The Floating Outfit 17

by J. T. Edson

  Showing no sign of being aware of the forthcoming fate described by Mort, the bull buffalo was standing in the center of a largish patch of open ground. Scrambling around on its body, rummaging for external parasites and insects, were a couple of brown-headed cowbirds 6 and a black and white magpie. As if knowing they would help augment its comparatively poor vision, somewhat better hearing and excellent sense of smell, the animal was setting about the preparation of the food it had gathered before settling in this secluded spot where it could halt and perform its essential aid to digestion.

  As with other members of the Ruminantia, the buffalo had no teeth in the front of the upper jaw. It had, however, broad crowned and sharp-edged molars for grinding and milling its herbivorous diet. Having swallowed the ball of grass it had been working upon, there was a slight pause before it brought up another pellet to chew. Depositing this in the cheek, causing a slight yet discernible swelling, it started to chew with a rotary motion on the side of the mouth where the ball had settled. Then the cud was shifted to the opposite side, where the upper and lower teeth took over the task of milling. In this way, as opposed to the action of more primitive cud-chewers such as the camels—which swing the lower jaw in a long sweep from side to side and chew on both at the same time—the process of mastication was made faster and more efficient.

  ‘Oh hell!’ Thatcher protested, after watching for a few seconds. ‘This’s too easy. It’ll be like shooting an old milk-cow in a meadow!’

  ‘Had we come on him in these bushes, you wouldn’t’ve tooken him for no old milk-cow,’ Mort replied, having come to know his male companion well enough to have expected some such remark. ‘And, was I you, I’d made good and sure I put him down first go now we’ve found him. Should you miss, he’ll take off like the devil chased by holy water and, time we’ve got the horses, it’ll be too late in the day to follow his trail. Which, we’ll need to ride after him, he can outrun any man. Or, happen you only wound him, he’ll go into the bushes faster’n a scalded cat. Now me, I’m all for acting sporting-like, but following him in there when he’s hurting and could’ve been down out here’s closer to being loco than sporting.’ Pausing to let the other consider what he had said, he went on, ‘Hell, you’ve stalked him on foot, fair ’n’ square, and it’s the luck of the game we’ve found him like he is, instead of some place’s’d’ve made getting him harder. Now you just up and kill him clean.’

  ‘Where’s the best place to hit him?’ the lieutenant inquired, accepting the statement as valid and having found the advice of his guide invaluable when taking the other trophies.

  ‘Depends on how you want him,’ Mort replied and, knowing the young officer was always keen for information, continued, ‘Hide hunters allus put a bullet through the lungs of the first one they hit, usually a cow, so’s she’ll just stand there bleeding from the nose and hold the rest of the bunch’s attention while he keeps downing more of ’em. Done that way, and he’s good enough, he can maybe drop fifty or so all up close enough to make skinning out the “flints” easy on what his kind call a “stand”.’ 7

  ‘That’s out!’ Thatcher declared vehemently, but quietly. ‘Even if there were more of them around I wanted, I wouldn’t lung shoot him to get them. I’ve heard it takes the poor devil minutes to die hit that way.’

  ‘It does,’ Mort confirmed, finding the response in keeping with the character of the lieutenant. ‘A head shot’ll drop him plumb in his tracks. Trouble being, way he’s stood and with that old cannon you’re toting, the bullet’s like to go clear through and bust out the other side, which’ll spoil him for mounting.’

  ‘How about if I hit him in the heart?’ Thatcher suggested.

  ‘It’s a real small target,’ Mort replied. ‘Which, I know, you’re good enough a shot to hit it. Trouble being, he’ll most likely run fifty or a hundred yards after he’s hit and they’ll have one hell of a chore hauling him out of those bushes back of him, ’cause that’s where he’ll be headed and he won’t go down until he’s well among ’em. You take him with a spine shot.’

  ‘A spine shot it is,’ the lieutenant assented.

  ‘I’d line up with the barrel resting on that branch,’ Mort suggested, pointing. ‘You don’t have too all fired wide a mark and, good as I know you are, was I you, I’d take all the help I can get to hold a gun that heavy real steady while I was laying them fancy, new-fangled sights on it.’

