Caspion & the White Buffalo

by Melvin Litton

  “Come brothers!” he announced, leaping to his pony; “Come feast on the whore. I throw her on the prairie!”

  With vile barks and drunken haste the Dog’s pack rode north beyond the high bluff and broad pasture, past the timber where Little Wolf was slain, and at a distance certain to cloak their deed as night blackened their trail, they halted. They cut the bindings from her feet, but left her hands tied and her mouth gagged. When she glanced and tried to run, they rode her down in vicious mockery of the hunt. Rode her to the ground. The Dog took her first—plowed his knees between her thighs, cruel as he was hungry—unleashed his celibacy like a dagger. She struggled before he beat her senseless; yet greater mercy had he killed her. While he rent her flesh, the muzzle of the coyote lapped her tears; the Dog’s breath grown odious as his murderous soul putrefied. And her mind sought the fog of unknowing, to submerge and drown at the darkest depth of earth, water, and soul; but each malignant thrust violated her utterly and brought her gasping to the surface. If her anguish had screamed, it would have riven the sky.

  Eight more bulled her; each gored deeper as she weakened, begging of them all in her mute shame for death. Her lips split, bleeding; her left eye swollen shut; the other clenched tight, sorely gouged—none heeded the whimpering soul they raped, as if the hideous wounds further stripped her dignity. Each stood eager to mount the one they had dared not challenge, to taste the sweet finality of her defeat: Slim Walking Woman, now conquered, legs splayed and bloodied, feasted on by man. Several repeated their brutal act, while the only life evident was her frail inner warmth.

  Snow began to fall, covering the stained earth, as if the sky took pity and mourned her suffering. Large wet flakes driven by a quickening wind slapped against the flesh in sharp rebuke, sobering each man, for winter came one moon too early. And they were bitten with remorse, aggrieved by the sudden harsh judgment. Though the Dog briefly howled on, his lone voice, unheeded…unanswered, sounded a desperate trembling note. For an angry ghost, a Tasoom, loomed in the swirling wind. All remembered Awoke In Winter dashed to the ground and none felt proud; they bent in self-loathing and turned from her and each other, mounted up and quickly fled.

  Broken Wing Bird lay lifeless; snowflakes nursed her lips in soothing mystery. A tranquil silence like death or the sheltering womb enveloped her, beckoning. Through blurred vision she found herself alone, her nakedness veiled by a layer of snow. She tore away her gag and breathed deep drafts of air. She bit through the rawhide binding her wrists, then slowly rolled to her knees and began to crawl. After a painful effort she stood and gathered her torn dress about her in the clutch of her arms. Shame forced her on…leaning into the wind, steadily moving north. And she found the cold inviting for it numbed her flesh. No one must find her—ever.

  Running Hawk rode at ease along the river, reflecting on his meeting with Wears The Wind and Falling Shadow, pleased that his friends would soon return, forming words to plead their cause. Still a good distance from the village, he met Sweet Medicine and heard his urgent message: “We must hurry, the Dog shares Foolish Water and raves for war!” All else vanished; the scene whirled; the trail turned desperate. Cloud Walker’s swiftness rang through the trees; leaves shuddered and fell to the striding hooves as warrior risked self and horse to reach the drama and silence the Dog. But nothing he imagined prepared him for what he found.

  Entering the village at nightfall, Running Hawk was immediately directed to his mother’s lodge. Inside, Yellow Calf knelt tending her wounded brother, his pulse grown weak, his breathing imperceptible.

  “He tried to stop the Dog,” she said faintly as she wiped his brow; “But the Dog did this, then seized Young Bird and rode north to throw her on the prairie…”

  Running Hawk sank to his knees as the old one’s eyes opened as if called to his presence and as quickly life faded from the gaze left unrippled like the dark pool where the Underwater Man no longer surfaced. Awoke In Winter was no more. Running Hawk pried the knife from his dead hand and gripped it fervently.

  “Hear me, uncle. This blade that tasted the Dog’s blood will soon drink it all.” Then he turned to the young scout anxious to join him and said, “Stay, Sweet Medicine. Stay and sing his glory while they prepare him to journey beyond the Hanging Road. His sorrows are ended. And none can share the vengeance I seek. Farewell.”

  As he exited the lodge, snow began to fall; he could taste the scent of Young Bird on the wind. Stripped of all mercy save for his beloved, he quirted his horse, ruthlessly ascending the bluff. Shortly beyond, he reined in before the accursed ones. At the sight of Running Hawk they scattered like coyotes before a fierce bear. But the Dog remained, glowering from his pony.

