Caspion & the White Buffalo

by Melvin Litton

  As her strength returned over the ensuing days, she began running alongside Two-Jacks while Caspion rode, briefly at first, then for greater distances, easing into the rhythm till she shared the running equally. Caspion admired her prowess; her running grace equaled her beauty. From time to time each rode Stump to accustom the mule to a rider should the need arise; but the gait was torturous so they never burdened mule for long. Often as not, to rest horse and mule, man and woman ran side by side paced by Ho’ne. One day Moneva pushed the pace, running steadily faster; answering her stride, Caspion shortly found himself in a race. As he pulled away and proved himself faster, she slowed, granting him victory. Slim Walking Woman smiled fully at the man who dared accept her challenge. She renewed the challenge almost daily and a spirited rivalry grew. For he never won so handily that she wasn’t tempted to try again. In fact, as the racing distance lengthened, the margin of victory narrowed; and Caspion, more winded each time, expected her endurance would eventually prevail.

  One evening, about two weeks into their journey, they spotted a handsome elk standing mid-stream, nose to water, lazily drinking, unaware, as they were downwind. Caspion grasped his bow and quiver; Moneva’s eyes urged him on. Neither had tasted fresh meat since before the blizzard. But her keenest desire was for a dress and she ran her hands down the length of her body to explain her need. It was Caspion’s first kill with a bow, made silent and clean; she admired his stealth. That night they feasted and remained in the vicinity several days, fleshing and curing the hide. Caspion let her use his razor to remove the fur. When it was properly tanned, they journeyed on; and each evening Moneva knelt by the fire to work on her dress and winter leggings. At first she had no ornaments, then Ho’ne cornered a porcupine that rudely sacrificed its quills; and searching the river beds and streams, Moneva soon added a variety of colorful shells to her sewing kit—for Caspion had given her his needle and thread along with the pocket mirror which she favored.

  Initially dependent almost wholly upon sign language, Moneva and Caspion grew daily more conversant. From the “salt and soda” they used each morning to clean their teeth, sharing his “hog-hair” brush, to fire making. Among their earliest exchanges and to her immediate delight were the tiny “fire-sticks” that he called “lucifers”; she readily adapted to their use. Still, she kept some flint handy in fear the fire-sticks would lose their medicine. And while traveling they announced the respective names of things: the sun, moon, sky, and earth…Nivstanivo for the four quarters—constantly pointing out different plants and animals along the way. Or asking: “Ten-o-wast?”—What is it? They devised a game naming the various parts of the body, and of the horse, mule, and Ho’ne. One would say the word; the other attempt to identify its object. Eyes, ears, nose became exan, es’ta, és…and so on with hair, mane, tail, fur, hooves, fangs, and feet; the same with accouterments and supplies. They also traded words and phrases depicting the basic actions common to both: give, take, run, bring, eat, sleep, awaken—gradually expanding the whole and complexity of meaning.

  Moneva learned quickest, her mind and tongue more receptive; so adept, in fact, that she rarely needed prompting. Caspion, while not as skillful, was determined and ever patient. Before long he even managed to reveal the mystery of the written word, having guessed the cause of her initial confusion. He chose a simple object known to both and drew its picture. This she identified as Nose. He nodded and answered: “És”—its counterpart in Cheyenne. Then he carefully pronounced and wrote the word “N-o-s-e” next to the picture. He let her study this a moment, then said: “Notum”—to which she answered: “North.” Then he wrote both these words below the first and repeated each, emphasizing the sound common to all while underlining the letter ‘N’.

  She peered closer; the strange patterns grew suddenly more interesting; a vague harmony discerned. Now he wrote the word whose meaning was a mystery to him, that they’d not shared, and he’d only heard voiced in the wind. When he said “Nameho” her eyes warmed in understanding. Glancing down, she softly spoke each word he’d written: “Nose, Notum, North, Nameho…”—the last held like a long note in remembrance, and the realization that these were pictures of sound. Finally he wrote: “M-o-n-e-v-a” and slowly sounded out each letter. This time she understood perfectly the clever symbol of her name. She asked for his name, which he wrote. “Cas-pion,” she whispered, tracing his name-symbol with her finger. Perhaps his flesh was not a disguise and he was a man after all. A notion she much preferred.

