Hans smiled in answer, beaming his pleasure. On the arm of her chosen escort Alice left the saloon; his strength and stature lightened her every step. That night and many following, she sought solace with Hans. The giant youth was giant in all ways, of mythical proportions and untamed, but aptly gentle and of good humor.
Caspion packed and left immediately; didn’t wait for dawn, didn’t care to witness. He rode out of Hays on Two-Jacks with the wolf-pup nestled under his coat, the mule tagging along behind, perversely at ease with the midnight journey. Caspion pulled the white robe snug to his shoulders, fully draped and warm, fully prepared to accept its governing fate to whatever end. He’d never yearned for the prairie more, to escape the words, the doubts, the discouraging company of man and woman, and the sooty clouds that inhabit heated rooms in winter.
Across the night a chorus of wolves beckoned. He inhaled the scent of freedom tangible in each breath, tasted in the freshness of fallen snow, and he felt the emptiness inside fill with the broad space that seemed to stretch away forever. And he longed for the purity and silence to restore him. Whatever the source of her intimation, Alice had guessed correctly, though as yet unknown to him, something deep within already hunted a pure one. Somewhere lay a nativity; somewhere a grave.
While about the stellar pole the constellations migrated west like grand luminous Conestogas through the arching sky. Caspion sighted on Orion—choose the Hunter’s studded belt—and drifted south over the snow-capped plain.
PART TWO
IX. Butcher Joe
For those willing to brave the blizzards, there were easy pickings that winter. Untold thousands of buffalo floundered in the drifts to await butcher or starvation. A lone hunter could cache 2,000-plus hides of double value due to the thick fur then hire them hauled to hide depots come spring. Many joined in the slaughter. A wave of bank failures swept across the country, precipitated in large part by western land speculation, the railroads taking the entire nation spiraling towards bankruptcy. Hundreds of rail workers in Kansas alone were idled by the depression of ’71 and ’72; with the Credit Mobilier scandal yet to follow in ’73. Banks busted; railroads busted. And of course, farmers always blown-out and busted—especially those suckered onto the plains by prospects that seldom panned out. Men borrowing money at ten percent to buy land yielding a miserly two; the railroad brochures painted a mighty rosy picture, Become a landed Prince, they said, but it was a crown of thorns for the man who sought to rule that earthly kingdom. Many soon left their hellish parcel to pursue the sweeter fortunes of the hunt. And if the man didn’t leave, the woman like as not did—some becoming whores, even, to escape the harsh isolation and endless bane of childbirth, often preferring the degradations of the brothel to their wretched servitude as sanctified chattel.
By the spring of ’72 hunters along the Arkansas were making up to $100 a day. Such profits provided ample attraction for those who rejected their destined lot. And though the states of Montana, Wyoming, and Idaho all passed laws to limit the hunting of buffalo, the Kansas governor left a similar bill unsigned—and with that pocket veto the grisly harvest continued unabated, rapidly emptying the Indians’ commissary as Sherman & Sheridan expressly wished. Hays City soon surrendered her queenly mantle to the new darling of the plains: Dodge City, born in a day. And while the rivers of the region flowed east towards the general gloom and bust, desperate men and women poured west onto the buffalo range to share in the rich bounty and feast—the heady atmosphere for hundreds of miles interspersed by the booming fire of Big 50s.
To every hunt is called the predator, if not man then surely another. In the wake of the wolf comes the coyote, the raven, the magpie, the vulture—so on and so forth in a hierarchical rhythm roughly old as blood. But there are those who hunt without bridle, who prefer the ignoble gleanings to the true harvest; and along the southern periphery of the Great Hunt through the borderlands south of the Dead Line ranged a number of this desperate breed. Foul marauders, unbidden by all. Since the Civil War they’d visited depredations on the five civilized tribes of eastern Oklahoma: the Creek, Cherokee, Chickasaw, Choctaw, and Seminole. But in the late conflict the tribes had backed the Confederacy, so their protests were largely ignored by the Great White Father, lost in the bureaucratic maze, with no effective force ever sent to suppress the outlaws.
