Buffalo Stampede

by Zane Grey

  “Jett, did you tell your woman you wanted to get rid of her . . . so’s you could have your black-eyed wench?” demanded the little Rebel, with all his insolent meanness. “You shore told us . . . an’ you wasn’t so orful drunk.”

  The woman seemed to tower and her face grew black.

  “I didn’t!” yelled Jett.

  Wordlessly the woman turned to question these accusers.

  “Jett’s a lyin’ yellow skunk,” declared Pruitt. “He shore meant to give the girl your place. ’Course, he wouldn’t give her to me or Hank heah.”

  “It’s true,” corroborated Follonsbee. “It’s Jett an’ not us who’s lyin’. . . . Why, I wouldn’t lie to save both your dirty lives.”

  That convinced the woman, and she turned on Jett with incoherent fury. He tried to yell a break into her tirade, and not till he had seized her in brutal hands, to shake her as if she had been a rat, did she stop. Then, after a pause, in which she glared at him with the hate of a jade, she panted: “I’ll put . . . that little hussy’s eyes out. . . .an’ Rand Jett . . . you’ll never . . . get a dollar of this hide money!”

  “Shut up or I’ll mash your jaw!” he shouted hoarsely.

  “Haw! Haw!” laughed Follonsbee, in glee that seemed only in his tones. He did not move hand or foot.

  “Jett, I’m shore hopin’ we can leave you to this heah sweet lady,” cut in Pruitt. “For you deserve it. But I’m feared your bull-headedness will aboot force our deal. . . . Once more an’ last time, damn you . . . will you divvy hide money, outfit, an’ supplies, as you agreed?”

  “Naw, I won’t,” declared Jett fiercely. He looked a driven man, and strangely his gaze of hate was for the woman and not the man who menaced him.

  “Then we’ll take all!” flashed Pruitt ringingly.

  In violent shock Jett wheeled to face Pruitt, at last with comprehension. What he saw turned his skin white back of his yellow beard. His large, hard, bright blue eyes suddenly fixed in wild stare on Pruitt. And he began to shake. Suddenly he dove for his rifle.

  Molly’s gaze had been riveted on Jett. Dimly she had seen Pruitt, but not to note look or action. Her fascinated spell broke to a horror of what was coming. Swiftly she dropped down to cover and wrap her head in the blankets of her bed. Tightly she pulled them over ears and eyes, and twisted and rolled. And deep concussions seemed to beat at her brain. The wagon lurched. The blackness that enveloped her was not all from the blankets. Her senses seemed whirling dizzily. Then heart, pulse, thought returned to a degree of discrimination.

  She listened. There was no sound she could discern while under the folds of blankets. She was suffocating. She threw them off. Then, fearfully she lay there. All was still. No sound! A low thunder of stampeding buffalo floated across the river. Molly listened for voices. The camp appeared deserted. Had these men run off into the breaks? Sullen, sousing splashes in the river under the bank transfixed her into blank icy horror. Something was ended. She could only wait, lying there in a tremble.

  Suddenly she heard a soft step close to the wagon. Then Catlee’s hat and face appeared over the side. He looked down at her with eyes the like of which Molly had never seen in a human.

  “Lass, it’s half over, but the worst’s to come,” he whispered, and with dark gray gleaming gaze on her, bright, almost a smile, he dropped down out of her sight. He had not seen her desperation. He had not appealed to her to bear up under this tragedy. His look, his whisper had made of her a comrade, brave to stand the outcome. Likewise they were a warning for herself to interpret, suggestion of his part to be in this terrible affair. They strung Molly’s nerves to high tension. What might her part be? Compared to this experience, the West had dealt to women fatality and catastrophe that dwarfed hers. Life was sweet, never more so than at that moment, when memory of Tom Doan flashed back to her. She felt the grim and somber presence of death; she felt the imminence of further developments, sinister, harrowing, revolving more around her. Must she surrender to her emotions? Molly bit and choked them back. She needed all the strength, will, nerve possible to a woman and in her extremity, with a racked heart and unseeing eyes on the cottonwoods above, she propelled her spirit with the thought of Tom Doan, and so roused supreme to endure or achieve anything.