  “You want my sister…?” he called as each slowly advanced. “She lies where the plain narrows to the north. If the wolves don’t find her first, you can have what’s left. I give her to you, Running Hawk…as I gave a dog-feast for my friends”—now close, he bared his teeth in a sneer—“And the bitch was tasty!”

  “AH HAIH!” Running Hawk shrieked a war-cry and kicked the Dog from his saddle. The Dog rolled to his feet and clutched his war-club while his nemesis leapt to the ground. The Dog’s sharp laughter bit the air; he circled once then viciously closed with a low feint and struck, missing as he jumped back silent before the grizzly rage that stalked him, his arm bleeding from its savage claw. The Dog had never faced a heart so set to kill—like a towering Naku—in panic he fought clumsily, striking at the shadows. Running Hawk parried a foolish blow and caught his arm; in the moment’s paralysis the Dog felt his throat slashed ear to ear followed by a deep stab to his chest. He staggered a step, weakened and fell; he jerked briefly then laid still as the gaping wound lapped his blood into the snow. The avenging knife left buried in the Dog’s black heart.

  Running Hawk steadied his hand to calm Cloud Walker, then mounted up and hurried north, his heart aching for Young Bird. The blinding wind froze his tears as he rode in search. He found the depression where she’d recently lain, and thereby a trail of blood and her elk-tooth necklace broken in the snow. He knelt and gripped it in hope she still lived—but wandering lost and wounded, for how long? The tracks headed north, rapidly filling in and drifting closed. He called for her…and again. Surely she would answer. But the raging blizzard simply swallowed her name as it had swallowed her. Dressed only in light leggings and moccasins, a red signaling blanket wrapped about his shoulders, Running Hawk bent low to the wind and led his horse in attempt to follow the vanishing trail. Many times he called, but the howling multitude yielded nothing. When the trail gave out, he mounted and rode in crisscross patterns. He drove Cloud Walker hard through the deepening snow; the horse faithfully pressed on as the plaintive wails of its rider pierced the night.

  Clumps of leaves weighted by the snow dropped their white bouquets while the hounding wind retraced each shuffling step and shortly cooled the bloody fetus left steaming in their wake. On she marched, no feeling left in her hands or feet, movement alone sustained her; but soon, no more, soon lie in peaceful slumber and join her unborn. Soon, when she was certain he would never find her—never see the one they’d passed on the prairie. She’d heard him calling from the first, even glimpsed him once riding through the blizzard, wrapped in his blanket, his horse blending with the snow till it seemed he rode upon the wind; but her name sounded ghostly faint as he drifted to the west. Strength gone…blood drained, she leaned against a tree to dream of warmth, the beckoning scent of smoke and flame…surrender now, she thought, lie here and sleep. Then she heard him call again, only closer, quickening life and fear. And glancing north, she saw a fire flicker and die before a darkened lean-to.

  A white-robed man followed by a black wolf walked a few paces west and searched the night. Nearby, a horse and mule raised their heads.

  She breathed shallow, still as death, watching, listening to her name called…

  Caspion, wary of the coming storm, had camped in the saddle of two hills well sheltered from the
north. He’d built a small fire just inside the lean-to and prepared to ride out the blizzard in relative warmth, listening to the flames hiss and hum while a gentle draft carried away the smoke. At first he thought the wind was playing tricks. Then hearing the voice once more, and still closer, he quickly smothered the fire. And kneeling now beside Boon, senses intent, he distinctly heard the cry: “Moneva! Mone-e-va-a!” Though the name called was actually “Monevat”—Cheyenne for “Young Bird”—through the wind and distance the straining voice mourned for “Mone-e-va-a-a!” The attenuating cry occasionally followed by “Na-meh’o!”—“my beloved.” This was no hunter calling to a companion, or a warrior taunting an enemy, for the voice sang of the heart’s deepest sorrow, its last yearning hope.

  Caspion felt a tinge of sympathy and whispered: “Moneva. Na-meho…”

  Perhaps the voice called for a lost child, now fading like a slow echo…soon gone, leaving utter silence. Caspion waited a brief time, and perceiving nothing more, decided to risk building another fire. As they headed for the lean-to, Boon stopped before a tree and bristled with a deep growl. Caspion readied his rifle and moved closer, eyes focusing on a shadowed form standing bent, as if wounded.

