Bendigo Shafter

by Louis L'Amour

“Do many Indians come to the Medicine Wheel? From many tribes?”

  “They come.”

  “Why?”

  “There is magic there. Nobody knows why ... only that it is there. The Cheyenne know ... they built their medicine lodges like the Wheel.”

  “Will you take me there, Uruwishi?”

  The old Indian was silent. Then he said, “I am old, and it is a long way, yet I should like to see it again before I die. If the Great Spirit has not come for me when the snow is gone, I will ride with you.”

  “He is too old for that,” grumbled Short Bull. “He will die there.”

  Uruwishi shrugged. “Then I shall die ... who is it who lives forever? My days are finished ... long ago I believed I was to die, and I sang my song of dead, and then this white man came and he did not say, “Sit by the fire, Old One.’ He said, “Come ride with me.’ And I felt young again. What there is of my life is his, for he has given it to me. Where should I die? Seated by the fire? I who killed the great bear? Who hunted the bufialo and the wolf? Who drove the Blackfeet into their canyons? Am I to sit like an old squaw and wait for death? I am a warrior! I am a chieftain!

  “When I swung my club, men fled! When I took up my bow the bears trembled!” He glanced sidewise at me, his old eyes twinkling. “These young ones! What do they know?”

  “We will ride then, Old One. We will ride when the snow is gone!”

  Higher we rode, skirting a canyon wall. Down below the water rushed, its banks edged with ice. We saw, suddenly, the tracks of elk ... a half dozen or more. Uruwishi rode ahead, following the trail.

  Snow tumbled from the heavily laden branches of the spruce. We rode single file again, trusting only the well-marked way. I was close behind Uruwishi. Suddenly we saw them. The elk were moving slowly across a clearing several hundred yards ahead and at least three hundred feet lower. It was a temptation to shoot, but the distance was hard to judge due to the snow and the lower level at which they moved.

  Yet the wind was from them toward us, and they seemed to have no idea they were followed. We moved on, slowly, watching them into the timber on the far side. Minutes later, we were crossing the same snow.

  Suddenly Uruwishi drew up, pointing at a limb where the snow had been brushed away. “Lion!” he said.

  Evidendy the lion had stretched on the limb, awaiting the elk, then the elk had passed too far away from him and now, judging by his tracks, he was stalking the elk.

  Watching as we rode, we saw the lion’s tracks stretching away before us, sometimes parallel to the elk trail, sometimes following right up the elk tracks.

  On a slope where the snow had slid away toward the canyon’s bottom, we saw the elk feeding. The cat was nowhere to be seen. “Big one,” Short Bull said.

  Bud Macken rode up beside me. “Can I have a shot?”

  “We don’t want him, Bud. We want elk meat.”

  “You told me yourself it was good meat,” Bud protested. “Stacy Follett said it was the best ever, and Ethan likes it.”

  “Maybe,” I said, “but there isn’t enough. We need a couple of eft ... at least.”

  We edged along closer, the wind remaining the same. Still we saw nothing of the lion. It was unlikely he would attack a human, although when hungry they had been known to attack men, women, and often children. Our fear now was that the lion might frighten the elk before we were in position for a shot.

  We had no animosity for the lion. He was hunting meat the same as we were, and usually predatory animals killed only the easy ones, the weak, the aged, and sometimes the young. The only thing was, we didn’t want him to scare off the elk.

  Ethan and I got down from our horses, and Short Bull did likewise. “Bud, you stick with Uruwishi. You’ll get your chance.”

  “Aw, Ben! I figured ...”

  “Bud, we need meat. This hunt isn’t for sport. All of us back there need meat if we’re going to last the winter. After we get a couple of elk, you’ll have your chance.”

  “Ben ...” he protested.

  “No,” I said flatly. “You stick with the Old One. Listen to his wisdom. I’ve learned from him, and you can.”

  “All right,” he said grudgingly, and took the reins we handed him. I knew how he felt, but we dare not risk missing a shot.

  We had brought snowshoes, and now we put them on and moved out, taking our time. The elk had found a good place to feed and were unlikely to move unless frightened. Later, if unmolested, they would go to places where they could rest and wait out the day.

