by Zane Grey
Thereafter Molly kept the conversation from personalities, and during the afternoon ride she talked at intervals and then watched the dim horizon receding always with its beckoning mystery.
Sunset time found Jett’s caravan descending a long gradual slope ending in a timbered strip that marked the course of a stream. Catlee pointed out two camps to Molly. White wagons stood out against the woodland, fires were twinkling, smoke was rising. The place appeared pleasant and sheltered. Jett drove across the stream, unhitched the horses, and he and Follonsbee watered them and filled the kegs while Pruitt and Catlee gathered firewood, which was tied on behind the wagons.
One of the campers below the crossing came out in the open to halloo at Jett, more in friendly salutation than otherwise. Jett did not reply. He lost no time hooking up traces and harness, and getting under way. He led on until nearly dark and halted at a low place where grass appeared abundant.
“Why didn’t my stepfather camp back there with the other outfits?” queried Molly as Catlee halted his team.
“Shore he’s not sociable, an’ he’s bent on travelin’ as far every day as possible,” replied the driver.
While Molly was busily engaged helping Mrs. Jett around the campfire, darkness settled down. Coyotes were yelping. A night wind rose, and, sweeping down into the shallow coulée, it sent the white sparks flying. The morose mood of the travelers persisted. After supper was over and the tasks were finished, Molly climbed to the seat of her wagon and sat there. It was out of earshot of the campfire. Jett’s wagon had been drawn up close beside the one she occupied. Heretofore camp had always been pitched in a sheltered place, in a grove or under the lea of a wooded hill. This site was not on the open prairie. The wind swept around and under the wagon, and it needed only a little more force to make it moan. But few stars lightened the cloudy sky. Lonesome, dismal, and forbidding, this prairie land increased Molly’s apprehensions. She tried not to think of the future. Always before, she had been dully resigned to a gray prospect. But now a consciousness grew that she could not go on forever like this, even if her situation did not grow worse. Of that, however, she had no doubt. Someone had told her that, when she was eighteen years old, she would be free to look out for herself. Yet even so, what could she do? She worked as hard for the Jetts as she would have to work for anyone else. Perhaps eventually she might get a place with a nice family like the Hudnalls. Suddenly the thought of Tom Doan flashed into her mind, and then of marriage. Her face burned. She hid it, fearful that even under cover of night someone might see her and read her thoughts. No use to try to repudiate them! She yearned for the companionship of women who would be kind to her, for a home, and for love.
These thoughts became torture for Molly, but only so long as she strove against them. She had awakened. She could not be deprived of her feelings and hopes. Then her habitual morbid brooding came to have a rival for the possession of her mind. When she went to bed that night, she felt not only the insidious inception of a revolt, but also a realization that strength was coming from somewhere, as if with the magic of their new thoughts.
* * * * *
Days passed—days that dragged on with the interminable riding over the widening prairie—with the monotony of camp tasks, and the relief of oblivion in sleep.
Molly always saw the sun rise and set, and these were the only incidents of the day in which she found pleasure. She had exhausted Catlee’s fund of stories, and his limited knowledge of the frontier. He was the only one in the outfit that she could or would talk to. Follonsbee was manifestly a woman-hater. Pruitt had twice approached her, agreeably enough, yet offensive through his appearance, and she had cut his overtures short. Mrs. Jett’s hawk’s eyes never failed to take note of any movement on her husband’s part in Molly’s direction, which notice finally had the effect of making Jett surlily aloof. Yet there was that in his look which made Molly shrink. As days and miles passed behind, Jett manifestly grew away from the character that had seemed to be his when Molly’s mother married him. Here in this environment, harshness and violence, and a subtle menace, appeared natural in him.
Not a day went by now that Jett did not overtake and pass an outfit of two or more wagons bound for the hunting fields. These he passed on the road or avoided at camping grounds. When, however, he met a freighter going out with buffalo hides, he always had spare time to halt and talk.
