Caspion & the White Buffalo

by Melvin Litton

“That’s a bold statement, trooper!” Caspion laughed in answer; “Can ya wager more than your fat tongue?”

  “Blast it, hunter! Twenty dollars, a month’s wage, says you’ll eat my dust!”

  Bets were quickly placed; gold, paper, and coins clenched high in the air; a riot of oaths and laughter; cavalry versus infantry—a rivalry old as the first march.

  Two-Jacks’ blood heated with the tension, keen to the shouts and edgy excitement; he tossed his head and reared in lining up, eye on the starting pistol, anxious to unloose his genius. As the shot echoed forth he broke away and in the ensuing minutes swept the field by a margin humbling all behind—mere mortals outdistanced by his grand celerity—winning his rider a purse triple a scout’s monthly pay. Even the cavalry embraced the feat and joined to fete the victor.

  That night, subdued by feast and wine, Caspion wrote to Luther.

  “Dearest brother,” the letter began; “Once more I make apologies for my tardy script. But I’ve been long removed from the company of man. Nor since leaving Hays November last have I come near a postal. I suspect I have mail waiting and will ask that it be forwarded. I am presently at Camp Supply, deep in Indian Territory. Call it a profound attachment to the white robe or the curse of a reckless nature, but more likely my father’s plow has chased me here. Seems I’ve been running from that cursed task since age sixteen. A hot race through the war, always one step ahead of going under. Escaping that, I headed west, a hundred miles beyond sight of any plow. And I’ve hunted buff these recent years to keep the plow at bay. Till the hunt itself became the plow, turning life to death, with nothing sown in the bloody furrows but bones and grisly profit. So racing on, I reined Two-Jacks south and fled to the Staked Plains. A vast region of meager rivers, seas of grass, and ranging herds of buffalo. A land all but free of man, that rolls and rolls away through the distant blue. Where beyond the far rim one expects there lay the ends of the earth…

  “Hard to believe that where I hunted only two years ago, along the Solomon and Saline and below the Platte, the plow has come to turn the buffalo trails under with the grass. Deep ancient trails erased in a day as shod hooves and wheels roll up the dust. For a time I’m safely distanced, but my father’s ghost and that cursed plow will follow soon enough. They reach through the wind and will not rest till the ends of the earth are swallowed in drudgery and harnessed to the plow. But damned if they’ll have me! I swear, if Two-Jacks keeps his legs and I my rider’s seat, we’ll escape yet again and race to glory as we did today!

  “I have sealed a share of the winnings herein. Accept all with my love and blessing to both you and Martha. And do not fret of me. I am in good stead, serving my old Captain, Jack Thomas Muldarrin, of whom I spoke so fondly. He is now a Lieutenant Colonel, in command of this garrison. And warrant, I do not serve the army, only my Captain. My allegiance is neither sworn nor written, but sealed in blood, long strife and friendship. Your letters may reach me care of: Lt. Col. J.T. Muldarrin; 3rd Infantry, US Army; Camp Supply, Indian Territory…”

  XVIII. Foolish Water

  Thunder Mike McKay and his three skinners—Mose, Johnny, and Fletch—crossed the Arkansas in mid-September with two large freight wagons. They’d already burned up their summer profits, wages skinned in a fortnight of whoring and gambling through the saloons of Dodge. Hung-over and hungry for more high times and a rapid hunt, tired of the thinning herds at hand—like gleaning straw spewed out behind a thresher—they were among the first hunters to breach the Dead Line and hit south for the Cimarron. In a little over two weeks, by early October, they’d taken enough hides to nearly fill one wagon; if luck held, they could make their winter stake by November. And after the killer blizzards of the past year, none relished the notion of standing bare-assed broke, braving arctic winds on the winter range of the buffalo; a too sobering prospect that goaded even the ill-temperate to employ grudging moderation.

  That morning’s stand had left about forty prime shaggies all nicely dropped within a 200 yard radius. Twice McKay had to stop and piss down the barrel of his Hawkins— shooting hot ’n heavy with smoke, thunder, and piss-ripe steam, just the way he liked it, a day’s work done, barrel cooled, and headed back to camp by noon, wetting his lips with a hard pull on the leather encased flask he kept tucked in his belt.