  It was a slow business, and the air was cold. We moved with extreme care, working our way nearer and nearer. Short Bull was like a ghost. “We should have brought the Old One,” he whispered once, “He can charm them to be still.”

  Finally I found the spot that I wanted. A clear field of fire, just over a hundred and fifty yards, and no branches in the way. There was a projecting limb that would serve as a rest, at just the right height.

  “This is for me,” I whispered. “I want the bull with the big rack of horns, and if I get a second shot, I’ll take that one feeding by itself over there.”

  They agreed and moved on. A minute or two later, I saw Ethan stop. Short Bull was working closer and closer. I found a good spot for my feet and settled them in place, taking a sight on the big bull, relaxing and checking again.

  Glancing over at Ethan, he lifted a hand to indicate his readiness. Short Bull had vanished, then suddenly he appeared, not more than seventy yards from the elk.

  One elk had lifted her head... suddenly wary. I could see it in the poise of her head, the flicking of her ears. She was not just listening, not just testing the wind, she was suspicious.

  I took my sight, trying for a neck shot, relaxed a bit, and eased out my breath tightening my finger ever so gently. The rifle leaped in my hands, and the bull took a magnificent leap forward. I knew I bad scored a hit, and turning swiftly I caught the second one in a blur of action as it leaped, but I had thought of the swing, timed it in my mind, and the finger pressure was just right as I came on target.

  The echoes of my shots were lost in the boom of Ethan’s big .50 and the hard spang from that of Short Bull.

  My big bull was down and threshing in the snow. The second one had vanished into the brush. Both Ethan and Short Bull had scored. There would be meat in our lodges tonight.

  We went down through the snow to recover our meat. I glanced where the elk had stood at which I had fired my second shot. There was blood on the snow. Red blood ... it looked like a lung shot. Well, I’d been holding higher.

  “I’m going after the other one, Ethan,” I told him. “I scored on him.”

  Bud had ridden up, leading our horses. “He may run a long way. Do you have to go after him?”

  “We need meat, Bud,” I said, “but we want clean kills. I’ll not have an animal suffering out there in the snow.”

  He knew, but he wanted to hear me say it. That’s one way of learning, to have things repeated, but it settled the idea in his mind. He had asked me questions like that before, and in my time, I had asked them of Cain ... and of Ethan, for that matter. Yet it was Uruwishi with whom I really wished to spend time.

  I went off, moving at a swinging trot, following the trail. The elk had been a young one, but strong. I’d known them to run a mile or more with such a shot, but after seeing a few more drops of blood I was sure this one would not go so far.

  In the excitement of the chase I had forgotten all else. I had forgotten my friends for the moment, and I had forgotten the lion. The trail was downhill, winding through brush and scattered trees, with lots of young stuff springing up among the deadfalls and boulders. Suddenly, I thought I glimpsed the elk a couple of hundred yards away, and still struggling through the snow. It had gone down, gotten up, and plunged on, but now the deepening snow was slowing it down. I took my time, not wanting to fire

  Back up the slope I could hear the voices of my comrades, but I was alone here.

  To work up a sweat
was no part of my plan. Pausing, I caught my breath, then moved on. The last thing I wanted was for the elk to go further down the slope. Taking it back to where the horses were would be a formidable task, but perhaps easier than bringing the horses down and moving them back in the deep snow.

  I went up to within a dozen yards of the elk, but it lay sprawled on the snow. I was quite sure it was dead, yet I waited.

  It was very still. Now, with more trees between us, I could no longer hear my friends, although had they called out no doubt it would have been clearly heard.

  The Wind River Mountains towered above us, craggy, snow-covered, and lonely. As I looked I saw the wind catch a bridal veil of snow and draw it for an instant past some bare rocks, then pass on to leave them still bare.

  The elk was dead. I put my rifle down on a deadfall after brushing its roots free of snow. Then I opened my sheepskin jacket and taking out my hunting knife, I dropped on one knee beside the elk to begin the skinning-out process.

