Caspion & the White Buffalo

by Melvin Litton

  He saw a vision of hope by noon: the faint line of the Arkansas lay in the distance. He would cross by evening. Near the river the ground grew sodden from heavier rains. Still, the crossing looked to be solid and sweet reward lay but a few miles beyond. Dry-swallows had bloated his stomach till it cramped; he belched hard and cracked the whip. The lead mule entered the water and the others plowed on through. All went well till they started up the far side; in leaving the water, the right back wheel, weighted by the load, mired in a slough up to the hub.

  Mose laid on the whip with stern effect while the mules leaned forth, straining hard, but the wagon didn’t budge. Damn! He yanked his beard and cursed his luck. The only option was to lighten the load to pull free then load again.

  Mose had no more than jumped down and kicked the mud in disgust, when two horsemen appeared riding down the north embankment. They hailed him in a friendly manner and offered to lend a hand; both heavily armed as most men were.

  “Christ a’Jimminee, fellars,” Mose eagerly scratched his beard in praise of his luck, “I’d be much ablidged.”

  “No problem, neighbor,” one quietly allowed.

  They each tied ropes from the hitch to their saddle horns, and Mose fetched a strong limb to lever at the wheel. While he braced and heaved with a stout “Gee-Haw!” the mules drove hard, straining right then left. And with the added pull of two fresh horses, all worked to do the trick—wheels soon rolled and the wagon eased up out of the muck onto solid ground. After retrieving their ropes, Mose heartily shook each man’s hand, couldn’t thank them enough.

  They just grinned in answer and said, “Glad to be of help.”

  Then one cupped his hands to his mouth and made three sharp cries of the Great Owl. Best imitation Mose had ever heard; and he was about to say as much when he saw other horsemen emerge like shadows from the trees.

  Silence dripped from the damp autumn foliage as they gathered round, a dozen or more. A hard-bitten lot; might have been hunters except their eyes wore a deadly gaze, like hell-hounds watching their prey. One rolled a quid of tobacco with his tongue then spat. Horses chomped, waiting. The devil’s own tribe, thought Mose as he gulped more air. A tall man in stove-pipe and tails, sitting a dapple-gray, urged his mount forward; his long forked beard reached to the withers, blending with the grizzled mane.

  “That’s some beard…ya got thar, Mister,” Mose offered, his voice feeble with fear. The other didn’t answer; his eyes, deep-set beneath his brow, focused on the wagon, then bore down on Mose.

  “A goodly load a’hides, friend,” he said. Mose just nodded and swallowed hard, hand tremors working up his arms. “Been long a’hunting buff?”

  “F-four years,” Mose answered.

  “Ever know a hunter to kill a white buff?”—which seemed a peculiar question; but before Mose could answer, the other continued: “I hear tell Prairie Dog Dave sold one in Dodge a while back fer a thousand dollars. A goodly sum, friend. Worth more’n a wagonload. Rumor tells of anothern. Any you know of?” He waited.

  Mose shook his head. “N-none I re-call, Mister.”

  “Friend…,” the other paused; “You appear a mite shaken.”

  The tremors had worked to Mose’s knees.

  “I surely c-could use a drink. Been dry…n-nigh on two days.”

  “Gabel!” the other called; “Fetch ’im down yer jug.”

  Mose took a good swig; let that settle, then chugged several more.

  “I thank ya kindly,” he said as he wiped his face and handed up the jug.

  “‘Look not thou upon the wine,’” the other quoted, “‘at the last it biteth like a serpent ’n stingeth like the adder…’ Myself, I drink from the Good Book.” Then he tossed the jug to its owner. “Friend, I have business of a white robe,” he rubbed his right leg held stiff in a lengthened stirrup. “I purchase fer folks back East. A great show bein’ formed by Buffalo Bill Cody. They want a white robe. If you know a’such…I’d be right beholden.”

  Mose, calmed by the whiskey and the valid request, loosened his tongue.

  “That robe o’Dave’s warn’t much, Mister,” he boasted. “The thing were pert near yellar. Now Jim Caspion gots a true white…like a patch o’new snowfall shinnin’ in the sun. I swar it. An’ thar’d be a man ta put in a show. Cody dresses high’n fine, but ain’t no man can ride ’n shoot with Jim Caspion. Why, they tossed a bottle up in Hays whilst he done a back’ards flip off a hitchin’ post. An’ he shot it a’fore it hit the ground. Jus’ above our heads. Dangdest stunt I ever seen.”

