Mose Parker, who’d seldom blinked throughout, now shook his head.
“Ah hell, Johnny, yer pullin’ my leg or dreamin’ for damn sure. Yer gold an’ ham was hardtack an’ lead shot. But hang it all ’n blast the war,” he cursed good-naturedly; “Let’s have a songfest!” Whereupon, he jumped up and rushed to the wagon, returning shortly with Caspion’s guitar.
While Mose twanged out a merry melody on his Jew’s harp, Caspion strummed a chord and tuned the strings, soon blending well with the harp as all joined in and began to sing. They ranged through bawdy tales and tavern songs, and a plaintive rendition of “Home Sweet Home.” Finally, they composed a “Come ye all…”—a hunter’s ballad, each supplying a new verse: “When the Injuns waited ta pick us off…Whar we’s hungry ’nuff ta pick the bones…Whar the days were long an’ bloody, Lord”—always ending with Caspion’s initial refrain: “On the range of the buffalo!” And before their inspired chorus, their painful memories fled; their wounds and rifts healed. All had a high old time shouting their danger names and dancing about the fire.
That night while they slept the temperature plunged; breath formed ice on beards and faces; water froze along the edge of pool and stream. Caspion dreamt, wrapped in the white robe with Boon curled at his belly…the powerful thrust of four legs carried him lunging through his dream, tail whipping his flanks, spike horns tearing at the sod, angry at the man-scent left along the trail; and cresting a hill, he pawed the earth, saw a faint fire shadowed by a lone cottonwood flickering in the distance, watched it glow and die. An idiot dream that Caspion attributed to the effects of whiskey.
Over the next few days the buffalo vanished from the valley, the herd migrating south for the winter. The final night in camp the ice froze solid across the pool. Next morning while the skinners loaded the hides, Caspion played with the litter of pups, bounding and sliding over the ice. Everything ready, he helped Hans place them in a warm nook at the front of the wagon. Then all mounted up and set out on a five-day pull back to Hays, facing a north wind that grew steadily more bitter.
The hides numbered over five hundred, a haul worth nearly $3,000—split six ways, not bad wages for a month on the buffalo range. They reached Hays City the evening of November 30, Thanksgiving Day. And damn lucky; for that night a killer blizzard howled out of the north. Many caught out on the plains froze to death, or at the very least lost fingers and toes to frostbite. One man lost all four limbs and spent his remaining days with a traveling show, spoon-fed by the fat lady.
VIII. Of Luck & Love
A freezing mist preceded the snow. By late afternoon white flakes born on a high wind raced tumbling through the air, collecting on trees, rooftops, and hitching rails; but the snow melted upon hitting the ground, turning the street to a black muck resembling a barnyard as craters left by plodding hooves oozed with runoff and urine. The puddles soon iced over.
Alice Layety stood at her high window gazing down on the nearly empty street, doubtful whether she’d bother crossing to Hagan’s Saloon, only three horses tied out front. She retained her room at the hotel, very much the lady, kept her business orderly and discreet, so the proprietor didn’t mind. The traffic was minimal; two or three times a week a man accompanied her to her room. She choose carefully; though she never cut her rate, many who could pay ten-fold were denied, while one of virile charm and beauty often enjoyed an extra-long visit. And her beauty continued to infect and overwhelm as she took men to her bosom selectively, like a predator, with cool calculation as to her benefit—factoring her own pleasure into each transaction.
On Saturday nights, however, she deferred to the whim of Lady Luck. The officers seated at Major Cambridge’s table engaged in a variation of five-card stud that they termed Lady Alice. Each player anteed up his share of her nightly rate then fed the pot as chance and passion urged; winner take all. Alice took man and money to her room. But the mutton-chopped major was as luckless at love as he was with words, and after one boorish attempt, she was spared his company. Happily, the other four were lively, congenial youths, so the arrangement proved both pleasant and lucrative.
But she granted this singular favor only to that one table of five officers. While she’d dallied briefly with Custer and Sheridan, she found the ranking officers entirely too possessive and was glad to see them gone—off making preparations to squire the Grand Duke Alexis, due to arrive with the new year, on a buffalo hunt along the Platte. She had coolly declined their invitation to join. Having grown wary of the Cossacks of the West, she was hardly tempted to fall for his Highness, Prince of all Russia.
