Caspion & the White Buffalo

by Melvin Litton

  Muldarrin took the warning to heart, and felt his position eroding alike his faith in an errant friend. He knew the Colonel to be a fair judge of men, pious but not extreme. What vexed him more than the censure of a fellow officer was how Caspion, who had so adamantly spurned the role of a man-hunter, could have turned his hands to a baser act? To butcher then flaunt the deed—court contempt from his own kind? Whatever had possessed him? With the question came a chilling insight, as reason probed further, asking: Wasn’t all in accord with Caspion’s deepest nature—he who dared dance ever closer to the venturous edge where winged angels and demons meet? Often through that long winter Muldarrin weakened before his urge to drink, to loosen these tight knots of reason. But there lay a deeper torment, born of an urge long denied—one he would not, could not acknowledge; in this case, his simmering jealousy of the woman.

  It was a glorious Spring; a song to wake the blood. Man and nature turned to the warm wind and sunshine; all seduced. Muldarrin too threw off his gloom and gratefully embraced the duties of his post. That day in particular the camp swarmed with raucous life and activity. Muldarrin stepped sprightly about, greeting the troops with a friendly word or nod, often lending a hand as all readied for the celebration set to commence the following dawn. May Day: a dress parade, a buffalo feast, and an afternoon filled with revelry and sport—horseshoes, races, and a baseball game.

  Two riders eclipsed briefly by the towering lunette emerged from its shadow, followed by wolf-dog and mule. None noticed till they had entered the stockade; the handsome pair resplendent in sun-burnished garb, like a feral prince and princess come to bless an ancient rite. Caspion, they recognized, though he had changed: his hair let grow through the winter now fell past his shoulders; his leather jerkin embossed with quilled patterns and painted designs; and the talented rogue, the former jester, seemed somehow transformed, ennobled—his manhood ripened by love. But it was Moneva that drew them foremost: her soft antelope-skin dress, fit to her splendid form, shown anew with each pulse and breath; her long legs, bare to the thigh, graced the flanks of her buckskin, her body in perfect rhythm to its gait; her black braids fell to the saddle, and milk-white alabaster pendants dangled from her ears. She held herself erect, eyes straight ahead, granting none the favor of her gaze. Transfixed by the vision passing before them, they forgot their sweethearts and wives, subject to a timeless call, the blood-knowing between man and woman—ever precedent to custom, nay, preeminent.

  Muldarrin stood motionless as well; saw Colonel Rylander’s words fully confirmed; saw a beauty so extreme that initially he forgave all—could not but joy in greeting them. When Caspion dismounted, Muldarrin fondly clasped his hand.

  “It’s been a long winter, my friend.”

  “Yes, Captain,” the other answered, smiling, “long enough to change a man.” Then he added, “I want you to meet Moneva.”

  “A lovely name,” Muldarrin faintly allowed, glancing her way.

  As Caspion raised his arms to help her down, his jerkin caught Muldarrin’s eye, specifically the reddish brown and blonde tassels hanging from the sleeves. Discerning the grim evidence, all warmth left him. Nor was he charmed by Moneva’s quiet modesty and purity of speech as she expressed her honor in meeting her husband’s brother-friend whose glory-song was known to her. Muldarrin granted this a brief tight smile then turned to Caspion, his aspect hard, penetrating. Caspion took due measure.

  “What is it, Jack?” he asked, bewildered by this sudden perceived disfavor. But the question was ignored in the brisk reply.

  “In my office. Alone.” The last word closed on cordiality like a slammed door.

  Moneva consented to wait outside; her wariness fed by Caspion’s own uncertainty as he left her there, standing on the porch with Ho’ne, her back to the wall, facing an alien world—trapped, surrounded by the dreaded Veho, all suddenly ugly, like hairy-faced dogs. She could recognize gawking in any race of men, and into each lecherous eye she wished to drive her knife.

  Detecting a familiar scent, Ho’ne raised his head and wagged his tail in greeting. A small dark man quietly approached. Moneva remained calm. He was smooth-faced and well mannered; he did not stare at her, but stood respectfully at her side. And he spoke directly in the tongue of the People.

