriedly reloaded and primed his second Hawken as did Ben. Between the four of them they now had six loaded rifles and four pistols.
Not much of a match against fifteen mounted and well-armed Indians if trouble was brewing, Buffalo Calf grimaced, but far better than nothing.
Singing Bird walked right by Buffalo Calf with a purposeful stride towards another group of Indians who stood and observed the scene from off to one side of the first group of mounted warriors.
Seeing her go with such purpose, Buffalo Calf made no move to stop her. He sensed her purpose and he motioned to the others to stand their ground.
Singing Bird strode right by the mounted warriors without so much as a glance their way and walked directly into the group of Indians standing behind them in the timber. When she arrived, there were greetings and lots of friendly talking and gesturing.
Buffalo Calf let fly a great grin, then interpreted the scene for his partners. “These are people of clan of Singing Bird. She has joy to see her mother.”
* * *
Soon the group of women and children with Singing Bird came over the hill to examine the recent buffalo kill site. The warriors relaxed and with that, Buffalo Calf beckoned to Lame Deer, leader of the hunting party, to come forward.
As Lame Deer came near, Buffalo Calf grasped his arm and spoke in Lakota. “It is good to see you again, my friend. It is good to see more of the Lakota people. I did not expect you would travel to this valley.”
“We were hunting the buffalo,” Lame Deer replied. “We heard sounds of gunfire and came to see who was here. I also did not expect to see you here. It is good that you are. We are low on powder and ball, and we cannot fight our enemies. I am glad we do not find our enemies here. But who are these men you hunt with?”
Buffalo Calf pointed to each trapper in turn. “Ben Bow is my friend. He saved my life, and I owe him much, but he is generous and has let me be his partner in hunting. That one is Martin, a friend of Ben Bow and an Indian from the east. The other one is Jacob, a friend of Martin since they were children. He is a good hunter, and kind and strong.”
“And these friends of yours, they do women’s work?”
Buffalo Calf laughed. “Yes, they do women’s work. They also hunt very well, and shoot straight. I have never met better hunters.”
Lame Deer stared at the trappers and their camp for a few minutes. Clearly, something was on his mind. “Buffalo Calf, you have taken Singing Bird as your squaw, with my blessing. I see that you and your friends have more buffalo than you can eat. I would not ask, but we are low on powder and ball for hunting, and we have not enough meat to eat. Will you share some of your kill with us, the people of your squaw?”
“I will ask my friends.”
* * *
Buffalo Calf walked back to his partners, who had been watching on in curiosity. He explained, as best he could in his broken English, that the tribe was low on food and ammunition, and had asked if the trappers would share the buffalo meat. “Ben, what do you think?” Jacob asked.
“We have more than enough to eat. Twice more than enough.”
“And you, Martin?”
“We should keep the hides, but the meat they should have.” Jacob turned back to Buffalo Calf. “We are happy to share the meat. They can half of the meat, if they wish. However, ask them if we can have the hides from the buffalo they take in return, for our generosity.”
“I will ask Lame Deer. I do not know if he will accept.”
Jacob raised his brows in indignation as Buffalo Calf turned away, but Ben touched Jacob’s shoulder and whispered, “Relax. It is the Lakota way.”
* * *
Buffalo Calf walked back to Lame Deer and relayed the offer. Lame Deer considered it and said, “To trade buffalo skins for buffalo meat is not an even trade. We get more from this trade than your friends get.”
“Do not worry,” Buffalo Calf replied. “My friends trade furs with the White Men in the cities of the east, and buffalo skins to them are very important. To my friends, the buffalo skins are very valuable, more valuable than the meat. They will believe that you have given them something worth more than the meat, and so it will be a fair trade, each of you getting something very important.”
Lame Deer thought on Buffalo Calf’s wisdom, then shrugged. “If the White Man needs buffalo skin so much, I would be honored to give them for buffalo meat which we need so much, And the Great Spirit will be pleased that all of the buffalo is used.” The two Lakota men made the sign of a fair deal. Buffalo Calf returned to his trapper friends to tell them it was a good trade, while Lame Deer beckoned his group to come forward and start butchering their generous share of the fallen animals.
* * *
For the rest of the afternoon and into the evening, they all butchered the buffalo until there were no more. Then the Lakota band moved together into the same draw, away from the biting wintery blasts, where they set up camp. Soon great slabs of fresh meat were cooking around many roaring campfires, filling the air with many great smells. With the cooking and eating, a lot of visiting went on and Jacob and Martin got to practice their sign language once again.
“This is Singing Bird’s family and not the savage Blackfoot or the horse-stealing Crow,” Buffalo Calf told Jacob. “This is...how do you say...lucky?...very lucky. And we have more women’s hands to make meat.”
The celebrating went on into the early morning as many ate until they could hold no more and then in an hour or so after eating, gorged some more. There were huge mounds of meat by camp ready to be loaded on the travois, not to mention great amounts still remaining next to the cooking fires for immediate consumption.
