Caspion & the White Buffalo

by Melvin Litton

  Caspion answered with a wry smile and tapped his glass.

  “From my braver Captain…I do accept.”

  Muldarrin replenished each glass; the wine warmed and thinned their blood; their emotions, thoughts, and memories fluid in the lantern’s solemn light as the surrounding darkness shimmered before the hallowed bond of two soldiers.

  “Sir, I’m curious to know…what ill-fate cast you here? I imagined you a priest by now…or a professor of the classics or the law. Or serving our glorious Union beyond the wide waters. Why the frontier?”

  “My choice, Caspion,” he explained, anxious to share his reasons and bridge the span of years. “With motives similar to your own, I suppose. A contrary propensity bequeathed by the war. I debated returning to my studies, but the uniform is my cloth, soldiers my brethren, the army my home. To be quite honest, I’m fortunate to have this command. With no connecting railroad or telegraph, I have more discretion than most. A welcome buffer from bureaucratic intrigue. I’ll be candid, competition for promotion can be murderous. Literally. Remember Custer’s campaign against the Cheyenne along the Washita in sixty-eight? Tactics and circumstance worked to rid him of a potential rival, Major Joel Elliot…whom many thought more worthy. While Major Elliot and his seventeen men were cut-off downstream and slaughtered, Custer attacked Black Kettle’s sleeping village and rode off in glory. Giving aid or quarter to none, he took the dead chief’s daughter to warm his tent on the journey back to Hays. Treachery among officers can equal that of the Janissary…and the Jesuits.

  “So yes, I sought this post. Though again I sense an indifferent Providence. This isn’t war, it’s subjugation. And last year Congress revoked the tribes’ status as separate nations. They’re no longer free to choose their fate or amend their treaties. As the law grants no sanction, they’re compelled by force of arms. Wards of the army, to be cared for or rid of. The prevailing mood among the ranking officers favors the latter…strict containment verging on extermination. Divide et impera! Like Sherman’s march to the sea, we effectively break their will by attacking their villages. Men cannot charge to the fore when their homes and loved ones are threatened. The same with warriors. No doubt you’ve heard that General Sherman wants to see the land ‘filled with speckled cattle and the festive cowboy.’ In his very words ‘the harbingers of civilization.’ True, our official mission appears benign: to administer the territories, enforce the treaties…and, ironically, to restrict unwarranted intrusion. Distasteful as it is at times, I nonetheless serve in the hope that my presence may reduce the suffering and injustice, and prevent any further massacre. From either side. And while it is almost certain that the Indians’ way of life will end in the seasons numbered on my hands, and before which fate my hands are tied, I wish to make a proposal…

  “Caspion, what I’m coming to is this,” he said, laying his hands to the table: “The Department of Indian Affairs, or more specifically the Commissioner, is looking to enlist capable men to serve as federal marshals to patrol the territories immediately adjacent to the Cheyenne-Arapaho reservations. And by their presence discourage, if not suppress, the lawless element active thereabout. Unfortunately, and here’s the rub…you’d have no authority to make arrests. But thankless as it is, the job is yours for the taking.”

  Two moths beat about the lamp, battering their wings against the glass, each trying to apprehend the light. Silence filtered like dust fallen from their futile effort. The flame fluttered then settled low in dim anticipation. Caspion, feeling likewise cursed, attempted to answer.

  “Sir…I’m grateful for your offer.” He swallowed hard, his blue eyes moist in the lamplight. “But as you say…the end is certain. The river has broken its banks and a sandbag won’t stem the tide. We’re all harbingers of death for the Indian. I’ve been a buffalo hunter, I helped destroy their commissary. I found it hard to follow the plow before the war and impossible after. So I hunted. But I no longer favor the trade nor put my hand to the task. Nor did I favor the late war, though I fought to its conclusion. And though I turn my back on the current slaughter, it will follow its course, like the war or a mighty river, careless of men…our hearts, our dreams, our puny will…” As his voice trailed off, the thought arose—how can I refuse my Captain?

