As Anson hobbled the mounts, McKnight gathered his own rifles and shooting supplies. "I kin tell right now that I'm a gonna miss my old Sharps. I'm a gonna haf ta learn to quit trying to fill them inside straights."
They made their way to the top of the rise and lay on their bellies in the short grass. They watched Collier's progress across the flat open plain. McKnight leaned his Springfiels against his shooting sticks and carefully loaded the muzzleloader. "If'n we get a chance to shoot, I'll expect ya ta load this yer muzzleloader. Keep as low as possible and don't go a waving about. Stay low to the ground. Measure out 150 grains a powder fer each shot. Don't move unless I tell ya to and if'n I tell ya ta run, make tracks fer them ponies."
Anson nodded as McKnight handed him the spyglass.
"He looks like he's a gettin purty close. I expect he'll be a shooting afore long.”
Anson watched as Collier crawled for the last hundred yards toward the herd. He took off his bullet belts and placed them on the ground beside one of his rifles. He then set up his shooting sticks and placed the barrel of one of the Remingtons in the base of the V.
"Get ready, boy. You're about to see a master at his work. There ain't none better than Collier at this business."
"What makes him so good, Abe?"
"It's the Injun in him. He always seems ta know which one ta shoot next. He can work a herd better then any feller I've ever seen."
"What do you mean by working a herd?"
"One a them ole cows is the leader. The others let her do the thinking fer them. If'n Collier can drop her first then the others will just stand around not knowing what ta do. If one of the other cows starts ta moving away or a actin' like sh e's a gonna get excited, then ya shoot her next. Ya just keep a shootin' like that fer as long as ya can."
"You don't shoot the bulls first?"
"Hell! Spud! Ya shoot the bulls last. Ya shoot the cows, then the calves, then the bulls if'n they're still there."
"How come?"
"Them toughhided old bulls don't bring a good enough price to shoot them first. It's the softer hides of the cows and calves that brings the most money when ya average it out. Actually, the bulls are worth the most but ya got ta shoot the cows so they won't lead the calves and the bulls off. Thar's sure nuff an art to it, alright."
Anson saw the smoke of Collier's first shot. He swung his spyglass toward the herd but saw no reaction.
"Aw shucks, he missed."
"Missed, hell! His shot was perfect. Watch that large black cow with the big calf. Watch her close."
Anson had some trouble finding the cow for a few moments. When he did, he noticed a cow cough and blow a spray of blood from her mouth.
Collier's second shot thundered across the plain as the big cow lay down as if resting. Her calf walked up to her as if confused by his mother's odd actions. Another cow to her right seemed to be wobbling unsteadily on her feet.
"They're not dropping like I thought they would."
"Don't want them to. Ya want them ta lay down like they was a restin'. Keeps the rest a the herd from a gettin' excited."
“Why don't they run from the sound of the shots?"
"They don't know what that sound is. Fer all they know it's thunder or something. The trick is ta not shoot too fast or too slow. Ya got ta pace yer shots just right. Believe me, Spud, he's a pacing them shots just right."
They watched as Collier dropped one animal after another. After a while the herd started slowly moving down the rise into the depression as Collier had predicted. McKnight set his Springfield in his shooting sticks. "Get ready. That bunch needs to move about another hundred yards and it'll be our turn."
When the lead cow had worked her way into range, McKnight began shooting. Every fourth shot, he would call for the muzzleloader. Anson was so busy with reloading the muzzleloader that he quit watching the progress of the shooting. After a while the animals began working their way back toward Collier's position. The shooting went on for over two and a half hours. Collier shooting, then McKnight. Eventually the herd broke into a gentle lope toward the south and disappeared from view. One hundred and twelve bison remained dead or dying on the open plain. It had been a good first day's shooting. The support wagons approached from the north as he and McKnight were working their way back to the ponies. McKnight gave out a toothy grin. "Well, fun's over, Spud. Now it's time fer ya ta earn yer keep!"