  Low voices changed the current of her mind. Some persons, at least two, were returning from the riverbank. Molly sat up, to look over the wagon side. Follonsbee and Pruitt were entering the camp clearing. Neither Jett nor the woman was to be seen. Molly suffered no shock; she had not expected to see them. Pruitt was wet and muddy to his hips.

  “ . . . shore may as well stay heah an’ hunt hides, same as the other outfits,” he was saying.

  “I’m ag’in’ stayin’,” replied Follonsbee.

  “Wal, we won’t argue aboot it. Shore I ain’t carin’ much one way or other,” responded Pruitt.

  They reached the campfire, the burned-out sticks of which Pruitt kicked with a wet boot. Follonsbee held his hands over the heat, though they could not have been chilled. The morning was warm. Molly saw his hands quivering very slightly.

  “Shore we ought to have got that job off our hands long ago,” said Pruitt. “Wal, Hank, heah’s my idee. Let’s pull out, ford the river below, an’ strike for the Brazos. There’s buffalo, an’ this main herd won’t be long comin’.”

  “Suits me good,” responded the other, in relief. “Now let’s have everythin’ clear. We’ve shared the hide money Jett’s woman had. How about the rest of this outfit?”

  “Same way, share an’ share alike.”

  “Ahuh. The deal’s made. Shake on it,” said Follonsbee, extending his hand.

  Pruitt met it halfway with his own.

  “Hank, we stuck together for aboot two years, an’ I reckon we’re a good team.”

  “How about the girl?” suddenly demanded Follonsbee.

  Their backs were turned to Molly, who heard their query with the sharp ears of expectation. She was fortified by her own resolve and the still hidden presence of Catlee.

  “Wal, if I didn’t forgit aboot our black-eyed wench!” ejaculated Pruitt, slapping his leg.

  “Toss you for her . . . or cut the cards?” asked Follonsbee, with his sleek narrow beak-like head lowered.

  “No, you won’t. You’re shore too lucky. . . . We’ll share the girl same as the rest of the outfit.”

  “All right. It’ll be a two-man outfit, half of everythin’ for each . . . even the girl. Then we can’t squabble. . . . But say we forgot Catlee. Where the hell’s he been?”

  “Reckon he was scared. Mebbe he’s runnin’ yet.”

  “Nope. I tell you, Andy, your hate of Yanks has got you figgerin’ this Catlee wrong,” protested Follonsbee.

  “That farm hand,” retorted Pruitt, with infinite disgust.

  “Farm hand nothin’,” replied the other bluntly. “I don’t know what he is, but he’s got me figgerin’. . . . We’d better give him a hoss an’ pack, an’ turn him loose.”

  Pruitt pondered this suggestion for a moment, and then somberly shook his head. That idea did not appeal to him, while at the same time it manifestly introduced another and uncertain element into the situation.

  Molly heard quick rustling footsteps behind her wagon and a flash of fire sped over her as Catlee appeared around the wagon, with a gun leveled low in his right hand.

  Follonsbee saw him first and let out a startled exclamation. Pruitt jerked up. Then he froze.

  “Howdy, men,” was Catlee’s greeting, in voice these companions evidently had never heard him use before.

  Follonsbee uttered a gasp of amazed conviction. “Andy! I told you!”

  Pruitt scarcely moved a muscle, unless in the flicker of an eyelash. He did not change expression. He hissed out: “Who’n hell are you now?” That was his swift acceptance of Follonsbee’s reiterated hints.

  “Small matter,” replied Catlee, as warily, with weapon quiver-ingly extended, he sheered around squarely in front of Pruitt, “but if it’d plea
se you to be acquainted with me at this late day . . . you can bow to Sam Davis.”

  “Ahuh! Late pard of the Youngers,” retorted Follonsbee, going white in the face.

  “Reckon I’m used to hard company,” whipped out Catlee stingingly, “but never yet took to sharin’ innocent little girls!”

  Pruitt suffered no suggestion of Follonsbee’s weakening to the power of a name, whatever it was. The leveled weapon, covering him and his comrade, was the great factor in his reaction. Not for the slightest fraction of a second did he take his dancing, furious gaze from Catlee. The uselessness of more words seemed marked in his almost imperceptible gathering of muscular force. All the power of sight and mind was transfixed on Catlee’s eyes, to read there the intent that preceded action. He chose an instant, probably the one in which Catlee decided, and like a flash threw his gun.