  “I understand your reluctance, Caspion. But let me clarify. It’s true the Indians’ nomadic life has all but ended. Nor will the hide hunters be delayed for long. From your depiction of events occurring northwest…the current hunt, the numbers involved, it’s inevitable that the line of death will follow its fated course further south each season, flooding from river to river…next to the Cimarron, then over the Staked Plains to the Canadian. Already, hunters in Texas are working west along the Red River, soon to push north. The buffalo are trapped in a giant pincer. By my estimate, the Southern Herd will be decimated in four to five years. Every tribe on the South Plains is beating its drums over this issue. It will be damned difficult to forestall war. But just possible, if we answer the Indians’ concern with promptness, candor, restraint, and just provisions. A peaceful transition may yet be achieved.

  “However, there is a more immediate threat, if not scotched, that will ensure an uprising in spite of all intent and effort…the numerous outlaws that operate within the territories. Roving wolf-packs, the most unsavory lot of man known, carrion eaters, Caspion…brigands that pick the pockets of the dead on the battlefield, that prey on the weak behind the lines, that now take every advantage of the Indian and his ignorance. Whiskey is the incipient evil, the gradient disease eating at their heart and soul. They trade their lodging and food, suffer hunger and cold, even sell their woman to secure the poison. And I mean poison, for traders taint the whiskey with strychnine for added punch. Gun-running I could abide, though it endangers my men and stokes the fire. But what will light the fuse and cause an explosion, inspire reprisals with all the abhorrent consequences, are the horse thieves who now profit with near impunity.

  “The largest gang is headed by William ‘Hurricane Bill’ Martin. Another, the Krippit Gang, has only recently arrived in the territories, but their depredations and infamy mount daily. Led by one Joseph Herod Krippit, or ‘Butcher Joe’, formerly of Quantrill’s Marauders. His heinous mutilations equal any account out of darkest Africa. He leaves his victims prepared for a feast of cannibals, delights in torture. I suspect them of hitting a supply wagon a fortnight ago. The teamster, Horace Bens, a good man, died slow. No Caspion, you’d have no authority to make arrests, nor would the attempt be wise. But if you found it expedient to reduce the number of these vermin, no protest would be made, no investigation incurred. No questions asked.”

  Sharp silence followed the abrupt proposal—like a gavel struck. Caspion turned his gaze full on the other; his blue eyes steeled and dry. Muldarrin felt their force and glanced away, suddenly ashamed.

  “You want a man-hunter,” Caspion marked each word. “No Jack”—for the first time in their long friendship, he used the familiar. “That’s not my look-out. I’ll kill any man as need be. During the war I killed many. And I drew my soldier’s pay. But I won’t swear an oath or draw a wage to hunt down a man no matter what he’s done. If I kill again, the reasons will be mine. The next war, my own.”

  Muldarrin drew a careful breath as he faced the hard blue gaze.

  “Forgive me, Caspion, for the breach of faith…my attempt to involve a friend in a questionable intrigue. Frustration compelled me, yet what I’ve suggested is, as you stated earlier, an example that none should bear witness of. So please, forgive me.”

  “No need, Captain. I truly regret I cannot serve.”

  “Then would you…entertain a counter-offer?”

  “I’ll listen,” Caspion warily replied.

  “Would you consider serving in a less official manner? Say…as my personal scout. Report to me any pertinent information you happen across. Same itinerary but separate mission, which still entails considerable risk from outlaw and Indian alike. But if I’m not mistak
en, you have your own motives for entering these territories. I can offer a scout’s monthly stipend of fifty dollars. And you may draw provisions as required.” Muldarrin rubbed his palms together and gave a weary smile. “I sit here blind, Caspion. I need information. I can only react, always too late. I must anticipate events to be effective. Lieutenant Hastings riding patrol in the radius of the fort adds little or nothing. And the agent at Darlington, John Miles, a Quaker, distrustful of the army and with good reason, gives word after the fact. His reports otherwise are sketchy and guarded.”

  “But you have a scout…Cupé Boudin.”

