Buffalo Stampede

by Zane Grey

  Hudnall called the two younger men from their task of shoeing the horse. Both appeared under thirty, stocky fellows, but there the resemblance ended.

  “Burn, shake hands with Tom Doan,” said Hudnall heartily. “An’ you, too, Stronghurl. . . . Doan is goin’ to throw in with us.”

  Both men greeted Tom with the cordial goodwill and curiosity natural to an event of importance to them. It was evident that Burn, from his resemblance to Hudnall, was a son. Stronghurl had as remarkable a physiognomy as his name, and somehow they fitted each other.

  “Burn, you’ll take Doan with your wagon,” said Hudnall. “That fills our outfit, an’ we’ll be pullin’ tomorrow for the Panhandle. . . . Hey, you womenfolk,” he called toward the wagons, “come out an’ meet my new man!”

  The stout woman left off washing at the tub and came forward, wiping her red hands on her apron. She had a serious face that lighted with a smile.

  “Wife, this is Tom Doan,” went on Hudnall, and next in order he presented Tom to Burn’s wife, who Tom recognized as the young woman he had seen in the wagon. Last to emerge was a girl of eighteen or thereabouts, sister of Burn, and manifestly Hudnall’s pride. She was of large frame, pleasant-faced, and she had roguish eyes that took instant stock of Tom.

  Thus almost before he could realize his good fortune, Tom found himself settled with people of his own kind, who he liked on sight. Moreover, Hudnall had the same pioneer urge that possessed Tom, and the fact that Pilchuck, an old buffalo hunter, was to accompany them down into Texas, just about made the deal perfect. To be sure Tom had not mentioned wages or shares, but he felt that he could safely trust Hudnall.

  “Where’s your pack?” inquired Burn. “An’ what have you got in the way of outfit?”

  “I left it at the station,” replied Tom. “Not much of an outfit. A bag of clothes and a valise.”

  “Nary horse or gun. Have you any money?” went on Burn with cheerful interest.

  “I’ve two hundred dollars.”

  “Good. Soon as we get this horse shod I’ll go uptown with you.”

  “Well, son,” spoke up Hudnall, “I reckon Tom had better let Pilchuck buy gun an’ horse, an’ what else he needs.”

  “Humph!” ejaculated Mrs. Hudnall. “If I know men, you’ll all have a say about horses an’ guns.”

  “Mister Doan, wouldn’t you like me to help you pick out that horse?” inquired Burn’s sister mischievously.

  “Why, yes,” replied Tom, joining in the laugh. “I’d like you all to help . . . so long as I get one I can ride.”

  The women returned to their tasks while Hudnall went off with Pilchuck toward the town. Left to his own devices Tom presently joined Burn and Stronghurl who were not having any easy job shoeing the horse. It was a spirited animal.

  “Doan, would you mind fetchin’ that bay horse back?” asked Burn presently, pointing toward the other side of the grove, where several canvas-covered wagons gleamed among the trees.

  Tom picked up a halter and strode away under the trees, at once pleasantly preoccupied with thoughts of the most satisfying nature. He came up with the bay horse, which he found eating out of a girl’s hand. Tom saw and heard other people close by, but he did not notice them particularly. Intent on the horse he did not take a second glance at the girl, until she spoke.

  “I’ve caught your horse twice today,” she said.

  “Much obliged. But he’s not mine,” replied Tom, and, as he put the halter over the neck of the animal, he looked at the girl.

  Her eyes met his. They were large, black as midnight, and they gazed up from a face almost as dark as an Indian’s. Her hair was brown and appeared to have a sheen of light upon it.

  Tom’s glance became what hers was—steady, almost a stare without consciousness, a look of depth and gravity for which neither was responsible. It was the first strange meeting of eyes of a man and a woman destined to love each other.

  Then Tom withdrew his glance and attended to knotting the halter. Yet he could see her still. She was of medium height, neither robust nor heavy, yet giving an impression of unusual strength and suppleness for a girl. She was young. Her dress of homespun material looked the worse for wear.

  “He’s a pretty horse,” she said, patting the sleek nose.

  “Yes, he is. I hope the horse I’ve got to buy will be like him,” replied Tom.

