Caspion & the White Buffalo

by Melvin Litton

  True, he was hooked and fully prepared to pay her price; but the hook wasn’t set as deeply as she imagined. Caspion followed much the same routine every time he hit town. While Tillman sold the hides, he’d strike off alone to stir up some mischief: a stunt, a prank, anything to amuse himself and others. Tillman would find him wherever a crowd had gathered. And immediately following said foray, they’d split the take fifty-fifty, always wise to deposit enough at Rath’s store to stake them for their next hunt. Caspion often wired Luther a goodly portion, not because he ever dreamed of returning home to farm, but because he shared his brother’s love of horse racing and the Sport of Kings required something a free-born yeoman rarely had much of—a ready supply of cash. While Tillman pinched his pennies, camping quietly along Big Creek for a week or two, Caspion lived high and grand: he’d stable Two-Jacks, rent a room, take a bath, and shave; then outfitted in new clothes, treat himself to a fine meal. Thereupon, with his remaining cash, he’d embark on a reckless spree, a wild romp, tipping the girls double, attacking with dance, song, and lusty wit from frontal to flank, enveloping them, rushing from one embrace to another as they served him faithfully in turn, grasping for every pleasure that flesh and feast might offer.

  Like the bottle he was soon to share with Thunder Mike at a table in Hagan’s Saloon…uncork and inhale the vaporous nectar inflaming the tongue before the first dram raced to warm the blood. A man gone too long without whiskey was like the land without rain: the grass dried, the dust blew, leaving the barest bones of tortured memory; all the lushness of thought gone like a fertile field to drought and locust. Then again, too much whiskey could flood the mind and drown the reason, kill in time like all feverish indulgence—which was why, before the final tide of mania ever swept him under, he always escaped, returning that much sooner for having thrown his money away to the purity and silence and the open-spaced sanctity of the prairie where the ordeal was as constant as prayer and the lone abiding thirst was for water.

  But it was early yet, only his first evening in town. He felt like a newly oiled weapon, shined inside and out, the rifling spiraled perfectly through the bore, bullet chambered, potent. Clean-shaven, hair trimmed and combed, dressed in black pants and boots, crisp white shirt and brown leather vest, his hat riding on his back, and his Henry held barrel down in his hand as he entered Hagan’s saloon to join McKay seated at the center table in front of the bar, awaiting the “whiskey challenge”—their shared ritual following a shooting match.

  In the drinking duel two men squared off before one bottle. The trick was not to drink the most but to drink the last. And to tip the entire bottle in one long draught was a suicide plunge not considered wise even among the foolhardy. The challenge was far more subtle, for a man must gauge his own capacity against his opponent’s will—what to take, what to leave, and whether to risk the finale or imbibe a modest amount for later advantage. You could claim victory with one sip or lose after drinking all but the few remaining drops. And due to changing mood and appetite, you never knew with certainty what any given man’s will or capacity was regarding whiskey. So in a way it tested a man’s knowledge of self and others, more direct than poker and not as deadly as a shoot-out. Though time and again it left both victor and vanquished passed out cold amid the incessant revelry.

  Tonight, however, Caspion was intent on the lesser portion, eager to yield before the great quaffing McKay. Having won the wager, he took the first shot: smooth, warm, and satisfying, then passed the bottle to McKay who lavishly primed his throat, leaving three fingers gone—which quantity Caspion equaled before surrendering the bottle half-full. Whereupon McKay tipped it back and with a succession of mighty pulls sucked it dry. He slammed it down and smacked his lips, red-eyed and ready.

  “Best outa three, Caspion?! What say ye?”

  “No, McKay. Tonight you could slug the Dipper dry. Drink a storm of whiskey. I’m done, ya big bear. Ya bested me. Besides, come midnight I aim to embrace a pretty girl, not the floor.”

  With the solace of a new bottle set before the victor, Caspion left the table and drifted through the lamp-lit smoke and laughter, on past the bar, drawn by the piano music and dancing girls waiting beyond. He was shortly surrounded by five lovelies flaunting their charms, pressing and teasing as he circled slowly, taking his time, feigning indifference as he eyed them, comparing their various attributes—Betsy, Ruth, Jasmine, Caroline, Marianne—knew them intimately, each possessing a salient feature unequaled by the others, yet all added together couldn’t equal her. He scanned the crowded hive once more; through the flickering haze he saw no sign of Alice Layety. So he settled for big black eyes, saucy hips, and swollen breasts—caught Marianne by her pitching waist and marched upstairs.

