Along about noon, the task nearly complete, he noticed several riders and a large wagon drawn by a team of six oxen cresting the immediate hill northeast. He grabbed his rifle and studied their approach. A smile soon broke his lips as he recognized the lead rider’s large buckskin and fired three shots in rapid succession to bring them on. Behind a distant puff of blue smoke, the Hawkins’ gruff voice answered, and shortly thereafter Caspion heard the even sweeter music of McKay’s resounding yawp. What surprised his ear was the accented counter-point that brightly sang out his name: “KAS-PIN!!” Young Hans Mustrieg, the freighter, stood waving from the wagon. The other three riders were Johnny Newell, Mose Parker, and Fletcher Cain—McKay’s trio of skinners.
At sixty yards Thunder Mike unleashed a volley of grand eloquence.
“What! Is it the black snake o’the prairie! ’Er the second Christ I see standin’ yonder at Calv’ry! Climbed down from ’is puny cross! Come ta spread the word ’mong the Heathen what hunt the Shag! Nay, I’s right the first. Tis only Jim Caspion with that nasty firestick o’va Henry. What! But whar has Sam got hisselv off ta?”
“Quiet your blasphemous tongue, McKay,” Caspion answered with good humor, though his smile grew tentative. “Good to see you boys,” he nodded to Hans and the others, before adding soberly: “Sam, I’m sorry to say, was killed by Cheyenne twelve days back. A day’s ride west. I was just set to return there. For I had no makings for a cross…and left his grave unmarked. But see here, McKay…,” Caspion flashed his old smile as he walked over and held up the robe: “The black snake wears a white robe.”
“Oh now…bless me muther’s soul,” McKay murmured, crossing himself. “Why, she’s a beauty, Jim. What! Ya’ve plucked an angel’s wings!”
Caspion gave a brief account of Tillman’s death and his subsequent escape, then provided details of the stampede and the white buffalo. But he strictly avoided mention of the Thunder Bow incident—a thing too personal, like the contents of a prayer. All listened quietly to the end and expressed their deep regret over Tillman’s demise, but even greater astonishment at Caspion’s escape. Against such odds they felt a collective triumph and asked that he join them on the current hunt.
“Load yer hides in the wagon, Jim,” McKay offered. “We’ll head west t’gether. Pay our respects ta Sam. An’ see if the Great Whore o’va Shag still beds in the valley, waitin’ ta yield ’er flesh ta our blades.”
Caspion heartily accepted. While McKay and the skinners replenished the water supply and rested their horses, Hans stepped down to help load the wagon. Caspion extended his hand, greeting the tenderfoot: “Welcome to the range, Hans.”
“Yah, Kaspin. I come for ze money.”
“To buy a pretty lady?” he laughed. “A red-head, no doubt.”
“Yah…maybe,” Hans nodded, undeterred.
“Ah…Lady Alice,” Caspion winked knowingly, “she’ll grab ya by the short hairs. But out here, Hans…it’s the hair on top you gotta worry about. You’ll need a new name, a special handle. One that travels well, that carries at a distance. A danger name.” He put a hand to his chin, playing out the old tradition of joshing the greenhorn. “Something I can shout should the Cheyenne come riding for your scalp.”
“Yah…?”
“Say! How about…Hank?”
Hans briefly considered, quietly testing the name: “Ha-nnn…Hann-ka.” Then he beamed his approval—“Hank Mustrieg!” His fist plowed the air. “Yah! Has strong sound.”
“That’s right, Hans. And next to money, strength is what women admire most in a man. Best of all, they may sap your strength, but it’s yours again next morning. Your money? Forget it…it’s gone. Now remember, Hank is a danger name. Used only in times of peril. Otherwise, you’re still Hans. Understand?”
Hans nodded dutifully; and though a trifle confused over the name granted in one breath and retrieved in the next, he’d learned to accept the vagaries of frontier customs with a quiet shrug. Before they began loading the wagon, he showed Caspion the surprise in back—a large brown shepherd bitch with a litter of eight pups.
“See, I have large family to feed. My Jezebel is goot mo’zer.”
“She looks tired, Hans. And they look a shade wild.”
“Yah, truly”—furrowing his brow—“ze fa’zer vas a volf maybe.”
“Seems likely…possible and most likely.”
Caspion’s eyes brightened watching the mass of round-bellied pups jostling and rolling over one another. Most had finished feeding, though several runts still nursed. The weary mother raised her head, noting the stranger, attentive but not alarmed.
“Vell? I make you gift, Kaspin. You choose.”
