Caspion & the White Buffalo

by Melvin Litton

  After setting Boon on point, he fixed his eyes on the Arkansas visible at a quarter mile further east, decided then and there to follow the buffalo now turning from the river in ever greater number, staying far south of the Dead Line. Distracted by such thoughts and reflections, he hadn’t noticed the freight wagon lumbering from the northeast, loaded down with hides and drawn by eight oxen yoked in pairs. But he instantly knew the joyful accented voice that called his name.

  “Kas-pin!” Hans stood, shaking his head, reining in the team. Eyes big in wonder. “Vhere you been so long from Hays? Ve hear of you…once…twice maybe.”

  “I’ve been traveling.” Caspion smiled, leaning from his saddle to shake hands. “Good to see you, Hans. Good to see you well.”

  “Yah,” Hans beamed, nodding; he’d shed his awkwardness, now a mature young man. Just then Jezebel, his bitch-dog, unable to restrain herself, jumped the sideboards and ran to exchange scents with Boon; her head and tail quickly lowered before his bristling stance. But soon both were whimpering and licking faces.

  “Ze pup? Zat big one?” Hans asked, pointing.

  “That’s him. The very same.”

  “Zink zey know each o’zer?” he asked again.

  “Possible they do, Hans. Seems likely.”

  Hans laughed heartily. “Now I know for certain ze fa’zer vas a volf. Big volf.”

  Caspion smiled in agreement as they watched the pair frisk and play. After a short while, he asked: “How about yourself, Hans? Why aren’t you on the range, hunting for big money…instead of lugging hides?”

  “Ah,” he shrugged, “ze vagon is for me. I make goot money. No vloody skinnin’. Unt I build a bizness. My own boss…a free man.”

  “Your father’s dream, eh Hans?”

  “Yah, truly. My fa’zer’s dream,” he answered in fond memory. Then his eyes brightened. “Unt best zing is…I am back to Dodge most veeks unt see Alice.”

  Hearing her name, Caspion’s heart jumped.

  “Now there’s an investment likely to eat up your profits, Hans.”

  The other shook his head good-naturedly. “No, not like zat, Kaspin. Since you left from Hays, she has von man. Me. She has girls to verk ze men. She verks ze bizness. I am her von man.”

  Caspion glanced away in brief thought then returned a smile.

  “That’s good to hear, Hans. Alice, she’s first-rate. She’s…you’re a lucky man.”

  “Yah, truly. But ve vill not marry…I zink not.” After a moment’s pause, Hans quickly added: “Unt she is vorried of you.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “A vhile back…a months maybe…two men come, rough men, unt ask girls if zey see hunter vith vhite robe. If yes, vill pay money. Alice vorries zey hunt for you.”

  “Did one wear a stove-pipe hat and tailcoat? A tall man…with a long gray beard?”

  “Yah, she say so. Unt I zink…he had bad limp.”

  “In the right leg, I bet.” Caspion smiled. “That’s where I shot him.”

  “Zis man? You shoot him?”

  “My own reasons, Hans,” his smile faded, “the less you know the better. But if you ever meet up with these men, keep your wits about you and keep moving. They’ll likely waylay any they happen across.”

  Hans nodded thoughtfully. “Yah…zere are many to vatch for.” Then he looked Caspion in the eye and smiled. “Vell, Alice vants for you to know. Maybe she likes you still a little…I zink.”

  With this comment the urge hit Caspion to ride for Dodge, find her and search her liquid eyes—see if there lay a heart buried in that cunning beauty after all. Then let it pass. “Maybe so, Hans,” he answered evenly, “but I doubt it. As I recall, the last time we met she put a pistol to my head and walked me out the door.” Caspion gave a laugh. “Women! I’ll let you figure ’em, Hans. Right now, I’m headed south…Indian Territory. Maybe on to Texas. Taste some air that doesn’t smell of death, man, and money.”

  “Alone?” the other cautioned. “Ze Indians…vill scalp you.”

  “Possible, Hans,” Caspion winked with a quick smile, “and one day most likely. But not just yet. I ain’t in the dying mood. Tell Alice thanks for the warning. And live long, both of you. Adios!” He set his heels and called for Boon, then spurred Two-Jacks for the river, letting Stump eat their dust. His spirit sang, buoyed by the concern of a beautiful woman.