  “Are you a buffalo killer, too?” she inquired in quicker tone.

  “I expect to be.”

  “Molly,” called a gruff voice, “you’re not a hoss thief, an’ you’re not makin’ up with strangers!”

  Tom turned hastily to see a big man looming across the campfire. He wore a leather apron and carried a hammer in his brawny hand. It was impossible that this blond giant could be the girl’s father. Even in that moment of surprise and annoyance Tom felt glad of this conviction. The man’s face bore a thin yellow beard that could not hide its coarseness and brutality. He had bright, hard blue eyes.

  “Excuse me,” said Tom stiffly. “I had to come after Mister Hudnall’s horse.” Then, turning to the girl, he thanked her. This time her eyes were cast down. Tom abruptly started off, leading the animal.

  It did not occur to him that there was anything significant about the incident, except a little irritation at the coarse speech and appearance of the blond man. Nevertheless, that part of it slipped from his mind, and the vague somehow pleasurable impression of the girl persisted until the serious and thrilling business of choosing horse and gun precluded all else.

  The fact that Hudnall and his men left off work, and Pilchuck insisted on being the arbiter of these selections, attested to the prime importance with which they regarded the matter. Hudnall argued with Pilchuck that he knew the merits of horses as well as the latter knew guns.

  So they journeyed into town, up the dusty motley-crowded street, rubbing elbows with Indians, soldiers, hunters, scouts, teamsters, men who bore the stamp of evil life upon their lean faces, and women with the eyes of hawks. Pilchuck knew almost everybody, it seemed. He pointed out many border celebrities to Tom’s keen interest. One was Colonel Jones, a noted plainsman, who in the near future was to earn the sobriquet Buffalo Jones, not like his contemporary Buffalo Bill, for destroying buffalo, but for preserving calves to form the nucleus of a herd. Another, and the most striking figure of a man Tom had ever seen, was Wild Bill, perhaps the most noted of all frontiersmen. He was a superb giant of a man, picturesquely clad, straight as an Indian, with a handsome face, still, intense, wonderful in its expression of the wild spirit that had made him great. Tom thought he had never before seen such penetrating alert eyes. Pilchuck mentioned casually that not long since, Wild Bill had fought and killed twelve men in a dugout cabin on the plains. Bill got shot and cut to pieces, but recovered. Tom was far from being a tenderfoot, yet he gaped at these strange heroic men, and thrilled to his depths. Seeing them face to face, stimulated and liberated something deep in him.

  The supply store where Pilchuck conducted Tom and the others was full of purchasers, and except for absence of liquors in bottles it resembled a border barroom. It smelled of tobacco in bulk, and Tom saw shelves and stacks of plug tobacco in such enormous quantity, that he marveled to Hudnall.

  “Golly, man, we gotta have chaw tobacco,” replied that worthy.

  A counter littered with a formidable array of guns and knives appeared to be Pilchuck’s objective point.

  “We want a Big Fifty,” he said to the clerk.

  “There’s only one left an’ it ain’t new,” replied the individual as he picked up a heavy gun.

  It was a .50-caliber Sharps rifle. Pilchuck examined it, and then handed it over to Tom. “I’ve seen better Big Fifties, but it’ll do for a while. . . . Next you want a belt an’ all the cartridges you can lug, an’ both rippin’ an’ skinnin’ knives.”

  When these purchases were made, Tom had indeed about all he could carry. Hudnall then ordered the supplies needed for his outfit, and, when that was accomplished
, Pilchuck led them down the street to the outskirts of town where there was a corral full of dusty, vicious, kicking horses. It took an hour for Pilchuck and Hudnall to agree on a horse that Tom could ride. Having been a farm hand all his days Tom was a good horseman, but he was not a bronco buster. Finally the selection was made of horse, saddle, bridle, blanket, and spurs. When this purchase was paid for, Tom laughed at the little money he had left.

  “Things come high, an’ they ain’t worth it,” complained Pil-chuck. “But we haven’t any choice. That’s a good horse . . . young enough, strong, easy gait, but he never saw a buffalo.”

  “What of that?” asked Tom with a little check to his elation.

  “Nothin’. Only the first buffalo he sees will decide a lot.”