  Something scraped bark up and behind me, and I half-turned, a move that may have saved my life. Something struck me a tremendous blow on the shoulder and back, I felt a rush of hot, fetid breath, and jaws grabbed the upturned collar of my sheepskin coat; in a panic I swung my knife back and around. It was razor-sharp, and I felt it strike home and jerked back and out on it.

  Bent forward as I’d been, the heavy collar had stood straight out, my neck actually several inches away from it. His jaws had closed hard on that collar ... I’d seen many deer killed by lion, and several horses, and that initial strike and bite usually did the job.

  The lion’s claws slashed at me, but I managed another slashing cut. We were in a frenzy of whirling cat, man, snow, and branches of the deadfall. No doubt they saved me on more than one occasion in those wild seconds. I thought nothing, felt nothing. It was a crazy struggle for life, and in that instant I was transformed into an animal at bay.

  Turning sharply, I struck back with the knife again, barely hooked some flesh, and the lion fell free of me as I heaved myself up. Wounded, it sprang at me, and I had sense enough not to try to escape. To have tried to back away would have made me vulnerable, more so than I was, and I sprang at the cat, trying to get inside. I had my knife low down now, cutting edge up, and as we came together I drove my sheepskin covered forearm between his jaws, forcing it back so hard he could not bite, and then I ripped in and up with the knife, withdrew, stabbed again and again.

  With my forearm filling its jaws the lion could not snap or tear. Again I stabbed with the knife. The powerful hind legs doubled, the wicked claws trying for my belly, then I stabbed again, and the bon dropped away from me.

  Crouching, snarling, tail lashing in fury, the lion stared at me while I waited, swaying on my feet. Up on the slope I heard shouts, yells, and a crashing in the brush as my friends started down.

  The lion made as if to leap, but the crashing in the brush made it hesitate, and I took a step back, toward my rifle. The cat snarled, and I knew it was no good trying for the rifle. Slowly, carefully, I shifted the bloody knife to my left hand and reached back for my pistol.

  I drew it, not too fast, suddenly aware that my hand was bloody and wet. Lifting the gun slowly, I eased back the hammer, and the lion sprang at me. The hammer dropped and the heavy .44 slug caught the lion in the chest. Instantly I fired again, the power of the two hard-driven bullets doubling the lion up. It fell, and I dropped back, holding the gun ready, but it did not move. It was dead ... quite dead.

  Slowly I holstered my gun. Blood was on my hand, and all at once my friends were around me. Ethan ran to me. “You all right?”

  I just looked at him. “You tell me.” Suddenly I backed up and sat down on the deadfall and began to shake all over.

  Bud Macken was staring at me, awed. Short Bull went to the bon and turned it over with a grip on a leg. There were a half dozen stab marks; one, which we decided was my first one, had struck right through the lion’s stomach, ripping a deep gash.

  “We got to get you home,” Bud said.

  “Build a fire,” I suggested, “melt some snow.” Ethan carefully took off my sheepskin jacket. It was ripped and torn, but without a doubt it had saved my life. The collar was bitten through and torn but the thickness had defeated the lion, as had my arm shoved back in his jaws too far for him to get the right leverage; and the thickness of the sleeve had protected me.

  Yet the teeth had gone through the sleeve and bitten into my arm, not deeply, but enough to start the blood flowing, and there were lacerations on my legs as well, partly protected by the thick shotgun chaps I was wearing.

  Ethan got a fire going and Short Bull and Bud put together a lean-to partly covered by the fresh elk hide. Then, with Ethan’s help I bathed the wounds in hot water. I knew that the teeth and claws of a lion are usually poisonous from decayed meat, but nowhere had they penetrated very badly.

  “They don’t often jump a man,” Ethan commented, “he must have seen the back of your coat, figured it was a part of the elk or that some other animal had jumped his elk.”

  When I was dressed again, the meat was cut out and hung up in a tree. We broiled some steaks over the fire, and settled down for the night.

  Bud had gone back up the hill with Short Bull and brought down the horses. We’d planned to start back, but there was no chance of that now, and I was shaking ... I wasn’t as tough as I thought.

  Ethan looked around at me as we sat by the fire. “Folks back east would never believe that,” he said, “you whuppin’ a catamount. You should write it up.”