Caspion rubbed his stomach thoughtfully and leaned to the sideboards. After studying them for a time, one in particular caught his eye. A black fur-ball with off-white muzzle and feet. It stood astride an old shoe and growled, tail curled high, vibrating like a rattler’s, warning all away. The other pups still wobbled, uncertain on their feet, but this one stood dead-certain of itself.
“I like the feisty black.”
“Is goot choice,” Hans stoutly affirmed. “He is vagon boss…rules zem all.”
The pup’s growl changed to a discomfited grunt as Caspion lifted him from the wagon. He peered into the fluid dark eyes, breathed the sweet puppy scent, then wedged a finger inside its mouth, braving the needle-sharp teeth to examine the gums, dappled black, a good sign of intelligence. And reflecting over the past number of days—the panic, confusion, the loneliness—his heart warmed to the tiny half-wolf nuzzling his chest. Something in the raccoon-like mask around its eyes, along with its plump belly and dominant spirit inspired the name. “Boon…,” Caspion whispered, blowing in its ear. The pup shook its head and licked his face. “Wagon boss, eh,” he laughed; “You’ll make ’em tread softly around my camp.”
Through most of the journey Caspion rode with the pup nestled inside his shirt, warm against the saber scar. Occasionally he set him down in the wagon to nurse and romp with the others. But each time Caspion came alongside the wagon and called his name, the pup would scamper to his lowered hand, eager to return to his perch above the saddle. The old bond between man and horse, now shared by a wolf pup named Boon.
When they reached Tillman’s grave next evening, the men bore solemn witness while Caspion set the cross. From the ridge in the waning light of day, they observed numberless buffalo still grazing through the valley. Caspion pointed out the distant swale that cut the valley to the west and mentioned the hidden pool with the lone cottonwood where he’d bathed and rested the day following the stampede. Next morning, bidding Tillman adieu, they rode on west to the shade and water described. After pitching camp, they divided into two teams: McKay with his trio of skinners working north, while Caspion paired with Hans worked south.
For the hunt Caspion carried a Sharps 50, preferring its greater range and killing power. And instead of boots, he wore knee-high moccasins for better speed and agility as he approached the prey downwind and afoot, using the terrain and grass for concealment. He’d drop the lead cow at 200 yards, aiming for the spine or heart. And while the others milled about frightened and confused, scenting the fresh blood, he’d often kill twenty or thirty more in vicinity of the first, which made for a good stand. But not always. Once in awhile—due to a lung-shot, a lull in the wind, or a vigilant cow—the kill was spread out over a distance of several miles, during which Caspion rushed forth in a crouched sprint from one dead beast to the next, loading as he ran, dropping to rest the barrel on a fallen hump to fire, always aiming at the lead cow to check the flight of the herd. All this required a keen eye, a steady hand, and a good deal of stamina, which was why he rarely partook of whiskey while on the range.
McKay’s method was more sedentary, reflecting his ample bulk and fondness of distilled spirits—although a thirst held strictly in check compared to his skinners who interspersed their foul numbing labor with a ready supply that fueled an incessant cacophony as the
three red-eyed buzzards flayed one corpse after another. McKay’s rifle roared like clockwork, every two minutes, till the herd moved beyond range. Then he’d mount up and ride to the next solitary vantage that fortune offered. And usually by noon he’d left sufficient buffalo in his wake to keep his skinners busy till sundown.
Caspion inducted Hans to the hunt and felt a rare pleasure in grooming the youth. He even pitched in with skinning; though like most hunters he disdained the task, in this case it was a duty born of necessity and prior experience. And Hans was eager, never complained, quick hands and a clear mind; within a week he was drilled to Caspion’s rhythm. They made a good team, running forth in tandem, shooting the prey; and Hans was a fair shot and quite fast for a big man. The kill complete, they’d return to share the onus of skinning. Their friendship steadily grew.
But the novice seldom escapes his initiation. One evening, two weeks into the hunt, the environs of the camp staked out with scores of drying hides, several hundred already bundled on the wagon nearby, the men gathered wearily around the fire to share a meal. The red dome of the sun sank low in the west. The wind died away, leaving all quiet and calm. A raven’s distant call carried through the valley. Nearby, a lark sang its crisp song. Hans, soon finished and strictly attentive to his bowels, set out to do his business before dark. Crossing upstream at a narrow point beyond the pool, he entered the willow brush for privacy.