CHAPTER XIV
Dead and dying buffalo littered the plain. Although a few of the beasts still had a little life left in them, the majority were dead. Collier and McKnight walked among the animals dispatching any that were still struggling for life with a wellplaced pistol shot behind the ear. The flatbed wagons were pulled into the midst of the dead and the crew went to work. Coolman and Mapes worked one wagon while Burton and Washington the other. Anson was given a set of shears and a large canvas bag with instructions to trim the mops of hair from each animal's head. At seventy-five cents a pound, the mop hair was too valuable to leave behind although many other outfits didn't mess with the task. One man split the hide of the animal along the belly while the other cut out the tongue, worth twenty-five cents and tossed it into one of the brine barrels located at the front of the wagon near the storage box. When the hide of the animal had been trimmed from the head and legs, a mule was led up to the animal and the harness was attached to the hide by hooking it to the single tree. The mule was then driven away while the other man made sure the hide was cut away from the meat. The hide was rolled off, leaving a naked body with the head and legs still having hide. Many of the adult animals weighed 1200 pounds and it was no easy matter to roll the hides without tearing them. When an animal was extremely large and difficult to handle, an iron stake was driven through the neck and the hide was peeled front to back. The hides were coated on the tallow side with salt and pegged to the ground, flesh side up.
Tobe Washington approached Anson with a small cardboard cylinder. "Sprinkle this arsenic over the hide but mind carefully. Don't get any on your hands or in your mouth. It's deadly poison.”
"What's it for?"
"Keeps the bugs out of the hides and the wolves from eating them. Used to be we only hunted buffs in the fall and early winter. The hides are much better then and bugs ain't a problem. But now that everybody seems to be getting in the business, we have to take as many as possible all year round to get our share. This time a year bugs can ruin hides if they ain't treated with the arsenic."
"How long will we leave the hides staked out?"
"Bout three days if it stays warm and windy. Longer if it's not."
Hours of backbreaking labor followed and Anson filled a hundred pound sack of mop hair. His hand ached. They were finished by sunset. Exhausted men climbed into the wagons and returned to camp. Four large buffalo humps were roasted for the evening. The crew ate it all and talked of more. The next day the process began again as they pursued the herd across the plain. After the third day, the process changed for Anson as he no longer went along with the hunters but helped the crew pick up the dressed dry hides. It took a while to get familiar with the odor of the rotting corpses of the buffalo. The stillgreen hides were heavy and smelled of rotting flesh. Within the week, the entire herd except for a few strays and some calves considered too small, had been shot. Eight hundred and fifty two animals were taken, grossing close to two thousand dollars in product. As hard and unpleasant as it was, Anson realized that it was more money than his father would make in two or three years.
The first herd was the largest. During the following weeks, the hunters had to be satisfied with groups of thirty to eighty animals. Although the size of each herd was not substantial, the shooting remained steady. In twenty-two days the flatbed wagons were each loaded with thirtyfive bundles of ten hides each, bound by green hide thongs. Low on supplies, the partners decided it was time to deliver the loads to Adobe Walls before looking for better shooting.
Anson became familiar with the constant smell of rancid and rotting flesh
. Not only had he developed a strong bond with Tobe but had found himself bound in a friendship with Coolman. Although normally quiet, Coolman was pleasant and had a good sense of humor. Because there was ten years difference in their ages, they seemed to have more in common with each other than the other men. Other than their day to day conversations, however, Anson knew very little about Coolman. He never mentioned his family or origins.
The trip to the Walls was uneventful. During their time on the Llano, the crew had not encountered any Indians or other hunters. Collier mentioned that it was odd the Indians had not come near them. He had expected at least a bribing session by that time if not the loss of some of their mules. He thought it queer but was occupied with buffalo hunting and for the most part let conditions pass without much comment.
Adobe Walls wasn't much to look at. By the time the Collier and McKnight crew came upon it in late April, it was a small town of seven sod structures. Three large buildings approximately twenty by sixty feet served as storage and trading buildings for the Wright and Rath Company, Charlie Meyers, and a saloon run by a man named Jim Hanrahan. There was a blacksmith shop run by Lawrence O'Keefe and a small restaurant run by a couple named Bill and Jenny Olds. Jenny Olds, a small woman with a leathery complexion, was the only female in the town. A large brine pit was dug for the buffalo tongues and meat to be smoked before shipment to Dodge City. There weren't very many bundles of hides in sight considering the size of the outfit that had organized to establish the town.