  Hans watched him ride away, breasting the wind, shirt billowing out behind, hat slung from his neck, bouncing at his back—and he longed to join in the adventure. Jezebel, too, lingered on the vision until the dust settled and the foursome vanished into the timber; then she jumped up beside Hans, and they continued on their cumbersome journey west, gathering more hides to freight to the markets east.

  XIV. The Great Bull

  Through the heat-dancing horizon and for many stormless days to come, he followed the buffalo. Unlike the empty drift of winter or the recent vistas of slaughter, he joined an epical rhythm written long before man and his brief history, witnessing the grand spectacle known as the Rutting Season. Great bulls engaged in mortal combat for the prize of extending their loins to the womb of the species; flesh buried in flesh, giving birth to the same. The earth tremored beneath the quaking thrusts of battle and feverish rut. And Caspion rode enrapt by all. Again, as when he last hunted, his flesh ached in sympathy—his blood pulsed with each bull’s mounting surge. Intoxicated, driven on like the Primal Shepherd urging his flock to greater abundance on the fertile plains, as if he somehow directed the vast frenzy of mating beasts. His heart raced, exultant amidst the living testament—the life-affirming tumult.

  Since acquiring the robe Caspion had gained an uncanny sense regarding the presence of man and carefully skirted the Indians hunting along his singular path. He kept the robe wrapped in his sleeping tarp and each night rolled it out to lie upon. He’d scan the swirling advance of stars, mark the changes of the moon, her rise and fall, and gaze into the darkness, focusing his illumined sight at will, honing his vision to an ever greater depth. Tonight he observed a lone red fox, leeward at perhaps fifty yards, browsing near an abandoned prairie dog hill. It turned its sharp nose his way, detecting scent of man-wolf-horse and mule; unconcerned, cloaked by darkness, it continued its casual search for prey. Overhead a Burrowing Owl circled impatiently, anxious for the prowler to leave the entrance to its underground home. Hearing its distant screech, Boon briefly raised his head then rested his muzzle on his paws.

  Caspion closed his eyes as well and soon slept, exploring the cavernous dreams of another more mutable realm. He rode through the golden patina of a mid-summer dawn, down an empty dust-blown trail leading into a lifeless frontier town. He dismounted and entered a building that beckoned amidst the stillness. Upstairs, he found a door open to a shadowed room. As if she’d been waiting, she turned to him and smiled. Through the lace-curtain window the morning sun bathed her in a shimmering glow. He gripped her shoulders and pulled her to him, making certain she wasn’t ethereal; her flesh warmed, yielding to his hands, alive as her flaming hair falling past her shoulders as he whirled her in his arms. In that dizzying moment they shed their clothes to taste the enticements of the other’s flesh. She traced her fingers along the white strand of gray that swept from his temple past his ear.

  “There were rumors,” she whispered, her lips edging his mustache, “that you had turned Renegade…perhaps taken a comely squaw to warm your robe.”

  “Since when did rumors concern Alice Layety?”

  “Since she heard Caspion’s name mentioned in them.”

  “I thought you were with Hans?”—curious of her answer.

  “I am with Hans,” her hot breath rushed to his; “This is only a memory, something to savor then awaken from, like a dream. Share it with me Caspion before it’s gone again forever.” Their bodies joined as they shared their passion, feasting beneath the hive of swarming stars, his sperming life flooding to her silken depths. When he withdrew and slowly stood, she lay shameless as the prairie
spread before him, her nippled hills and moist valleys sated by his heat.

  “Be careful,” she said as he turned to go.

  “Don’t worry, Alice. I live a charmed life…as you are proof…”

  Leaving the dream, he woke briefly, tasting her on his lips, her scent in the air. At once haunted and warmed by her memory, he closed his eyes like a curtain in want of blank empty sleep. Instead, his rest was torn by a primal hunt as his being shared in the wolf-looping strides hot on a scent. The trail led down a gully then suddenly dashed away. The prey, sprung from hiding, leapt and ran, zig-zagging desperately before the keen eyes skewering its frantic flight. Sensing the ripened moment, he made a powerful lunge and snatched, crushing its whimpering life in his jaws. Warm sweet blood-juice trickled down his throat as he carried its limp body back to camp.