  At camp McKay poured coffee grounds and all into his cup then spiked it full with whiskey to lay back and sip at leisure. Meanwhile, two miles east the skinners stretched their limbs and bent to their task like a giant three-headed spider—all six legs straddling each corpse, stripping with sharp angular dexterity. The wagon soon held a half-dozen green hides; but with thirty-some more to go and all to spread out and peg down, then lousy food and bone-hard sleep, it was just another ugly day that waited. Near at hand, to sweeten their labor, stood a 20 gallon keg of whiskey; the supply one-third gone and the remainder had to see them through till Dodge, so each grew chary of the others’ thirst as they nipped away at a steady pace, hair of the dog to still the shakes and guide the hand, to govern their ill-humor while their knives sliced the hides and nicked their skin.

  The day was warm, not a breath, and the flies settled on the bright red meat as thick as fur in places. Nor were the living spared; the flies bit constantly and it paid to keep the mind and flesh benumbed. And the flies followed to the keg, its lid haphazardly sealed, along with bees, ants, and others drawn to the ripe vapors, all soon floating on the surface in a thick black scum, indifferently skimmed away as the trio dipped their cups and lapped—considering the nature of their task, it hardly mattered that one swallowed a fly with his tonic.

  On the low rise to the immediate northeast, Sweet Medicine crouched, carefully observing the three Vehos, assessing their number and the lay of terrain before reporting to the war party then resting in the shade by the river. As it happened, less than half the warriors had elected to join the Dog; most, swayed by Running Hawk’s council, chose to remain in camp to counter the more proximate threat of Veho horse thieves. Also, soldier patrols drew increasingly near and it was always possible the Bluecoats would attack a peaceful village. Yet with the hard drought further west, the People were loath to leave the plentiful water of their present camp. Running Hawk even more so, for deeply personal motives, of which Sweet Medicine was well aware and in sympathy. But this was the young brave’s first chance to follow the warpath and prove his worth. So he’d jumped at the opportunity.

  Upon his return Sweet Medicine told them of the Vehos he’d spied, who behaved strangely and often drank from their water barrel. Hearing this, the Dog’s eyes flared in memory and his own thirst awakened, for he’d once sampled the “fire water” some called “foolish” and wanted more. For one who reasoned much, it was the sure and quick path to a vision…to walk with mystery and hear the Maiyun speak. The Dog sniffed sweet promise. His plan was simple: they’d approach over the same route Sweet Medicine had come, attack from the low rise and swiftly overwhelm the enemy.

  Mose, Johnny, and Fletch worked in mute stupor, battling flies and slicing flesh. The first bullet that whizzed past seemed only another mild annoyance, but the second and third, followed by three sharp reports and a chorus of war-whoops, caught their rapt attention. Three heads joined in one glance to see a dozen mounted warriors closing fast at a hundred yards.

  “Christ a’Jimminee…,” Mose gasped, running hard for the wagon; “Whar in tarnation”—but he saved his breath for the task at hand, jumped aboard and lashed the reins as Johnny and Fletch bellied up behind. Wheels already turning, but damned slow.

  “YEE-HAH!” he screamed; “Ya slimy slugs o’mule flesh! This ain’t no parade! Run, ya bastards!” he cursed, cracking the whip—“I’ll flay yer hides…damn ye!!”

  He bloodied the lead mules ear and the other four strode out, wagon rolling at a good clip. His hat pulled low, wind blowing past, he took a lone glimpse at the whiskey left behind—too late to bother and a slim chance to save their hair, his only hope was that the keg might delay the Ind
ians. But for how long?—he wondered as he felt his scalp peel away. He quickly dug a brass shell from his pocket and yelled back: “Ya each gotcher ‘bite’?”

  “Hell, ’em Injuns ain’t cotched us yet, Mose!” Johnny hollered up as he checked his Springfield and slapped it ready, while Fletch barricaded the back and sides of the wagon box with bundled hides. Seeing them determined, Mose pocketed his bite and eased himself down, straddling either fork of the wagon tongue, and hunkered there to drive the team in low profile through the coming fight.

  Dog That Smiles had a sure grasp honed by rivalry. But minus the presence of Running Hawk and their old jealousy to prod him, the Dog grew lax and let bravado overrule his shrewd instinct. Instead of pressing the advantage of surprise and riding down the enemy, he reined in by the barrel and dismounted. He cupped some in his hand and raised it to his nose to sniff—this was good whiskey, not the trader’s hellish brew. With the first sip he felt his senses sharpen; then zealotry outstripped all reason as he hurriedly slurped more, anxious to mock the old Chief’s proscription.