  ‘I’m a good soldier and always follow orders,’ the lieutenant claimed with a smile, aware that the conversation was helping him relax and be the better able to take a careful aim. ‘When Captain Kelly arranged for me to take this trip, he said I should follow your advice and that’s what I’m going to do. Then, if anything goes wrong, you’ll be to blame.’

  ‘I never yet saw the time when you blue-bellies didn’t blame the civilian scout for everything from flood to hard weather,’ the guide answered, grinning. ‘So how’s about seeing if you can down that old jasper, afore night comes on us and it’s too dark to even find our way back to the horses?’

  Two

  He’ll Have to Be Killed

  During the final stages of the quietly spoken conversation, First Lieutenant James Thatcher had moved the side-hammer of his Sharps New Model of 1866 rifle slowly into the fully cocked position so as to reduce the noise of the action being operated. When Morton Lewis stopped speaking, he began to ease the heavy firearm into the position Mort had suggested. Resting the barrel firmly on the junction of a branch and the trunk of a small flowering dogwood tree, he raised the ‘leaf’ backsight just as cautiously, ready to take aim and fire.

  An excellent marksman, the young officer was not deterred by the far from simple way in which he had elected to shoot the old bull buffalo. Acting upon the advice of more experienced members of his regiment and possessing sufficient wealth to cater for his whims, he had had the rifle chambered to accept a cartridge of .50 caliber. This had a three and a quarter inch long metal case holding a one hundred and seventy grain powder charge to propel a seven hundred grain bullet patched with a good grade of banknote paper, the use of which improved accuracy and prevented ‘leading’ of the barrel. 8 Even at a much greater range than the one hundred or so yards separating him from his quarry, such a load possessed sufficient power to smash the spine and make an almost instantaneous kill. What was more, the thirty and a quarter inch length of the six groove ‘rifled’ barrel supplemented the well-designed ‘leaf’ rear and blade foresight in attaining an accuracy which had few equals in its day. 9 He knew he had acquired the requisite skill to make the most of its potential.

  For all his faith in his own ability, Thatcher refused to let it lead him into complacent overconfidence. A fine sportsman, taught to have high standards in such matters, he respected his quarry too much to want to achieve anything other than the result he was seeking to attain. Effective as it was from a ‘broadside’ position, a spine shot offered only a slender mark at which to sight.

  With the butt cradled against his right shoulder and its weight supported by the improvised rest he was using, the lieutenant lifted upwards the sliding section of the ‘leaf’ rear-sight which was graduated in intervals of a hundred yards from one to eight. However, instead of employing the moveable aperture, he squinted with his right eye through the notch at the base. Setting the blade of the foresight in the V-shaped notch, he began to move the barrel until both were aligned upon his intended mark. Satisfied he was aiming correctly and steadily, his right forefinger began to tighten smoothly upon the ‘set’ trigger which was another modification he had had carried out at the factory of the Sharps Rifle Company. At which point, fate took a hand!

  Having failed to detect the approach of the human beings and dog, with its avian companions equally unsuccessful in locating and giving warning of the danger, only something completely unexpected could have saved the life of the buffalo!

  Such an event occurred!

  Skimming low over the bushes, on its way to join the two brown-heade
d cowbirds and another of its kind, a magpie found itself approaching the girl, two men and dog. Giving vent to a harsh, rattling call of alarm, it twirled aside and upwards. Taking warning, the other black and white feeder and the somewhat smaller pair of birds took off from their perch with wildly fluttering wings.

  Equally appreciative of what could be implied by the commotion, the buffalo made no attempt to ascertain the exact nature of the implied danger. Instead, letting out a deep and guttural roar, it commenced one of the rapid turns for which its apparently cumbersome bodily conformation was so well adapted. As it began the movement, it was struck by something which produced a searing pain and caused it to lunge away from its standing position. Building up to the twenty-three or so miles per hour gait at which members of its species could gallop, it plunged into and through the foliage formerly to its rear as if the thickly grown branches did not even exist, much less offer a possible impediment.

  The flight could not have been started at a worse moment!

