Showdown at Buffalo Jump

by Gary D. Svee

  The Lenington place was typical: a three-room, tarpaper shack belching coal smoke, a lean-to open ended and pointing south into a corral, and a root cellar.

  Edna was bent over a shovel in the garden, and didn’t look up until little Zeb sprinted over to her with the news. She pushed herself upright with the handle of the shovel and waved, a bit tentatively because of the hitch in her back. Spading the garden always left her stiff and sore, and the pain grew a little worse each year. She walked over to the wagon, dreading each step, trying to show the warmth she felt for Max and his bride and not the pain in her back.

  “Isn’t this something,” she said, steadying herself against the wagon box. “Two sets of visitors in one day. Just like we were living in town. Come on in and have some coffee. Zeb’s abed, but I’d wager he’ll pop out when he sees you two.”

  Zeb spent a lot of time in bed, particularly when there was a garden to be spaded or a field to be plowed or anything else that might fall to him. He was fortunate that the older boys could do nearly a man’s work, but a neighbor had hired them for the past three days to haul coal, and Edna was too stubborn just to forget about the garden until they came back. Zeb didn’t like to think of himself as lazy, it was just that he didn’t like to work very much, and he had always considered himself a little too sensitive for heavy toil. Given his druthers, he’d rather spend the day puttering around the house.

  He was sitting at the table in his long johns playing solitaire when Edna led her visitors through the door. He scooted toward his room like a rabbit running for his life.

  “Zeb’s pretty spry for an old man ailing so,” Edna said with a wink. She had long since forgiven him his lack of industry. He was, as she had once told Max, about as useful as teats on a boar, but he only drank when he had the opportunity, and he had never said a bad word about another human being as far as she knew.

  Max smiled. “We’ll be needing another hog soon as the weather breaks, maybe two.”

  “That’ll bring him out,” Edna said.

  Zeb was a master meat processor. The Leningtons had the only decent-sized herd of hogs in the area, and Zeb was the best bacon and ham maker for perhaps a thousand miles. He had learned his trade in the hills of Tennessee, and he trusted no one else to turn the porkers into honey-cured ham.

  And then, as though to emphasize Edna’s thought, Zeb stepped into the kitchen, tucking his shirttail into his pants. His face had some color to it, and Max figured that was as close to a blush as Zeb would ever come.

  “Caught me unawares,” he said, pulling up a chair at the table that ranged from one end of the room almost to the other.

  “Second time today,” Edna said. “Charley Lucas was over this morning and caught Zeb in his long handles, too. Won’t be long before people start calling you banker Phillips.”

  “Banker Phillips?” Catherine asked.

  “Oh, good,” Edna said, beaming. “I was afraid you might have already heard about it. Let me pour the coffee, and I’ll tell you all about it.”

  She came back with the coffeepot in one hand and four cups in the other. It wasn’t often that she had a story as good as this one, and she went over it in her mind as she poured the coffee.

  Most gossip on the prairie was pretty tame. Living so far apart, it wasn’t often that outsiders were privy to a family’s secrets. So most of the news was exaggerated, overplayed to make it more exciting.

  But Edna knew she was in possession of a classic, the stuff of which stories would be told for years. She wanted to play it for full dramatic effect, but she didn’t want to exaggerate it to detract from the credibility of the story.

  When she put the coffeepot down on the table, she had the tale plotted like a good novel.

  “There was something strange in the air last night,” she said, peering around the table to make sure she had everyone’s attention. “I felt it when I went outside to … to make my last trip before I went to bed.

  “The air was kind of still and expectant, as though something were afoot, something different. It was riding heavy on me until all the kids were inside and tucked in, and even then I felt uneasy somehow.”

  “I didn’t think about that anymore until Charley Lucas came in this morning, spreading the news like he was Paul Revere. It wasn’t until then I realized how right I’d been.”