Jett pushed on. His teams were young and powerful, and he carried grain to feed them, thus keeping up their strength while pushing them to the limit. The gray rolling expanse of Indian Territory changed to the greener, more undulating and ridged vastness of the Panhandle of Texas. Where ten days before it had been unusual to cross one stream in a day’s travel, now they crossed several. All of these, however, were but shallow creeks or washes. The trees along these stream bottoms were green and beautiful, lending contrast to the waving level of the plains.
Molly conceived the idea that under happy circumstances she would have found a new joy and freedom in riding down into this wilderness.
* * * * *
One afternoon, earlier than usual, Jett turned for good off the road and, following a tree-bordered stream for a couple of miles, pitched camp on a thick grove, where his wagons and tents could not readily be seen. Evidently this was not to be the usual one-night stand. If it were possible for Jett to be leisurely, he was so on this occasion. After helping unpack the wagons, he gave orders to his men, and then, saddling one of the horses, he rode away under the trees.
It was dusk when he returned. Supper had been timed for his arrival. About him at this moment there was an expansion, an excitement, combined with bluff egotism. Molly anticipated what he announced in his big voice.
“Bunch of buffalo waterin’ along here. We’ve run into the stragglers. It’ll do to hang at this camp an’ hunt while we wait to see if the big herd runs north.”
The announcement did not create any particular interest in his comrades. No one shared Jett’s strong suppressed feeling. After supper he superintended the loading of shells and sharpening of knives, and the overlooking of the heavy rifles.
“The old needle gun for me!” he exclaimed. “Most hunters favor the Big Fifty.”
“Wal, the Fifty’s got it all over any other guns fer shootin’ buffs at close range,” responded Follonsbee.
“We might have to shoot some other critters at long range . . . redskins, for instance,” commented the leader sardonically.
Jett’s superabundant vitality and force could not be repressed on this occasion. Apparently the end of the long journey had been cause for elation and anticipation, and also for an indulgence in drink. Molly had known before that Jett was addicted to the bottle. Under its influence, however, he appeared less harsh and hard. It tempered the iron quality of him. Likewise it roused his latent sentimental proclivities. Molly had more than once experienced some difficulty in avoiding them. She felt, however, that she need not worry any more on this score, while Mrs. Jett’s jealous eyes commanded the scene. Still Mrs. Jett could not be everlastingly at hand.
It turned out that Molly’s fear was justified, for, not long after this very idea presented itself, Jett took advantage of his wife being in the wagon, or somewhere not visible, to approach Molly as she sat in the door of the wagon.
“Molly, I’m goin’ to be rich,” he said in low hoarse tone.
“Yes? That’ll be . . . good,” she replied, bending back a little from his heated face.
“Say, let’s get rid of the old woman,” he whispered. His eyes gleamed in the flickering firelight, with what seemed devilish humor.
“Who . . . what?” stammered Molly.
“You know. The wife.”
“Missus Jett! Get rid of her. . . . I . . . I don’t understand.”
“Wal, you’re thicker’n usual,” he continued, with a laugh. “Think it over.”
“Good night,” faltered Molly, and hurriedly slipped into her wagon, and tried with trembling fingers to lace up the flaps of the d
oor. Her head whirled. Was Jett merely drunk? Pondering over this incident, she was trying to convince herself that Jett meant no more than ill humor at his wife, when she heard him speak a name that made her heart leap.
“Hudnall, yes, I told you,” he said distinctly. “His outfit is somewhere in this neck of the woods. I saw his wheel tracks an’ horse tracks.”
“Wal, how do you know they’re Hudnall’s outfit?” queried Follonsbee.
“Huh! It’s my business to know tracks,” replied Jett significantly. “There’s two outfits camped below us. I saw horses an’ smoke.”
“Rand, if I was runnin’ this outfit, I wouldn’t hunt buffalo anywhere’s near Hudnall.”
“An’ why not?” demanded Jett.
“Say, you needn’t jump down my throat. I jest have an idee. Hudnall’s pardner, Pilchuck, is a plainsman, an’. . . .”
“Huh! I don’t care what the hell Pilchuck is,” retorted Jett, ending the discussion.
