Brothers of the Buffalo

by Joseph Bruchac

  They reached the hilltop and came in sight of the rest of the company, which had reached the other side before them. As they rode down the hill, Wash untied his bandanna to shake out some of the red dust that had coated it.

  “Look there,” Charley yelled, pointing behind them to their left and reaching for his rifle. Something brown and quick had leaped up and was running out of the clump of rabbitbrush below Blaze’s feet.

  I’m about to get shot or stuck by an arrow, Wash thought.

  Pulling at his reins with one hand and grabbing for his gun with the other, Wash let go of his bandanna, which was taken by the wind to go flying up and over the hill.

  “Whoa up, son!” a voice shouted.

  Wash turned to look. Sergeant Brown, of course.

  “Don’t go shooting that muley,” the sergeant said, amusement in his voice. “It never done nothing to you.”

  Wash dropped his gun back into its scabbard, feeling like every kind of fool in the book. The big mule deer he’d spooked from its hiding place leapt up over the hill and disappeared from sight.

  Probably not an Indian within ten miles of us, Wash thought.

  The dust was thick. The bush Wolf lay behind was no bigger than a war shield. But because of the dust, he was sure the troop of bluecoat soldiers could not see him. He could see them well, though. Their leader was a tall, hook-nosed soldier chief. A second white man rode by his side. The other sixteen were all black white men. Buffalo Soldiers.

  Some of those brown-skinned bluecoats had eyes keener than those of their white leaders. So Wolf had heard. That did not worry him. Even a five-winters-old child of the Real People could still see twice as well as they could.

  What troubled him now was not the ve’hoe soldiers. What made him feel ill at ease was this place. It had once been a favored place for the Cheyennes to set up camp with their brother friends, the Cloud People. Now it was inhabited only by the memory of death. No one had stayed here since the coward’s raid, the raid on their peaceful camp led by Long Hair Custer. It had not mattered that they had flown an American flag above their lodges.

  Wolf had intended to stay farther to the east. But the deer had led him here. It was the only large game animal whose tracks he’d been able to find after days of hunting. He had finally gotten almost close enough to try to bring it down with an arrow. Then the deer had raised its head in alarm and looked away from him. Wolf had lowered his bow. As the deer bolted over a hill, he had taken shelter behind that friendly bush.

  Soon, he thought, soon they will move on.

  Then he began to hear something. Was it real? Or was it one of the bad dreams that came to trouble him every night? Was one of those dreams somehow finding him in the half light of this dusty day? It was a faint, distant sound at first. Then it came closer. It grew louder. It was so loud that he thought surely the ve’hoe soldiers must also hear it. The despairing voices of dying women and children swirled in the red wind around him. The dust began to take on human shapes. People falling in front of their lodges as the hail of bullets struck them.

  Then he heard his mother’s voice. It seemed as close and real as it had been on that day. “Run, my son, run.”

  He did not run. His legs trembled. He forced them not to lift him up into the view of the ve’hoe soldiers. Those men would surely shoot him. No, he said in his mind to the treacherous vision. No. I will not run. I will not join you. I will not allow you to kill me.

  He tried to think of other things as the ghost voices continued to urge him into flight. He thought of the preparations he had made for hunt. He had made a small fire. He had cleansed himself with sage smoke. He had prayed to the spirits of the game animals. He had asked that one of them might give itself. An antelope, a deer, a buffalo. Give itself to him so that his family might survive. The big mule deer had answered that prayer. It had walked out of the cottonwoods. Before the soldiers came, it had been about to offer itself.

  That deer. Its gift. The preparations he had made. The ghost voices began to fade. Though the red wind still swirled, the sounds and shapes were gone.

  “Thank you,” he whispered.

  The game animals were protecting him. Their spirits had been helping him all along. They had sent him a deer rather than a buffalo. If it had been a buffalo he would have been on horseback. Buffalo will allow a man using a bow and arrows to ride up to them. But deer are more wary. To hunt them, you must dismount. So he had left his horse three hills back. The bluecoats were poor at seeing anything in front of them but their own big noses. But a hunter on horseback would have been hard for even them to miss.

