The Buffalo's Last Stand

by Stephen Bly

  “And Ansley doesn’t like that?”

  “No, especially since you took us with you and didn’t include her. She’s about as happy as a butterfly in brine.”

  “Ha! Ansley has never wanted to do anything with me in her life.”

  Ben leaned his right arm against the wagon box. “She does now. Maybe we could take her to see your Indian sometime.”

  Retta scooted back. We? My Indian? Yeah, if I work real hard, I can make sure she likes you, Ben Weaver. Is that it?

  “What do you say, Retta? Can Ansley come with us next time?”

  “Eh, sure,” she mumbled.

  “Hey,” He patted her shoulder. “You’re a real pal. I’m goin’ to go tell Ansley right now.”

  Retta leaned her head against the wooden box of the big wagon.

  I don’t know what to do, Lord, but that wasn’t it. I don’t even know why it matters so much to me anyway. Some days I almost hate Ansley. And some days I think the two of us are an awful lot alike, except that she’s cute, and I’m pumpkin-seed plain. And the more I think about it, maybe if l were fancy like Ansley, I probably would be just as mean as she is.

  The wet rag dribbled between her fingers as she climbed back up into the wagon. Her hands brushed along the rough wooden seat. When she climbed inside, the air still hung heavy. A fly buzzed above her.

  She crawled over the crates to her mother’s side. “Mama?” she whispered. “Do you want me to wipe your face?”

  Mrs. Barre continued to sleep with labored breathing.

  Retta gently began to wipe her mother’s face. She studied the older woman’s light brown hair. She had more gray hair than when they left home.

  Papa says I give her gray hair sometimes. I don’t do it on purpose. Her eyes look so tired all the time. I’m glad she’s sleeping. The wrinkles are so deep around her eyes.

  She dabbed at her mother’s neck. The top two buttons of Mrs. Barre’s dark green dress were unfastened, exposing a gold locket. Retta fingered the small oval. She knew inside were funny little wedding portraits—her Mama in one and Papa in the other. Neither of them smiled.

  Mama said she was too nervous to smile. Papa said he was told it was frivolous to smile in a portrait. Mama says she wouldn’t trade that little locket for all the gold in California. I wonder, Lord, if I will ever wear a little locket like that? And whose picture will be in there with mine? Maybe Papa will let me carry his picture.

  She heard the big fly buzz at the top of the wagon, and she tried to spy it in the flickering light. She caught sight of it as the fly swooped down and landed on her mother’s sweaty forehead.

  She brushed it off. “Go on,” she whispered. “Go on. You have a whole empty prairie out there to bother. Shoo.”

  Retta washed her mother’s face again and twice more swatted at the fly. The next time it landed, she tried grabbing it in her hand.

  Papa can catch them ... and so can William. Andrew claps right above them and gets them to fly right into his hands every time. Lerryn won’t touch them. Neither will Mama.

  I can touch them. I bet I can get this one. Come on, fly. Just light somewhere.

  Retta laid the damp rag over her mother’s forehead and closed eyes. Then she watched as the big fly lit on her mother’s shoulder and crawled toward the locket. Retta held her hands about six inches apart above the locket, as if to clap.

  Come on, fly ... come on ... just a few more steps.

  The fly crawled on the gold locket as Mrs. Barre’s head rolled to the side, her mouth open.

  The fly bolted.

  Retta clapped hard.

  Mrs. Barre reached up for the rag on her face and the fly fell from the air.

  Oh. I... I got it.

  “Eugene, I think we need to tell...” Mrs. Barre reached her hand to her mouth and coughed.

  “It’s me, Mama.”

  “Darlin’, thanks for washing my face and ... Coretta Emily?”

  “Did you think it was Lerryn?”

  “Yes, I did. But both of my girls are very sweet and thoughtful.”

  She watched as her mother propped herself up on one elbow and then swallowed hard.

  “It’s kind of stuffy in here tonight,” Mrs. Barre declared.

  “Do you want me to open the flap?” Retta offered. “No, baby. Some of those nasty bugs might come in. You know how I hate bugs. Thank you for taking care of me. I should be awake and taking care of you. It’s time for bed. Where’s your sis?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I don’t like her going off at night with Indians close by. You know what happened to those Oatman girls.”