  Caspion awoke at first light to spy Boon tearing at a fresh kill. He knew what it was, for he tasted the same in his own mouth. Not alarmed, such was now common, he only held a trace of wonder at the awareness they shared. And he could hardly scold Boon for running a rabbit in the predawn when he apparently ran alongside…or within. Caspion roused himself and built a fire, soon to flavor his mouth with coffee. He thought of Alice—her flesh equally as vivid. Was one dream like the other? Had she shared the same? Again he felt tempted to return. But this time he vowed to stay below the Dead Line, like a personal wager, an ultimate stunt, as if he’d leapt and would remain so suspended until he grasped a handhold and either landed on his feet or broke his neck in the attempt. Perhaps leave his bones to bleach or more likely in his case go mad. But no second-guessing, no looking to the future or the past, which likely preserved his mental balance. He sweetened his coffee with brown molasses and raised it to his lips.

  That morning, Caspion, already well below the Cimarron, crossed the Beaver and rode south along the Palo Duro. High-noon found him about a hundred miles due west of Camp Supply, alone on the “Staked Plains” of the Texas Pan-handle, known also as El Llano Estacado, or more simply the Llano. Temporarily halted by the heat and scenery, his eyes drawn by the meager shade lining a scum-water creek, he glimpsed a scattering of buffalo directly beyond. While hobbling horse and mule, he heard the duel of angry bulls, the deep-throated challenge and the tell-tale stomp. The ground shook with their abrupt charge and collision like railroad cars coupled and pinned. He motioned to Boon and quietly ascended a low bluff to better view the combat. His rifle barrel parted the grass, and man and wolf-dog lay prone, intent on the drama.

  An old monarch held two “spike bulls” at bay. One had just charged without success, now backed away, still threatening as he swaggered from side to side, pawing the earth; presently, deciding on another attempt, he lowered his head and rushed forth. But the old bull merely braced and turned the blow with a disdainful toss of his great head, then gored his assailant’s hindquarters and drove the upstart crashing through the shrub oak in headlong retreat.

  The opportunist at his flank chose the moment. The old bull spun to parry the attack, but snapped his right fore-leg in a badger hole as the young bull caught him behind the shoulder and toppled the great one, brutally goring his underbelly while driving his wounded bulk around the axis of his broken leg, horns thrust to the quick. Only the victim’s anguished bellow escaped the swirl of dust, muffled in the tortuous heat. As all quieted, the victor gave the fallen a rude nudge, then snorted conclusively and turned towards the waiting cows, his head pitched in triumph.

  Blind-sided by chance, the old bull grunted once and staggered to his feet; he bravely managed a step or two then stood vaguely aware of the futility of further effort. His broken leg dangled pitifully; his intestines distended to the ground; a froth of bloody saliva hung from his nose. Already, flies swarmed to lay their eggs and feed. Distant ravens came to scout.

  Caspion, witnessing the noble beast unseated, clutched his scar in reflex; his mouth gone dry at the memory of his own painful goring. Boon, anxious to investigate, licked his face and broke the spell. Man cuffed wolf-dog lightly, then rolled away, playfully mauled in turn. The frisking moment soon passed. Caspion jumped to his feet and Boon stood by. They trotted down to the arena, granting the deposed a wide berth. The old bull ignored man circling behind, but well-schooled in the logic of nature, warily eyed wolf-dog poised in front. Doubtless he was fated to feed the wolves, but not his living flesh. Caspion determined against it. Such virile courage deserved a more merciful dispatch. And a more celebratory feast.

  Mindful of Indians, Caspion lay his Henry aside and unsheathed his knife. At his approach the old bull turned its head and fixed him with a dark eye. Caspion froze. The old bull heaved a warning breath like a stalled locomotive hissing steam; he whipped his tail on a flexing haunch and waited. Man bared his teeth and snapped his jaws—as signaled, the wolf-dog made a snarling feint, distracting the bull momentarily while man swept in and sliced the hamstrings. A ton of vibrant flesh collapsed helpless on its side. Caspion quickly found the heart and plunged his knife to the hilt. Life tensed at death, gripped, for a moment held. He felt its quivering release flow through his hand as the bulk went wholly limp, the tongue extended in a final sigh.

  Driven by a nameless need rooted in an old knowing, Caspion cut out the liver and tongue, choice portions for the evening sacrament. Next, he cut above the eyes, working to sever the upper skull and horns; finally, he sliced down either shoulder to strip the greater pelage from its back. He took its mantle to honor its life; to dance the glory of its many conquests in battle and in mating; and to gain blessing from its spirit. Tonight, let the fire blaze dangerously high—let any within range bear witness.