  “Thank you,” he whispered a second time.

  The wind was quieting down now. Three of the mounted black ve’hoe soldiers were so near that he could hear their words. Wolf had learned some English at the agency. Perhaps he could understand some of what they said. He listened closely. They were talking about a battle. Then the smallest black white man said a word that Wolf understood very well. It was a name he hated.

  Custer.

  In spite of himself, a low growl escaped from Wolf’s throat. He bit his lip back into silence. The smallest brown bluecoat cocked his head. He put one hand over his forehead to shade his eyes. He squinted and looked hard. His gaze swept over Wolf’s hiding place without stopping. Then he kicked his heels into the side of his big black horse. He and the others continued on down toward the creek.

  Wolf watched as the ve’hoe soldiers quickly crossed the nearly dry creek and went up the buffalo trail that led up the hill. They seemed as eager to leave this place as he was. Did they, too, feel the presence of the dead? Could they see and hear those slaughtered innocent ones? Might they feel some shame about what was done here? The small Buffalo Soldier who mentioned the name of Yellow Hair had sounded angry.

  Yellow Hair Custer, Wolf thought. You brought death to our peaceful village. You attacked our seventy-five lodges set up here near the Big Sandy. Around that bend, my grandfather and grandmother died.

  Wolf’s thoughts of Yellow Hair were interrupted. Hooves were coming his way. He nocked an arrow to his bowstring. As he did so, a gust of wind came over the hill. It carried with it a yellow neck cloth. The cloth twirled and danced in the air and then landed at his feet. He did not pick it up right away. It was followed by the one whose hooves he had heard.

  The mule deer had crested the hill. It had come down and stopped by the creek bed. It was no farther from him than a strong man could hurl a lance. It was a large young buck, one with much meat to give. Its side was toward Wolf, its head up.

  “Thank you for the gift of your life,” Wolf whispered. “My family and I will eat.”

  He let fly his arrow.

  My mama always said, “Children, you share what you got and you will sure have enough.”

  There was a rich man who went up to heaven, sure that a fine fellow such as him would be welcomed in. God and Saint Peter stopped the man at the Pearly Gates.

  “I have come to go to Heaven,” the rich man says.

  “Mmm-hmm,” God says. “What have you done for your

  neighbor?”

  The rich man, he has to think some about that. “Well, he says, “once I seen a little boy crying. I asked him what was wrong and that little boy said he had lost his nickel and it was all the money he had in the world and he was going to use that nickel to buy bread for his hungry little brothers and sisters. So I reached right into my pocket and pulled out a big handful of money and I counted out three whole pennies and I gave that little boy that three cents.”

  “Hmm. Look that up in the Great Book of Good Deeds,”

  God says to Saint Peter.

  So Saint Peter, he does that. It takes him some time, but finally he says, “Yes, that is right. It says right here he gave that little boy three cents.”

  “Mmm-hmm,” God says to the rich man. “Is there anything else you have done?”

  That rich man, he really has to think now. But then he snaps his fingers and smiles. “
Yes, there is. I once come across a little girl crying. When I asked her what was wrong she said that she, too, had lost a nickel. And she was going to use that nickel to buy medicine for her sick old mother. So I reached right into my pocket and pulled out a handful of change and gave that little girl two pennies.”

  “Peter,” God says, “can you find that in the Great Book of Good Deeds?”

  This time it don’t take old Saint Peter no time at all.

  “Yes, sir,” Saint Peter says. “It says right here that he gave that little girl two cents.”

  “Mmm-hmm. Anything else?” God asks.

  “No sir,” Saint Peter says. “Those are the only two good deeds that man ever done for his neighbor.”

  God, he turns to that rich man and nods his head.