  Tom regarded this rather ambiguous remark with considerable misgiving, and made a mental note of it, so he would not forget.

  What with their purchases, and Tom’s baggage, which they got at the station, the party had about all they could take back to camp. The afternoon then was a busy one for all concerned. Tom changed his clothes, donned rough garb and heavy boots, suitable to life in the open. The change was not made without perception of an indefinable shifting in his spirit. He was about to face the perils of the frontier, and serious and thoughtful as he endeavored to make himself, he could not repress an eager wild response. He tried out his horse, which he named Dusty, because at that time nothing but a bath could have removed the dust from him. Dusty gave a creditable performance, and won the approval of all save Pilchuck. Hudnall, and his daughter Sally, particularly liked the horse. Tom saw that he could sell or trade at his discretion, and so for the time was well pleased.

  The rest of the afternoon he spent helping Burn Hudnall arrange and pack the big wagon that was to transport their precious outfit and later, out on the plains, haul the hides they expected to get.

  “I was tellin’ Father I’d like to pick up a boy somewhere,” said Burn.

  “What for?” inquired Tom. “We can take care of this outfit.”

  “Sure, for the present. But when we get out among the buffalo, we’ll need someone to drive the wagon an’ keep camp while we chase an’ kill an’ skin buffalo.”

  “I see. Then the idea will be a main camp kept by your father, and the rest of us in pairs with wagons and outfits will range all over?”

  “I reckon that’s Pilchuck’s idea. From what I can gather there’ll be a lot of hustlin’ an’ movin’ when we strike the herds of buffalo.”

  “I should think it’d be a chase with no time for camp,” said Tom.

  “Reckon so. Anyways we’re bound to know soon,” replied Burn grimly.

  At sunset Tom heard the cheery call of the womenfolk to supper, and he was not far behind Burn in getting to the table, which was a canvas spread on the ground. They all appeared hungry. Hudnall loaded his tin plate, filled his cup, and then repaired to the wagon, and set his supper upon the seat. He was too big to squat on the ground, cross-legged and Indian fashion, but his stature enabled him to stand and eat from the wagon seat. Pil-chuck, too, had his peculiar habit. He set his plate down, and knelt on one knee to eat.

  They were all excited, except Pilchuck, and though this in no wise detracted from a satisfying of hunger, it lent a sparkle and jollity to the occasion. Tom was not solitary in having cut away from the humdrum of settled communities, and in cherishing dreams of untrammeled country and future home and prosperity.

  After supper he again walked into the town, purposely going alone. He did not pry into his reason. This third visit to the main street did not satisfy his vague longing, whatever it was, and he retraced his steps campward.

  When he reached the end of the street, passers-by became scarce, and for that reason more noticeable. But Tom did not pay attention to anyone until he heard a girl’s voice. It came from behind him and had a note of annoyance, even anger. A man’s reply, too low and husky for coherence, made Tom turn quickly.

  A young woman, carrying a heavy parcel, was approaching a step or two in advance of a man. It required only a glance to see that she was trying to get away from him.

  Tom strode to meet her, and recognized the girl with whom he had exchanged words at the camp adjoining Hudnall’s. Not until he saw her closely was he certain that something was amiss. Moreover the man had halted some steps beyond.

  “Is that fellow bothering you?” demanded Tom.

  “He insulted me,” she replied.

  Tom broke into swift strides toward this individual. “Say, you!” he called forcibly. But the man hurried away, at a pace that would have necessitated running to catch him.

  “Never mind. Let him go,” said the girl, with a little laugh of relief.

  Returning to the girl, Tom said: “This town is full of ruffians. You should not have come in alone.”

  “I know. It’s happened before. I was not afraid . . . but I’m glad you happened along.”

  “That package looks heavy. Let me carry it,” offered Tom.

  “Thank you, I can manage very well,” she returned.

  But he took it away from her and, in so doing, touched her hand. The effect on Tom was sudden and profound. For the moment it destroyed his naturalness.

  “Well . . . I . . . it is heavy . . . for a girl,” he said awkwardly.

  “Oh, I’m very strong,” she rejoined.