Chapter Six
Jett had chosen this secluded campsite as he had all the others on the way down into the buffalo country—to render his whereabouts less liable to discovery. Anyone hunting for camps along the river would have found him, but the outfits traveling casually by would not have been aware of his proximity.
Next morning he had everybody up at dawn and never had his dominating force been so manifest.
“Catlee, your job is hosses,” he said curtly. “Keep them on this side of the river. The road’s on the other side. You’ll find the best grass along this strip of timber. Sometime today I’ll ride in an’ help you hitch up to haul hides.”
To his wife he gave a more significant order. “Jane, I don’t want any fire burnin’ except when I’m in camp with the men. You an’ Molly keep your eyes open, an’, if you see Indians or anybody, slip off in the brush an’ hide.”
With that he rode off accompanied by Follonsbee and Pruitt. Manifestly the hunt was on.
Molly, despite apprehension at the possibility of Indians, was glad to see the buffalo hunters ride away; from what she had heard, this hide hunting was an exceedingly strenuous business, consuming all of the daylight hours and half of the night. She had accepted her stepmother’s sulky aloofness, finding relief also in that. The work given her to do she performed speedily and thoroughly. Then with a book and her sewing she slipped away from camp into the dense growth of underbrush.
By taking time she threaded a way without undue difficulties, and finally came out upon a beautiful grass-covered and flower-dotted bank above the stream. The place delighted her. The camp was within call, yet might have been miles away; the brush leaned over the fragrant shady nook, and above spread the giant elms; the stream widened here at a turn and formed a pool, the only one she had seen on the ride. A wide strip of sand ran along the opposite slope. On that side the wood appeared open and led gently up to the plain. Molly could see the bright skyline barred by black trunks of trees. The road ran along the edge of the timber, and, if any travelers passed, she could see them. What would she do if she recognized the Hudnall outfit? The very thought made her tremble. Perhaps such hope dominated her watching there. For the rest she could have hours alone, to think and dream, or to sew and read, and all the time she could see everything opposite her without being seen herself.
It did not take long for her to discover that this place had much to distract her from meditation or work. Suddenly it awoke in her a feeling that she did not know she possessed. Solitude she had always yearned for, but beauty and Nature, the sweetness of sylvan scene and melody of birds, as slowly revealed to her, had not heretofore been part of her experience. They seemed strangely harmonious with the vague and growing emotion in her heart.
Molly did not read or sew. Wild canaries and song sparrows and swamp blackbirds were singing all around her. A low melodious hum of many bees came from the flowering brush above. Somewhere under the bank water was softly rippling. A king-fisher flew swiftly downstream, glinting in the sunlight. At the bend of the stream, on a jutting sandbar, stood a heron, motionless and absorbed, gazing down into the water. The warm fragrant air seemed to float drowsily toward her.
The peace and music of this scene were abruptly dispelled by crashing, thudding sounds from the slope opposite. Molly gazed across. Shaggy dark forms were passing from the open plain down into the woods.
“Oh . . . buffalo!” cried Molly, at once delighted and frightened. Her heart came into her throat. Gathering up her book and sewing, she was about to answer to the instinct to run when it occurred to her that she was on a steep bank high above the stream, out of danger. She decided to stand her ground. Sinking low behind a fringe of grass and flowers, she peeped over it, with bated breath and wide eyes.
Everywhere along the skyline of the wooded slope she saw the dark forms, not in a thick troop, but straggling in twos and threes. Lower down, the foremost buffalo appeared, scattering dead leaves and raising the dust. A hundred yards below Molly the first buffalo came out of the woods upon the sand and crossed it to drink. Then gradually the line of bobbing brown humps emerged from the trees and grew closer and closer to Molly until she began to fear they would come right opposite to her. What wild shaggy ox-like beasts! If she had been fearful at first, she now grew frightened. Yet the wonder and majesty of these buffalo were not lost upon her. On they crashed out of the woods. She heard the splashing of the water. Like cattle at a long trough they lined up to the stream and bent huge woolly black heads.
