by Jim Cox
At first light, they rode from camp. The captain led a horse with an empty pack for carrying the kill. Bart let the captain take the lead as they headed south, crossing several small knolls. The captain stopped at a large dugout, and Bart pulled up beside him. "See that wallow, Bart?”
“Yes, sir,” Bart answered. It was a large round hole about three feet deep and seventy-five feet across. Its floor was covered with loose, fluffy dirt.
"That's where buffalo dust themselves by rolling in the soft dirt. It removes ticks and repels other insects.” The men sat still for a minute or two observing their surroundings when the captain spoke. “From the looks of these wet droppings around the wallow, I'd say the herd’s been through here within the hour."
The hunters had ridden a few yards farther when the captain said, "Remember, Bart, those dusting holes are a good place to hide if you're ever caught out in the open and need to be concealed. They’ll even hide your horse if he lays down."
Thirty minutes later, a curtain of dust could be seen about a mile away. The captain motioned for a stop. "We'll ride easy from here on, Bart. Let’s only talk in a whisper."
They topped the next hill, and the herd came into view. There were hundreds of buffalo grazing lazily two rises ahead. The hunters moved forward and stopped in a concealed location, some five hundred yards from the herd. They ground-hitched their mounts, and the captain pulled a fifty-caliber rifle from his saddle boot along with a shooting tripod and binoculars. Motioning for Bart to follow, he started forward in a hunched-down position. Coming to the top of the next rise, they crawled until the full herd was in view only two hundred yards away.
Bart watched the captain set up the tripod and take a shell from his pocket. He loaded his gun, placed the barrel in the fork of the tripod, and then sat the gun stock on the ground and motioned for Bart to come closer. "We'll pick out a yearling male. That’ll give us over four hundred pounds of meat. The meat should be tender, especially after aging until evening. Can you pick out a yearling male?"
"I think I can find a male if you’ll let me use the binoculars," Bart said with a grin. "But I'm not sure about the yearling part? If it were a cow or horse, a yearling would be about half grown, but I'm not sure when it comes to buffalo."
"It's the same with buffalo. The bulls can weigh up to a ton, but mostly, they're about fifteen hundred pounds. Yearlings weigh six to eight hundred."
Bart looked closely through the glass and identified his choice with a pointed finger, a yearling male standing a few yards away from the herd. The captain nodded, indicating a good choice. "I'll aim at the heart, which is a few inches behind the front leg. If my shot is accurate, it'll be a fast kill and won’t damage much of the meat." The captain sat with crossed legs and shouldered the rifle while the barrel remained resting on the tripod. He took a deep breath, aimed, and squeezed the trigger.
Standing over the dead animal a couple of moments later, Bart saw blood around a hole the size of a silver dollar behind the yearling’s left front leg. The captain immediately started cleaning the animal by splitting its midsection and removing the innards. He then separated the liver and set it aside, along with the tongue. As the captain wiped his bloody hands on grass, he explained the best technique for skinning a buffalo and told Bart he could help. As they worked, the captain explained the many uses of the hide. Coats, blankets, teepees, saddle blankets, rawhide strips and leather lariats, to name a few. Within twenty minutes, the hide was off and rolled up with the liver and tongue inside; they hung it on the pack horse. Thirty minutes later, four clean feed sacks, each containing a quarter of the meat, were added to the pack horse's load.
On the way back to camp, the captain said the buffalo were being reduced by the thousands. That some men killed for the skins, leaving the carcass to rot, and others killed for tongues only. After a minute or two, he shook his head and said, “In a few years, the big herds will only be a memory.”
They rode in silence across the western plains for the next thirty minutes, contemplating how the continuous flow of new settlers was changing the land. The weather had warmed some, but a helpful breeze had come up. The sky was full of pillow-like clouds floating toward the eastern horizon. The only sound was the squeaking leather from the captain’s saddle.
The captain broke the silence. "Bart, if you'd like, I'll take you deer hunting and teach you to shoot a rifle, if time allows."