Caspion nudged Johnny Newell and silently directed him and Fletch Cain to circle the pool south and come up behind the squatting prey. The game was on; the veterans of the range all knew their part. McKay stood and licked his remnant yellow teeth in lusty anticipation, while Mose Parker pulled his hat low and kept an eye peeled. Caspion patiently waited the brief minute for Johnny and Fletch to gain position. When they waved all ready, he winked to McKay and pumped his arm once in answer. On cue, the boys coyoteed like a tribal chorus, McKay roared: “INJUNS!!” and fired his Hawkins; Caspion called out: “Hank! HANK!! Run for it!”—while the hidden pair stormed forth, war-whooping through the tall grass. Caught in mid-business with his pants down, Hans shot his head above the thicket as he bunny-hopped in wide-eyed panic for safety. Clearing the brush, he fell hamstrung by his own britches. Johnny and Fletch dashed out cackling and slapping their thighs. Hans—naked, embarrassed, enraged—rolled to his knees and stood glaring at all, particularly Caspion. In one motion he hiked his pants, hunched his shoulders and marched upstream, repeating a few choice words in German along the way.
Night followed Hans back to the fire as McKay tossed out his arms.
“Di’ya see the lad’s blonde scalp?” he exclaimed. “Fright lifted, I swear, a foot above ’is head! Ah, curses—” McKay clutched his throat in a painful swallow. “Damn me, I lost anudder tooth in a’laughin’ so hard.”
Hans stood silent before them, still simmering and hurt.
Caspion poured some whiskey in a cup, walked over and clasped his shoulder.
“Here now,” he urged, “take it. You’ve earned a nip. Come on…it’s red-eye to slack a fool’s thirst and reap an idiot’s dream. Here…”—he gave the cup to Hans and led him to the fire. “Now don’t look so glum. We’ve all suffered the same. Happens to one and all out here. It’s custom. But only once…that’s the rule. My danger name was Cat. And they thrashed me good before I came to my senses and saw the humor of it all. Hey, Johnny…remember yours?”
The dark-eyed little man squirmed and slowly smiled.
“Newt. This ol’ son u’va Yank whore”—he kicked McKay’s boot—“done it ta me a year a’ter de blamed war. Pert near kilt ’im fer his trouble too, by Jiminy. Ugly ol’ hair-ball!”
With a broad grimace McKay squinted his eyes tight, recalling the scene, then opened them with a laugh: “Newt! NEWT!! I hollars, an’ out ’e runs! Shat hisselv all down the leg. Holy Muther, I bent double a’laughin’. Next thing I know, the wee Reb comes at me like screamin’ grape-shot, a demon out’r Hell! Oh Christ a’havic…a’tearin’ tooth ’n nail! Daffy little hound, liked ta fleshed me hide!”
Once the laughter had passed, everyone waited expectant, the ritual nearly complete. Caspion raised his cup and announced: “Boys! Here’s to Hans Mustrieg! Hearty Hunter of the Shag!” A rousing cheer rounded the fire as cups raised, emptied, and were filled and raised again.
Hans, warmed by the whiskey and fellow confessions, laughed along with tearful relief, nodding his head vigorously, sharing in the banter: “Vell…Christ unt Lucifer, you are goot friends. Yah, maybe I laugh too!”
Stars blanketed the sky; a cold wind rustled through the grass; the men huddled closer to the fire—each pair of eyes reflecting a separate dream. The wolf-pup lay on Caspion’s lap, chewing at his thumb. Caspion leaned forward with a stick and stoked the coals; sparks swarmed up like angry ants quickly eaten by the rising flames. He sat back and looked to Hans in scrutiny and question.
“How was it, Hans, if you don’t mind telling, that you came to this country?”
Hans raised his eyes and glanced to the others; his smile waned.
“Vell, my fa’zer verked for Krupp,” he began. “Yah…ze Kanone König. Cannon King. I vas still little boy. Ze sky vas black vis smoke. Factories all around. Ze soot, like black snow, on every’zing…ze ground unt river black. My mo’zer have hard time in brea’zing. My bro’zer, he too. Zey coff, coff. My fa’zer is vorried unt vants new life. But is bound like serf to factory, to Krupp. He writes angry verds, prints secret papers, talks much, makes trouble. Vants free-dom! Zey call him a Red…like Lincoln, ze Red Republican. Zey beat him, cut his face, rip his clothes. He spit on zem. He loses job. My fa’zer say: ’Vill not starve. Ve go to New Vorld. Ze old is rotten…all vars unt fighting, armies unt Krupp!’ Vants freedom…freedom from Kanone König…
“So, ve come to Amerika, ze land of Lincoln, ze Red Republican. It is spring of sixty-two…no, one year more I zink. I am twelve. Ve are met at boat by fancy rich man unt ano’zer from ze army. Ze man pays my fa’zer money to fight. My fa’zer is liking freedom, is vorried for family…is agreed. I vant to join too, be drummer boy. He say no, must stay unt be man for family. Unt zat summer, he is killed in big battle. Vas called Gettysburg. Fa’zer dead, money gone. My family zen verks for farmer in Pennsylvania. I verk in field unt barn. My mo’zer cooks unt cleans. Still coff, coff…much blood. She dies in ze vinter. Unt my bro’zer, he too. My sister is strong like me. She marries ze farmer. I go vest. Come here…to be free unt live my fa’zer’s dream.”