Most venomous of the lot was a gang of murderous thieves led by Butcher Joe Krippit. Born Joseph Herod Krippit in the hills of southern Missouri; but his backwoods upbringing produced a nature in stark contrast to the slain President whom he physically resembled. He grew tall and sinewy, with a darkened soul to match the shadowed world he inhabited. His harsh flinty eyes gleamed beneath the lobe of his brow; his long nose bent towards a weak chin hidden by a long gray beard let grow since adolescence. He held a fundamental view of things—cold, cruel, heartless—albeit literate. He plied the Bible like a black ax to crush the life and spirit of any he opposed or who fell to his sway; considered the Negro and Indian subhuman, preferred their slaughter to their subjugation. Women were a necessary abhorrence to be shunned or called upon in accordance to procreative will and sustenance. He fervently hated and he fervently believed. And like most cruel men, he was sincerely convinced of his own righteousness; certain, at least initially, that the world would one day confirm his utter devotion through select divine martyrdom. Though later on, with warped faith his sole justification, cruelty was sought and tasted for its own sake.
From the age of fifteen he’d participated in the cross-border raids that afflicted “Bleeding Kansas” prior to the war; relished the thrill of ambush, the surprise—the incalculable sense of power conferred to one who deals death unseen. When the war came, he rode for a time with Quantrill’s Guerrillas; gained the moniker “Butcher Joe” in the infamous raid on Lawrence in August of ’63, during which over 150 men age twelve and above were murdered in cold blood. Not all the males of Lawrence were massacred, however; some survived hid-out in barns and wells; a few escaped detection disguised as women seated at their own tables. But Joseph Herod Krippit was a zealot not easily diverted from his mission. Upon entering one such house, he scanned the parlor for a likely suspect, set his eyes on an unusually large-boned young lass and torn the bonnet away with a vicious smirk, then dragged the mute-stricken lad from his pleading mother to the porch, and in a grim variation of Solomon and the contested babe, he drew his sword and hacked the boy in half. He promptly presented the horrified mother with the head and torso, commending her on the everlasting virtue of her darling daughter: “You may be proud she’ll nar speak out a’ turn an’ will remain chaste an’ nar shame ye!” Then he mounted up and rode off, dragging the stripped loins and legs, the gruesome evidence for all to see. And he was tagged ever after “Butcher Joe” for the deed.
But his singular bloodlust proved even too excessive for one of Quantrill’s rarefied taste; this added to his manic self-conceit, their inherent rivalry soon flared. Butcher Joe turned rabid and defiant—rebellious beyond the tolerance of an unruly dog pack. So Quantrill, keen to self-interest and not wishing to have his throat cut in his sleep, wisely ran the upstart off. Before long Butcher Joe was organizing his own raids. Unlike Quantrill, however, he survived the war, and in an ultimate snub to Union victory, he dressed thereafter in top-hat and tailcoat in perverse parody of the late President. The Lincolnesque phantom rode through mist and twilight, continuing his merciless ways as will, whim, or hazard of fortune chose. And lately, with the great slaughter in the West fully engaged, prized buffalo ponies, expertly trained by the native hunter, were in high demand. Following the trail of opportunity, Butcher Joe extended his forays west beyond the Arkansas, deep into the designated territories of the Kiowa and Comanche, the Arapaho and Cheyenne.
Thirteen horsemen, heavily armed, rode along the tree-lined ridge, barely perceptible through the dusk. They made a shadowy descent down the wooded slope leading to the river. The Cimarron, her waters low and somnolent in late winter, was easily forded.
Silt muddied the surface briefly then drifted away, settling as the riders crested the rise beyond and headed west. But the ancient recipe of violence that coursed through their veins as those hooves crossed that shallow current remained as implacable as the oldest borders dividing men and the conflicted soul of man.
X. Owl In The Night
Little Wolf was overjoyed. That day the esteemed warrior Running Hawk had helped him string his new bow; he said its power was unsurpassed by any in camp and that Little Wolf would surely join the men in the summer hunt. To prove himself worthy Little Wolf would not neglect his duties. That night he and a boy named Spotted Tail stood watch over the horses grazing on the plain beyond the high bluff north. Winter had so depleted the grasses that the horses now foraged night and day for necessary fodder. Another herd grazed south of the camp, tended as well by another pair of youths. The herds were split to increase the range available to each horse and to lessen the risk of all being stolen or stampeded at one stroke. Though long, it had been a good winter. In several raids they’d added to their own herds while losing none. Amid the peace and quiet of the dormant land, with no sign of danger, vigilance naturally waned. Soon the sweet buds of spring would draw the scent, quicken their urges, and distract all with the promise of renewal.
