Devil Rising

by R. B. Conroy

  Suddenly there were two loud blasts from Jon’s Carbine. Hs head jerked back, his horse reared up as the percussion from the shots reverberated throughout the camp.

  The growing audience hastily turned to look at the distant sign to see how the youngster had done. No splinters flew this time; it appeared as though Jon had missed the sign completely.

  “Looks like you were off a little my friend!” Ed shouted. “Let’s go check it out!”

  Ed leaped abroad his mount as he and Jon raced toward the sign. Their horses jumped to a stop right in front of the sign. Both men craned their necks to try and see the result of their handy work. Sure enough, the “e” had a great big hole in it. Just as Jon had thought, Ed had made a perfect shot. The pressure was on Jon now as the two young men scanned the rest of the sign. There were oohs and ahs from the arriving crowd as they began to see the results of Jon’s marksmanship. Upon closer examination, two precision like holes could be found in the middle of the “a” and the “o” of Wells Fargo.

  “Lordy be, did you see that?” one of the old runners exclaimed loudly. “Them young fellers sure can shoot!”

  Both men began laughing hysterically as they reached out to shake hands and cement their new partnership. The crowd that had gathered began to applaud the young sharpshooters as they dismounted and went inside the tent to pay the frightened owner for the damage to his sign. Soon the two young men emerged from the tent, smiling from ear to ear.

  “What you say we get that outfit we were talking about a few minutes ago?” Jon said with a smile.

  “Sure ’nuff, Partner. Sounds like a great idea! I’ll meet ya here in the morning.”

  Jon nodded and headed for the mess tent.

  The next day the two young men met and purchased their new outfit. After a few small repairs to a back wheel on the large wagon, they were ready to start shooting some buffs and making some money. But as Jon thought back, he remembered that it wasn’t quite as easy as they reckoned it would be. These cocky young hunters had a few lessons to learn along the way.

  He remembered the first day of the hunt. He and Ed had located a herd of buffalo only a few hours from the camp, just up from the Red River northeast of camp about five miles.

  “Hold on there, Jon,” Ed ordered as they approached the buffs.

  Both of the young runners reined their horses to a stop. Jon looked puzzled as he glanced over at Ed.

  “What’s the matter; did you wet yourself or something?” Jon kidded his new partner.

  “No, smart aleck! I just want to know how we’re going to shoot these buffs?

  “With our guns,” Jon laughed. “How else?”

  “You really are a green horn,” Ed replied. “I sure hope nobody heard you say that or they’ll never call us runners again, even if we are crack shots.”

  “Okay, okay. Go ahead!”

  “There’s two ways of shooting, Jon. The stationery method, where we lay down behind our horses and shoot the buff as the run by; or there’s the running method where we ride into the herd on horseback and shoot them that way. I could do it either way, what do you think partner? “

  “Oh, the running method for sure,” Jon replied, cheeks still a little pink with embarrassment.

  “Okay big Jon, running it is. Let’s get at it. We’re not doing any good standing around talking about it.”

  As they approached the herd of about three hundred buffalo, the huge animals became nervous and began to move away from the two youngsters. Jon signaled to Ed that he would ride in first. By now the frightened buff were almost at full gallop. Jon was more scared than the buffalo as he rode into the middle of the herd - a little too far in, he would think later. There were buffalo all around him and they kept bumping into his horse and knocking him sideways, all the while they were picking up speed. Jon had basically seen only pictures of buffalo and was amazed at how big they were as he raced among the giant behemoths. He was holding on for dear life and trying to get his rifle out.

  It was at this point that Jon learned the first important lesson about buffalo hunting - beware of prairie dog holes! Now just a few hundred yards into the hunt, Jon was being knocked silly in the middle of the rampaging herd. Suddenly, he felt his horse go out from under him.