  As it left his hip and snapped, Catlee’s gun crashed. The force of the bullet knocked Pruitt flat.

  “Hur-ry Hank!” he yelled, in fierce wild tone of terrible realization, and, flinging the empty weapon he had forgotten to load, he lurched like a crippled panther to get his hands on Jett’s rifle.

  Molly saw only the intrepid Pruitt, but she heard Catlee’s second shot, and the sodden thud of Follonsbee falling. He made no outcry. Pruitt’s actions were almost too swift to follow—so swift that Catlee missed him, as with spasmodic dive he grasped and carried Jett’s rifle over the mess box. Up he sprang, grotesque, misshapen, yet wonderfully agile, to discharge the heavy rifle even as he received Catlee’s fire squarely in his chest. Staggering backward, he dropped the weapon, his arms spread, and he seemed falling step by step. An awful blankness blotted out the ferocity of his crooked face. Step by step—he fell backward over the bank into the river. A sounding splash followed his disappearance.

  Molly’s set gaze wavered. A silence intervened. Her lungs seemed to expand. The appalling fixity of her attention broke with a shock, and she looked for Catlee. He lay on the ground beside the campfire. His hand twitched—released the smoking gun. Molly leaped out of the wagon and ran to him. She knelt.

  His hat was off, his face vague, changing. The gray storm of his eyes seemed fading.

  “Oh . . . oh . . . Catlee!” cried Molly poignantly.

  “Good luck,” he whispered. His lips set, his eyelids fluttered—all his body quivered to a relaxation. He had been shot through the breast.

  “My God . . . how awful! He’s dead! They’re all dead. I’m left . . . alone. . . . It’s over. . . . Brave Catlee . . . oh, he saved me. . . . But what can I do? I. . . .”

  Molly’s outburst was silenced by the shrill neigh of one of the horses hitched to the wagon. It was a neigh that heralded sight or scent of another horse. Wild and sharp then pealed out a whistling answer from across the river.

  Molly bounded erect to peer out under the cottonwoods, thrilling with joy. But her joy sustained a bewildering check, and it died when steadier glance revealed mounted Indians riding down into the river. For one moment Molly stared, biting her fingers in her horror, then the spirit born of these trying hours ran through her like a white flame, and, climbing to the seat of the wagon, she whipped up the reins.

  Her instinct was to escape. She had no time to think of a better way. And the horses, restive, not wholly recovered from fright, needed no urging. They broke into trot, dragging the saddled horses behind the wagon. Out of the clearing, into the breaks they went, and were hard to hold. Road there was none, but a wide lane of crushed weeds and brush marked where Jett had driven the wagon in, and later had ridden to and fro on horseback. The team followed it and they crashed through the bending clumps of brush that hung over it, and bumped over logs. Branches of trees struck Molly as she passed, blinding her for a moment. When she could see clearly again, the horses were no longer in the lane through the brush. They had swerved to one side or the other, she did not know which. But she kept her sense of direction: to the right was downriver, and to the left was the prairie, the main herd of buffalo, and the camps of the hunters.

  She must get out in the open quickly. If the Indians had not heard her drive away, there would be a little time before they would strike out on her trail through the breaks.

  “Oh, I forgot,” she cried. “They heard the horse neigh.” And with a sinking of her daring spirit, she let the horses have free rein. They quickened their gait, but showed no sign of bolting. They wanted to get out of that jungle, and they broke a path through thickets, over rotten logs, and under matted hanging vines. Molly had all she could do to keep from being torn from her seat.

  They got by the worst of the breaks. Molly saw light ahead low down through the trees, but it seemed to be in the wrong direction. She should turn more to the left. Her efforts to head the iron-jawed team in that direction were unavailing. They kept to a straight course, out into the light. But this open had deceived Molly, and probably the horses, also. It was a wide bare strip of sand where a tributary of the Pease flowed in wet season. Here the horses slowed to dragging walk, yet soon crossed the open, to enter the breaks again.

  Here in the shade and dust, and the mêlée of threshing brush around her face, Molly lost all sense of the right direction. She realized her peril, yet did not despair. Something had always happened; it would happen to save her again.