  Edna paused and took a long sip of coffee, letting the silence stretch the suspense, and then she continued, “There are two stories. Some people say they’re connected, and maybe they are. Seems that long about two o’clock this morning, the Lannings’ geese tuned up. They’re better than a watchdog, you know, for guarding a place and a lot better to eat.”

  Edna’s joke went unnoticed. She continued, but it was clear she was a little miffed. “They’ve been having some trouble with a coyote or a neighbor dog out there, so Mrs. Lanning got up to see what it was. Ol’ Henry would sleep through a thunderstorm, probably couldn’t hear it anyway over his snoring. I swear when he goes to sleep Sunday morning in church, the rest of us might as well leave—can’t hear the preacher or the choir either over the racket.”

  “Anyway, when Mrs. Lanning stepped outside, the geese were all stretching their necks and honking at something out by the road, so she grabbed a stick and started out quiet as she could. She hadn’t gone but a few steps when she heard this inhuman shriek, like something tormented.”

  “Remember, I told you how funny it was last night, like there was something on the prairie that shouldn’t be? Well, Mrs. Lanning felt that, too, even before she heard the shriek, and the closer she came to the road, the stronger the feeling got to be. It was real spooky out there, nothing but the sound of the geese behind her and a little wind stirring the sagebrush.”

  Edna wished it were dark: This story would best be told in the dark. But you can’t always have things the way you’d like, so she took a deep breath and continued.

  “It was then she heard it, coming through the brush on the other side of the road. Grunting and wheezing it was, and Mrs. Lanning thought it must be a pig, but she didn’t know anybody in this country besides us that might have a full-grown hog.”

  “And then she saw it. White it was and huge, moving across the prairie, rocking back and forth and squealing every so often like it was being tormented by the devil.”

  “I imagine her eyes were big as dinner plates. Well, this creature gets to the road, and …”

  Edna stopped to stare directly into Catherine’s eyes. “Then this creature stands up and walks down the road like it was a man—or something not quite a man. It was bent over, she said, arms kind of swinging at its sides. She figured it was at least eight feet tall. It walks down the road growling to itself, almost like it was trying to talk.”

  “Mrs. Lanning let out a shriek, and it just kept walking, not even looking back at her, and she lit out for the house. She figured she’d get the shotgun in case it came after her.”

  “Stayed awake all night, she did. Sitting at a chair in the kitchen, loaded shotgun on the table, not knowing if she was going to live or die, and ol’ Henry slept through the whole thing.”

  There was silence at the table, each deep in thought over the pictures Edna had conjured. It was Catherine who broke the silence.

  “Banshee,” she said, almost in a whisper.

  Max’s skin crawled. Catherine’s face was white, and her eyes big and round.

  “What do you mean, child?” Edna whispered.

  “Banshee, it was,” Catherine said. “The shriek she heard was a banshee, calling the soul of someone about to die.”

  “Did anyone die at the Lannings?”

  Edna shook her head.

  “Then the banshee must have been summoning that creature to walk this land last night—for what purpose, we can only guess.”

  Edna felt the hair go up on the back of her neck. She had intended to play up the bizarre aspects of the story, but she hadn’t counted on this. Catherine obviously believed in banshees, and now Edna wasn�
��t sure that she didn’t. Nobody knew what it was that had waddled grunting across the prairie.

  Max cut in, “Maybe we better go look at the horses. I think we’ll take them home today.”

  Edna nodded. She would tell them the rest of the story when they came back. Wasn’t a good time now, anyway.

  “Walk out with you,” Zeb said. “You can pick out your hogs while you’re here, and then I can butcher soon as it cools off. I’ll get the children out after some chokecherry.”

  It seemed too light outside, paradoxical to step into sunlight after speaking of creatures of the dark. Still, the sun didn’t chase away the chill Max felt, the chill that settled on him when he looked over the table and into Catherine’s eyes.