  “Come friends,” he called to them, “come drink the Medicine Water that an old woman forbids warriors.” So tempted, over half their number crowded around to lap with the Dog. Others, however, honored the restriction, and mindful of the delay, fixed their eyes on the enemy gaining precious time and distance.

  Though the initial reports were faint, McKay recognized the caliber; this followed by lingering silence and he feared the worst: all three skinners likely scalped. Tossing his cup aside, he readied his Hawkins, Sharps, and two Springfields; set out ammunition then positioned for the attack, with a good vantage to the east. And noticed his smell for the first time in years, fear ripened, he already stunk of death.

  Johnny and Fletch lay prone in the bouncing wagon, eyes peeled through a crack in the back panel. Each white-knuckled, gripping his rifle; their pistols still holstered, but handy. Mose also kept a pistol tucked in his belt, though his focus was mainly on the team and keeping his balance. And the mules were starting to tire, like gandy dancers plodding to a trot; he pulled the pistol and fired three rounds between their hooves and the five mules lunged forth like gangbusters. The dust was suffocating and burned his eyes, but danged if he’d raise his head one tad higher than necessary—set to eat dust aplenty rather than yield to its fate.

  And from the trailing dust the Dog led his warriors in headlong pursuit, his eyes ablaze like a visionary armed with crazed power. Still a mile out from camp, the skinners watched the pack bear down with heathen yelps to speed them to their death. Johnny and Fletch edged up and fired to back them off, while the pack fanned out to work each flank, pressing ever closer, braced by foolish water and the frantic chase.

  A grim struggle ensued. Johnny and Fletch alternately fired and loaded, desperate to hold them at bay. Hot lead bit the air and zinged past, clipping wood and tufts of hide. Three arrows struck the fore-panel back of the drivers head, and Mose crouched even lower, hidden in the dust, gripping the reins, no need to goad the mules, their hearts and hooves committed to the race. Fletch popped up and squeezed off two pistol shots as an answering salvo took his hat. He ducked down and felt his head—nothing wet and no blood. But something warm darkened his pant-leg.

  Seeing this, Johnny hollered: “Fletch! Ye Yanks always piss a’fore yer kilt!”

  Then he kicked up and swung his rifle on a young warrior aiming an arrow at twenty paces. “Thunk! Ka-bloom!”—with the bounce of the wagon the bullet went high as the arrow lodged a notch below the sideboard. Johnny pitched forward and dropped his rifle to check his fall. Sweet Medicine seized his chance to count coup, closed on his enemy and whacked him with his bow, then snatched his hat and rode off in a yelp of glory—”Haih! Haih! Haih!” Johnny clasped his bloodied nose and crumpled to the wagon bed. Fletch—sick with terror, certain Johnny was mortally wounded—curled up in a fit of bug-eyed hysterics.

  Emboldened by the coup, the Dog and others closed for the kill. Just then the lead warrior clutched his chest as his back exploded, hitting the Dog in a spew of blood and flesh. All now in range of Thunder Mike. Directly following the Sharps’ sudden blast, the Hawkins cleared another saddle; still another echoed boom and a horse went down. The rider rolled clear and leapt up behind Sweet Medicine as the others, surprised and panicked by the unseen fire, turned to flee. The fallen were also retrieved: the first hung limp in front of the Dog’s saddle, dead from the massive chest wound; the other, with a shattered leg, still lived, but his trailing blood soaked the prairie.

  Thunder Mike cursed a black fury as the approaching wagon cut through his line of fire or several more would have tasted his avenging aim and bit the dust on the Dog’s trail to glory. McKay didn’t know till the last instant when he saw Mose’s head bobbing back of the mules whether any of the skinners had survived, gut-certain the runaway team was tailed by a wagon of fresh-scalped ghosts.

  Mose tried his best to “Whoa!” the frightened beasts, but they paid no heed, and McKay jumped aside as all came crashing through. The wagon hit a stack of hides and nearly upset, tossing Mose high and clear as he landed hard. With the wagon’s jolt and the sight of other mules hobbled nearby, the team staggered to a halt.

  Mose—mute, shaken, and winded—fought for breath as McKay helped him to his feet. Johnny and Fletch kicked from beneath a bundle of jostled hides, sat up and warily looked around, both wet through and hatless, but hair intact. McKay coaxed them from the wagon. The skinners trembled like puppies snatched from drowning; scared sober, nerves frayed, all badly in need of a drink. McKay uncorked his flask and passed it to Fletch; the touch alone steadied his hand as he tipped it to his mouth. Each took a hard pull, and Johnny drained the last. Popping the cork back in place, McKay had a belated realization—a knifing pain entered his temple as his mind flashed to the contents of the wagon and his heart emptied, echoing the empty flask.