  Since the morning they’d awakened, their bodies embraced for warmth, each had maintained their distance. With the continuing mild weather they slept in the open, both sharing the ground cloth, but wrapped in separate robes. Their bodies seldom brushed, even in passing. And Caspion kept a firm grip on his urges and gave all deference due her manner and circumstance. For she was no frontier whore; and while he had certainly enjoyed whores, had long preferred their company, their frankness and gaiety, counted theirs the lone honest transaction between man and woman—in Moneva he confronted something utterly foreign to this perception and experience: a virtue that was in no way usurious, one that he could admire, preserve, and defend; a beauty deeply physical and intuitive, keenly alert and alive…in essence, wild. Even Alice, though deadly, was tame by comparison. Moneva was like no woman Caspion had ever known.

  No, definitely not a whore; yet she shed her modesty at the river bank and bathed openly before him while he stood watch; then watched in turn, holding the rifle, while he bathed. And her eyes boldly examined his flesh—curious, not wanton—found his whiteness extreme and his embarrassment amusing. The saber scar, particularly, drew her eye, or so he thought; but his maleness did not escape her. As for himself, he caught his breath each time he saw her flesh unclothed: her velvety black hair and shimmering vision descending into the water; her lovely length so supple and lean, yet sufficiently rounded to define the feminine. When she emerged, her coppery skin glistening in the sunlight, standing proud, sensual, her breasts firm to the wind, her large dark nipples hardened by the cold water—he ached for her, truly ached. Flesh beautiful as a Nix, fully alive and vital; her for whom his flesh was born. While neither made a move, both were well aware of mutual feelings and attraction—bodies steadily, irrevocably drawn, like objects falling to earth.

  Days shortened nearing the winter solstice. In the evenings, knelt by the fire, putting finishing touches on her dress and leggings while Caspion gazed into the gathering night, Moneva noticed that his eyes gave off a subtle glow—an aspect she found not at all disturbing, but pleasingly familiar, witnessed often in the eyes of a scout or a wolf. Of Ho’ne…

  PART THREE

  XXII. Time Face

  Joseph Herod Krippit did not color himself or his deeds in shades of good and evil; his acts were like the black words etched to the white page with indelible clarity—yea, judgment personified, virulent as the angry God of Old. Nightly he scanned the pages of his Bible, searching for his own image therein; evidence of vengeance, wrath, and hate, none too difficult to find in the ancient text. They that rode with him—dark-souled deviants, frail orphans of fate, cutthroats ravening for violence and perversity—followed in the shadow of his absolute, obeisant to the harsh paradigm of judgment, and through him they tasted certainty, for his fervor invested their villainy, molded their ends. And if an early death was their common lot and just reward, so be it; their stoic acceptance due as much to their own murderous bent as to any quirk of faith, for they often swore upon, testified to, and made mocking jest of their epitaph and creed, quoting alike their Chief: “Yea, ye have sown the wind, and…shall reap the whirlwind.”

  Of late Butcher Joe’s oldest fixation, the interminable border war, had yielded to a new and growing obsession—one so specific as to grant him greater, terrifying strength. He sought but one, whereas before he had warred against the many, now searched for Nimrod, as he came to call Caspion. “Show me Nimrod!” he’d rail, seated before the fire, hunched over the opened
Bible as if seeking a vision of his prey upon its shadowed page. And they watched him, his men, like craven jackals before the lion, taking their whiskey in diminished portions, drinking subdued, careful of his abstinence, for he never deigned a drop. He’d cry out repeatedly, his beastly roar reverberating into the night:

  “Nimr-r-o-o-d! Whar are ye, Nimrod? I’ll have ye…I swar. Skinned, butchered, an’ spitted. ‘Eye fer eye, tooth fer tooth, hand fer hand…foot fer foot.’ Yea, fit fer ravens ta feast. Yer day o’judgment will come, Nimrod. I’ll stand above ye…”—and he’d stand then, the towering shadow of his great height cast above the tree line by the flames, while his fierce countenance caught the light and stared wild, unfocused, hunting—“I’ll pluck out yer eyes, Nimrod! An’ yer flesh will shutter ’neath my knife, an’ I shall hear ye gasp, ‘Hast thou found me, o mine enemy?’ Yea, I’ll find ye, Nimrod. Damn yer Yank soul! Wake an’ hear my vow, Nimrod, O mighty hunter, I’ll wear yer white robe an’ sell yer scalp fer a circus trinket. Hear me Nimrod! I’ll scatter with the smoke an’ gather the wind in my fist ta find ye!”