  Chapter 32

  The shock of the attack hit me later, and long after the others were asleep I lay shivering in my blankets. Finally I rolled over, put more wood on the fire, and decided trying to sleep was no use.

  The incident showed me on how short a string our lives were lived. There had been no way to prepare for such an attack. We had known the lion was about, but the idea that it would attack a man when others were close around had not occurred to us.

  It was a big lion ... not the biggest I ever saw, but it weighed about one hundred and seventy pounds, we figured. This wasn’t the first lion I’d killed. I’d hunted them back east and killed a few, and I’d killed a half dozen, one time or another, since coming west. A lion stalking deer will try to get right up close before he makes his jump, often as close as four feet, and he likes to stalk a deer in thick brush, yet a big male, jumping downhill, would sometimes leap as much as twenty to twenty-five feet.

  Thinking of all that as I lay there awake, I suddenly recalled what Ethan had said about me writing it up.

  I’d read lots of writing, but had never thought of doing it myself. But I had thought of a newspaper, and that made me wonder if there weren’t papers or journals or something back east that would publish something about the west, or about wild animals.

  Maybe that was the answer. Maybe if I wrote some of what I knew I might get it published and then get a job on one of those eastern papers. It was a kind of wild idea, and I said nothing to anyone about it but started to think out what I’d say about lions, and the next thing I knew it was morning and the fire was burning, the coffee smell was in the air, and I was the last one to awaken. Even Bud was up before me.

  Yet when I started to move, I groaned. They all looked around at me, but it wasn’t the wounds. It was my back where that lion had hit me when he jumped ... it was bruised, and badly. I didn’t need to see it to know.

  After a while I wrestled around and got myself up, tugged on my boots, and shrugged into what was left of a good sheepskin coat. I put on my chaps and eased up to the fire to partake of some fresh elk meat, biscuit, and coffee.

  Ethan watched me putting the meat away and commented sarcastically that being jumped by a lion surely hadn’t interfered with my appetite.

  Drinking coffee, I studied on my idea of the night before. In the clear light of day I didn’t shape up to have much chance, but I surely had access to the material. Between Ethan Sacket
t, Stacy Follett, and old Uruwishi I had men who knew as much about wilderness living, hunting, and wild animals as anybody alive.

  We had meat enough, so we packed up and started down the canyon. Climbing out would have been a struggle, loaded like we were, so we decided we’d try going down canyon, knowing all the while that we might run into a big fall we couldn’t go around and have to go all the way back. We lucked out, found a dim trail out of the canyon, and climbed out to a bench that followed along for miles.

  The snow was patchy, and here and there the ground where the sunlight could reach was soggy from melting. Ethan was riding point and of a sudden he pulled in, looking up at a tree.

  When the rest of us drew up and looked we saw the claw marks of a big bear ... a bear stakes out his territory that way, standing up and reaching as high as he can before digging his claws into the bark. If a strange bear comes around and he can’t reach that high, he keeps on traveling. Well, the bear that made these tracks was big.

  Ethan looked at those claw marks and turned to us. “Either that bear was standing on top of a mighty big drift or I’m leaving the country!”

  Of course, that was what had happened. Some bear, disturbed in his hibernation or perhaps just restless and without a full stomach, must have come here when the snow was drifted deep. We all understood that, but Ethan always enjoyed telling about those claw marks. “Why,” he’d say, “they must have been seventeen feet above the ground! I’m tellin’ you, mister, I’ll never go up that canyon again.”

  We hightailed it down the side of the canyon, riding through patchy forest, weaving among tumbled rocks and clumps of dense brush. We saw an elk ahead, and his head came up. “All right, Bud,” I said, “there he is, and he’s yours.”

  Bud took out his rifle, stepped down from the saddle and Injuned up a few yards closer. The wind was right, and he made it. I was waiting, afraid he would get buck fever, but he didn’t. He squeezed off his shot. The elk leaped, ran a few steps, and dropped.

  We rode up, butchered him out, and while that was going on I went down to the stream to get a drink. The ice only fringed the banks; the center of the stream was running too fast to freeze. The water was so cold it made my teeth ache. I was just getting up when I saw something gleam down there on the sandy bottom, and I reached for it.