  “True,” Muldarrin replied, “and I have another, Amos Chapman, currently on loan to Agent Miles, functioning as interpreter. And yes…Cupé is a remarkable man. I value him highly. A superb scout. But he could not serve in this capacity. He is by nature unattached. A peculiar individual, loyal to himself and his mate. At any moment he may decide to leave, and often does. I could see him again in a month, or never. It’s not that I suspect treachery…due to his mixed blood. But his interest beyond the immediate is difficult to engage or sustain. He could never provide the greater picture. So I ask you, be my eyes and ears, Caspion. Not my spy, but my…friend. Help me prevent a tragedy and provide some justice.”

  “How often would I report?”

  “At your discretion.”

  The blue eyes warmed as he smiled. “Be proud to serve my Captain. But I have no need of money, only provisions.”

  “Done.” They exchanged a firm handclasp and Muldarrin reached for the bottle. “To seal the bargain,” he said while pouring. “But before we drink, there is one thing more I’d like to say. Your first refusal has done much to restore my faith. For my deep abiding faith in something greater than ourselves was sorely shaken by the war, but my faith in man and the age of man was shattered.” He raised his glass. “Here’s to a New Age of Faith, Caspion. One enlightened by the better angels of our nature.”

  “Aye, Captain. And here’s to Catlin’s Creed.” Then both recited the words written of the Indians by the artist-explorer a generation before: “Oh how I love a people who do not live for the love of money…”

  “May I add another,” Muldarrin beamed, “from our great poet, Whitman. Words most truly said of you, my friend: ‘I think I could turn and live among the animals, not one is demented by the mania of owning things…’”

  Both laughed heartily then polished off their glasses. Praise and business stated, each succumbed to the wine’s enchantment. Presently, Muldarrin arched his brow and winked as his tongue recalled the Island brogue.

  “Can ya play an Irish tune, me lad, on tha’ black guitar ya carry?”

  “Aye, Captain. You know I can,” the other grinned; “All you know and more.”

  And while Caspion stripped the canvas bag from his guitar, Muldarrin crossed the room to fetch his fiddle from a chest along with his favorite whiskey, the Irish blend.

  “May ya be three steps in Heaven a‘fore the devil knows yer gone!” he fondly announced as he held up his prize—a dear and delicate poison to weave the fevered memory to music’s sweet refrain. Soldier brothers reunited; a celebration of two lives spared. They sang of sorrow and laughed, racing from Death’s embrace. Rejoiced and placed a wreath, a loving psalm, in harmony to those who had fallen. And the black guitar plucked notes of life, its beauty stirred the air, while golden strains carved by the rosined bow carried through the night.

  In the wee hours Caspion carried his bedroll outside the stockade walls to sleep beyond confinement. Passing word to the sentry, he heard Two-Jacks’ whinny and Stump’s deep bray, freed them from their stalls and hobbled both nearby. Caspion lay down on the robe; Boon settled at his side, nose nuzzled to his hand. A warm wind caressed his face and hair and hummed its clean, intoxicating breath. He surrendered to the swirl of stars, the eternal spinning back in time, and like a dizzy child gazed in rapt wonder…weightless, free of shame, restored.

  Caspion woke at reveille and spent the early morning in care of his horse and mule. He drew rations, but ate little; drank a double bout of coffee, then decided to pay a visit on Cupé Boudin. There were several men already gathered outside the lodge—Colonel Muldarrin and another officer speaking with who appeared to be the post surgeon, for the man carried a black medical bag. Caspion nodded in greeting and shortly learned what had happened. “A bad circumstance,” Muldarrin explained, for Hatchet Paw had been bitten by a skunk while walking to the river that morning. Cupé killed the animal, but they feared it was rabid. The surgeon had cleaned and dressed the wound; there was little else to do but wait. Sadly, few survived rabies. The woman lay inside, quiet, resigned; death almost certain, though possibly weeks away.