  He’d arch his arms wide and clench the air in a Biblical rage while rabid drool fell from his lips and caught in his beard. Even the fire cowered like a frightened hound anxious to please its master as the flames alternately licked his tailcoat and boots. Then he’d turn away with great lurching strides, dragging his lame leg, scarring the earth, or halt with a sudden glance back at his men. And the darkness, the silence, the very night spun dizzily, while a man could lose his balance before that gaze; all ceased their doings to await his word, for they savvied well that in his presence “…even a fool, when he holdeth his peace, is counted wise.” And duly grateful and relieved they all were, and wise to let the silence linger, till he finally went to rest in his lonely lair, because he killed on occasion to discipline the pack—selectively of course, culled to keep them attentive, keen to his pace. They that lived remained vigilant and obedient to his word, his glance, and his will. For in that wilderness, that twilight realm, he was “…Alpha and Omega, the beginning and the end, the first and the last…,” the outlaw god, the reigning beast, “…fearfully and wonderfully made.”

  Oddly enough, the one trusted to watch over him while he slept to keep the jackals at bay—his squire and faithful shadow—was a tall Osage he’d named Time Face. An inscrutable savage: mute, expressionless, deadly. From their first meeting the Indian’s fascination for his Master’s golden time-piece was absolute; each morning, when the big and little hands pointed opposite—the former to the zenith, the latter to the earth—he awakened Butcher Joe. His primary duty was to stand watch and protect the sleeper; to this end he kept a growing number of time-pieces. As a warrior he’d once taken scalps, now he plundered watches, counting them potent medicine of grave moment. He kept them wound and precisely set to Butcher Joe’s. Should one stop ticking, he judged it an ill-omen and buried it on the spot with all ceremony due the sacred.

  Butcher Joe had saved the Osage from a torturous death at the hands of a whiskey dealer; after freeing the captive, he’d granted him the watch stripped from the other’s body. In a drunken bout the Indian had yielded all his possessions—weapons, blankets, horse, even stripped off his clothing—for the seductive warmth of foolish water; so the trader, fearful lest the giant sobered and found he’d been cheated, clubbed his unwary victim and staked him spread-eagled to the ground. Casual in his murderous way, he cut out the tongue to roast in payment for the last draught of whiskey. It was then, as the cannibal knelt to his feast, that the Krippit Gang descended, evil feeding on evil in dark parody of justice. Butcher Joe, without hint or question, killed the man where he stood; deemed whiskey dealers vermin alongside the Indian, buffalo, the nigger, and the Yank. But when he unsheathed his knife to finish off the Indian and observed the splayed form stir to consciousness, he stayed his butchering hand.

  Why? What inspired this singular compassion? Was it the utter fearlessness in the man’s eyes? Or perhaps he saw a kindred in height, a brother giant; and always peerless in stature, had seized the chance to attain an actual duality. And doubtless he suspected that in this case a life spared would be a life owned—from whom he’d gain unequaled devotion and abiding strength. For if there was mercy involved, it was calculated and ironic, a further means to brutal ends. Moreover, he had to admire the Indian’s genius for butchery; upon release, the captive severed the trader’s head and left it stewing in a kettle of water hung over the fire—a method of mutilation long favored by the Osage.

  Whatever the mix of motive and affinity, from then on Butcher Joe ministered to Time Face; of all his men he forbade him whiskey and soon made him his silent enforcer and trusted double—held his utter, unquestioned loyalty. Flesh saved; soul in bondage. Giants of equal height; the Indian’s braids matched the other’s beard in length. Twins even in their manner of dress, the only difference being that one wore a derby festooned with feathers instead of tall stove-pipe. And though mute, Time Face knew sign, which served well to conduct business among the various tribes of the Territory. For the Krippit Gang not only stole from the Indians, they also provided them with the latest model of repeating rifle, leaving their victims to ponder the crux of duplicity.

  Since that early blizzard another Indian had joined the gang: a Cheyenne renegade who’d ridden in half-starved, begging for a handout. Again Butcher Joe perceived an asset. The man’s groveling manner named him Camp Dog. But he proved his worth during the subsequent raids, directed the thieves to the scattered winter camps and helped them infiltrate the herds with uncanny stealth and ease. While Hurricane Bill drove his booty north to Kansas, Butcher Joe headed south to Texas, desperate to scour the hunting camps west along the Red River for sign or word of Nimrod and the White Robe.