  The second evening upon entering the saloon, he was none surprised to see Miss Layety moving among the gambling tables; little else would call a lone beautiful woman to a notorious outpost and there risk her virtue and weaker flesh beyond the protective mores of settled society, unless she sought to entice men of uncertain fortune. What did surprise him, though, was the dress she wore: soft green, properly skimming the floor and tastefully buttoned to the cream of her throat, in sharp contrast to the other girls whose eye-popping cleavage and garish satin skirts hiked to their knees left no doubt as to intended means or ends. Yet more than appearance, the defining difference was her polite reserve; a manner that welcomed no advances while affecting great charm. All were rather mystified, bewildered by the presence of such beauty and grace, uncertain of its purpose there—like an angel loosed upon a den of iniquity.

  At her approach a group of cavalry officers briskly rose, sober, solicitous, as if greeting the colonel’s wife at a formal banquet. And likewise, she acted the hostess, quickly putting them at ease with a brief word and charming smile. They collectively settled back in their chairs; brotherly bonds suddenly weakened as they began making feints and thrusts for her attention.

  Though Caspion had purposely taken the room opposite hers on the second floor of the hotel, they hadn’t met that day in passing. So he feasted now, watching. And she noticed him as she attended the various gaming tables, aware of his eyes following her every move. Presently, she came his way, brushing his table as she stopped to collect his approving gaze, granting herself a brief flush of excitement. He rocked back in his chair and grinned knowingly, not the least confused.

  “Bundled a trifle warm for the season aren’t you, Lady Alice?” To which she answered: “I am quite comfortable, thank you”—and whisked away.

  By the third evening he had to admit the hook was set deeper than he’d thought. He was consumed by her; his previous trip upstairs with Marianne had done little to allay his urgent need and thereafter he realized the futility of a surrogate. Tonight she crossed the room like a vision anchored in a blue dress; the slightly lowered neckline discreetly advertised, assailing his senses all the more for the merest glimpse at the upper swell of her breasts. And he wondered: when unclothed would she float away? Fair, cool flesh wrapped in cooler blue, crowned with fiery red; but in that too cool flesh must lay a heat equal to her flaming hair. She attended a table of officers playing cards; her presence had them all astir. Straight away Caspion walked over and stood, a full head taller, his eyes riveting hers. A major with his hair parted center and pronounced muttonchops turned in his chair and slapped his cards to the table.

  “Hunter, you are disturbing the lady who is here to bring us luck.”

  Without taking his eyes from hers, Caspion answered: “As soldiers you should know that fortune’s smile is brief and passing. But I don’t doubt”—now casting his eyes to the major—“that if the cavalry plays cards no better than it fights, barring the company of lady luck, you’d be hard-pressed to pull your pants on of a morning.”

  The Henry was cocked and brought level to the major’s eyes before he’d risen an inch from his chair. While Caspion’s soul hadn’t iced over from his long experience of war, when challenged his steel-blue eyes sent a c
hill through an opponent, freezing him with a gut-felt awareness of violence set to spring, for he could kill in reflex without pleasure or remorse.

  “Gentlemen…please,” Alice calmly interceded. “Major Cambridge,” she placed her hand on the major’s shoulder, “do allow me a moment. I and Mr. Caspion are prior acquainted.” As the major gallantly deferred to the lady’s request, Caspion eased off the hammer and lowered the barrel. Again, she turned her eyes fully to him.

  “So? Mr. Caspion…?”

  “Call me Caspion.”

  “Very well, Caspion. You’ve expressed your opinion on fortune and her smile, among other subjects. Is there anything else you wish to add?”

  “You…Lady Alice. The pleasure of your company for the evening.”

  “And you think that pleasure would arise from my company?”

  “Certain as the sun warms the day, if freely granted, pleasure would follow.”