"I'd like that," Bart said with a grin. "And Captain, thanks for taking me on this buffalo hunt. I learned a lot."
Chapter Thirteen
Topping a hill, the hunters saw a plume of dust to the west and knew the wagons had already started. “We’ll angle toward them, Bart. It’ll take about an hour to catch up.”
Folks had finished their walking stint and were preparing to board their wagons when the two hunters caught up. The captain trotted to the train's front, while Bart went to the Douglas wagon and tied the packhorse carrying the meat.
Liz came to the back of the wagon with her nose turned up and asked, "Why did you bring that smelly skin back?" Bart echoed the captain by repeating its many uses. Liz was inquisitive and asked a lot of questions. "Did you have a good time? Did you learn how to shoot a gun? You have blood on your hands, did you help clean the buffalo?"
Bart eyed Liz in exasperation and attempted to answer her array of questions. "Yes, I had a good time, but I didn't learn to shoot a gun." He raised bloody hands. "I did help with the skinning."
"There’s a lot of meat in those bags—what’ll we do with it?" she asked.
"The captain said we'd cook a hindquarter for the party tonight and divide the rest among the families. Are you looking forward to the party, Liz?"
"It should be fun," she said with excitement. Bart could see anticipation building in Liz's mind, and then she asked, "By the way, Bart, do you know how to dance?"
"I've got to go see the captain, Liz—something I remembered." Bart hurriedly mounted, touched Maude with his boot heels, and rode off to anywhere.
On the final stop before reaching Deep Springs, Bart cleaned Maude's nostrils with a moist cloth and then gave her a good rubdown with a handful of grass. Afterward, she moseyed to a grassy spot and busied herself grazing. Except for nighttime hobbling, Bart no longer restricted Maude. She could come and go as she pleased because she never ambled very far from him. If he needed her, all he had to do was whistle.
Mrs. Douglas's voice reached Bart, announcing the noon meal was ready. When he arrived for the meal, Mr. and Mrs. Kaiser were waiting in line holding plates. Mr. Kaiser was a short, thin man on the puny side. Bart surmised he was a lunger heading west for health reasons, like his Pa. Mrs. Kaiser was the sergeant-of-affairs lady who had helped Mrs. Douglas and Liz attend him when he was laid up. She was robust, just short of six feet, with her hair twirled up in a knot on top of her head. Her commanding voice echoed when she spoke. In contrast, her husband had a high-pitched, squeaky voice. Bart greeted the couple warmly but wanted to keep to himself, so he lackadaisically went to the line’s end, filled his plate, and walked back over to the opposite side of the Douglas wagon. He sat down by himself, leaning against the wheel. He had almost finished eating when Mrs. Douglas walked up. "Mind if I sit with you?” She was holding two cups of coffee and two donuts. Bart jumped up and held the cups while she sat. "Thank you, Bart," she said with a smile. He could tell something was on her mind.
"May I talk with you about a concern I have?”
Bart knew what was coming and didn't want to discuss the matter. Out of courtesy to Mrs. Douglas, however, he gave his okay with a nod.
"I'd like to know why you keep away from people when the wagon train stops. Why do you stay in isolation except for a few people? You're a very nice young man with good manners—you should be proud of yourself. I know you've been through a lot in the past two years, but you've handled it the best you could. Bart, is it because of your facial scar that you hide from people?"
Before he could answer, tears floo
ded his eyes. "Mrs. Douglas, I’m ugly, and folks shouldn’t have to look at me, especially while they’re eating. I’m ashamed of the way I look. My face is horrible, like some kind of a freak. I don't want folks to see my scar. They’ll make fun of me.” He placed both hands over his face and lowered his head to his knees. Soon sobs came deep and hard.
Mrs. Douglas didn’t comfort him. Instead, she stood and very sternly commanded Bart to stand up too. When he was standing, she placed both of her hands on his shoulders and ordered, "Look at me, Bart Carter, and listen up!”