Who pleased her most and whom she pleasured before any was a true Prince of Pistoleers—Sheriff Wild Bill Hickok. They shared a lusty murderous urge directed it seemed solely towards men. But when his and the army’s mutual jealousies recently erupted in gun-play, Wild Bill’s two pistols blazing away as he backed out of Hagan’s Saloon, leaving three soldiers dead and several more bleeding while he fled into the night with five bullet wounds, narrowly escaping the army’s hot vengeance with the aid of a hunter who stowed him aboard a train then heading east for St. Louis—well, since that night she hadn’t felt the least aroused.
A lone horseman emerged from the swirling snowfall. A well-burdened mule followed wearily behind. What caught her eye as her breath fogged the window was the white robe draping man and horse. She quickly wiped the pane for a better view. His aspect vital, intriguing, and wolf-like—his hat pulled low, brim weighed down by ice that also clung to ringlets of his long black hair and the mustache drooped to his bristled chin. His blue eyes turned her way named him. Had he smiled as the window fogged? She wasn’t certain. By now he was past the hotel and halted before the livery. Alice turned from the window, flush with excitement. A blood-heat opposite frostbite flooded her—her breasts warmed, her thighs brushed in sensuous appeal. She leaned against the wall and closed her eyes. Strange to say she desired nothing from him in the way of money; no, there exists a rare poetry, once fed, that starves the soul.
Caspion noticed her at the window, her radiance turned his eye, but he was too encrusted by ice to acknowledge with a smile; and he was too wore down, as close to froze as a man could be and still move. Entering the livery, he welcomed its shelter; at the moment the embrace he most desired. He slowly dismounted and hung the stiffened robe over a rail to thaw. Then he warmed his hands rubbing down Two-Jacks and Stump—what little attention the latter allowed, for often as not man’s caress ran opposite its mulish nature. Boon, after flushing a mouse, rustled briefly in the corner straw then curled nose to tail and slept.
Horse and mule groomed and fed, Caspion slung his saddlebag and robe over his left shoulder, cradled the pup in his right arm, grabbed guitar and rifle and walked up the street to the hotel. The old woman behind the counter merely nodded and smiled as he requested the usual set of clothes and heated water sent to his room. Easing into the steaming tub, needles of pain shot through his numbed feet, but they were soon itching from the thaw. He leisurely soaped and scrubbed, rubbing away the ache, then rinsed with a pitcher of near-scalding water poured over his head and down his spine. Vapors of rising steam filled his lungs like a sweet opiate. He lay back to soak with a grateful sigh, glad Hans, McKay, and the others had opted for the modest rates of the rooming house near the depot. It was good to be alone.
His new clothes were quietly placed inside the door. He pulled on the trousers and boots, stropped his razor and carefully shaved. Following which he brushed his teeth and rinsed his mouth with whiskey. Finished, he put on the coat and knotted the tie. After combing his hair and mustache, he held up the lamp for a closer look—saw reflected in the mirror a hint of gray and here and there a new or deepened wrinkle. He smiled, none too surprised, considering, that one man aged while another man died.
The robe, left spread over the bed to dry, was now free of moisture, freshened and cleansed by the cold wind and snow. Boon lay curled at the foot of the bed, kicking and whimpering in a puppy dream. Ca
spion lay back against the headboard and folded his arms, reflecting over recent events.
But the reverie was brief. He glanced at the pen and inkwell on the bureau, and finding paper in the drawer, he was soon seated before the flickering lamplight, writing down the thoughts he’d been longing to share with Luther.
“My good and dear brother,” he began. “Do not despair of me. Though I am slow in writing, I shall always answer. Much has happened since I’ve written last. I am as well as common. But my good friend and partner of recent years, Sam Tillman, was killed by the Cheyenne this past October. I by merest chance escaped to tell the tale”—which he then related, even divulging details of the Thunder Bow incident—”…again, I should have died, and likely would have, but for the white robe. As the warriors rode away, I dropped to the ground, weak and dazed, like my life had been taken and in a moment restored. And I still ask, Why was I not killed?