  “But pleasure has its price, Caspion. And brief and passing as it is, mine would cost you double.” Fifteen dollars a night was the going rate for the demimondes of the West; twenty-five was absolute tops. Caspion presented her with a fifty dollar bill, which she graciously accepted, answering: “For the evening, then.”

  “No,” he countered, “for the first hour. This”—he added another fifty to her open hand—“is for the second.” Her smile betrayed mild astonishment.

  “Why Caspion, you are a gentleman who knows a lady’s worth.”

  The table of officers froze—struck silent by their own foolish pretense that she could be won, seduced by uniforms and bravado. The lady obviously required cold cash and at a hellishly inflated price. And Caspion’s graceful manner and easy humor only deepened the major’s black dudgeon.

  “Tell me,” she asked, offering him her arm as they walked away, “what does a man so fast with his rifle need with a second hour that he can’t do in the first?”

  “It’ll take awhile, Lady Alice, to undress a woman so well clothed as you.”

  In her room, true to his word, he took his time. Though his need was urgent, his hands worked gently, skillfully unbuttoning her front, freeing her anxious breasts then lower to the flame of fur waiting between her thighs. At his touch her breath came in a delicious rush. Her lips whispered for his, and he answered her as he carefully removed the derringer from her right upper thigh. Then it was her turn, and she didn’t float away, but pressed to him, blood-hot and compelling, her fingers quickly unfastening his belt and trousers. Removing his shirt, she saw it was an old wound and not self-conceit that caused him to rub his stomach so often.

  “Does it bother you much?”

  “Not just now,” he answered. “The bother is lower down.”

  She pulled him to her bed and lay, yielding to him. As he raised himself prone, she tenderly traced the saber scar pulsing hard and red, like that which now entered her. One hour became two; and it was nearly dawn before they lay quiet, their passions spent.

  For the fortnight he was rich, she remained his alone. The hunter and the whore, two sensualists entwined in a lusty, impassioned union. Each evening at Hagan’s Saloon, he’d present her with the money like a suitor bestowing a bouquet of flowers; the ritual, public by design. He knew his purpose in her game and readily played his part, as she was most appreciative and frankly expressive thereof. He served her admirably for bait. It was one thing to arouse men, but when their envy was piqued, frugal concern vanished, and the men of Hays City stood eager to pay whatever upon Caspion’s exit.

  While the hunter and the whore became the focus of attention, their knowledge of one another never went beyond the immediate emotional and physical intimacy shared. Past and future stood mute before the intensity of the present. His lone offhand remark concerning her origins and the evidence of a ring-once-worn met with cold silence. Only on the morning following their last night together was there another attempt to scratch beneath the surface. And strangely it was she who asked the question.

  “What were you before the war, Caspion?”

  He turned to her, puzzled. “I was a kid.”

  “No…I mean, what did you dream of?”

  “I dreamt of you, Alice.”

  “But I’m a whore.”

  “So? I might have…and most likely did.”

  “Hardly,” she answered, unconvinced. “Boys don’t dream of whores. They dream of the perfect young lady of virtue.”

  “Virtue, you say? I’ll tell you, I believe I knew one such just well enough to know this…her virtue would’ve had me paying all the days of my life for an occasional night of pleasure. And then her cool, cool flesh but reluctantly shared. Your portions, my Lady, are sweeter, more generous, and you extract far less in payment. No, the virgin’s white wedding gown always appeared a death shroud to me.”

  “Okay, we see eye to eye. You get full service for the right price. That’s a whore’s vow.”

  “Right, you’re a whore, Alice. And first rate too. Satisfying. When I’m with you, I feel all hunky…dry and warm…out of the elements.”

  “Home sweet home,” she mocked; her sarcasm biting.

  “No, something more…like I’m back in a dream. Weightless with excitement. Ever dream you could fly, where any act or deed was possible in that moment?”

  “You flatter me, Caspion.”

  “I flatter our time together. You’re first rate.”

  “So what did you dream of…besides a first-rate whore?”

  “Does it matter?”

  “Nothing matters with me, Caspion, but money, you know that. But satisfy my curiosity, and I’ll satisfy you.” Her green eyes flashed, willing to pay in full upon his answer. And dead-broke, aroused by her ready offer, he nodded.