In the valley to the east, the killing area unfolded into another unusual macabre scene. Slinking wolves pulled and tugged on the gut piles and buffalo carcasses for the food they offered. From the number of wolfpacks and fights, there was no shortage of hungry mouths in the valley vying for the carcasses and scraps left behind. And, as usual and out of pursuit range, numerous bunches of the clever coyotes roamed, ever ready to snatch anything left behind by the wolves. All of which was governed over by the ever-present crow, magpie, gray jay and raven awaiting their turns at the “dinner pail.” The next morning after another great bout of gorgin
g and a lot of defecating around the camps, both parties made ready to move on. And then a surprise of surprises occurred—the group of Indians had unwittingly decided to move into the little valley in which Jacob and his party had their winter quarters.
Ben was delighted. He said, “Well, it’s certainly a change in the neighborhood. But I can’t say there is any problem with it. This valley sure has plenty enough of camping room, a lot of hay meadows around the lake for all of their horses, and we sure could use the greater safety in numbers, don’t you think?”
Jacob and Martin readily agreed, much to Singing Bird’s delight.
“Besides,” Jacob replied, “any group of Indians other than a very large one will think twice before attacking a camp the size as ours will soon become.”
The rest of that day, the group moved slowly back to winter camp. Travois groaned under the loads of fresh and now quickly freezing meat, as much joy was made over the good fortune of the group by everyone.
Back at the trappers’ camp, the Lakota Indians camped about one hundred yards from Jacob’s cabin in order to have better access to the hay meadows for their many horses. Soon the little valley was filled with tepees, campfire smoke that drifted lazily into the cold air, racks of drying meat, barking dogs and the happy voices of many men, women and children. However, with the good came the hard work. Jacob, Ben, Singing Bird and Martin found themselves fleshing and hanging out to dry almost forty buffalo hides in the sub-zero weather. Buffalo Calf on the other hand true to the Lakota way of men, spent his days visiting and renewing old friendships. It was still not his job to do women’s work such as buffalo hide and meat preparation.
Thus the winter and the early spring of 1831 passed: Buffalo Calf visited old friends, Jacob and Martin studied the Lakota language, all the men hunted buffalo whenever the fresh meat supplies ran low, and the complement of trappers prepared for the spring trapping season just months ahead. Jacob and Martin also made good use of the ten pounds of blue beads purchased so long ago in St. Louis the previous winter. They traded strings of beads for the Indians’ beaver and otter pelts to add to their own hoard of furs in the cave, and they added to the copious bright blue beads that adorned Singing Bird’s neck and the dresses that she made from her tanned bighorn sheep skins.
Yes. This year to come has the spirit of happy and interesting times, Buffalo Calf thought, especially with the peaceful arrival of Singing Bird’s people to our winter camp.
Chapter Fourteen
The Big Sandy
Come late spring of 1831 and ice out, the four men were more than ready for the trapping season to begin. Daylight on the first day of trapping found the men hard at work making their beaver sets. Since the beaver’s numbers close to camp were nonexistent, they now found themselves moving farther and farther up and down their great valley in order to fill their traps. For the next two months the men returned every day with beaver across the packsaddles as proof that the valuable furry bounty still remained.
During those heady spring days, Singing Bird, in addition to her other duties, often helped the men flesh out and hoop the pelts. Soon the cave fairly blossomed with the fruits of their labors. By now, the men had removed the willow hoops and had folded the hides in half with the fur to the inside. Then with the weight of a man on top of a stack of loose furs, another tied and made compact bundles weighing about eighty-five to ninety pounds each. Each processed beaver pelt weighed about one and a half pounds—about sixty hides to the pack. Soon, ten tightly wrapped packs covered with a tanned deer hide for protection, adorned the floor of the cave. A remarkable haul for the four trappers in such a short period of time. But the bounty in the valley was soon to end.
The Snake Indians who lived in their area were also trapping in anticipation of the upcoming trading season. Doing so, so they could trade the white man for powder, shot, brass wire, cast-iron cooking pots, beads and the like. With that kind of trapping pressure, it was only a matter of time before the valley, even as large as it was, soon held few beaver. Fortunately, there were other unexplored valleys lying nearby with numerous watercourses and a promise of more of the furry bounty to come.
Then rendezvous time was now upon them. It was time to gather up the gear, close camp, load their trappings and head for Cache Valley. However, much work remained in getting their horses ready for the long trip and their tack up to snuff. For a full week final preparations were made as the men and Singing Bird made ready for another adventure. Singing Bird’s family and tribal band were going to remain in the valley for a little longer to hunt buffalo, but they agreed to meet the trappers at their present camp if they returned to the Bighorn Mountains after trading their furs and hides. If not, they would meet later somewhere along the trail. But for now, they were planning on heading south to trade at Fort Saint Vrain.