  Suddenly a crashing of brush in front of her stopped her heart. She almost fell back into the wagon. A huge brown buffalo bull tore ahead of her, passing to the left. Molly recovered. Then again she heard crashing ahead of her, to one side, and more at a distance. There were buffalo in the breaks.

  Above the swish of brush and rattle of wagon and pound of hoofs she began to hear a low rumbling thunder, apparently to the fore and her right.

  “They said stampede!” she cried fearfully.

  Her horses heard it and were excited, or else the scent and proximity of stray buffalo had been the cause of their faster, less regular gait. Molly essayed again to swerve them to the left, but in vain. And indeed that left side grew more and more impractical owing to obstructions that shunted the horses in an opposite direction. Quite unexpectedly then they burst out of the breaks into open prairie.

  Molly was as amazed as frightened. The plain was so dusty she could not see a mile, and strings of buffalo were disappearing into a yellow broken pall. They appeared to be loping in their easy lumbering way. The thunder was louder now, though still a strange low roar, and it came out of the dust curtain that obscured the prairie. The horses, snorting, not liking dust or buffalo, loped for a mile, then slowed to a walk, and halted. Molly tried to get her bearings. The whole horizon to fore and right was streaky with dust and moving buffalo. From behind her the line of river timber extended on her right to fade in the obscurity of dust. This established her position. She had crossed the breaks of the tributary and was now headed east. The buffalo were then coming out of the south and they were crossing the Pease. Molly realized she was far out of her proper course and must make a wide turn to the left, cross the dry streambed, and then go up the river to the camps of the hide hunters.

  Suddenly she missed something. The two saddle horses! They had broken off in the rough ride. Molly looked back at the dark ragged line of timber from where she had come. The air was clearer that way. Movement and flash attracted her gaze. She saw animals run out into the open. Wild, lean, colored ponies with riders! They stretched out in swift motion, graceful, wild, incomparably a contrast to the horses of white hunters.

  Molly realized she was being pursued by Comanche Indians.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Molly screamed at the horses and swung the lash, beating them into a gallop. The lightly loaded wagon lurched and bounced over the hummocky prairie, throwing her off the seat and from side to side. A heavy strain on the reins threatened to tear her arms from their sockets.

  It was this physical action that averted a panic-stricken flight. The horses broke from gallop into run, and they caught up with scattered groups and lines of buffalo. Molly was in the th
roes of the keenest terror that had yet beset her, but she did not quite lose her reason. There were a few moments fraught with heart-numbing, blood-curdling sensations, which, on the other hand, were counteracted by the violence of the race over the prairie, straight for the straggling strings of the buffalo herd. The horses plunged, hurtling the wagon along; the wind, now tainted with dust and scent of buffalo, rushed into Molly’s face, and waved her hair; the tremendous drag on the reins, at first scarcely perceptible in her great excitement, began to hurt hands, wrists, arms, shoulders in a degree that compelled attention. But the race itself, the flight, the breakneck pace across the prairie, with stampeding buffalo before and Comanche Indians behind—it was too great, too magnificent, too terrible to prostrate this girl. Opposed to all the fears possible to a girl was the thing roused in her by love, by example of a thief who died to save her, by the marvel of the moment.

  Molly gazed back over her shoulder. The Comanches had gained. They were not half a mile away, riding now in wide formation, naked, gaudy, lean, feathered, swift, and wild as a gale of wind in the tall prairie grass.

  “Better death among the buffalo!” cried Molly, and she turned to wrap both reins around her left wrist, to lash out with the whip, and to scream: “Run! Run! Run!”

  Buffalo loped ahead of her, to each side, and behind, in straggling groups and lines, all headed in the same direction as the vague denser bunches to the right. Here the dust pall moved like clouds, showing light and dark.

  She became aware of increased fullness in her ears. The low rumble had changed to a clattering trample, yet there seemed more. The sound grew; it came closer; it swelled to a roar. And presently she located it in the rear.

  She turned. With startled gaze she saw a long, bobbing, black, ragged mass pouring like a woolly flood out over the prairie. A sea of buffalo! They were moving at a lope, ponderously, regularly, and the scalloped head of that immense herd crossed the line between Molly and the Comanches. It swept on. It dammed and blocked the way. Molly saw the vermilion paint on the naked bodies and faces of these savages, as they wheeled their lean horses to race along with the buffalo.