  Then their eyes met again, as they had when Tom had reached for the horse and looked at her. Only this time it seemed vastly different. She looked away, across the open toward the grove where fires gleamed in the gathering twilight. Then she moved. Tom fell into step beside her. He wanted to talk, but seemed unable to think of anything to say. This meeting was not an ordinary incident. He could not understand himself. He wanted to ask her about who she was, where she was going, what relation she bore to the rude man. Yet not a word could he utter. He could have spoken, surely, if he had not been concentrating on the vagueness and uncertainty of himself.

  Before they had quite reached the edge of the grove, she stopped and confronted him. “Thank you,” she said softly. “I’ll carry it now.”

  “No. We’re still some distance from your camp.”

  “Yes . . . that’s why,” she returned haltingly. “You must not go with me. . . . He . . . my stepfather, you heard him. I. . . I can’t tell you more.”

  Tom did not yield up the parcel with very good grace. “I may never see you again!” he burst out.

  She did not answer, but, as she relieved him of the package, she looked up, straight and clear, into his face. Her eyes held him. In them he read the same thought he had just exclaimed aloud.

  “What’s your name?” he asked suddenly. “I’m Tom Doan.”

  “Margaret Fayre . . . Molly,” she found voice to reply. Then she bade him good night and, turning away, vanished in the gloom of the grove.

  Not until she was gone did Tom awake to a realization that this chance meeting, apparently so natural on her part and kindly on his, just an incident of travel, two strangers exchanging a few civilities, was the most significant and appealing and thought-provoking experience of his life. Why had he not detained her, just a moment, to ask for the privilege of seeing her again? Still he could see her tomorrow. That last look of her big black eyes—what did it mean? His mind revolved many useless questions. He found a seat at the edge of the grove and there he pondered. Night came, dark and cool. The stars shone. Behind him sounded the crackle of campfires, and the voices of men, and the munch of horses on their grain.

  A strange thing had happened to him, but what was it? A girl’s eyes, a few words, a touch of hands! Had they been the cause of this sudden melancholy one moment and inexplicable exaltation the next, and his curiosity about her, and this delving into himself? But he did not call it silly or foolish. Tom was twenty-four years old, yet this condition of mind was new. Perhaps the thrill, the excitement of the prospects ahead had communicated themselves to an otherwise trivial incident. This thought, however, he ridiculed. Every mome
nt of his musing tended toward consciousness of a strange dreamy sweetness inspired by this girl.

  Chapter Three

  When Tom roused next morning to Burn Hudnall’s cheery call he found that he had slept later than usual for him. He rolled out of his bed of blankets under the wagon and, pulling on his boots, and washing his face and hands, was ready for breakfast and the eventful day.

  The sun had just risen above the eastern horizon. West and southwest the rolling prairie land shone green and gold under the bright morning light. Near at hand horses and cattle grazed. Far down the clearly defined road canvas-covered wagons gleamed white. Some of the buffalo hunters were already on their way. Tom stood a moment, watching and thinking, as he drew a deep full breath of the fresh crisp air, feeling that whatever lay in store for him beyond the purple horizon—adventure, hardship, fortune—he was keen to face it.

  While at breakfast Tom suddenly remembered his meeting with the girl, Molly. In the broad light of day he did not feel quite the same as in the gloaming of last night. Yet a sweetness stole pervadingly upon him. Glancing through the grove toward the camp where the first meeting with her had taken place, he missed the white wagons. That end of the grove was empty. The wagons were gone—and with them the girl. Tom experienced a blankness of thought, then a sense of loss, and a twinge of regret. After this moment he thoughtfully went on eating his breakfast. Nothing was to come of the meeting. Still, her people were buffalo hunters, too, and somewhere down in that wild country he might see her again. What a forlorn hope! Yet by cherishing it he reconciled himself to the fact that she was gone.

  After breakfast his curiosity led him to walk over to where her camp had been, and he trailed the wagon tracks out into the road, seeing that they headed toward the southwest. His grain of comfort gathered strength.

  “Our neighbors pulled out early,” he remarked, halting where Pilchuck and Hudnall were packing.

  “Long before sunup,” replied Hudnall. “Did you hear them, Jude?”

  “Huh! They’d wake the dead,” growled Pilchuck. “Reckon Randall Jett had his reason for pullin’ out.”