  “Oh my God, oh my God!” Jon screamed as his poor horse stepped into a prairie dog hole at full gallop. The horse went down and Jon went soaring through the air, right into the middle of a bunch of stampeding buffalos. It was at this point that Jon’s instinct to survive, that would serve him so well throughout his life, kicked in. The chances of making it out of a fall like this alive were slim to none, especially for a beginner. But somehow Jon was able to grab hold of the mane of a large bull buff as he flew over the frightened animal. With a mighty effort, he yanked himself down on top of the two thousand pound beast. With Jon holding on for dear life, the frightened buffalo went kicking and snorting down the trail. After several minutes, the huge animal grew tired and ran off to the side of the pack. This momentary detour allowed Jon time to jump to the ground, safely out of the way of the other rampaging buffalo.

  Ed arrived on the scene shortly after Jon got off the buff.

  “You alright?” Ed shouted nervously.

  “Yea, I think so,” Jon said quietly, skin pale and eyes wide.

  He laid motionless for several minutes, staring at the sky.

  A little concerned, Ed yelled at his new friend, “Try moving your arms Jon.”

  “Okay!” Jon lifted his arms up and down.

  “Your arms are okay,” Ed barked. “Now move your head from side to side and back and forth.”

  Jon’s head rocked back and forth.

  “Head seems okay,” Ed said. “Well, your arms are okay and you didn’t break your fool neck. Now try to get up on your legs,” Ed ordered, looking nervously at his pal.

  Jon’s big hand went up to Ed, beckoning for his assistance. Ed leaned down and grabbed hold; his horse pushed backwards as he pulled the muscular young man to his feet. Jon walked around gingerly, testing his legs. He was limping a little, but otherwise everything seemed okay.

  Ed shook his head. “I swear, there aren’t too many people who could come out of that alive. What the heck happened out there?

  “I was riding along in the middle of all of them buff, when all of a sudden my horse went out from under me and I went flying. Next thing I knew, I was on the back of a big bull holding on for dear life,” Jon explained, as he limped around holding his leg. Except for some soreness in his right leg, Jon appeared to be in pretty darn good shape.

  “Why’d your horse fall?”

  “I don’t know for sure, but I think she may have stepped in a prairie dog hole. By the way, how’s my horse doing? Is she alright?” Jon queried Ed as he dusted himself off.

  “Well I’ll be, you just about got killed and you’re worried about your darn horse,” Ed chuckled.

  “You’re darn tootin’, she’s a good one. Don’t want to see her get hurt.”

  “I checked her out on the way over here; she looked fine to me. A little scared, but fine,” Ed replied, reassuring his friend.

  “Good, glad to hear that.” Jon sounded relieved. “I guess we both learned a lesson today, Ed. Watch out for prairie dog holes!”

  “Guess so, Jon, but I learned another lesson.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Always let your partner go first.”

  Both men joined in a lively laugh on that one, but Ed could not help but be impressed with the toughness and resourcefulness of his good friend. This is one tough hombre, he thought. What he just did was amazing.

  Lesson one was in the bag now but there were more lessons to come. Jon thought back to another lesson the two young runners had to learn, and it was all about ammunition. Not the kind of ammo they were using but how much. He remembered a talk he had with Ed after their first day out hunting.

  Ed had just got back from the skinner and fur company, and Jon had a few questions about thei
r first harvest.

  “Well, how’d we do Ed? Can I buy that ranch in Colorado now?” he joked as he looked at his partner’s long face.

  “Hardly. We got six hundred for the skins and our ammo cost seven hundred,” Ed said dejectedly.

  “What the heck’s going on?” Jon asked, a little shaken by the news. He and Ed had just been thinking about how many buffs they had to get to have the kind of payday they wanted; they never even thought about the cost of the ammo.

  “I talked to some of the other runners in camp and they said that our kill rate should be about four buffalo for every five shots.”

  “Hmmm.....what’s our rate Ed?”

  “It took us three hundred shells to kill two hundred buffalo; we got a long way to go, big partner.”

  “I guess so. You got any suggestions?” Jon was open to about anything at this point.

  “Yea, I think we should get ourselves a couple of .40-45 Remingtons. They’re more accurate, especially at over a hundred yards. And most of our shots are about two hundred or better. Also, we need to switch to English Powder; it’s cleaner and creates more energy.”