  Her last thought as he walked towards her and the voice of her beloved passed into the night was that she had already died—and the Spirit Hunter and his Wolf-brother had come to fetch her to the other world.

  He caught her as she fell unconscious, bore her to the lean-to and carefully laid her on his sleeping robe. She was nearly naked, half-frozen, ravaged; he could smell man on her, having witnessed rape during the war. He covered her with his blanket and the white robe and quickly built a fire. Her feet were icy cold; he rubbed them briskly to restore the blood then placed them under his shirt to warm against his skin. The same with her hands. She stirred in a half-conscious dream and gasped at the needle-sharp pain flowing through her awakened flesh. A sign the frost-bite was not too severe. Caspion had Boon lay with her beneath the robe while he melted snow and heated water.

  With a damp cloth ripped from his spare shirt he gently wiped her swollen eye, washed her face and bloodied lips. He rinsed the cloth and continued washing her neck and shoulders, lightly daubing the bruises. The soft cloth soothed her, and she watched him now with one eye dimly open. After each rinse he applied horse liniment to her wounds, which burned a bit though she didn’t mind, so weakened by her ordeal that all seemed a dream. Nor did she resist him removing her torn dress, for the robe preserved her modesty while his hands worked with care and his eyes examined only her face. And she studied those strange blue eyes reflecting the fire like the evening sky-space when the first stars appear. Was she alive or only dreaming of life while lying buried beneath a layer of snow—captive in a middle world between flesh and spirit? The wolf nuzzled her nakedness, his hot breath whimpering in concern. She glanced at the wild yellow eyes, their moist inquisitive gleam, and welcomed his warmth. That warmth and the gentle hands tending her bade her sleep.

  Caspion cursed those who had raped her. Doubtless a captive who’d managed to escape, noting how the bindings had cut her wrists and ankles. But their vile treatment was more evident in the numerous welts and bites covering her breasts and abdomen, and the bruises to her inner thigh; yet aside from her lacerated soul the gravest wound was to her most intimate flesh, deeply gouged and bleeding. His hands trembled in washing her there as if his own wound reopened and he lay exposed to thrusts of pain in the shrouded darkness of Callus’ tent—but Callus gone and above him hovered other forms clawing his wound, for that was how the fever replayed a rape he’d witnessed early in the war, torturing his dreams with guilt, lust, and memory all interwoven. A large Negro girl, still a child, cornered by a dozen men scavenging for food; they tackled her and held her down, tore at her clothes like plucking a fat hen, laughing while she cried out for her “Mamma!” Each took his turn in full view as casually as they’d piss by the roadside. Young Union soldiers raping one they would free. But that was war and they were only young men likely to die on the morrow—so the wicked fiddle played to the black guitar while Caspion and others spat in the dust and marched on…

  And maybe he cursed himself as well; for despite her condition, he couldn’t help but admire the grace of her long limbs and slender form, and the enchanting promise of a true beauty hidden beneath her grievous wounds. His sensual nature was aroused, and though his desire was nothing akin to rape, he was nevertheless ashamed and tried to suppress his thoughts as he tucked a blanket around her and covered her with the robe. What he felt most strongly at the moment was a profound tenderness. He’d never cared for a wounded person—least of all a woman. Though he’d carried many men from the battlefield, his greatest aid was rendered in the fight, not the aftermath. So as Callus once nursed him, Caspion nursed her—drawn by her need and beauty grew his urge to protect and succor. Boon, too, was drawn; wolf-dog bonding on a wholly different level than man.

  Caspion now turned, sat facing the fire and the night, listening as the wind swept past bearing a continuum of snowflakes hurled into the darkness—his vision and senses followed the hypnotic whirl in infinite array and pattern. And his thoughts were fluid and many-sided for a time; finally they centered on the fate of this woman and the one who’d searched, calling for her—surely he was not her enemy. Then who?

  The snowfall thickened and the wind blew colder as the howling gloom whitened the land, drifting gullies, thickets, and wallows—each defining feature soon vanished in the directionless swirl, all drawn to the sacred center, contoured in an endless burial as the snow streamed from mound to mound like a soul in search of its lost flesh. Through that infinite white Running Hawk rode benumbed on Cloud Walker; his arms wore the wings of his blanket while the lone image of Young Bird drew him on. And he called for her, calling in a soundless voice; and tiring, he called in spirit only. No thought to save himself, his mind emptied, following the infinite white, seeking his beloved lost therein. Warrior and horse merged in the trance of final vision.