  Caught unawares by the unheralded arrival and subsequent behavior of the magpie, Thatcher could not prevent an involuntary reaction. This took place just as the pressure on the set trigger had reached the point where the sear liberated the hammer. Scant though his movement had been, it proved sufficient to ruin the alignment of the rifle’s sights he had made. Small though the deflection of the barrel might be, the revised angle at which the bullet flew caused the point of impact to be different to that he had intended. On its arrival, the conical piece of soft lead inflicted a much less fatal wound than he had sought to produce.

  There was another adverse result from the magpie having come on the scene!

  On being detonated within the confines of a metal cartridge case, the one hundred and seventy grains of prime du Pont black powder turned into an enormous volume of gas. The pressure this exerted whilst driving the bullet ahead of it along the barrel, taking the line of least resistance, created a recoil kick of some magnitude. Even with the rifle grasped firmly, the effect was less than gentle. However, in addition to changing the alignment of the barrel, Thatcher had relaxed his grip just as involuntarily. Driven back, small though the distance might be, the butt plate was slammed against his shoulder with considerable force.

  ‘God damn that “mother-something”, black and wh—!’ Mort Lewis spat out, as a yelp of pain burst from the lieutenant, then realizing what he was saying he brought his tirade to a halt without completing it. Belonging to a generation and philosophy which was not conditioned to believe the employment of profanity in the presence of members of the opposite sex was “trendy” and indicative of a willingness to descend to the conversational level of the “little people”, he continued, ‘Right sorry for what I said, ma’am.’

  ‘So am I, although you missed what I said,’ Geraldine Thatcher replied, pleased her own impulsive verbal reaction had not been overheard as she had similar sentiments on the subject. Having given up trying to persuade the guide to address her by her Christian name, she went on, ‘I let out two words I heard a groom use when a horse kicked him and mama spanked me for repeating. Are you all right, Jimmy?’

  ‘The butt banged my shoulder,’ Thatcher answered, having lowered the Sharps and started to massage the point of impact. ‘But I hit him!—Didn’t you hear the bullet go in, Mort?’

  ‘Can’t rightly up and say, “yes I did”,’ the guide answered, then raised a placatory hand as the young officer swung towards him in a manner redolent of indignant belligerence. ‘Which I’m not saying you didn’t make a hit. Time’s been I’ve stood along of a feller’s was shooting and hadn’t heard when he said he had ’n’ the critter took off like that ole bull did. Comes us going to take a look, it showed he’d been in the right of it.’

  ‘Then let’s go and take that look!’ Thatcher ordered rather than suggested, forgetting the throbbing ache in his shoulder.

  ‘Why sure,’ Mort assented. ‘Only, was I asked, I’d say a one-shooting rifle don’t throw lead any too good after it’s been fired once—Not ’less it’s been loaded up again ’fore it gets to be squeezed off at something.’

  ‘Sorry, Mort!’ the lieutenant apologized with genuine contrition. He realized that a mixture of pain, and annoyance at having failed to make the instantaneous kill he desired, had caused him to forget he was holding a weapon incapable of being fired again until it was reloaded. ‘Let me shove in another shell, then we’ll go and find out whether I’m right or wrong.’

  ‘From all I’ve seen of luffs, blue belly or Johnny Reb, makes no never mind,’ the guide drawled, his grin robbing the words of any sting despite employing the derogatory term for a first lieutenant. ‘I’d bet me good drinking money which it’s going to be.’

  Giving a sniff of mock derision, Thatcher replenished the Sharps with ammunition from the pouch attached to the left side of his belt. Then he started to advance from amongst the bushes. At a hand signal from its master, having risen when the magpie caused the disturbance, the big cross Scottish deerhound-British bull mastiff dog moved forward at Mort’s side. Accepting the buckskin pouch which had been passed to her, allowing the Spencer repeating carbine to be employed later without the delay of removing it should this become necessary, the girl followed the men.

  ‘Look!’ Thatcher said eagerly, after having crossed the open ground, gesturing with the barrel of his rifle at a reddish smear on the branches of the bushes amongst which his quarry had disappeared. ‘That’s blood. I just knew I’d hit him.’