Sobered by Hans’s tale, an odd paralysis sets in—Caspion and the others, Yanks; Johnny Newell, the lone Reb. They each saw the red gaze of war reflected in the flames, their drawn faces shadowed by its waste: bonfires of amputated limbs hissing human fat, wind scattering the horrid ashes; trainloads of nervous peach-faced youths unloading in a cold night rain to mass by dawn at jumping-off points, awaiting the rude blast of the bugle calling them forth as they rushed into the heat of battle, the thrashing of limbs, cold steel and screams, where each fought on his own hook like drowning men clawing at wreckage in a stormy sea; and all the armaments imaginable awaiting them, stockpiled and delivered straight from the iron works at Pittsburgh and Tredegar where blood-red molten metal spewed into castings for ironclads and cannons. The Cannon Kings of the World fueling the Black Harvest of Flesh! And the men gathered around that lone fire lost in the immensity of the prairie night were all somehow orphans of that war, its dark chapter and ruin, like the twenty-year-old blonde giant that chance had placed among them, all caught in the grip of its memory. But not crippled; if nothing else they were sustained by a wry fatalism.
McKay chuckled and screwed up an eye. “Di’ I ever tell ye,” his voice a trifle subdued, “’bout the time I saw the Ol’ Gent’lman?”
“The devil you say,” Caspion grinned, stroking the wolf-pup.
“Aye, the very same. Gen’ral Grant. Least he ‘minded me o’ the Ol’ Gent’lman. Twere the week followin’ Shiloh. Ev’nin’ tide. We’s marchin’ pas
t ’is tent. Through the open flap, in the lan’ern glow, we sees ’im slumped over the maps, chompin’ ’is cigar. He looks up. Yessir…eyin’ each o’us like coals fer ’is fire. Lordy…it give me the chills. I weren’t so all-fired ready ta die. No sir. His notions o’war never did shine with me. Piecemeal? What! He liked ’is slaughter wholesale!”
“Likely mistook you for a Shag, McKay,” Caspion quipped and all laughed.
Johnny Newell waited his chance then slyly declared: “I got’un better.” Their attention quickly engaged, for Johnny, by nature wary and taciturn, rarely ventured forth with a yarn, but when he did it was worth a listen. “I once seed the ghost o’ George Washington. Up in Ol’ Virginny I were, a’fightin’ with Stonewall thru the Shenandoah. Mayhaps I’s dreamin’…too wore down by the march…no victuals, my haversack in need o’provender. I’d straggled a mite in the heat o’day. Wandered off ta forage food ’n shade. Fev’rish. Happened on a little country inn. I stumbled thru the door. An’ thar he stood. Gen’ral Washington, I swar. All decked out in his best white wig, fine blue uny-form with bright gold epolets, lak he jes’ stepped down from a grand paintin’ a’hangin’ on a wall. Right off he knows I mean no good, licked it off my face lak a cat skimmin’ cream. Fixed me with an eye an’ says: ‘So…aimin’ ta rob me, son…?’ Then he turns ta the back shelf ta fetch the strong box, lifts ’er down an’ pops the lid. ‘Thar it is. Gold!’ he says. I picks one up. Warm to my touch an’ heavy. Gold sure’nuff. ‘It’s good,’ he winks, ‘good lak a McCoy. Reminds me a’ the time I come ta my ma’s kitchen door, still young an’ mighty hungry. I asked fer a bite o’that sweet Virginny ham she kept salted away fer special occasions. Well, she brung it out an’ carved off a slice, tossed it on a plate with a loaf o’fresh bread set twixt a pitcher o’milk an’ a bowl o’butter. She tapped the table an’ says: Go on, eat! It’s good, good lak a McCoy, my father’s people. Nuthin’ lak a McCoy once they season an’ gray…find thar true selves…’ Then he done the same with me…laid a slice o’ham down on some bread an’ tolt me ta eat. ‘Go on,’ he says, ‘it’s good. Good lak a McCoy.’ An’ by Jiminy, I et my fill, but I lef’ the gold on the table. I couldn’t rob a man so gen’rous, ven’rable, an’ gray.”
Caspion & the White Buffalo Page 8