  “You are Tsistsistas…Cheyenne,” he noted. She welcomed his words and nodded. “You were lost in the early blizzard, during the Moon When the Water’s Freeze.” Again she nodded; and while not alarmed, she was mystified by the nimble little wizard. “I am Cupé,” he assured the curious one, “friend of your husband. Later, you may come to the lodge of my wife, Hatchet Paw. She too is Cheyenne, of the Northern Tribe. I found her lost in a summer storm long ago.” Although he said no more, Moneva divined his meaning: yet another woman once thrown on the prairie.

  Inside the office tension ruled expectant; shadows marked floor and walls, anxious for any movement. Nerves grew raw-edged with the grating shift of pages crimped and turned. Muldarrin stood back of his desk, skimming through the map and journal. He abruptly shoved both aside. Caspion stood rubbing his saber scar in wry contemplation of his inquisitor. Muldarrin’s gray eyes dimmed.

  “You wear a warrior’s hair-shirt.” A poignant comment, meant and taken as a charge. Friendship dissolved in that instant.

  “That’s my business, Jack”—the words sliced from his tongue.

  “You don’t deny scalping white men?”

  “They were disserving.”

  Muldarrin rounded his desk and stood nearly brushing the other.

  “Do you know,” his anger barely restrained, “that shortly after your departure, a great confusion spread through the Territory. Brought on by a tragic event that occurred among the Cheyenne. It came within a hair of precipitating a conflict…and a far greater tragedy. I had my troops poised to engage…all due to some damnable love entanglement involving a chief, a warrior, and a maiden of beauty so extreme…,” he paused, gazing to the door. “In short, there were two murders. Following which, the lovers supposedly perished in a storm. War very nearly resulted. Through all this I waited for word…from my scout, my friend. I needed…”—by now so exasperated he stopped, waiting for an explanation. Caspion stood silent, yet his eyes answered: That’s your look-out, Jack.

  “Dammit man, you are bewitched!” Muldarrin cried, baring the bone of the matter. “Her beauty, her exotic nature, this fierce Diana has snared the forest stag…bent him to her will. You have merged with her exile and castigation. You have gone too far, Caspion. Forsaken society, civilization…”

  “Civilization?!” Caspion cut him off. “Why Jack…killing is our game. Yes, I’ve taken scalps, and to favor her I wear them proudly. But what of all the grief and murder you’ve played a hand in? Have you forgotten the late war to preserve our grand and glorious Union, to grant liberty to slaves, the brand of freedom burned in Blue and Gray left to rot in the ruins? That yoke of freedom now worn by all who toil and plow its bitter ash and dust, who drag the Iron Horse to the far shore? All this so high-toned gents Down-East can pace the polished floors of high-vaulted chambers, sway their backs and orate, play their honorable games…dispatching lives by tens of thousands, if need be. Exiling entire peoples, if need be. Civilization? Why, they’ve spitted the nation’s soul. Behind that veil of decorum they gnash their teeth on legal bones and smack their lips on Latin phrases. No, at a glance I’d send them and civilization all dancing to Hell.”

  “You go too far…”

  “I go as I will.”

  “You are at the rim of damnation, Caspion. Plunging to its fire.”

  “No, Jack. I’m where I belong…with Moneva. She is my faith, my sustenance, my sworn belief. What is…what I cherish and hold dear.”

  “This cannot last,” Muldarrin answered wearily; “She cannot last.”

  “As her people say…‘Sky and earth are everlasting, choose a good day to die.’ But there is reverence in our flesh. Our love is sacred. Moneva is the single goodness, her carrying
my child, the whole worth of my life. And Jack…,” his gaze gripped the other, “if I had known I must lose your friendship through my love of her, I’d have chosen her love a thousand times and more…”

  At that moment Muldarrin, drawn like a moth to those flaming blue eyes, embraced Caspion with a brief kiss, and whether of betrayal or dire affection, a plunge longed for but never taken; the forbidden tasted this once, urged on by the poet’s prompting: “…the touch of my lips to yours, this the murmur of yearning…”

  Caspion, rightly stunned, seized the other’s shoulders and backed him away, rejection firm as judgment. Cold and silent. Muldarrin felt condemned, desperate, voice trembling as the anguished curse rose from his throat: “Go then, damn you! Seek your blasted mythical freedom, your Eidolon. You and your Cheyenne princess. Forsake the attachment and faith of your fellows and country. Plunge into that unchartered sea in this incessant, heedless quest as you must. But know this, Caspion…it’s a voyage to the abyss. There waits no tranquil shore, no Eden at the antipodes. Fate will one day find you utterly alone. I have no hope for you, my friend.” This last was spoken as much for himself. Condemned still by Caspion’s hard eyes, he lashed once more: “Go! Get out! Don’t ever return!”