Come the day of departure for the rendezvous of 1831, the Mountain Men and Singing Bird were up early and excited about going. Their activity roused the Indian encampment and soon dogs were barking as the children ran about playing. Singing Bird, on the other hand, met with her many relatives and friends as best as she could.
Soon the trappers were loaded and ready to go.
Once on the go, they made quite a caravan. Four gaily dressed Mountain Men riding horses, leading nine other horses loaded with packs of beaver plews, buffalo hides, camp gear and spare equipment. Behind that string of animals rode Singing Bird on her horse, leading two packhorses pulling travois, each loaded with tepee skins, camp gear, more buffalo skins and bedding. After many goodbyes and tears on the part of Singing Bird, the little caravan was off to the rendezvous. Buffalo Calf led the expedition since he knew the way and the rest fell in behind.
For several days the group rode southwest out of the Bighorn Mountains, a place of many memories for the trappers that would soon translate into wealth and material things once at the rendezvous. The June weather remained warm during their trek, with late-day thunderstorms being the norm in the high country. They continued southwest and made good time. They managed to avoid horse wrecks, run-ins with Ephraim—the Mountain Man word for the grizzly bear—and hostile Indians. Along the way, they saw more and more evidence of large bands of Indians on the move. That reminded the men every time they crossed the local natives’ tracks that they were leading a treasure trove of trade goods and furs welcome in any Indian’s camp. As a result, all kept their eyes carefully peeled for any signs of trouble and they kept their powder dry. They traveled through South Pass, stopping only to kill the occasional buffalo for fresh meat. To mind the travois being pulled by Singing Bird, they required a trail at least three feet wide, so the men kept to existing game or Indian trails so she would have easier traveling. But for others using or watching the same trails, it also become an open invite for trouble if the locals were of such a mind.
One morning just before dawn, Jacob awoke with a start. Not one in which he jumped up to meet the danger close at hand, but one in which his eyes and ears were now instantly alert to something out of place. He sensed the kind of danger brought on by something unknown, deadly or hostile.
And, close at hand.
His horse had snorted an alarm and was standing looking in the direction of the willows alongside the Big Sandy River where they had camped the previous evening. A camping area full of mosquitoes but one out of the wind and out of sight from prying eyes.
Jacob quietly nudged Martin, then very slowly reached for his pistol so as not to arouse any suspicion, should someone be watching to see if he was awake. Martin, ever the Indian, then quietly nudged Ben. As it turned out, Ben was already wide awake and alert to the unknown danger.
As the men quietly armed themselves wondering if they had a bear or human visitors, a screaming yell followed by many others rent the early morning air. Down upon them showered a cloud of arrows, immediately followed by a rain of screaming savages.
Jacob rolled out from under his buffalo robe, now stuck full of arrows, and shot an Indian not two feet away in
the face with his horse pistol. The impact of the big slug hitting the man caused him to just fold and collide with Jacob like a human cannon ball. The ensuing collision knocked Jacob off his knees, bringing both men to the ground in a human tangle.
Two more explosions rent the air near Jacob’s bed as he rose from his collision with the dead Indian—explosions telling him Ben and Martin had used their pistols at close range as well.
Neighing horses, screaming Indians, thuds of tomahawks, more explosions from the trappers’ extra pistols and rifles firing along with yelling, greeted the dawn. The sun peeped over the mountains only to witness a mass of men and one woman locked in deadly close-quarters combat of the most primal sort. Snot flew from the thudding impacts of tomahawks as men groaned and slid to their knees for one final mortal slide. Combatants wet themselves when skinning knives tore into their guts with soft rendering sounds. That action was intermixed with bones loudly crunched under rifles and pistols used as clubs, crashing violently into twisted faces or close-at-hand skulls.
Just as quickly as it started, it was over.
Jacob stood among his bedding furs, surrounded by four dead Indians at his feet. Two had been shot at such close range that the shooting had burned their faces black. Another knifed in the forehead still had the gutting knife sticking up to its handle in the brain case. The last one under his feet had a crushed skull from an empty horse pistol violently slammed up against the side of his head.
Blood ran from Jacob’s right shoulder in streaming rivulets from a knife wound as evidenced by the knife still sticking in place. Another slash ran almost the full length of his left side across his ribs—not a deep wound, but painful from the near fatal swipe of a tomahawk.
Inspecting the wound, Jacob thought, It will soon heal with the proper application of gunpowder poured into the cut and touched off with an open flame. Jacob winced at the thought.
Martin stood next to Jacob, still shaking with a raging fury born from mortal combat. A deep tomahawk slash wound across Martin’s cheek was so deep, the skin hung loosely in a bloody flap, and so wide that Jacob could see his chipped white teeth and jaw bone glistening in the early morning light even through the torrent of blood.