  “Do you want me to go hunt for her?”

  “No, baby. Your sister is very cautious. She isn’t adventuresome like you.”

  “I imagine she’s having an adventure right now,” Retta mumbled.

  “Is it cloudy outside?” Mrs. Barre asked.

  “No, Mama, the stars are very, very pretty.”

  “That’s funny. I can almost taste the sulfur in the air before a lightning strike.”

  I don’t think that’s sulfur you taste, Mama.

  “What were you clapping about when I woke up?”

  “I was, eh, chasing a fly off your locket.”

  “Good. You need to finish the job. There’s a huge dead fly on this side of the quilt.”

  “There is?” Retta shouted and peeked over her mother’s rounded stomach to see a huge horsefly lying motionless on the quilt. “Oh, yes. There it is. I’ll get it, Mama.” She scooped up the horsefly in her hand, crawled over the crates to the front of the wagon, and tossed the dead insect out into the night.

  Fly, you sure worried me. I thought you snuck into Mama’s mouth.

  * * * * *

  Retta felt a hand on her shoulder. She reached up and clutched it. Even in the predawn darkness, she knew the strong, gentle touch.

  “Mornin’, Papa,” she whispered.

  In the distance, a gunshot signaled 4:00 a.m. Retta sat up.

  “Get us a fire goin’, darlin’. William’s goin’ to yoke the oxen. Andrew will drive the cows and horses to the river for one last drink.”

  Retta could hear her mother’s labored breathing. “Do you want me to wake Mama and Lerryn?”

  “Let them sleep until you can see from one end of the wagon to the other. Neither of them can get up without studyin’ a mirror for a while.”

  “Do I need a mirror, Papa?” Retta asked.

  “Darlin’, you’re just as cute as you can be.”

  Retta giggled. “It’s root-cellar-black in here, Papa. You can’t even see me.”

  “You sound cute. I’ll be back. Take care of things here.”

  “You can count on me, Papa.”

  “I know I can, darlin’. That’s why I woke you up.” Retta’s brown dress felt stiff and dusty as she pulled it over her head.

  Mama’s right. When we get to Oregon, we will have to burn all our clothes and make new ones.

  Except for my buckskin dress.

  I know I should have her wash this one, but she’s not feeling up to it.

  The west wind rolled into camp. Retta tugged her father’s old flannel shirt from under the front seat of the wagon and pulled it on over her dress. A lamp was setting on the bucket near the wagon wheel.

  She spied shadows in front of the wagon. “Good morning, William,” she called out softly as he approached.

  “Hi, Retta. How’s Mama?”

  “Still sleeping. Was there any sign of Indians last night?”

  “Lots of wolves howling,” Andrew reported.

  “Are there wolves around here?”

  “I don’t think so. That’s the point.”

  “I’ll be glad to get back on the trail. Do you reckon the Arapaho will follow us?”

  He raised his arm and rubbed his shoulder. “Yep. Why not?”

  “I wonder if we’ll be allowed to go out and pick up chips,” she pondered.

  “I reckon they’re still too
wet.”

  “Can I borrow the lamp to get the fire started?”

  “Sure. I can do this in the dark.”

  Retta set the lamp on the dirt next to the wagon. The canvas awning was rolled up and stored. The only things left out were the pothooks, a coffeepot, and a cast-iron skillet with three short legs. She rubbed her eyes and brushed back her bangs and then sorted through the chip sling for the driest ones.

  * * * * *

  Fire glowed hot under the coffeepot by the time daylight rolled across the prairie. Lerryn mumbled something when she crawled out and plodded off to milk the cows. Retta climbed back up into the wagon.

  She put her hand on her mother’s cheek. “Mama, it’s time to get up,” she whispered.

  Mrs. Barre opened her eyes. “Morning, Coretta Emily.” She sat up and let the quilt drop to her lap. “Whew ... I do feel better than last night. Hand me my brush and hand mirror, would you, baby?”

  Retta crawled over a crate of linens and grabbed the mirror. “Here, Mama. Do you think I need to brush my hair?”

  Mrs. Barre began to brush Retta’s hair. “Lerryn got back late, didn’t she?”

  “I think so. I was asleep.”