  “Whar abouts might this Caspion be found?”

  “Oh, he lit out down through Injun Terr’tory while back…mayhaps rode plum on through ta Texas by now.”

  “All by his lonesome…through Injun Country?”

  “Yip, the last I heard…”

  “That’s a shame, friend,” the other frowned; his face hardened: “A dyin’ shame.” Mose jumped aside as the other spurred his horse to the wagon, grabbed an arrow still stuck in the side-panel and jerked it free. Then he reined his horse on Mose and held up the arrow.

  “Injuns?” he asked.

  “Surely was. ’Em red devils made off with our whiskey.”

  “The Injun is vermin, better dead”—to which Mose nodded, a bit hesitant as he noticed a giant Osage among the mounted men. “And the buffalo is vermin!”—again, Mose nodded. Then the other lowered the arrow directly at Mose: “Alike the infee-del Yank that hunts ’em!”

  Laughter accompanied the grim pronouncement. The verdict now clear—Mose’s eyes widened before the terrible finality he faced. The two horsemen who’d helped him earlier grabbed either arm and hoisted him, suspended, feet dangling, breast exposed like a lowly crow splayed before a towering raptor.

  “Fer the reward of yer dear life, I ask”—now pressing the arrow to the pounding heart, breaking the skin: “Whar be this Caspion?”

  “Go kiss the devil’s arse!” Mose spat; then set his jaw, chin quivering as he braced to breathe his last.

  “‘Behold the Pale Horse!’” the other intoned; “‘And his name that set on him was Death!’” The arrow tore a moist path through the stricken heart. With a sharp cry Mose kicked rigid, hideously alive one moment, then his limp form was dropped to the ground. “Do ’em up like the Injuns…an’ lay ’em in the trees yonder.” While the giant Osage leapt down and unsheathed his knife with mute alacrity, Butcher Joe growled to the others:

  “Hasten ye! We can market these hides a’fore nightfall.”

  In like manner the Krippit Gang helped many pilgrims to cross the Dead Line that autumn, leaving evidence to blame the Indians. Eventually the ruse wore thin, and they lost three of their number one day when a posse of hide-hunters sprung a trap. So again they fled southeast to their favored haunts to ravage the tribes through the winter. And all the while Butcher Joe gripped the name of the ghost he sought—ever searching for sign or word of Caspion and the white robe.

  When Mose failed to return by the fifth day, and with their whiskey reserve gone, McKay and the two skinners loaded up and dashed north. A fool could smell a Norther headed down. They survived the delirium of the Jornanda, split their meager take, and drank subdued in Dodge through that early blizzard, figuring Mose had been rubbed-out.

  All faced another hard, sober winter on the range of the buffalo.

  Two years would pass before the bleached remains of the victim were found and loaded on a wagon along with sundry buffalo bones, then sold and delivered East by rail. Over a million tons were ground into fertilizer then sold again to enrich the soon depleted soil. Dust-blown, a century’s fertility cast to the wind.

  The day after Mose Parker was killed, Caspion left Camp Supply; man, horse, mule, and wolf-dog provisioned to travel through the hostile environs outlying the Darlington and Anadarko Agencies. A full winter’s reconnoiter. His saddlebags held a quart of the Irish blend bestowed by Muldarrin to warm his blood on the coldest nights, plus a map and journal to note his observations.
He wore new boot moccasins stitched by Hatchet Paw and had a winter pair stowed away along with a parfleche packed with the best pemmican he’d ever tasted. From Cupé he’d received a fine bow and quiver of arrows; a silent weapon, best for use near an enemy. After several lessons he proved a tolerable archer. While riding southeast along the North Canadian, he’d target various clumps of grass then send Boon to fetch. And from time to time Cupé’s parting words played through his mind:

  “Follow the shadows of the land, mon ami. Watch for le raven, Okoka, for he will warn you. Et ecouté bien…when the wolf is silent, awaken! Mais rêve…dream when he sings his howling song, for no enemy is near…”

  XIX. Oh Brutal Day

  There was something ominous in the early flight of birds heading south; wedges of ducks and geese passed daily, answering an old appeal. Black birds left the last grapes unharvested to cluster through the trees in noisy swarms then swirl up like thick smoke carried off in a gust of wind. Awoke In Winter drank in the scene and breathed the damp chill air fallen beneath the gray spirit clouds drifting like ghosts of slaughtered herds from the north. His heart saddened, his bones ached; winter came far too early for an old man to welcome.