“Doubtless, you will think I have been too long on the range. But I swear that when I sleep wrapped in the robe, my dreams bear truth. Think me mad? Perhaps so. The why of it plagues me. I have seen too many good men, brave and truer than myself, die in the war and since, to believe Providence would spare me for any particular end. But Luther, I swear before our mother’s grave that the robe has a power, what the Indians call medicine, or great mystery. If not divine, it is decidedly uncommon. There are moments in the blackest night when I see so clearly that I can name whatever moves and the number of. I have told no one of this, for it weighs on me. I am humbled. Though you may laugh, it is so.
“Yet I have more certain and joyous news to share. Foremost, you should know that to save my scalp Two-Jacks outran the wind and the devil himself. A curse hurled from Hades could not have caught us. Steed of wondrous birth, he warrants his own chapter in song and legend. Thank you again, dear brother, for the gift of him that preserves my unworthy flesh.
“Remember me to Martha, give her my love and regret. I know that she suffers from the loss of the child, as do you. Would that suffering was evenly spread, I would lighten your sorrow. With due love and highest regard…”
As he finished there was a subtle knock at the door. Opening it, he was pleased to see Alice standing in the shadowed hallway, cloaked in black, her silence enticing. At his gesture she entered. With a flick of a hand she unpinned her flaming mane and shook it free, covering her bare shoulders as her cape dropped to the floor. The scarlet wisp of her negligee absorbed the soft amber light revealing her deepest contours as she passed by the bureau and bed. She paused briefly, a thigh poised through the slit of her gown, and ran her hand over the lush richness of the white robe. She noted the sleeping pup with a faint smile, then nodded towards the letter and arched her brow.
“Writing your sweetheart?” she asked, advancing his way.
“No. My good brother…who I send word on occasion of my well-being.”
“You look quite well to me, Caspion.” A streak of gray added luster to his hair.
“I was half-froze, Alice. But I am warmed by the sight of you.”
“Only warmed?” she demurred, brushing his arm, circling him, checking the fit of his clothes. She passed an approving caress across his back, then rounded to the front and laid her hands upon his shoulders—felt their power as she pressed to him, her face raised to his, her chin nudging his tie, her eyes beseeching…urgent.
His fingers traced the swell of her breasts, nipples hardening at his touch. Her insistence moved him. She lowered her hands and quickly worked him free, yearning for his virile strength. With a firm hand he took her arching thigh then gripped the other and raised her to him, pressing her to the wall as she wrapped his waist, her deep flesh parting to his certain thrust, then again, more rapid and violent. They locked to one another—hands, mouth, teeth—her to him in stabbing rhythm, bound by a killer’s thirst soon quenched as he burst like a hot vein draining inside her. Spent, dizzied by the swift transport of passion, each clung to the other, steadied by the wall, sharing the moist heat of their breath, licking the sweet salt and blood from bitten lips.
“Good God…Alice,” he managed to gasp; “What will this cost me?”
“Why Caspion,” she laughed, their bellies rippling together, still panting; “Just a warm hello…to welcome you back.” She awaited his puzzled look then added: “Of course, you will satisfy my curiosity.”
“The robe?” he queried; she nodded. “Then I hope you’ve an appetite, my lady. For it’s a feast of a tale I’ll share over dinner.”
“Please do, I am famished. But first, allow me some moments to rearrange my person.” They disengaged, and Caspion draped the cloak about her shoulders. “Thank you,” she smiled, “I was starting to chill. Call by my room shortly.”
“Be my pleasure,” he answered, showing her to the door.
The hotel dining room was empty except for the handsome couple seated at the far corner table. Candle light and champagne set before them, along with fresh bread and buffalo steak—his, well-done, and hers ordered “rare”. The long folds of her red hair were again pinned in place and she wore a deep-blue velvet dress that instantly filled his eyes, matching their color and set them smoldering in spite of the recent tryst. They ate hungrily and ordered another bottle while he regaled her with his tale. He sketched the tragic opening in a few deft strokes, then boldly swept to the broad canvas, depicting the high adventure of the escape and stampede, of Two-Jacks’ heroic fidelity and endurance, then to the white buffalo and how its ghost-like iridescence and the change of terrain ultimately threaded the needle of his salvation. But he mindfully skipped the warriors and the coup. And though the champagne and her beauty loosened his tongue to the point that he hinted of the robe’s extraordinary qualities, he caught himself with a laugh and claimed he was feeding her mere fancy and apologized.