“You're just feeling sorry for yourself. Yes, you have a terrible facial scar, and it would be better if you didn't, but now that you have it, you need to make the best of it. There are plenty of people a lot worse off than you. My brother had both legs amputated during the war, and he still is a joyful man. He'd give anything to have only a facial scar. You're in the West now, and out here a boy of fourteen is treated like a man. He's expected to work and act like a man—not like a mistreated boy, the way you’re acting now.”
“There’ll be folks who’ll stare at you and a few who’ll make fun. Especially boys who are trying to make themselves feel big in front of their peers. It’ll hurt when they taunt you, but you’ll have to brush them aside and go about your business. After a while, the taunts will fade. Most people, like those in our wagon train, won’t notice your scars after they get to know you. They'll see what you're made of on the inside and that's what counts. You're at a crossroads, Bart. You can keep feeling sorry for yourself, and live a life of regret, or you can accept what's been dealt to you, and live a wonderful life. It’s up to you."
Mrs. Douglas dropped her hands and started for the wagon but turned before climbing up. "Bart, everyone has scars. Some are visible, and some aren’t—they’re on the inside. In a few years, you can grow a beard that'll cover most of your outside injury."
Herb Douglas had obviously heard the whole conversation through the bonnet and went to his wife, who had her apron gathered to her eyes. He pulled her into his arms, and she rested her head on his shoulder. Herb said nothing though her sobs. After her crying had subsided, Mrs. Douglas muffled a question into his shoulder. "Did I do the right thing? I only want to help him. He's such a good boy."
"Sweetheart, you were wonderful. If those words of wisdom don’t change his attitude, nothing will."
∙•∙
The captain's voice rang out. It was time to move on. The wagons started with Mr. and Mrs. Douglas sitting on the driver’s seat. Liz was sitting on the back of the wagon with her feet dangling. They had not gone far when Bart trotted up to Mrs. Douglas’s side of the wagon to return the two cups. As she turned, Bart saw her tearstained face and red, swollen eyes. They gazed at each other for several seconds before Mrs. Douglas took the cups and thanked Bart. He was ashamed of himself. Never again, will I intentionally disappoint you, Mrs. Douglas. He gave her his oath, even though it was silent.
The wagons started up a slight incline, and the terrain became hillier with loose rocks scattered about. In the far distance, blue-green mountains could be seen against a pillow of white clouds. It was a beautiful sight. Though the temperature was still in the nineties, the travel was more pleasant. The dust was not nearly as bad on the rocky soil, and wind cooled the body.
Bart was admiring the changing scenery when Maude stopped for a few seconds with pointed ears, and then she continued at a much faster pace. "You smell water, don't you girl? We must be getting close to Deep Springs." It wasn't long before he heard the distant roar of the waterfall.
The captain directed the wagons into an oval circle, which positioned all the families close to the river and the falls. Trees lined the river bank, providing shade and plenty of wood for campfires. After the animals were watered and taken to grass, three men dug a large fire pit and placed flat rocks around its edge. They drove two iron cooking rods into the ground at each end of the pit. The rods had flanges so adjustments could be made to the cooking height. The cooking rod that would be speared through the meat had one end bent into a handle for easy turning. Several four-to-six-foot logs were brought to the fire site, and within minutes a fire was burning with coffee water heating.
Bart and the captain had removed a hindquarter from one of the feed sacks and had skewered it on the cooking rod. The captain instructed, "We’ll wait until the fire burns down before we put the meat on, and then we'll need someone to slowly turn it to prevent burning."
While the men prepared the cooking fire, the women carried bags of dirty clothes to the river for washing. They used homemade lye soap on the wet clothing and rubbed up a lather on the rough, shoreline rocks. After rinsing, the clothes were hung on tree limbs to dry. Liz was helping her mother with the wash when she thought of Bart. "Mama, what about Bart's clothes? Don't they need to be washed?"
"Yes they do, but your father had better handle the matter. Go tell your papa to take Bart a change of clothes, including underdrawers, and to send back the dirty ones."
"It's time to bathe," announced the captain. "The women can bathe first. When they’re finished, it’ll be the men’s turn.