  “Let’s get at it, Ed. I didn’t come clear out here to lose money. Let’s get those guns and powder and see how we do partner.” Jon patted his good friend on the back. “We’re the best shots in camp. If we can’t do it, nobody can.”

  The next time out, the boys got a hundred buffalo with a hundred and fifteen shots. And it only got better from there. It wasn’t long before they had days where they only had two or three misses. They loved their new Remingtons and the English powder was giving them greater velocity and a clearer look at the buffs. The money started rolling in.

  Now that lesson number two was in the bag, Jon thought back to the third and final lesson the boys had to learn. And it was about something totally unexpected; something called a poison vial. One day Ed had taken their harvest over to the skinner in their large wagon. To his surprise, the skinner had offered him some unsolicited advice.

  “You boys got your poison vials yet? You’re gonna need ‘em,” the skinner shouted to Ed.

  “Poison vials, what the heck are you talking about?” Ed was a little confused by what the scruffy old skinner was saying.

  “You heard me right, I said poison vials. All you runners are having to go farther and farther from camp to find good herds. And there’s Injuns out there that would just love to do you in. And if they do, they’re going scalp ya, and cut your privates out, and generally chop your body all up. They believe that if they cut you up bad enough, you won’t go to the happy huntin’ grounds. And believe me, Youngin’, those Injuns don’t want no buffalo hunters goin’ to their happy huntin’ grounds. So you better take a vial of poison with you next time out. And if you happen to run into some Injuns and if they’re about to let you have it, just you take out your poison vial and drink it. The Injuns won’t scalp you or cut your privates out if you’re already dead.” The old skinner was kind of grinning as he looked up at the startled young runner.

  “Well, that’s good to know I guess,” Ed retorted, kind of shaken by the revelations from the skinner. “I guess I just don’t like hearing things like that.”

  “Nobody does, but that’s the way it is out here. This ain’t no Sunday picnic ‘round here, Young Feller,” the old skinner said emphatically.

  “I’ll talk it over with my partner,” Ed said quietly, still trying to comprehend everything the old man had just told him.

  That evening while he and Jon were sitting around the campfire, Ed decided that it would be a good time to bring up the ugly news he had received earlier in the day. Jon remembered the concerned look on Ed’s face as he explained to him in some detail the awful necessity of carrying a poison vial in case they were attacked by Indians.

  “Sounds like something we ought to do, don’t you agree, Jon?”

  “I reckon I do; there’s just one problem.”

  “What’s that?”

  “You better hustle around a get yourself one, ‘cause I already got mine. I like my privates the way they are, so I went and got me one the other day. I guess I plum forgot to tell ya.” Jon laughed as he raised his hands playfully to protect himself from what he knew would be the coming assault from his surprised companion.

  “You went and did what? You snake!” Ed shouted as he jumped over the campfire and dove on top of his big friend, the two youngsters rolled around on the ground kicking and fighting.

  “Why didn’t you tell me, you gizzard lovin saddle bum?” Ed screamed.

  “I would of, but I didn’t get one either. I’m just kidding. I was just spoofin’ you,” Jon shouted as his buddy kept on with the punishment. “I don’t have one! I really don’t!” Jon yelled as he tried desperately to rip loose from the wiry Ed.

  The two friendly combatants were laughing hard as they finally began to tire of their frivolity. They looked around for their bedrolls and the chance to get a good night’s sleep. Their chests were heaving as they chuckled and mumbled insults at each other as they crawled under their wool blankets. They were soon fast asleep on the cold, hard ground of the dark solemn prairie. Jon heard the screech of a distant hoot owl as he drifted off to sleep.

  Jon smiled to himself as he thought back to that day and the mock fight over a poison vial. It reaffirmed to him what great friends he and Ed had become during those early days on the plains. It was a friendship that was sorely tested one evening when both of them decided to go to the saloon for a night of fun and gambling.