  Meanwhile, he left his two favorites—Gabel and Jesse, the pair who’d befriended Mose and assisted in his murder—to guard the base-camp hidden deep in the Arbunkle Mountains of the lower Territory. Camp Dog also remained behind along with William ‘Itchy’ Bremin, a stout fifteen-year-old with dirt-blonde hair who constantly pawed his face and scratched his groin. Itchy, a recent recruit out of northern Arkansas, had raped his sister in a frenzy of lust, jealousy, and long-festering rage. And he hadn’t fled the law, but his father’s more deadly, incestuous wrath.

  XXIII. Wed In Blood

  Coffee brewed at dawn on a buffalo chip fire, then poured, sweetened, and ritually proffered from her hand to his. Moneva had blended fully to Caspion’s routine of camp and travel. Ho’ne lay at her feet, offering his throat to her caressing hand. Nearby came the muffled grunt of horse and mule; the animals curiously attentive to the subtle gestures passing between woman and man—the glances that daily grew more meaningful and promising, the eyes quickening the blood like a brief wind stirring a fire.

  After breaking camp, they journeyed along Wild Horse Creek as it branches west off the Washita, three day’s ride east of Fort Sill. Caspion carried a letter of introduction from Muldarrin to the fort commander, outlining the nature of his mission along with a request that he be allowed to draw provisions. And typically, his supply of coffee and sugar were near depletion. The weather held fair, still above freezing; the sun ascended its abbreviated arc across the southern sky. While a gray skein of clouds feathered from the north, spanning the far horizon like silent raptors about to descend, threatening a firm declaration of winter come nightfall. In all likelihood their journey would be delayed.

  Yet an even graver threat loomed.

  The remnant four from the Krippit Gang—out hunting fresh meat that morning, riding the ridge of hills immediately southwest—discerned movement along a line of trees in the valley below. Gabel dismounted and raised his field glasses for a closer look. He focused initially on the comely maiden—here was flesh to feed his deepest hunger. Then his eyes caught a flash of white: the robe bundled back of her saddle. He scanned quickly from horse to man, to wolf-dog and mule. His taut cunning held silent a moment, relishing their luck�
�to have chanced upon Krippit’s long-sought prey.

  “We got ’im, Jess,” he declared, his smile seemingly cut by a sharp knife; “It’s Nimrod. An’ that white robe a’glitterin’ lak gold in the hills. An’ my o my, he’s got hissef the purdiest Injun gal ya ever laid eyes on. Owwee! Spice ta flavor the feast.”

  He passed the field glasses to Jesse, then summoned Itchy forward.

  “Ever had ya a Injun woman, boy?” Itchy shook his head. “Why, they’s the sweetest patch a’beaver ya ever slipped inta, son. An’ when yer done…ya slice it off! Grab yersef a sioux-van-ear! Huh? An’ this’uns got them long legs. Stallion huggin’ legs, boy!” Itchy’s tiny pale-blue eyes gleamed as he pawed his face and snickered, eager for a glimpse. Taking the field glasses, he peered long and deep.

  A glint of light, instantaneous then gone, flashed from among the shrub oak and cedar rooted along the distant ridge; a common phenomena cast by mica-studded rocks strewn in profusion over the Arbuckle Range. Caspion betrayed no sign of alarm and kept his eyes on the trail ahead. What caused a growing unease, a raw churning in his gut, was an unspecified intimation, a stern indifference in the death mask worn by the rugged red terrain—a haunting silence, breathless like soldiers at their jump-off point, preparing to face death. Like on the morning he’d received the saber wound; something unquestionably afoot.

  “Okoka,” Moneva announced, pointing to the raven gliding down from the ridge to land on a spindly sand willow in the immediate foreground. At its harsh call a dozen more swept forth alighting along the periphery, waiting as if to welcome the wayfarers. Nothing unusual in sighting ravens; the birds often accompanied man, or more precisely, led the hunter to his prey. Caspion on many occasions had benefited from their fabled prescience and keen scrutiny. But the ravens had flown towards them, not away. And all waited expectantly.