“We can pitch horseshoes while we’re waiting. Let’s build a couple of horseshoe pits on the east side of the wagons.” The aroma of the cooking bison filled the air. The trees were full of wet clothes, and everyone had bathed. People sat around with wet hair, drinking coffee and relaxing in the shade of the trees.
Liz found Bart sitting by the river and asked if he wanted to go for a walk. She was wearing a yellow dress with a white sash tied in the back. Her gleaming red hair hung almost to her waist. It was still damp, and it was the first time Bart saw Liz without pigtails.
"It sounds good to me, Liz, but we'd better get permission from our folks before we go—I mean, your folks." Bart's embarrassment was capped off with a red face, but he went with Liz to ask permission.
After they had received permission, they ambled toward the river. Liz started prying into his past as they walked south along the river. "Bart, how much schooling do you have? I've taken six years of classes, but Mama says I need to take more when we get settled."
"I've gone seven years," Bart answered, "although the last year was kind of hit and miss. Ma helped me a lot before she became sick." Liz looked surprised to learn Bart had more schooling than she and displayed her hurt pride in her expression.
"How old are you, Bart?"
"I turned fourteen last April," he answered. "How old are you?"
"You don't look like you're fourteen. I won’t be fourteen for two months, and I'm a half head taller than you. Aren’t boys usually taller than girls?"
Bart could feel his irritation swelling up, and he countered by saying, "My Pa said he was shorter than me when he was my age. He didn't start to grow until he was sixteen, then he grew to be over six foot. He said I'd probably be taller than him since Ma was tall for a woman."
"I hope he was right,” Liz said. “You wouldn't want to be as short as you are now for the rest of your life."
Bart was steaming. You always get the last word, he thought. He started to kick a stone into the water when he saw moccasin tracks. Grabbing Liz by the arm, he slowly pulled her back and motioned for her to be quiet.
"What is it, Bart? What's wrong?" she whispered. He squatted down, pointing to the tracks. The prints were indistinct and most likely made by children and women. He determined they were recent from the sharpness of the print outline, a technique he had learned from the captain on the buffalo hunt.
"Liz, go get the captain and your Pa. There’s Indians close by, or at least they were here within the last few minutes. And Liz, be careful."
Bart began to make a careful survey. The tracks headed north toward a patch of heavy underbrush. He stood quietly, listening for any abnormal sound, but there was nothing except the rushing river water. He removed his boots to muffle the sound and slipped behind a large willow tree. He saw more tracks but no movement. After a couple of minutes, he continued on.
He concealed himself within twenty yards of a thicket where most of the signs led. He could see no movement, but his instinct told him someone was close by. When he saw two fist-sized rocks lying at his feet, an idea came to mind. He squatted, picked up the rocks, and tossed one to his right about thirty feet. Nothing happened. A couple of minutes later, he threw the second rock a little farther off. A small Indian girl, maybe six years old, came into full view when the rock landed.
Bart heard footsteps behind him and turned to see the captain, Douglas, and two other men coming. Of course, Liz was tagging along, too.
"What's going on, Bart?" asked the captain. "I've been seeing prints of women and children but no sign of men."
"That's what I've got figured, Captain, and they're hid over there." Bart pointed toward the thicket.
The captain studied the situation and then started giving orders. "Douglas, you and I will circle to the right. You other men go around to the left. You all have guns, keep them ready…there may be trouble."
Standing in a tight circle inside the concealment were four well-dressed Indian women with six children between five and ten years old, four girls and two boys. Lying on a bed of leaves in the middle of the group was an old man. All of their faces showed fright, and their black eyes followed every movement.
"Put your rifles down, there's no danger here," ordered the captain. The tension eased as the guns were lowered, but the Indians continued staring. The captain moved forward with a raised arm and an open hand and then started speaking in a language the Indians seemed to understand. He spoke for several moments, and then one of the women responded. The two continued speaking back and forth. Finally, the woman pointed to Bart and put her fingers on her left cheek.