  Even as a young man in the camps, Jon spent a fair amount of time at the saloon playing poker. He had become a pretty accomplished gambler during his tenure in Dodge City. Most of the fellows he played against in Dodge City were very good players, many of them professionals. Jon found the pickings pretty good in the camp, playing against a bunch of amateurs. Many of them had walked right off the plow to the camps and had little if any experience with the fine art of five card stud. Jon had been making almost as much playing poker as he was hunting buffalo. Ed did some gambling also, but only occasionally. One evening Jon preformed the usual ritual, politely asked his partner to go with him to the saloon.

  “I swear Partner, you’re going to read your life away! Why don’t you put that book away and have some fun for a change?” Jon said as he straightened his brown felt hat and prepared to leave.

  “Well, you know what Jon, I might just do that tonight. I haven’t played poker for awhile. I’m getting a little rusty. A night of five card stud and black jack might do me some good,” Ed answered as he closed his book.

  “Hey, that’s great. We’ll have a good time. You need to enjoy some of that money you been making anyway,” Jon said as the two young men left their camp and headed for the card game.

  The saloon tent was the largest in the camp and was right in the middle of all the chaos. It was a favorite hangout for the runners after a long day of hunting or working around their campsites. It was a makeshift setup with several poker tables, three faro tables, and a roulette wheel. The largest edifice in the tent was a long, old oak bar that was a castoff from the Oriental Saloon in Dodge, a little beat up, but it looked fine. The men were just glad to have a place to drink and play cards, and maybe get lucky with one of the girls brought in from Dodge. The owners found out early on that a few whores in the bar could really improve business.

  The patrons sounded particularly boisterous on this sultry July evening. Maybe it’s the heat, Jon thought as the two young runners entered the tent. He greeted several of the regulars lined up at the bar. They were a motley crew, all dressed up and looking for a good time.

  “How you fellas doin tonight?”

  “Pretty darn good Jon. I suppose you’re here to take our money again?”one of the boys shouted from the end of the bar.

  “I sure hope so.” Jon laughed.

  “Who’s that handsome fella with you?” one of the hookers asked as she smiled at Ed.

  “Oh that’s my partner, Ed,” Jon
replied as he introduced Ed to the hooker and several of the boys at the bar. Ed seemed embarrassed by it all and looked for a table to start playing some poker. Jon spotted an open chair at his regular table and sat down for an evening of beer and poker. Ed found a game at a nearby table. As Ed pulled his chair out to sit down, he looked over and nodded at Jon. He looked nervous and a little unsure of himself.

  The cards weren’t going Jon’s way. It seemed like every time he had a shot at a big pot, he would take a bad hit and go bust. He was still way ahead for the season, so a bad night now and then was no big deal. On the other hand, every time he looked over at Ed, he appeared to be raking in another big one. He had eight or ten good size stacks of chips sitting in front of him. More power to him, Jon thought. If he was getting shut out, there was nobody he would rather see doing well than his friend Ed.

  Jon had noticed a rather large, bearded man at the bar when he and Ed first came in. He knew most of the guys who frequented the saloon, but he didn’t know this fella. He was being very loud and obnoxious and seemed to want to be the center of attention. Probably a wolfer, Jon thought at the time. Wolfers were the scum of the earth and Jon had little use for them. They were the men who came in after a kill and poisoned the buffalo meat left behind by the runners. When the wolves and coyotes would come in for dinner, they were greeted by a big pile of meat full of strychnine. After they had their dinner, they rolled around on the ground for a few hours and died a horrible death. The wolfers would then move in and start skinning them right where they fell. Then they would then leave the poisoned carcasses of the wolves and coyotes behind for the other smaller animals and birds to eat and also die a slow, painful death. They would later sell the skins and move on to the next harvest area and create the same ugly scenario all over again. This line of work attracted the very worst the West had to offer; it took a real bad person to want to become a wolfer. The wolfers usually stayed away from the runners, skinners, and other men in the camp. While the others tolerated the lowly scallywags, they didn’t want to associate with them. It was an unwritten rule that the wolfers were not welcome in camp, except during the day to pick up some supplies. Occasionally, a bold or stupid one would venture into camp after dark to spend some time in the saloon. The large man at the bar looked big enough to hunt bears with a stick. If he was a wolfer, he probably wasn’t too worried about what the runners thought about him being in the camp after dark.