  “That’s a fair price. Mighty fair. Okay, I dreamt of songs…of making and singing songs. Strange?”

  “A buff hunter plucking a golden harp? Beyond strange,” she answered, moving to him now. “Maybe you deserve a first-rate whore after all”—settling on his lap like a fiddle tuned to play.

  “Much obliged, Alice…to pluck your strings anytime.”

  Later, eying the derringer and watching her secure it to her upper thigh as she dressed, he grimaced in doubt.

  “I don’t favor the notion of a woman turning her sweet hand to killing.”

  “Favor?” she said, her green eyes narrowed sharply. “My life is not a notion for any man to favor one way or another.”

  VI. Broken Wing Bird

  In the days after taking the white, Caspion moved his camp east to the north branch of the Pawnee Fork, a closer proximity to Ft. Larned and Ft. Dodge and therefore a more secure area. Also he needed a pool of water for curing the robe. So with mixed motives he abandoned the cart and bulk of supplies in the buffalo wallow; true, he’d lose the advantage of freighting his own hides, but he’d gain speed and mobility—something he desired more than ever after his singular encounter with the three Cheyenne. The event left him markedly subdued. Why had he been spared? More pointedly, why hadn’t he grabbed his rifle and fired on the fleeing warriors? After all, they’d killed his partner. But the questions only echoed without an answer.

  Ultimately, regarding the cart, the decisive factor was simply that the mule would follow a lead behind Two-Jacks far easier than he could be driven. Now freed from the maddening chore of harnessing the willful beast to the cart, Caspion loaded Stump with a month’s supplies and set out—the mule suddenly an agreeable companion, like an ex-slave delivered of his chains. But a mile or so into the journey the mule began to balk, resisting the lead, tugging at the rope, finally calling a dead halt by planting all four hooves and refusing to budge. Two-Jacks champed his bit and snorted, turned up an eye to Caspion as if to say: “Well? What now?”

  “Dammit Stump!” Caspion growled. “Curse your Rebel hide! We meet up with hostiles once more, I’m gonna drop this rope”—which he cast down in disgust—“Let ’em have ya. And good riddance!” Adding insult to injury, the mule came alongside and nudged Two-Jac
ks’ shoulder, demanding they proceed. Still mumbling, Caspion leaned down and untied the rope and rode on—Stump followed unperturbed for the remainder of the journey. Apparently once unharnessed and unroped, granted its freedom, the mule freely chose to follow. Caspion shook his head in wonder…if a man could figure mule or woman, he’d soon be saddled with the devil and all creation.

  Meanwhile the Cheyenne moved south beyond the Cimarron and on down the Beaver to winter along the North Canadian deep in Indian Territory. Camp Supply was a half-day’s ride north; the Darlington Agency the same distance south; both convenient for trading. The area provided an abundance of game—deer, antelope, quail, turkey, fox, beaver, raccoon—set amidst thick stands of cedar, willow, cottonwood, ash, oak, and hickory, with rolling plains of grass where horses could graze and forage. The Cheyenne camp lay in a bend of the river where the waters slowed and widened. Over thirty lodges nestled below the high bluff to the north, safe from howling winds and enemy view. From that vantage a scout could scan the country for miles about and signal quickly should game or enemy appear; then the crier would spread the news throughout the camp, and those deemed worthy could decide. Truly, a wise location—wood plentiful for lodge poles, weapons, cooking fires and warmth, and all the water needed for washing and bathing, and for curing hides and robes. A sandbar extended a good length along the shallow rapids, ending abruptly before the deeper water open to the afternoon sun, where the children romped and ran leaping to the frigid depths.

  Running Hawk had patiently bided his time following his coup on the Spirit Hunter, awaiting an opportunity to speak with Awoke In Winter, a moment when the People were safely camped, when thoughts and conversation could drift freely beyond daily needs and concerns. By now the story was generally known, for Wears The Wind had sung words praising the coup while Running Hawk danced its reenactment around a blazing fire. But there was one whose glance cast a shadowing doubt; and Running Hawk guessed rightly that his coup had not won the favor of Dog That Smiles. He grew anxious lest his deed should one day stand between himself and Broken Wing Bird.