  “Son, I got have some bad news and some good news for you,” God says. “Bad news is that you are not coming in through these Pearly Gates. Good news is that you are going to get back your nickel. It is waiting for you down in Hell.”

  PRACTICE

  Camp Supply,

  Indian Territory

  September 1, 1872

  Dear Mother,

  I hope all is well. I am learning something new every day. I think I am well suited for this life, though I miss you and Pegatha very much.

  I have not heard from you for some time. I hope that Pegatha is continuing her studies with diligence. Diligence is the key, little sister.

  Pegatha, you do not need to read this paragraph to our mother. Please know I am counting on you to see that she takes care of herself. Our mother is always thinking of others so much that I fear she may neglect her own health and happiness. Please do this for me.

  Your loving brother and son,

  Washington

  “Can’t I hold the gun this way?” Wash asked.

  “No!” Sergeant Brown said, reaching down to adjust Wash’s hands on the rifle. “Show me a soldier with an original idea, I show you a man wants to be dead.” He pressed one palm on Wash’s back. “Down lower on your belly. That’s it. Prop up the rifle just so. And remember, breathe in once, then out, take careful aim, press and not jerk at the trigger, then pull through. But count to ten before you shoot. That way you make every shot count.”

  Count every shot, too, Wash thought.

  Unlike in the Great War of Emancipation, where the Union had more guns and ammunition than you could shake a stick at, the new army of the western frontier had to watch every penny. That was one reason why they had the new Springfield .45 carbines that fired just one shot at a time before you had to reload. The Spencer repeating carbines that the army had stopped using a year ago were the sort of guns that encouraged a soldier to waste bullets.

  As did the Indians, who wasted their bullets as freely as if they were water. Thanks to the whiskey traders and the gun runners, the Comanches and Kiowas, Arapahos and Cheyennes now owned not only much ammunition, but also all sorts of small arms left over from the war. They had .50 caliber Spencers that could fire seven shots before reloading and .44 caliber Winchesters and Henrys holding up to sixteen rounds.

  “When a passel of them well-armed Indians come charging at you with repeating rifles,” Josh had explained, “it is near like the Fourth of July. Bammity-bam, bam, bam.” Then Josh had let loose one of his deep throaty chuckles. “But most of them shots is fired so high you might think they were making war on the sky. Amongst our Indians, putting on a good show is more important than killing enemies. War’s more like playing tag than our idea of fighting. They would ten times rather hit you with one of their coup sticks or be the first to touch an enemy—live or dead—with their hand than put a bullet into him.”

  Wash thought about Josh’s words as he took careful aim again. Somehow they hadn’t reassured him that much. He had yet to see any sort of battle—unless you counted the war every man waged against the bedbugs and fleas that counted coup on the soldiers’ poor itchy carcasses every night. What would it really be like when someone was charging at him shooting a weapon that held ten times as many shots as his own? He held back a sigh. All he could do now was try to follow the sergeant’s instructions, especially with Brown leaning over his back and watching him like a hawk hovering over a henhouse.

  Breathe in, then out. Steady. Pull through.

  Pow! he felt the kick of the gun against his shoulder.

  “Good shot,” Sergeant Brown said in his preacher’s voice. “Son, you have got a good eye. Man who can hit the enemy with one shot from three hunnad yards away is a man who wins battles. Umm-hmmm. Even when outnumbered ten to one. Which we may expect to be.”

  Wash nodded without looking up as he reloaded. Out of the corner of his eye he could see the line of other men practicing. Most of them were doing like Wash and trying their best, even though he’d noted that no one was hitting the dead center as often as he was. One at the far end of the line, though, showed little interest in target practice, not even looking at the target when he pulled the trigger. Only when Sergeant Brown was watching did he make any real effort.

  Private Landrieu Jefferson.

  If he wasn’t valuable as the company bugler, Wash thought, I suspect he would be in the guardhouse right now.