  To prevent further attacks Muldarrin planned to eradicate all skunks in the area of the fort. While he and the others left to organize the hunt, Caspion glanced into the lodge. Cupé was knelt beside his wife, tending the small wound to her lower leg. She whispered to her husband, her eyes frightened not of the bite she’d suffered but of the Black Bag Man; her fear expressed in the Cheyenne tongue. And when she told him of the blue-eyed one at the entrance, Cupé turned. Caspion met his gaze with a nod. Cupé gently reassured his wife then rose to go outside.

  “Pardon Monsieur,” he said upon exiting, “mais la Robe Blanche est powerful medicine. Sacred to her people. She feels a dark curse dans sa coeur après la visite of the Black Bag. S’il vous plait, would you hang la Robe above her?” he asked. “Four days only”—he emphasized with his fingers—“to clear away the bad medicine…et chase ce maladie from sa jambe…her leg.”

  Caspion knit his brow a moment, unraveling the strange mix of words and their meaning, then readily agreed, returning in a short while with the robe. And he carried something else—something that had lain in his saddlebag since the day he took it from the buffalo’s paunch, like a pearl from an oyster. When Caspion presented the madstone, Cupé’s eyes brightened, marveling at its color and shape, its extreme and rare mystery. Honored to hold such taken from a Sacred White.

  “Très bien,” he intoned, “très bien…”—carefully rolling it in his hands like a raccoon caressing its first egg, keenly curious and reverent. Then he cupped his hands and entered the lodge—Silent as a shadow, thought Caspion. And kneeling beside his wife, he revealed the mystery. Hatchet Paw’s face glowed with instant joy, certain of its power to heal. Caspion, though doubtful, could see that it gave them hope, and if nothing more hope could do no harm. Cupé removed the dressing and wrapped the madstone to the wound. Then he and Caspion hung the white robe above the altar to the west.

  And after four days, Cupé returned the robe; but the madstone, as Caspion wished, remained with Hatchet Paw—its value attested by her faith.

  So began a friendship that deepened daily. Over the following three weeks that Caspion stayed on at Camp Supply, he still met most evenings with Muldarrin; they shared amusements and thoughts, discussed a range of concerns attendant to the clash of nomadic and industrial man. But his days were spent with Cupé and Hatchet Paw, learning phrases, signs, and snippets of the Cheyenne Way, absorbing some of their manner and social graces…learned to never move between another and the fire, nor look too directly at another’s eyes, something doubly unnerving from one of his singular and searching aspect. And Cupé introduced him to the pipe, using Cheyenne tobacco, Kinnikinnik, the inner bark of the red willow. Caspion—while not keen on the smoke, for he’d never acquired the habit—learned to share the pipe and took pleasure in the ritual of one’s breath visibly offered to the Great Spirit.

  He sat in the lodge like a novice at the edge of a deep mystery, the conical space filled with modulating shadows, a shaft of light at the entrance, fire at the center, smoke-hole open to the sky; he felt in no way trapped, rather enveloped and becalmed, seated within the circle, his being funneled to a greater presence. And though Cupé and Hatchet Paw never said, they were soon convinced that he was the one known as the Spirit Hunter, whom they’d hea
rd of from the young Cheyenne couple camping north along the Buffalo. For they frequently met with the exiles: Wears The Wind and Falling Shadow. When their paths crossed again, they would bear witness to the sharp blue eyes, the white robe, and share the madstone gift and declare his medicine powerful and good.

  And the Veho, indeed, rode like a Comanche. At Muldarrin’s request Caspion staged a grand event one day following the weekly inspection and review, and put his riding and shooting skills on display, spiced with acrobatics, along with Boon’s faithful and eerie accompaniment as if man’s will was wolf-dog’s second nature. The soldiers were thrilled, ever hungry for distraction from their isolation and camp-routine. But the smaller contingent of cavalry looked on with grating envy and rising bile. For Caspion was not above baiting the bear and mocked their ability to set a saddle while performing his daredevilry with flawless ease. As the show ended, a group of troopers, including Lieutenant Hastings, feathers ruffled, stoutly challenged the ex-footman to a horse race, certain the stunts had tired the proud stallion.

  “E’s good for tricks!” the top sergeant boasted; “But my gray’ll best ’em at a run!”