  “Did you have to wake her up?”

  “I just kind of banged on the coffeepot until she stirred.”

  “And I didn’t hear you?”

  “You must have been very, very tired, Mama. I have the fire going and the coffee started.”

  Mrs. Barre patted her daughter’s shoulder. “You’re a jewel, Coretta Emily. Ever since we left Ohio, you’ve made my life easier, and I will always be grateful to the Lord for sending you to me.”

  “Mama, that’s the nicest thing anybody ever said to me.”

  Mrs. Barre hugged Retta and then shooed her out of the wagon. “Now go on, darlin’, before I start to blubber. You know how emotional I’ve been lately.”

  Retta scampered to the front of the wagon. “I love you, Mama.”

  “That did it, young lady. Now I have to find my handkerchief. ”

  Retta climbed out of the wagon in time to greet Ben Weaver and Travis Lott.

  Travis tipped his hat. “Good mornin’, Miss Barre.” Retta held the skirt of her worn brown dress and curtsied. “Mornin’, Master Lott.”

  “Well, aren’t you two bein’ formal.” Ben hooted. “Travis always treats me like a lady.”

  “A lady?” Ben laughed.

  Retta raised her chin. “Yes.”

  “Speaking of ladies, have you seen Ansley?” Ben asked. “She’s only a few months older than me.”

  “Yeah, but she looks...” Ben cleared his throat. “Mr. MacGregor said you and Ansley headed out at daybreak.”

  “I haven’t seen Ansley since yesterday. What do you mean headed out?”

  “He said you promised to take her to see your Indian before we pulled out this morning,” Travis reported.

  “I didn’t promise any such thing. Ansley hasn’t said anything to me in a couple of days. Nothing nice anyway.”

  “I wonder why Mr. MacGregor thought that?” Ben puzzled.

  “Maybe it was just Ansley’s wishful thinkin’,” Travis mumbled. “Anyway, if you see her, tell her we’re lookin’ for her. ”

  The two boys strolled to the next wagon.

  Lord, why do I have to tell Ansley that Ben is looking for her? And I don’t know why I have such a tough time liking her. I wish You would help me change my feelings about her. But I really wish You would change Ansley.

  * * * * *

  Retta was helping her mother cook potato cakes when Mr. MacGregor blustered into their camp. “My daughter’s gone. Her horse is gone. You’re the only one who knows where she is,” he roared.

  “What?” Mrs. Barre gasped.

  “I’m talkin’ to your daughter, woman.”

  Julia Barre waved a long-handled wooden spoon at the man. “You will not talk to me or my daughter in such a voice.”

  MacGregor rubbed his thick red beard. “You’re right, Mrs. Barre, and my apologies. I’m just a worried daddy. Ansley took off and left word she was goin’ with your daughter ... eh ... eh...”

  “Her name is Coretta.”

  “Yeah. Coretta was takin’ her to meet that Indian.”

  “I haven’t seen Ansley, Mr. MacGregor. And I never said I’d take her to see Two Bears. He moved camp. I don’t even know where he is,” Retta explained.

  “Retta, come up here.” The shout silenced the camp.

  “Your papa wants you,” Mrs. Barre said. “Go on.” She turned to Mr. MacGregor. “Andrew drove the cattle to the river this morning at daybreak. Perhaps Ansley went to the river.”

  “Not without my permission,” he puffed.

  “Wherever she is, it seems she’s there without your permission,” Mrs. Barre replied.

  Retta trotted up the row of wagons to where Bobcat Bouchet stood next to her father. Both men cradled rifles.

  “Is that your pal?” Bobcat pointed across the prairie to a brown-skinned man squatted down next to a yucca plant on the rise of a hill.

  “That’s Two Bears. What’s he doing out there?”

  “That’s exactly what we need you to find out,” her father explained.

  “Me?”

  “He trusts you.”

  “I’ll come with you,” Bobcat stated.

  Retta waved at the man out on the prairie. “Not with a gun in your hand. He doesn’t trust men with guns.”

  Chapter Four

  Two Bears with red bandanna tied around his forehead hunched down on the prairie near a lone yucca with tall grass growing up through it. He scratched in the dirt with an arrow, but Retta couldn’t see a bow.