“If any come close . . . I’m going to run,” whispered Molly to herself.
It did not appear, however, that she would have to resort to flight. The line of buffalo halted some fifty yards below her position. Thus she managed to avert utter panic, and, as the moments passed, her fear began to subside. Suddenly they were altogether dispelled. A number of buffalo broke ranks and turned again to the woods, leaving open spaces where tawny little buffalo calves could be seen. Molly experienced a feeling of utmost pleasure. All her life on the farm she had loved the little calves. These were larger, very wild-looking, fuzzy and woolly, very light in color, and did not appear, like the calves she had seen, weak and wobbly in their legs. These young animals were strong and nimble. Some left their mothers’ sides and frisked along the sand a little way, in an unmistakable playfulness, yet unlike any play Molly had ever seen. They lifted themselves off their front hoofs and gave their heads a turning, butting movement, quite agile, and nothing if not aggressive. Then they fled back to their mothers. Only a few of these calves drank from the stream and they did not appear thirsty, as did the matured buffalo. Gradually the ranks thinned, and then the last of the grown buffalo turned to the slope. The calves, though loath to leave that enchanting spot, did not tarry long behind. The herd leisurely trooped up the slope and disappeared.
To Molly it did not seem possible that she had actually seen buffalo close at hand. The reality was strikingly different from the impression she had gathered. Huge beasts, yet not ugly or mean. They seemed as tame as cattle. Certainly if unmolested they would never harm anyone. Suddenly the bang of heavy guns rang from far over the slope.
“Oh, Jett and his hunters!” she exclaimed in quick comprehension. “They are killing the buffalo!”
Not until that moment had the actual killing of buffalo—the meaning of it—crossed Molly’s mind. Bang-bang-bang came the shots. They made her shrink. Those splendid beasts were being killed for their hides. Somehow it seemed base. What would become of the little calves? There dawned in Molly’s mind an aversion to this hide hunting. If the meat was to be used, even given to the hungry people of the world, then the slaughter might be condoned. But just to sell the hides!
“Tom Doan is a hide hunter, too,” she soliloquized. “Oh, I’m sorry. . . . He looked so nice and kind. . . . I guess I . . . I don’t care much about him.”
It really was a serious matter to a woman what a man’s vocation happened to be. Molly recalled that one of the troubles between her mother and Jett had been his hatred of fa
rm labor. Manifestly this hunting buffalo was to his liking, and perhaps he did not call it work.
Thus the incident of the buffalo coming down to drink had upset Molly’s short period of revel in the sylvan place. Even when the muddy water cleared out of the stream, and the dust clouds disappeared from the woods, and the melody of birds and bees was renewed, Molly did not recover the happy trend of feeling. Realization of the fact that Tom Doan was a hide hunter had spoiled everything. Molly tried to read, and, failing that, she took up her sewing, which occupation had the virtue of being both necessity and pastime. For an hour or more the bang-bang of guns upon the plain above disturbed her. These reports appeared to get farther and farther away, and she could not hear them any more.
Some time after this, when she was returning to the dreamy mood, she heard a crashing of brush opposite and below her. Listening and peering in this direction, where the wood was thicker, she waited expectantly for buffalo to appear. It made Molly nervous to become aware that these crashings were approaching a point directly opposite her. A growth of willows bordered the bank here, preventing her from seeing what might be there.
Then she heard heavy puffs—the breaths of a large beast. They sounded almost like the mingled panting and coughing of an animal strangling, or unable to breathe right.
Another crash very close sent cold chills over Molly. But she had more courage than on the first occasion. She saw the willows shake, and then spread wide to emit an enormous black head and hump of a buffalo. Molly seemed to freeze there where she crouched. This buffalo looked wild and terrible. He was heaving. A bloody froth was dripping from his extended tongue. His great head rolled from side to side. As he moved again, with a forward lurch, Molly saw that he was crippled. The left front leg hung broken, and flopped as he plunged in the water. On his left shoulder there was a bloody splotch.