  ‘It’s blood, for sure,’ Mort drawled, holding his Spencer ready for instant use. ‘There’s no gainsaying that.’

  ‘But?’ prompted the lieutenant, having come to know his guide very well despite their relatively short acquaintance.

  ‘Way he lit a shuck out of here, I’d say you didn’t bust his back like was intended,’ Mort replied. ‘Which being, he’s hit some other place. Was this heart blood, it’d be some brighter red. Even could he’ve took off like he did, had he been hit in the lungs, it’d be more clotted up and pinker. That yellow in it makes him shot in the belly, at a guess.’

  ‘Gut shot!’ Thatcher ejaculated.

  ‘I’ve heard it called that,’ the guide admitted in a noncommittal tone. ‘Which it wasn’t done deliberate, but come of something we couldn’t neither of us have figured on happening.’

  ‘He’ll have to be killed!’ the young officer stated, being aware that—while eventually fatal—such a wound would cause a death which was lingering and excessively painful.

  ‘Something just told me’s you’d say that,’ Mort declared, but there was neither derision nor objection in his voice. Rather it held a timbre of respect for a man who thought the same way he did upon such an important issue and was willing to accept the not inconsiderable risks involved in carrying out the suggestion. ‘Only there’s one thing we’ve got to settle afore we take off after him.’

  ‘What would that be?’ Thatcher inquired, bristling with suspicion and determined to refuse any suggestion of him leaving the task to the guide.

  ‘This here’s no chore for a danged she-male to be underfoot while you’n’ me’s doing it, was I asked,’ Geraldine guessed, producing a fair recreation of Mort’s accent and manner of speech. Then, reverting to her normal voice, she went on, ‘And surprising as some of us might find this, I agree. So you boys can trot along and have your fun. I’ll stay here and make a sketch of the buffalo while the way he looked is still fresh in my mind.’

  ‘I’d be right tolerable obliged was you to do just that, ma’am,’ Mort claimed with a smile. ‘And we’ll leave you in peace just’s soon’s I’ve fetched the horses so you can mind ’em while we’re gone.’

  ‘Are you expecting something might happen to them?’ Thatcher asked, glancing in concern at his sister.

  ‘I’ve not seen anything to give me cause to be,’ the guide answered. ‘Thing being, apart from bear, wolves and cougar’s like horse-meat, this’s Kweharehnuh country. Which I’ve never yet run across a brave-hear
t, be he full tehnap or new’ started tuivitsi, who’d pass up the chance to “raid” him three fine saddle mounts should he come across them.’

  ‘“Raid” being what we civilized folk would call, “steal”,’ the lieutenant said to Geraldine, but did not explain a tehnap and a tuivitsi were respectively an experienced and a recently accepted warrior of the Comanche nation.

  ‘That’s about the size of it.’ Mort confirmed, ‘’Cepting, not like said “civilized folk”, I’ve never yet knowed a Nemenuh to raid from another, even was they from different bands and’d never crossed trails until then.’

  ‘I’ll go and fetch them,’ the girl offered, starting to remove her drawing case. ‘There isn’t too much daylight left and you could find you’ve a long chase ahead of you. If you do, you can shout or fire a shot and I’ll bring them to you.’

  ‘That’s a good idea, Gerrie,’ Thatcher praised, having no doubts about his sister being able to lead the three well trained animals through the bushes from where they had been left hidden. ‘It will let us start out straight away and save time, Mort.’

  ‘I’ll float my stick along of you, Jimmie,’ the guide assented. ‘Shall I leave Pete here along of you, ma’am?’

  ‘I can’t think of any reason why you should,’ Geraldine refused. ‘And he’ll probably be far more use to you than he will be lying around here doing nothing.’

  ‘I hate a woman who will insist upon making good sense,’ the lieutenant claimed. ‘How about you, Mort?’

  ‘Now me, I can’t put claim to knowing anywhere near so much about women-folk’s you allow to, amigo,’ the guide replied laconically. ‘But one thing I learned good real early was never to answer “yes” to a fool question like that when said lady’s close by ’n’ listening. You fetch up the horses, like you said, ma’am. Should we need ’em, we’ll loose off three shots with a Colt and you head our way.’