  Both now banished from the other’s world.

  Through the long night Muldarrin sat at his desk, drinking, the question throbbing: Why, why…why could he not love a woman in the manner that he loved this man; why was his passion reversed; why this torment? Why? He clutched his temples and bled tears of shame. Why was his love profane and not theirs? The uniform disguised his predilection, till now kept hidden even from himself. True, he’d led men out of love, led them to their death; embraced the dying, clasped their shuddering wounds. Soldier love. A shepherd of men. And they returned his love, gave their fervent respect, honored and obeyed him; but never embraced. And his loneliness was anguish, his ache unanswered; for he was not embraced or loved as he dared not wish or dream…else he’d be forever self-condemned.

  By no other would Muldarrin have been tempted. But Caspion embodied such freedom of soul, such uncommon, explicit immediacy, which was the bravery Muldarrin so admired—that absolute impetus, compelling the fearless act, confessing even its own cowardice. So he had yielded to the attraction in that one instant, taken the liberty to touch the unblemished—in his eyes—being that he loved. For he loved Caspion and felt utterly lost, forsaken before the realization.

  But he was not betrayed. Caspion gave no hint of what had transpired, not to Moneva or Cupé, simply gave nod to the notion that he’d been cashiered. And the conclusion soon prevailed that the skilled horseman and crack-shot lacked the makings of a scout. A reckless nature that would rather court disdain than dutifully serve; a type better done with and good riddance. There was some truth to this; a presumption most favorable to Muldarrin; for the men, if not suspicious of Caspion, were certainly jealous, and esteem for their commander and faith in his judgment, shaken over the winter, were at once restored—confirmed by the swift dismissal of an old friend. They took heart; shed of the hunter’s unwarranted influence, they could deal with the Indian in due Army fashion. They even forgave Muldarrin’s brooding as he held aloof through the next day’s celebration. They read in his somber manner, firmness and grit—it was harsh duty to meld and order men. But the Army stuck together, damn ye! Come hell or high water, they marched as one. They that refuse…let the devil take ’em!

  XXV. Moneva’s Lodge

  Caspion and Moneva passed the night in the lodge of Cupé and Hatchet Paw. In sanctum beyond the stockade walls, they feasted on warmth and friendship. Caspion harbored no regrets; his restless spirit, long removed from his own kind, was attuned within the circle—the snug luminous interior; the roasting meat dropping fat on a low, crackling fire; the mystic threads of untrammeled thought; and the lovely soft music of women’s laughter.

  Conversing in Cheyenne, the women discussed Moneva’s coming child; how her belly would soon resemble a buffalo hump. Hatchet Paw revealed the madstone; the talisman taken from the Sacred White would surely gain the child a spirit-blessing and ease the birth pains. She placed it in Moneva’s hand and bade her keep it. And her sad face brightened with a smile in relating the tale.

  “Your husband’s strong medicine saved me from the foaming-mouth sickness, a horrible death. I was bitten. The skunk was Massa’ne…sent by the Ground People to punish my greed. I had foolishly offended them. They inhabit a spring on the large hill west, overlooking the river. I had gone there the day before to gather plums. It was in the Cool Moon, when the plums ripen. Ah!” she gasped; “That is when your baby will come!” Moneva smiled. “Yes, they were big fat juicy plums,” Hatchet Paw’s dark eyes widened at the memory of their ripeness; “I should have left some for the Ground People as I passed by the spring. But I was stingy, hungry for them all. So I hurried on, the sun falling beyond the rim, the night closing round. Soon the Ground People would be all about the trail. I was anxious to reach the lodge before their angry spirits saw and shot me full of arrows. I thought I’d made it back unseen. But they were not fooled. Their skunk sought me out the next morning.”