Wright Mooar greeted them. "Where the hell have you fellows been? I thought the Injuns had got ya!"
Collier stepped down from his mount and shook hands. "Came out here to run buffalo, not socialize.”
"It looks like ya found them. That's the most hides anyone's brought in yet."
McKnight stepped down from his mount. "What's the problem? Cain't you fellers shoot?"
Mooar shook his head. "Haven't been able to locate the big herd. We've had fellows out but all they seem to be able to find are small bunches of old bulls. Where have you guys been hunting?"
"Southeast of here," Collier answered. "About a hundred miles."
"A hundred miles, southeast! Why the hell ain't you boys dead?"
"What ya mean?"
"I mean the goddamned Injuns! That's what I mean. How have you avoided them?"
Collier shook his head. "Haven't seen a brave."
“They sure as hell have been giving us fits. The bastards hit the Fleming crew on Crooked Creek, and killed two of the Plummer crew on Chicken Creek. We found Jim Warren scalped and mutilated. Pete Dirk was chopped to pieces."
"Southern Cheyenne?" Collier asked.
"Cheyenne, Comanche and Kiowa. Hell, they're all out raiding!"
Collier looked at McKnight. "Looks like I guessed right, this time."
"Sure as Suzy's fine ass!"
"What you fellows talking about?" Mooar asked.
McKnight leaned against his horse. "Collier was afeared that a big outfit like this'n would attract Injuns. We figured we'd play a lone hand and try ta stay shed of em."
Mooar glared at Collier. "Let us take the risk and you reap the profits."
"You're out a line, Wright. I didn't sign no contracts nor take any pledges. You guys played your hand and we played ours. It could have just as easy turned out the other way!"
"Hell! You're right,” Mooar said. “It's been frustrating around here. Damned little buffalo and a hell of a pile of Injuns! If things don't pick up, I guess we'll have to pull stakes and mosey."
McKnight laughed. "How much pick'n up do ya need? Look at these here hides we got. Ya won't find any finer fer this time a year."
Mooar smiled. "And I suppose you'll want top dollar. Two bucks a hide."
"Damned straight! More if'n we can get it!" McKnight laughed.
Collier waved the crew from the wagons. "Why don't you boys get something to eat. We'll finish our business and join you.”
Bugs Burton jumped down from his wagon seat to the ground. "I'm for that! A drink a whiskey sounds mighty good!"
Tobe nudged Anson in the ribs. "I'm for that, too. Let that stinkin' fellow drink so's we can eat without gettin' sick."
Anson sighed, "I got a feeling that we don't smell much better, Tobe."
"We got to smell some better, child. We at least a been washing our hands and faces. I ain't seen that feller go near water except'n ta drink it!"
The Olds restaurant was small, crude and dirty, but it still looked pretty good to Anson and Tobe. The rest of the crew headed straight for Hanrahan's saloon. Mrs. Olds took their order of buffalo steak and onions. Just after they were served, Collier entered and sat down at their table.
"Where's Abe?" Anson asked.
"Need you ask?" Collier smiled.
"Did you get a fair price?" Tobe asked.
"Sounds like it. They're grading the hides now. What you fellows having?"
"Buffalo steaks and creamed onions." Anson answered.
"Creamed onions? That does sound good. What's the green stuff?"
"Boiled lambsquarters, I think," answered Tobe.
"Lambsquarters, huh. Well, whatever it is, anything looks good as long as it's not beans and it's green. It's nice to see a plate full of something that's some other color than brown."
Mrs. Olds came to the table for Collier's order. "Forget the steak, ma'am. I'd like a large order of the creamed onions and the greens."
"Creamed onions and lambsquarters it is then,” she said.
Collier twisted his face. "Then they are lambsquarters."