  Running Hawk had ridden out at dawn to meet with Wears The Wind and Falling Shadow; they camped a short distance south and wished to end their exile before winter, anxious whether their bid to rejoin the circle would be met with scorn. Running Hawk sought to smooth their path; Awoke In Winter, too, would speak for them in council. Perhaps the sight of Falling Shadow fat with child would recall Black Hand to his duty and let the promise of new life restore his reason and deliver Young Bird to her rightful mate. But Awoke In Winter, weary of remorseless time and his long barren journey, despaired of all consequence; seeing Running Hawk and Young Bird happy, he praised their joy. And today he dressed his praise, wore his best elk-hide tunic and leggings, finely embroidered as if for a wedding. Perhaps their union would yet be blessed in the eyes of the People. Perhaps.

  Offering his substance towards that hope, he cast the contents of his medicine bag over the water then turned from the river. His old friend, the Underwater Man, had failed to surface that day, already slept in his underwater home. Awoke In Winter walked to the lodge of Yellow Calf to taste her warm broth. His white hair bespoke the glorious coup of a long life.

  When the war party returned that afternoon, the travois carried a corpse. Before entering the village, the keg was opened; its contents shared in a bond of brothers. The Dog’s bluster drew them in. But Sweet Medicine and two others disdained the offer to drink and rode into camp. When the women saw the lifeless one staring from the litter, their shrill keening began; and passing each lodge, their wails of mourning spread. They hugged their children close in fear the ghost would steal a young one’s flesh.

  Along the way the Dog ladled out spirit water, challenging each warrior to drink; they who sipped, followed in his path. Sweet Medicine stood beside Awoke In Winter, having briefly explained events leading to the present scene. The Dog shied from the old one’s stern visage. Awoke In Winter read his unbridled ambition, saw him poisoning the People, and sensed a tragedy. He turned to the young scout and told him where to find Running Hawk.

  “Go now, quickly,” he urged. Sweet Medicine jumped to his pony and rode out.

  At the center of the camp circle the travois halted. The Dog waited till Black Hand emerged to witness, then dipped the gourd and raised it to his lips. The forbidden water soaked his neck and chest as he tipped back his head and drank in full defiance. When finished, he brandished the empty gourd like a war-club in triumph. The keening ceased; all shocked to silence by his arrogant display.

  “Hear me!” he called to them and gestured to the corpse; “Before you lays a dead brother. Another is left on the plains. Both brave sons of the People…struck down by the Veho’s hidden thunder. Death flashed from a clear sky! By a Demon!” He stabbed the air to fire his eloquence. “I…Dog That Smiles! I brought the wounded one home to the sacred circle! Now he is dead. Mourn him. May he journey in peace to the other world. But I say to you…,” he paused to aim his thought: “There was bad medicine cast before we left! Some spoke against hunting the enemy, saying better to wait. Wait for this evil to find us? Find us sleeping like our cousins on the Washita and let the Soldiers slit our throats? Such wisdom promises a shameful death. And Black Hand, our Chief, once the greatest warrior, hungry for war…also wrinkled his nose and shook his head. Prefers to lay in his lodge and dote on a young wife. I offer the warpath!”—he hailed them with both arms raised—“A Chief to lead warriors! Not forbid them with nagging tongue to taste Mystery Water. Here brothers,” he offered; “Come drink. Witness for yourselves. Fire for a warrior’s blood.” Many now approached.

  “Fools!” Black Hand raged, pushing them aside as he rushed to the keg, cut the bindings, and dashed the contents to the ground. Just as expected.

  The Dog merely laughed and showed his teeth.

  “Warriors spill blood!” he sneered; “Old women spill water!”

  Black Hand was stunned; his mind too bewildered to confront the Dog’s contempt. The old Chief simply stood muttering in the pool of foolish water.

  Seeing her husband reviled and belittled, White Deer elbowed forth.