  The summer hunt had proved swift and fruitful. The abundance of buffalo throughout the region in part due to the harassment of Veho’s further north—an irony which helped fill their winter larders in timely fashion. A harsh drought had shrunk the Cimarron to a trickling flow; by mid-summer what water remained lay beneath the dry sandy bed, forcing man and animal to paw daily for a life-sustaining drink. So the Cheyenne had gratefully returned to the tranquil shade and plentiful water of the North Canadian where the air was sweet with plums and berries ripe for harvest.

  Two, however, followed a more circuitous route: first heading south then turning northwest to eventually rejoin the band at the destined camp. Running Hawk wished to introduce the young scout to the terrain most promising for future hunts, certain that pressure from the Vehos would drive them and the buffalo further south each season and soon into the territory of their brothers, the Comanche, with whom they’d been at peace since Awoke In Winter was a youth. And the subtle insights of a scout were better learned far from the distractions of camp-life. But beyond these apparent reasons lay a deeper motive. Running Hawk still waited love’s ripe moment. Perhaps a journey-quest would grant his heart the clarity needed to counter accepted form.

  Riding before the sun, naked like Running Hawk except for his loincloth, the young scout felt the heat soothe his recent wounds, closed his eyes and in the reddened vision saw himself tethered once more to the sun-pole where his flesh and spirit had struggled, merging with the mystery. Spotted Tail had fasted the full day prior, standing alone on a hill, poised on a buffalo skull, turning slowly before the sun. This was itself an extreme test chosen by Spotted Tail to ready him for the greater ordeal, to receive a vision, for such was not granted to all who suffered, but only as the Maiyun willed. Thus prepared, his body numbed by the day-long fast and strict night-long vigil, on the following dawn when Awoke In Winter skewered his chest muscles to attach the thongs, Spotted Tail merely smiled at the pain and thick flow of blood. Hadn’t his young heart known a pain that if turned to blood would have swollen a river?—his shame at the death of Little Wolf. That deeper wound these lesser would heal.

  As he danced, pulling away from the tether tied to the Thunderbird nest at the fork of the sun-pole, a cottonwood felled by four virgins and planted center of the sacred lodge by the foremost warriors, Spotted Tail experienced a
many-rooted pain flooding from his earliest memories. Still he pulled, determined to free himself and exorcise the deeper pain; his teeth clenched an eagle bone whistle as he blew his soul’s agony, high and shrill like keening sorrow. Throughout the day he danced slowly from side to side, blowing on the whistle, time and again pulling bravely against the tether to tear the skewers from his flesh and free his spirit of that terrible talon twisting in his heart. Occasionally, his attendant, Running Hawk, gave him water and wiped away the blood, speaking words of encouragement before replacing the bone whistle to return him to the ordeal. By sundown the three other dancers, all mature warriors, had broken away, but Spotted Tail remained fastened—his slight frame would not yield the force necessary to tear the flesh knotted about the skewers. Awoke In Winter offered to slice the skin and so speed his torture to its just conclusion, and no shame would befall him, for his fidelity and courage were amply proven. But Spotted Tail refused all aid. He would follow the purest path to gain his vision. On he danced; his long ordeal to end at dawn. Throughout the night the whistle sounded a thin, abating cry as Spotted Tail weakened from blood loss and fatigue; his arms hung slack, his head flopped forward, and while his feet barely moved, they continued to tread the path—sustained by an unfaltering will that bound him to the Maiyun. Whatever the gathered spirits asked of him, he would give.

  Once more his body arched as he threw back his head and strove mightily to break away. Wolves tore at his wounds, buried their muzzles and gnawed within—their hot breath lapping at his lungs; one found his heart and wrenched to tear it from his bosom. Spotted Tail lurched before the vision, gasping in the graying dawn. Awoke In Winter moved to cut the tether, but Running Hawk stayed his hand. No, old one, his eyes spoke, pity his spirit, not his flesh. As permitted, the warrior plied his strength to the struggling youth’s, and with a staunch pull the flesh tore. At that instant the dancer saw an angry bull lunge from within and toss the wolves upon its horns, scattering them as they fled snarling and biting at one another. The bloody skewers whipped through the air, tangled in the tether, and fell by the sun-pole. As the sun broke the horizon, Running Hawk laid the dancer on a robe. Spotted Tail’s eyes opened, rolled then closed…saw the sun’s aura around the great bull that gently nudged his heart and licked his wounds.