  Cloud Walker stepped into a deep ravine that had drifted full and sank past the withers—head held clear, but floundered, snow-bound, too weak to struggle. Soon the blizzard closed around, encrusting fur, blanket, and flesh—covering horse and man in a silent mound of infinite white.

  XX. Moneva

  Morning…and the storm howled on. Caspion had watched through the night, tending the fire; he occasionally went out to gather more wood and brush snow off the lean-to. Two-Jacks and Stump foraged nearby; no longer pawing for grass, they nibbled on low limbs and saplings, stripping bark and leaves from surrounding cottonwood and elm. At first light Caspion brewed a fresh pot of coffee; he poured a cup and stirred in a generous portion of brown molasses, adding a medicinal dose of whiskey. As he leaned to her, Boon growled low, protective of the sleeping one. Caspion sat back, baffled at the sudden shift in loyalty. In a moment she awakened, dimly looked around and raised her hand to the soft muzzle, silencing the growl. Wolf-dog relented, let man approach.

  “Ho’ne,” she whispered weakly, meaning wolf.

  “Ho’ne-hotan…wolf-dog,” Caspion explained, as he gently lifted her head. He’d learned the phrase, among others, from Hatchet Paw.

  “Ho’ne,” she repeated softly, pressing her lips to the cup, her senses relishing the flavor while testing its warmth. The coffee had cooled enough to sip. Epeva…it is good. She drank half before lying back on the robe. Though never a staple, she’d had coffee, maktabo mah’pe, but none so richly sweetened. He offered her more which she eagerly drank, yielding to hunger and craving—the will to live overcame her wish to die and equally surpassed her shame. As she was young, her flesh was more resilient than her spirit and therefore led, choosing a path opposite custom and mores…and death.

  And in a sense she had died and entered another world. For someone other than Broken Wing Bird had awakened in the sheltered womb at the vortex of the storm and now lay with curious detachment watching the Spirit Hunter prepare a pem
mican stew. This offered with her name: “Moneva…” And she felt as strictly altered as her love-name so strangely spoken. Moneva. Yet she acknowledged and raised herself to taste the stew. And she wondered vaguely at her own acceptance, suddenly aware that the one thrown on the prairie had not survived, and he who’d shared her heart, to whom she’d given her flesh, along with the tiny being sown from their brief union all lay buried somewhere beneath the snow. For Running Hawk, her beloved, would not have given up his search, just as she could never answer his call. In that instant she knew his fate—not guessed, but knew—and with that terrible knowing the one named Broken Wing Bird died.

  Caspion saw her face pale as she lay quietly back on the robe. And he wondered, what was her sorrow? Though her injuries were reason enough, the causal wound lay deeper, intractable and tragic. Already he loved her in an unstated way, cherished the mystery he could not fathom—this being entrusted to him, cast upon the night as if time had dropped its veil and unearthed a prior essence of greater beauty and soul.

  Perhaps eating had tired her; it was best that she slept. Before going out, Caspion held up a pair of red flannel long-johns and mimed putting them on. He wasn’t certain that she understood, but placed them near her anyway. He slung his rifle to his shoulder and signaled to Boon. Wolf-dog heeded man, but paused a moment gazing back at woman. “Ho’ne,” she whispered softly and patted his flank. So encouraged, wolf-dog exited with man.

  While Boon ran and dashed with abandon, burying his muzzle in the snow and snapping at the wind, Caspion fetched horse and mule. The hill directly north made a slow descent to the river a quarter mile west where he meant to lead them down to water. Although the blizzard cut visibility to mere paces, the sloping ridge was sufficient guide and he trusted Boon to scent the way back. Caspion pulled his hat brim over his eyes and began the steady downhill march, breaking a trail through the waist-high drifts. Beyond the sheltering hill they encountered the full brunt of the storm, wind and snow so fierce at times he could hardly tell upslope from down, only sense the rise and fall of each heavy step. And he had cause to doubt the wisdom of the journey as mind and will vied for a favorable judgment. Yet by and by they reached the river, though they’d traveled closer to a half mile than the quarter expected. While mid-stream remained unfrozen, walking out risked falling through, so Caspion cleared a spot at the edge and used his rifle-butt to chop out a hole. Horse and mule lowered their noses, exhaling breath-fog as they slurped cold black water. Wolf-dog lapped alongside. All quiet below the cursing wind.