  “What!” he cried, his voice pitched high in anguish. “Ye mangy curs o’man! Lef’ the Harlot’s dark milk ta nurse the Heathen! An’ I nar a nip? Damn ye! What’ll suckle our souls ta a night o’peace after a day’s hellish slaughter? What! Are we ta sip Shag’s blood? Ah, curses o’the fallen, wretches o’black infamy! Ya lef’ the keg ta save yer hides!” On he railed through a gauntlet of oaths, bemoaning the loss of the whiskey till he stood tongue-tired in smoldering silence. Then he put his hands to his hips, glowered at each and in deepest voice broached his question.

  “Speak up…else I scalp the lot o’ye. Who’s hid a jigger away? What!?”

  With that final bark the accused eyed each other, cagily waiting. But McKay’s snarled lunge decided all as each fled to uncover his stash. Johnny returned with a quart jar; Fletch with a pint full; and Mose, a half-gallon canteen.

  “O blessed Mother…how Christ loves a Harlot,” McKay mumbled, surveying the windfall; then tenderly sampled the pint.

  Short rations, quite dear in fact, but enough to steady the hand through another week’s hunt. McKay was determined to stick it out. And the crisis showed a path to greater profit. One man could head out next morning with a wagonload and in a two-day pull intercept the Santa Fe hide exchange directly north along the Arkansas; there deposit the hides and return with a 20 gallon keg in at most five days. With the whiskey supply renewed, if all worked to the best, they could fill both wagons once more and rest easy through winter. Explaining which, McKay assured the doubtful skinners that from hereon he would stand guard through the day and drop any “rascallion savage what shows hisselv at haf a mile!” The telescope on his long-range Sharps assured his oath, blood-sworn that very day. Though reluctant, they agreed; then all drew straws. Mose would take the wagon north, while the others continued the hunt.

  The warriors, disheartened at their loss and wary of the Trickster who dealt death from afar, forsook their vengeance and returned to the site of attack to numb their spirits on foolish water. But the Dog, sobered by the sudden shift of fortune, cried “NO!” and shoved all away and promptl
y sealed the keg, turned them from their foolish urge and his own disgrace with the admonishment to stay their hand till they fulfilled their duty.

  “Hear me!” he said. “Let us leave the dead one we no longer name to the Sacred Mother. And deliver our wounded brother, Brave Fox, to his family. Then we will drink to fire a greater vengeance!”

  Dog That Smiles knew his esteem had fallen and that his medicine would be questioned; he would use the moment to cast doubt on another. The thought ripened in his mind to draw Black Hand out in challenge and with the aid of foolish water set the People against him, then rouse them to the warpath and sate their bloodlust on unwary settlers to the north. Attack like Yellow Hair—the Wolf of Washita—kill the young and old, the sick and weak, and burn their lodges while they slept.

  As the Dog directed, two buffalo were skinned; willow poles were cut by the river; and a travois soon fashioned to carry the lamed warrior and the keg. Both lashed secure, all turned east for the long journey home. The day had bloomed warm with promise then heated with the chase. Now the air cooled and the sky grayed. A light drizzle began to fall, the first moisture in many months. Some turned their faces to the sky, blinking before the rain, the true Spirit Water, to taste its freshness on their lips. But Brave Fox gazed unblinking, his breathing slow and shallow; flesh ashen, awaiting death. Sweet Medicine cast the trophy hat away, sensed no glory in what he’d witnessed.

  The mist fell steady throughout the night and over the following two days. Mose made good time for it never rained enough to muddy the ground, and the cool air kept the mules plodding on. Upon departure, McKay had granted him a half cup of whiskey; but by evening when he stopped to hobble the mules, the shakes had settled in. He could barely hold his cup to gulp the coffee; the act of swallowing helped some, but not much. Time and thirst prodded him; the sooner he arrived, the sooner his deliverance.

  So the mules were already tugging in their traces, the wagon rolling north next morning as the overcast lightened. Again, the day’s pull would have seemed right pleasant had he some spirits to warm his innards and chase the curse of spiders from his hide; in part imagined, but not all, for his skin crawled with assorted vermin, lice and mange, bug-bit, itchy as an old hound gnawing fit to howl.