  They walked to the corral, Catherine stepping carefully over and around a general collection of manure that peppered the yard. As they approached the corral, the horses trotted toward them, poking their noses over the top rail to be petted. They were beautiful creatures with long, aristocratic noses and long, strong legs. They were even more beautiful than the blooded horse the young man in Ireland had been sitting. Catherine reached tentatively toward the smaller of the animals, and the mare reached out to check the hand for a cookie or sugar.

  “More pets than anything,” Zeb said.

  “No,” Max said. “They’re more horse than most people will see in a lifetime. They’ve never felt a spur or a whip, but these two would run their lives out for nothing more than the touch of a heel.”

  His face glowed as he warmed to his subject. “They are fast, not as fast as thoroughbreds running on a track, maybe, but they’ll outrun most anything on this prairie.”

  “And their gait is so easy, you’d swear you’re riding a cloud. They look like clouds, too. Gray as rainstorms in summer and as filled with promise.”

  He stopped, took off his hat, and wiped imaginary sweat off his forehead with his sleeve.

  “The mare is yours,” he said, looking at Catherine, “no matter what.”

  Catherine stepped forward and hugged the mare’s neck, and the horse reached down to check her pockets for a treat.

  When Catherine looked at Max, there were tears in her eyes. “Thank you,” she said. “What is she called?”

  “Didn’t name them. You can if you like.”

  “I’ll call her Lady,” Catherine said, “and him, Gentleman’s Promise.”

  “She’s with foal,” Max said. “The colt will be as close to magic as a horse can get.”

  “How do you know it’ll be a colt?” Zeb asked with a grin.

  “Because these two horses don’t ever do anything wrong. They’ll give me a stud that people will come miles to see, just to know what a horse really should be like.”

  And then Max and Zeb laughed, the sound of it breaking through the soft wail of the wind on the land.

  “May I ride her?” Catherine asked.

  “Know how?”

  Catherine shook her head.

  “No matter. She’ll teach you. I’m not sure I ever knew what riding was until I bought these two.”

  Max climbed into the corral and walked to the stud. The horse leaned forward to allow Max to pay homage, and he snugged a loop behind Promise’s head, running the rope down along the jaw and tying a half hitch around the stud’s nose. Then, holding the line and a handful of mane in his left hand, he vaulted astride the horse.

  Max and the stud seemed to be more one creature than two, and that image was enhanced as he guided the animal to the corral gate with his heels and knees. Without dismounting, Max unlatched the gate and nudged the horse through. The mare nickered, and Max left the gate open for her.

  The animals danced about the yard, two prima ballerinas celebrating beauty and movement and life on a barnyard stage. And Max directed the performance without intruding on it. And then he gave the horses their heads and touched his heels to the stud’s flanks. They flew from the yard in sheer celebration of life, running easy on the earth, in harmony with her, sweeping over the land until they neared the section line where Max set them on a wide curve back toward the Leningtons’. Neck and neck, they pulled into the yard, resenting the return to earth, dancing with the joy of the run.

  “They are magic,” Catherine whispered.

  “Yes,” Max said with a quiet intensity, studying Catherine’s face. “They are.”

  Edna’s voice cut into the moment.

  “Coffee’s poured. It’s time for the rest of the story.”

  “Better go,” Zeb said. “That woman would be terrible disappointed if she couldn’t tell you the latest.”

  Zeb followed Max and Catherine back to the house, a tiny smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

  Edna was already sitting at the table, surrounded by steaming cups and empty chairs. There was a sense of excitement in Max and Catherine, and that was good. Catherine’s banshee had been exorcised by the magic of the Appaloosas.

  “Saved the best part for the last,” Edna said, pulling their attention to her. “It seems that the banker Phillips went prowling last night.…”

  Edna told them every detail, sketching in a bit of the background when necessary to season the story.

  “Well, you know what Mrs. Harris is like. She faints when a bitch comes into heat. Zeb says that if she’d been Eve, there’d be nothing left of the human race but some of those petrified bones we find around here.”

  Lenington nodded. That’s what he said, all right.