  “You dare sing your worth before a dead warrior!” she cried; “And bring his ghost to haunt the children! Where are your scalps? Your courage is a sham, Dog That Smiles. Shameful!” she spat; “Like the sister you gave for wife! Your Chief…my husband…had two faithful wives. Then he wed this slut!” She pointed to Broken Wing Bird. “Running Hawk untied her rope!” she shouted to all. “He lays with her each day! Black Hand…out of honor and as Protector of the People, will not accuse her. I…White Deer, accuse her now. Whore!”

  The word fell like a drumbeat, stopping all to witness. In the hush following the accusation the river murmured on, rushing through the rapids, indifferent to the breathless moment. This was something the Dog had not expected. He strode past White Deer to face the accused.

  “Speak sister!” he demanded angrily; “Speak against these lies!”

  Broken Wing Bird stood proud; her head raised.

  “I am Running Hawk’s woman!” she boldly announced; “From the beginning and always. His and only his!” Such was her singular chastity. Defiant before the Dog.

  Hearing her voice, Black Hand roused from his confusion and strove to protect the cherished one. “Take her to the lodge, woman,” he commanded White Deer; “Before the Dog pisses on you. His foul breath insults my Daughter.”

  “Your daughter?” the Dog snapped, tasting the jugular and would not let go. White Deer—too humiliated to further defend her husband—backed away. “Your daughter?” the Dog repeated, his lips curled in a vicious snarl.

  Black Hand paled; his chimera exposed, ridiculed; his eyes downcast and beaten. He retreated as quickly as he’d advanced, mumbling: “Daughter…my daughter…”

  The Dog edged past the old Chief, displaying his utter contempt.

  “Black Hand is massa’ne. Massa’ne…!” he laid the word before them and let it linger, his cruel breath visible in the evening’s chill air. Awoke In Winter watched warily, fearing events would outstrip Running Hawk’s return. The Dog slowly circled Broken Wing Bird and Black Hand, reciting a litany that led to madness.

  “Your daughter?” he jeered yet again. “But she was my sister who I drummed away to be your wife. And for my sister I was to have your daughter in trade. Therefore she, once my sister, your wife you now call daughter…is she not the one promised me? So I claim her!” He grabbed Broken Wing Bird and violently wrenched the drawn knife from her hand; then he choked off her wind to subdue her. “I claim my sister, your daughter, as my wife!” he declared. “And I will set her on the prairie!” His hot breath licked her ear as he vowed: “I’ll make you a free woman, sister, as you have chosen to become.” This act, this embrace, assailed the strictest taboo; their mother Willow That Sings looked on with a
horror undefined.

  “Dog That Smiles!” Like an angry Maiyun, Awoke In Winter stepped before the throng, his war knife held ready. “It will gladden an old man’s heart to see you die!”

  The Dog cast Broken Wing Bird to his faithful and bade them bind her like a captive. Then he grabbed his war club and turned to face the old one. Awoke In Winter moved with inspired grace. He slashed at the Dog and rejoiced for the love once denied him; he fought for its memory, to water its life in blood as he lunged to preserve a present love from being destroyed. The old warrior was a white shadow of youth, a fading ghost, but still deadly. The Dog side-stepped, but slowed by foolish water, felt the knife crease his ribs as he spun away and struck. The first blow landed aslant and merely stunned; and though the old warrior could have easily been disarmed, the Dog struck again; this time with deadly force. Awoke In Winter dropped at the blow and lay motionless as blood darkened his white mane.

  The Dog nudged the body with his foot and left the old one lie; he’d vent his full cruelty on another. While Yellow Calf rushed to her fallen brother, the Dog threw his captive over his pony, front of the saddle, then lashed her hands and feet under the girth and cinched them painfully tight. Bound and gagged, her long hair trailing in the mud, Broken Wing Bird pleaded through her eyes for deliverance or death. Answering her daughter’s agony, Willow That Sings raised her knife to plunge in the Dog’s heart. But her son’s icy glare froze her hand; now trembling—where could a mother turn? She cut away her braids and slashed both cheeks in dual mourning for daughter and son. But her keening soon withered into grief-muffled sobs, echoing her daughter’s pitiful mute cries. Still the Dog stood unmoved, shamed by the weakness of mother and sister. If he could not wreak vengeance on the Veho, he would sever woman from his breast forever.