  He pointed the arrow at them as he hunkered down. “Who is with you, Red Bear?”

  Retta stopped, laced her fingers, and rested them on top of her head. “He’s our scout, Mr. Bobcat Bouchet.”

  Two Bears showed no emotion. “Does he have a gun?”

  Retta glanced at Bouchet. He held out his arms and hands. “No,” she reported. She looked closer at Two Bears. His eyes looked sad.

  “I want to speak to you alone,” he mumbled.

  Retta curled her lip and rubbed her round nose but didn’t walk any closer. “But he wanted to meet you.”

  Bouchet stroked his tobacco-stained beard. “I’m a friend of Jim Bridger’s.”

  Two Bears drew in the dirt with the arrow again. “I never heard of you.”

  Bobcat Bouchet shoved his hat back. “Two Bears, I was with ol’ Gabe when the Blackfeet hit us up on Prickly Pear Creek near the divide.”

  The Indian looked up. “Who died that day?”

  “Seven Blackfeet, Big Tom Smith, and a stout Shoshone we called Leonard,” Bouchet reported.

  Two Bears scratched behind his ear with the tip of the arrow. “He was my cousin.”

  Bouchet took a couple steps forward. “He was a brave man. He had an ugly-lookin’ scar over his right eye.”

  Two Bears’ leather-tough face relaxed a bit. “I was with him the day he got the scar.” He glanced at Retta. “Your friend is okay, Red Bear. He can come with you.”

  When they reached Two Bears, both Retta and Bouchet squatted down in front of him. She glanced at the ground and recognized the image of a hawk with a mouse in its talons scratched in the dirt.

  The smile dropped off Two Bears’ face. He ignored Bouchet and spoke to Retta. “Have you seen my Shy Bear?”

  “No, I haven’t.” Retta drew in the dirt with her finger. “Is she lost?”

  Two Bears jabbed the arrow into the chest of the hawk in the dirt. “She is not lost. Shy Bear knows her way. She might be where she does not want to be, but that does not make her lost. She wanted to come see you. She slipped out of camp early riding the old gelding.”

  Retta erased her scribbles in the dirt. “Why did she want to come see me?”

  “She felt bad you had given her the nice hat, but she did not give you anything much.”

  Retta’s eyes w
idened. “But—but I have her beautiful dress. It’s more than enough.”

  “She wanted to give you an eagle feather and a beaded headband she made.” He sketched a feather in the dirt.

  “My own eagle feather? Oh, how wonderful.” Retta started to draw a feather but ended up sketching a cross instead.

  “I told her I would bring the headband to you when it was safe and the Arapaho left. But she was afraid you would leave, and she wouldn’t get to see you. Her trail led near the river and then was trampled on by the cows. I can’t follow it further.”

  “One of our girls is missing too,” Retta informed him.

  Bobcat Bouchet rocked back on his heels. “Who? I hadn’t heard that.”

  “Ansley MacGregor, the redheaded girl on the black horse.” Retta tried to draw a horse in the firm, wet soil.

  Two Bears reached over and erased her drawing with his fingers.

  “Where did she go?” Bouchet asked.

  “She told her papa we were coming to see Two Bears, but I never saw her this morning. I wasn’t going anywhere. I didn’t even know where Two Bears was camping.”

  “Do you think she is where she does not want to be?” Two Bears asked.

  “Either that or she’s just plain lost.” Retta bit her lip and nodded. “She doesn’t know her way around very well.”

  Bobcat pulled out a clay pipe and chewed on the stem. “Sounds like we have two missing girls. I wonder if they could be together. ”

  “Maybe,” Retta said. “But Ansley isn’t very brave. I think she would be frightened of Shy Bear.”

  “No one has ever been frightened of Shy Bear. I was very surprised that she left camp on her own,” Two Bears said.

  “You thinkin’ maybe Arapaho nabbed them?” Bouchet asked.

  Two Bears drew a hill under Retta’s cross. “I do not want to think about it, but perhaps so.”

  “We found tracks of Indian horses between here and the California-bound wagons up there,” Bouchet volunteered.

  Two Bears rubbed his chin. “Horses? That is strange. Tall Owl did not have a horse. We tracked him into the brush, and there was no horse.”