  “When Phillips tipped his hat, Mrs. Harris shrieked to high heaven and just kind of melted down into a little heap by the clothesline. The banker headed up those back stairs like he was running on the coals of hell.”

  “Wasn’t but a second later that Harris busted through the back door, hell bent to save his Tillie just as the back door slammed shut behind the banker. Harris went up those steps three at a time, and ran right up to the banker, who was standing there stark naked.”

  “You got to hand it to the banker though. He talked Harris to a standstill. Harris went up those stairs ready to do mayhem, and the banker talked him out of it—at least for a while.”

  “Edwin, he’s pretty husky and strong as a bull, but he isn’t particularly bright. And that banker is a smooth talker. He talks out of both sides of his mouth so fast you’d swear you were talking to two people. He had the most outlandish story I’ve ever heard … and Max, it concerns you.”

  Max didn’t need to feign surprise. What had led the banker to suspect him?

  Edna had been watching Max as she spoke. His surprise had been genuine. The banker was lying.

  “Phillips said he was the victim of some hoax and that Max and Thomsen were responsible. Wild story, it was, about the banker being slipped some knockout drops, and then hauled unconscious and naked out of town. Said he could prove it.”

  Max leaned back in his chair and crossed his legs. People who had played poker with him for any length of time would have reached for a stack of chips. Max Bass was getting ready to bluff.

  “Phillips said he had his clothes on,” Edna continued, “when Thomsen slipped him the mickey. He said his clothes were still at Thomsen’s. He wasn’t some kind of pervert he said, to take off his clothes and go prowling. ‘Check Millard’s,’ the banker said.”

  That raised the hair on the back of Max’s neck. “But that doesn’t prove anything.…”

  Edna cut him short. “I know that, and you know that, but Harris didn’t catch on. Harris carries the key to the rooms on a leather thong around his neck. So he lets the banker into his room to get dressed, and there on the bed, neat as you please,” Edna paused a moment, “were the banker’s clothes.”

  Max uncrossed his legs and leaned forward. Thomsen hadn’t told him about the clothes.

  “When Phillips saw those clothes, he squealed like a stuck pig. And you can imagine what Harris did.”

  They all nodded. They could, indeed, imagine what Harris did.

  “Seems that the banker Phillips had been spreading stories
about … certain people,” Edna said, her eyes focused on Max. “Nobody believes those stories anymore. A man who flaunts himself in front of ladies doesn’t have much credibility.”

  Max’s face was a mask, Catherine’s a question.

  And then Edna turned to Catherine. “I’ve been talking all afternoon, and I haven’t given you two a chance to say anything. Would you please, child, tell me why you aren’t wearing shoes?”

  Catherine caught Max’s eyes. She had intended to tell Edna about his taking her shoes. The story would have spread through eastern Montana, and Max’s reputation would have been ruined, among women at any rate. But this afternoon, Max had promised her Lady, and she had been moved by that and the way he melded with the horses. He had been part of the magic, too.

  “It’s a bet,” Catherine said. “Max bet me five dollars and two pairs of new shoes that nobody would notice if I went barefoot.”

  “Strange bet,” Edna said.

  “Well, you know Max,” Catherine said. Then she turned to him. “Cross my palm with silver, Mr. Bass.”

  Max fidgeted. He hated to part with that much cash money at one time unless he received good value for it. But after he had considered the point for a moment, he realized his reputation was worth five dollars, although he would have preferred paying less.

  Catherine grinned and accepted the money. “I will pick out the shoes next time we go to town.”

  Max nodded, but he wasn’t pleased about it.

  Good-byes said, and the Appaloosas tied behind the wagon, Max and Catherine set out on the high prairie for the dugout. About halfway there, Max pulled the mare to a stop.

  Max, Catherine, the horses, and the wagon were the only signs of civilization for as far as the eye could reach. They were alone in the big empty, and in that intimacy and anonymity, Max forced himself to speak.