A light breeze blew from the south for the first time since autumn. Though the breath frosted the air, the night was relatively warm. Spotted Tail rode the first watch, which ended when the moon reached mid-sky. He returned to the bluff to lie in his robe, to doze and listen while Little Wolf watched till dawn. Warning signals were learned from an early age and known by all, though they changed from night to day, with the seasons, and in shift of terrain and circumstance. Tonight, should Little Wolf sight an enemy, barks of the coyote would sound the alarm, which Spotted Tail would relay in high attenuating howls until the whole village awakened. Neither had ever faced the necessity; the common menace was a predator’s tread or a gust of wind that could startle a horse. So Little Wolf rode out slowly, circling northeast, to avoid exciting the herd. In most instances by simply patrolling the vicinity, predators were discouraged. But should a lion, wolf, or bear make bold approach, Little Wolf was eager to send an arrow zinging to its heart.
He tested his bow, pulling back the taut sinew, pleased that its strength would challenge his arm for mastery; certain of his weapon, having chosen the wood before the sap was up to reduce the chance of splintering as it dried. He shot an arrow towards the Seven Stars, the Pleiades, where the fabled warrior Moksois lived with his brothers and their cherished sister, Possible Sack. And watching it arc, he imagined that he like Moksois could travel to the arrow the instant it hit. He glimpsed its descent near the tree line directly north. He rode swiftly to the spot imagined, gauging the range, dismounted with a running leap and quickly found his arrow stuck upright in the ground. The bright yellow shaft quivered before the night’s singing breath.
From the nearby trees came the distinct cry of Bubo—the Great Owl. Little Wolf had long admired its stealth and skill as it hunted with muffled flight through the treetops, in awe of its reputed wisdom. Should he slay the creature, its spirit blessing would flow to him; its feathers decorate his bow at dawn. And one day he would be called Great Owl—warrior who ruled the night. So he dreamed as he loaded his bow and set forth, his moccasins gliding through the grass as he crept silently, entering the stand of trees, searching for the least sign of movement in the limbs above. He would gladly risk losing an arrow for such a prize.
But the southerly wind that heralded spring and sang through the feathered shaft also cloaked the scent of man. The perceived cry was a cunning deceit meant to draw him close. Little Wolf was not thinking of Bubo’s smaller brother, the Screeching Owl, who shares its name with the evil spirits of the night, the Mistai. A dark form suddenly loomed, its crest bearing cruel resemblance to the Great Owl as it seized Little Wolf with terrible talons and drove a steel blade deep into his panicked heart. Little Wolf fell; his pitiful gasps cut short as if a Mistai had snatched his trembling soul.
Butcher Joe stood black as night except for the gray seaman’s sweater worn beneath his coat and his gray forked beard that echoed the shape of the long dark tails dangling behind. He immediately sent several men out to infiltrate the herd and quietly move them north. Then he knelt and removed the blade and began severing the head from the limp, warm body.
“Ye not busy skinnin’,” he growled to those standing by, “best hold a leg.”
The grisly work was soon finished; the headless body quartered and left festooned through the trees. A fearful sight aimed to forestall pursuit and give pause to courage. Before riding off, Butcher Joe spiked the head on a broken branch, but took the scalp as some still paid prime bounty for such.
Spotted Tail awakened, seized by foreboding. His eyes cast north to confirm his fear. In the graying dawn the plain lay empty. No sign of the horses or of Little Wolf, only crows squabbling in the tree line beyond. His stomach tightened in a fist of dread and shame, realizing the horses had been stolen while he embraced sleep. And what of his friend, Little Wolf?