“Indeed, you should be ashamed,” she teased as he refilled her glass. “A woman could lose herself in your words. For a moment I saw Aladdin on his flying carpet. Alas, your guile ensnares a woman’s heart.”
But she was too watchful and shrewd, knew her quarry too well, not to detect the shadow of other events and a greater meaning held from her. Few men mystified her, and seldom beyond a night—none ever for long. But she was seduced by the mystery of Caspion and felt weakened by him; an unbearable weakness that she could remove only by unraveling his mystery, and thereby preserve her own. Although she could easily abide the pleasure of his pursuit, she could not allow herself to be so attracted, so drawn to him. Such was not her plan. And despite her inner longings, her will desired another Hickok: deadly, wanton, utterly selfish, all the cards on the table in one violent rush then gone—only to reappear under another guise, at another time and place, taken as needed and as quickly discarded. Undreamt of and unmourned. But could she quell her desire? Her passion? She felt helpless before his impetus; perhaps her only option was to yield, tack before the dauntless wind that filled her and maneuver patiently to the heart of him. Then strike free.
“You’re a man heedless of odds, Caspion.” As expected, this caught him off-guard.
“Alice…I ran like a jack-rabbit when I saw the Cheyenne come my way. Odds? I didn’t debate the matter.”
“True. But you ran bravely. And survived in spite of the odds.” She smiled to sweeten the bait; but her flattery earned only a doleful shrug.
“I survived like I survived the war. Out of fear, Alice. Fear greater than courage.”
Which was precisely his rare courage: an impetuous nature that galloped forth and held her spellbound with his fearless acrobatics. What he heedlessly revealed enhanced the mystery; a simple answer parried whatever feint or thrust; he never grew guarded or defensive. She continued probing, waiting for his male guile to surface.
“Were you never brave?”
“Brave? Sure, Alice, for a time. Say…in the first few moments of my first fight. Hell-bent for glory as I dashed to embrace its moonshine. Then the lad on my left fell, his manhood shot from between his legs. A swif
t and wretched surgery I assure you. I knelt beside him, my courage wounded like his flesh. That’s when I tasted fear, like sick bile rising in my gut. Then the sergeant prods me with his bayonet and yells: ‘Pay ’em no heed, private. Set yer sights on that fence-line yonder!’ No, it didn’t do to show the white feather, or they’d show you the firing squad. So I jumped to my feet and charged the Johnny Rebs. Same in every fight, wary of the bayonet behind and afraid to glance between my legs. And warrant, I ran with my knees held high.” He downed his glass and poured another. “Of course, there were moments of courage, hazards of time and place…and it always required an orb of greater courage to cast the shadow of your own. Yeah, there were brave men all over the battlefield. And dead ones too.”
“Sirs Sheridan and Custer speak fondly of war, the splendor and glory of battle.”
“So you’ve met the illustrious pair?” To which she nodded. “Well, that’s their moonshine, Alice. They never worked a burial detail. I don’t cheer men who cheer war. But likely, if I’d been equipped for the cavalry at age sixteen, I’d swear the same. Possible and most likely. For the war was grand fun at times.”
“So, did you enjoy the plunder and rape?” she asked as her foot brushed his leg.
“You’re loaded with questions tonight, Alice.”
“Well then…satisfy my curiosity, and I’ll satisfy you.”
“The plunder,” he smiled. “I loved wrecking railroads. A lively sport. We’d tear up the tracks, stack the ties in four walls, fill the center with brush, lay the rails on top, then fire up the whole shebang. Stand back and watch the rails horseshoe from the great heat. Called ’em Sherman neckties. As for the railroads, I’d wreck ’em all again. But to love war, Alice…,” he paused, the edge returning to his voice, “you’d have to enjoy the sight of men spited and roasted alive. No, I don’t cheer men who cheer war.”
Caspion & the White Buffalo Page 9