  Since her recovery, Hatchet Paw had sworn to purge her covetous will. She was therefore happy, eager to share the madstone gift. Moneva, expressing her gratitude, pressed it to her belly, comforted by its mystery. She gazed about the lodge, admired its tidy arrangement and modest furnishing. The women sat near the entrance; the men sat opposite, in the glowing penumbra beyond the fire. They were sharing the pipe and speculating on the number of hide hunters that would push below the Dead Line in the coming summer. Cupé suggested that they would swarm over the Cimarron like ants on a writhing snake. Caspion agreed, yes, and likely reach beyond. Both expected war within a year. Moneva awaited a lull in their conversation, and catching Caspion’s eye, she spoke with cautious urgency:

  “I will need only a small lodge. Eleven buffalo skins will do.”

  A lodge? While the request caught him by surprise, the thought pleased him. As she watched hopefully, he affirmed her wish—yes, she would have a lodge of her own. And Cupé and Hatchet Paw immediately offered to join in the hunt and help with the considerable labor of tanning and sewing the eleven hides. So declared, it was decided. Moneva remained silent, flush with joy. When her baby came, all would be ready.

  At dawn they broke camp. As reveille played and faded away, the foursome left the long shadow of Camp Supply, heading west in search of buffalo. At the crest of the first hill, near the ill-fated spring, a tiny chickadee—Penthestes, the wise bird—sang to announce their passing. Its cry “Meh-new!” meant that summer was coming.

  “Ah…la chicadee,” Cupé fondly remarked; “Her chanson est la musique de mon coeur. Et regarde, comme le ceil est si grand et bleu”—addressing sky and earth in a rush of sentiment. “La prairie est heaven on earth, mon ami,” turning now to Caspion, loath to relinguish the French; “Comme une femme très belle. Et Moneva,” he smiled, “fille de la terre, est votre ange.” Noting Caspion’s questioning look, he repeated in English: “On this earth, my friend…Moneva is your anjell.”

  Yes, like an angel…to love and preserve; and soon a child. Caspion flinched at the thought. He was haunted by a line from Luther’s letter: I fear Martha will not survive the loss of another child. He glanced to Moneva riding at his side…how like an angel, her love made him whole and wholly vulnerable; his duty to her was sacred. He could better appreciate his brother’s concern and understand his motives. Luther planned to resettle, on the prairie no less. There had been three letters waiting at the postal, all from Luther. Two were quite dated, with news incident to the farm, but the latest was unusually long and troubled. Caspion had read it through several times with care. And in the idle breath of the morning, it seemed he heard his brother’s voice:

  “Knowing of your old grudge against the plow, I doubt you will welcome the news I share. For I intend to join the tide of settlers now flooding onto the plains. You say th
ese lands are arid, not fit for farming. But you see, it is the very dryness there we seek. I fear Martha will not survive the loss of another child. We hear the air is wholesome; that children thrive, hale and hearty. While in our moist clime, the valley held in a cusp of hills, the night humors slip beneath sill and doorway to snuff the life of our dear babes. Each died its first year; our trinity of grief. In every furrow I sow I see their graves; the tender shoots of corn reach like tiny fists clutching at my heart. I bear up for Martha’s sake. But I vow, before I bury another I’ll seed the hellish wind and see my harvest born off in a plague of locust.

  “Bless my efforts or curse them as you will, but know this: I am not our father; I would not have him haunt you more. Myself, I have no fervor for the plow, only faith that by its employ I may feed my family, and one day see them grow.

  “Martha is again with child; we expect the birth in June. We will sell the farm, and are arranging matters now. Awaiting further word, we plan to homestead in Smith County, Kansas—an upland region due south of the Republican River, only recently opened to settlement. Perhaps you are familiar with the country. Though nothing is yet final, we should arrive by spring; for certain no later than summer.

  “My earnest wish is that you will seek us out and pay us a visit. For I long to see my brother. In the tintype I hold, your soldier image pales before my deep memories of you. As the lamplight dims and flutters, I sense our mother near; her ghost, a welcome presence, though chilling. And I wonder is that her voice I hear, asking: ‘Where is the fiery boy you raised? The one I never knew. What lines etch his face? Is his laughter strong? Does his reckless spirit rule him yet and dare his flesh to risk those frightful leaps and bounds?’