The anguished cry that rent the morning air was not the practiced signal, but none doubted its meaning. Women beside their cooking fires in the village below turned their eyes to the high ridge where Spotted Tail stood waving his blanket; they exchanged anxious glances with men emerging from the lodges. All knew an enemy was near; war ponies, always tethered close by, snorted and pricked their ears. Warriors tested from an early age and tuned to the urgent moment quickly armed and rode out. Several already ascended the bluff from the west, racing to meet whatever peril lay ahead.
Upon viewing the empty plain, none needed an explanation; they firmly hushed Spotted Tail then formed scouting parties. It was Wears The Wind who discovered the grim butchery and reined his pony in tight circles before the tree line to call the others. Feeding crows scattered at their approach. The men soon retrieved the boy’s remains, careful to arrange the pieces properly on a robe; a task solemnly performed and witnessed in silence. They examined the immediate scene and found boot-prints and tracks left by shod hooves, outraged at the Vehos’ cruel deed and unwarranted presence, an enemy none expected this far south. From the state of the body, evident in the blackened blood, they placed the enemy and stolen horses a half-day’s ride due north. Before the sun set twice, the enemy would reach the territories garrisoned by bluecoats and make good their escape. The horses lost.
Dog That Smiles saw the path clearly—they must seek the horses, for survival depended upon their return. This factor formed his knifing will, while the urge to avenge Little Hawk honed its edge. A sentiment shared by all; yet thirst for vengeance served a practical end as well: it spurred men to act. The Dog sensed their only option.
“We must remember always,” he began, his eyes cast to Spotted Tail, “each warrior gathered here, that when we stand watch we bear a sacred trust. If we sleep, the People perish. Look at what befell our little brother, whose name we speak no more.” As tears streamed down the boy’s face, the Dog turned his gaze to all. “The Vehos pluck out our heart and drive away our wealth,” he said. “They mock their own words and violate our land. The life and hope of the People is taken away and slaughtered like our brother, Hotoa! Let us track this Veho beast to his death!” He raised his lance to their angry war-hoops. “But hear this…,” he silenced them once more: “Our horses are weak from the long winter. Only warriors who are strong runners, who can spell their horses, should start the path. For none will be waited on. Quickly now, whoever will follow, return to the village and gather three days’ rations and extra moccasins. We must travel swiftly and not tire.”
Running Hawk voiced accord; others nodded. The Dog had scented the trail and all deferred to his lead. Spotted Tail stepped forth.
“Let me come,” he pleaded. “I can run all day and never tire.”
Running Hawk raised a hand to restrain the boy.
“No, Spotted Tail,” he answered.
“Today the path is desperate, not a time for a novice. And vengeance would not wash away your shame. Heed the words of Dog That Smiles. Stay and guard the People in our absence. Prove your courage. Take the body to his mother and speak to her the truth. This will test your courage more than the warpath ever will.” Braced by these words the boy vowed to obey.
Awoke In Winter helped Spotted Tail deliver the body. Keening cries greeted their arrival and continued through the day. Amid tears of mourning blood also flowed. In view of all, Spotted Tail hacked off two fingers and drew his knife across his flesh many times; soon, weakened by blood loss and sorrow, he fell unconscious. Awoke In Winter tended the boy’s wounds and governed his grief with gentle wisdom.
“May you live long,” he chanted, “and many times regret this day. May you live long and redeem yourself through many brave acts and good deeds. May your heart learn to sing the Dog Soldier song: In any fight, I protect the People! Now sleep, young one,” he placed a healing hand to the wounded breast, “and dream that your friend has found the Hanging Road and journeys safely to Seyan, the afterlife…”
With the tragic event the wind turned cold, now blowing from the northwest; gray clouds shrouded the sky. The damp air nipped their skin like tiny fangs as icy mist fell through the day. Luckily, there was no accumulation, so the trail left by the stolen herd was easily followed.
Ever more prevalent further north, patches of snow remained upon the land, clinging to shaded slopes and deep gullies, under trees and tall grasses. The rolling, pinto-marked hills urged them on, calling to mind the very horses they sought. A herd of antelope—Wokaihi—parted before the oncoming warriors, then ran a short distance and turned to watch. Man and animal nearly imperceptible but for their running. The constant wind and icy path tested each warrior’s endurance. But the grueling pace set by Dog That Smiles never eased. The ordeal beckoned. He bade to none.
Caspion & the White Buffalo Page 11