"Don't like em much, huh, Mr. Collier?" Anson asked.
Collier smiled. "Son, right now I'd eat boiled ragweed and be glad to get it."
Anson was silent for a moment as he contemplated the idea of eating ragweed. He looked up into their faces and smiled good naturedly at the realization he was being joshed. Collier and Tobe broke out in laughter as he shook his head.
CHAPTER XV
Anson was first awake at sunrise. Everyone else seemed to be sleeping in. McKnight and Stub Moore were sprawled on the bare dirt, snoring loudly. Bugs Burton was sleeping in a wooden horse trough in front of Hanrahan's saloon. As Anson shook out his bedroll, he noticed Coolman carrying his blankets to the wagon. Coolman smiled but seemed unsteady on his feet.
"One hell of a party, last night," Coolman mumbled.
"Why is Bugs sleeping in a horse trough?"
"Oh, that was McKnight's idea. After Bugs passed out, McKnight mentioned that it was probably a good time to aquaint Bugs with some water."
"What if he had drowned?"
A puzzled look formed on Coolman's face. "I guess nobody thought of that."
"Let's pack it up, boys!" Collier spoke roughly while walking to the wagon. "We need to make tracks."
There was a sound of mumbling and cursing as the men began to stir. McKnight and Moore didn't move.
Collier shook McKnight. "Come on sleeping beauty, it's time to face the day."
McKnight did not react.
Collier shook his head, "Lay out their bedrolls on the flat top. These boys are in poor condition."
Axoll Mapes sat up in his bedroll and groaned. "It's a wonder they're alive! That damned McKnight must a drank a whole gallon jug by hisself."
"Gottdamn it ta hell! What's this?" Bugs Burton screamed while jumping from the trough.
Laughter broke out among the crew.
"Gottdamn it! It ain't funny! I could a drowned or something!" Burton yelled.
Mapes looked confused as he spoke, "I guess nobody thought a that." He started laughing again.
"We probably ought to a been more worried about poisoning the horses," Coolman joked.
An hour later, a whiskeysoaked drowsy crew made their way onto the trail. Bodies loosely rocked and swayed to the motion of steel wheels rolling across the prairie.
* * *
It was over a week before the hunters were able to locate any sizable herd of buffalo. Other than small scat
tered groups of old bulls, it appeared their luck had turned in the same manner as the Above Walls people. On the ninth day Collier returned from a scouting foray to report he had spotted a herd of several hundred moving in their direction. The crew excitedly made preparations for the next day's shooting and by early morning, all was ready as Collier and McKnight rode out to begin the hunt.
When the flatbed wagons rolled a few hours later Coolman asked Anson if he would care to ride with him that day. Anson was surprised with Coolman's verbosity. For the first time, Anson felt Coolman considered him a friend. Coolman was from Iowa. His mother was an Indian and his father a blacksmith. He left home at twelve with a group of freighters. He worked for several years with the freight outfit before he became involved in a shooting scrape over a whore in Independence. He had been on the run for a couple of more years but figured the authorities had forgot him. He told the story as if it was nothing to be hiding from the law. When Anson questioned him about his casual attitude, he said it really wasn't a big deal anymore. He had hid out with buffalo hunters long enough the law probably wouldn't want anyone who smelled as bad as he did anyhow.
It was well into early afternoon when the crew came upon the results of McKnight and Collier's shooting. Everyone went right to work. There was plenty of work to be done before dark. Anson began clipping the mop hair on a bull when he heard Bugs Burton call from a few feet away. "We got one still kicking over here. Someone needs to finish him off."
"Look out, Bugs!” Coolman yelled. “He's on his feet!"
Anson turned toward the ruckus. A blood soaked young bull charged at full speed.
“Anson! Look out!” Coolman yelled as he threw himself over Anson and covered him with his body. The bull gored them into the dirt, circling and tearing at the dirt with his forefeet. Anson felt a staggering pain in his left shin as the bull stepped on it. Several shots fired and the bull wheeled away, staggered a few steps and went down.
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