  It was plain to everyone that Landrieu Jefferson had a lackadaisical attitude about everything except eating and drinking. The man was the biggest chow-mouth at the post, always wanting more than his share. There was one other thing he was good at: bragging about his conquests. The way he spoke about the ladies bothered Wash. Wash had been brought up by parents who demanded that he be a true gentleman and show respect for everyone, especially those of the fairer sex. No gentleman would ever say such things as Landrieu did, even if it was likely that the only women he had actually known were those he’d paid for their favors. But he had a fine opinion of himself and clearly imagined that others must feel only either admiration or envy when they saw him.

  You can see that in the way he behaves whenever he catches sight of Bethany, Wash thought. Acts as if he is the cock of the walk. Strutting and puffing his chest out.

  But Bethany had paid no mind to Private Landrieu Jefferson, aside from walking away from him—and patting her hair for some reason—whenever he came anywhere near her. The thought of that made Wash smile. Then he shook his head.

  Pay attention to what you are doing, Wash. You will be the kind of soldier Sergeant Brown wants you to be. Take every word he says as the gospel truth. Keep your mouth shut. Practice and then practice some more. And when the time comes, make every shot count.

  Wolf’s mother smiled as she and his sister cut up the big deer.

  He was tired. There was a good feeling inside him. There was enough meat on this deer to feed his family for a week. But it would not last that long. They would share its meat with those too old and weak to provide for themselves. During the days he had been gone, no rations had been given out. Wolf’s deer was the only food any of them would have for a while.

  “The ve’hoe soldiers are patrolling more often?” his mother asked.

  She and his sister pulled the skin from the deer. It made a popping noise as the hide separated from the muscles.

  Wolf nodded. “But their eyes are still blind.”

  His little sister laughed. “My brother is the best hunter. He is truly a wolf!”

  Wolf grinned back at her.

  But it is not as easy as I make it out to be. I came too close to being discovered by the bluecoats. But I must continue to take this risk. That is what it means to be a man. The life of a hunter or a defender of our people is never without danger.

  Wolf’s mother nodded.

  She always seems to know what I am thinking.

  “My son,” she said, amusement in her voice. “You’ve done well. You have come a long way from the first time when you went out to take horses. Remember?”

  Wolf nodded.

  It was just like his mother to mix teasing in with praise. She was reminding him to remain humble by bringing back that memory. />
  It was the first time he had tried. He did not do so alone. He went with his four best friends, Dirty Face, Skinny Legs, Cougher, and Eats Fat. They all agreed that he should lead their party. Even though he was the littlest of them, he was the best wrestler. He also had the best weapons. They assembled under the big cottonwood.

  “Now we go to take horses,” he had said to them. “Taking horses is an honorable thing to do. We must make our way quietly into the enemy camp. The owners of those horses are more numerous and stronger than us. They will be vigilant and keeping watch against thieves.”

  “Uh-huh,” Dirty Face said, nodding his head seriously.

  “It will not be easy,” Skinny Legs said.

  “If this was easy,” Wolf said, “it would not be worth doing. Accomplishing something hard makes people praise your success. When we were little children we heard stories told by our uncles and fathers. They told how they led raids on such enemies as the Pawnees and the Crows. They told how they sneaked in under the cover of dark. They cut the best horses from the herds. They vanished into the night with their prizes. How they did this?” Wolf paused. “Do you know the story of how Pawnee Killer got his best horse?”

  “Yes,” Eats Fat said.

  Skinny Legs glared at Eats Fat, motioning for him to be quiet. “Tell us the story,” Skinny Legs said.

  “Yes,” Cougher agreed. “Tell us.”

  Wolf nodded. “It was a great deed. Pawnee Killer crawled into the center of the Crow camp. There the leader of the Crow Warriors Society had his lodge. That man’s best horse was a beautiful broad-chested roan. It was tied to a rope that led right back to its sleeping owner’s wrist. Pawnee Killer undid that rope without waking the man. Then he fastened that rope to a large white dog sleeping next to the tipi. That was a great joke. It was also a sign of the power of his horse-taking medicine. To slip into a hostile camp