“Her sleepless worry haunts me still. I long to answer: ‘Rest you mother, for he is surely well.’ Then I think with trepidation of the white robe you won in escaping the Cheyenne. I am reminded of the grand magician who takes a living dove from beneath a silken cloth, then with a sweep of his hand makes silk and dove disappear. I wonder at the mystery and power of the robe, as you peer into the blackest night with it wrapped about your shoulders. Whose image do you seek? What awaits you there? Do you ride and vanish at will? Or are you guided by a Greater Hand that may hurl you off into another realm beyond my knowing, enrapt by a seductive Nix to the watery depths to emerge beyond the stars? O brother, seed of my father, born of my mother’s womb—our frail and futile flesh, so briefly held, seems forever parted. Has the lonely orbit of our lives grown so distant over rivers and time that fate forbids us ever meet again? How I ache to embrace my brother, to share our joy and sorrow once more. Though I cast my words to the heedless wind, remember always your brother Luther, and know I love thee…”
Caspion, long the feckless one, finely realized what a grave burden his brother had born on his behalf. While Caspion had outdistanced the father, their mother’s ghost yet shadowed Luther. But the burden was far greater than he knew or guessed; for it was the mother who, in her final pain and foreboding, clasped her young son’s hand and made him swear to preserve the child, should it live beyond the womb, from the father’s vengeful love and grief. An oath that Luther would carry to his grave. Though all this lay beyond Caspion’s knowing, his instinct grasped an attendant meaning—confirmed by Moneva’s presence—preserve the child, the mother…preserve all you love.
Today he understood many things about his fellow man that heretofore he’d either overlooked or scorned. Life possessed no governing rationale or enduring truth; man declared his certainty in order to act then thrashed about in blind confusion. The only focus ever gained was love; brief, fleeting as the mortal flesh, its pleasures consummate in terror. As Luther said: frail and futile. And he forgave his brother moving to the plains, blessed his efforts along with the thousands like him rushing forth in desperate migration. Forgave the dream even as he foresaw its grim consequence. And perhaps for some tenacious few the prairie would bloom. Man was foolish, but not a fool; a brother in torment and hopeful struggle. Within these thoughts he forgave Muldarrin’s spurned and hopeless love.
Next day east of Kiowa Creek where it branches with the Beaver, they came upon a sizable herd. “Hotoa!”—Moneva announced, reining in her buckskin. Among their number were many older cows just shedding their winter coats; these considered prime for lodge-making, for their flesh was thin coming out of winter and their thickened hides more easily tanned.
Before joining in the chase, they unburdened their mounts and shared the pipe, extending their breath to sky, earth, and Nivstanivo—took the hunt as sacrament and pleasure. A warm May morning, the broad plain opened south. The distant blues and greens lay tranquil along the rim. Then the vision swirled with sudden clash and movement as the riders swept down; the converging threat prompted vibrant tension and scattered bellows. The buffalo whipped their tails and jerked their heads in old knowing. Nostrils of prey and hunter flared to take in the air fresh with dew and wild onions; all drove into the racing wind. Horn-crested shadows and thundering hooves tore at the sod; an old cow pitched and rolled, spilling red libation from a gaping wound to nurse the waiting grasses with her last maternal pulse.
In short order the requested number had been culled and killed. As any worthy lodge-maker knew, a sturdy, harmonious design required an odd number of skins, the least of which were eleven. By noon another seven fell, to provide the lodge with the comfort of an inner lining and leave adequate hide for furnishings and other needs. Before day’s end all were skinned and pegged out to dry. That evening they feasted on buffalo tongues, recounting the hunt as the flames settled low on the embers. Then all embraced a night of long, welcome sleep.
Ahead lay several weeks of arduous labor. Eighteen green hides to flesh and cure, and an equal number of saplings suitable for lodge-poles to harvest along the creek—sixteen to brace the interior plus another two for securing the triangular flaps at the smoke-hole. While the men hunted for timber, the woman bent to the more formidable task. After scraping off the fur, the hides were thinned to an even thickness. Then, prior to applying the tanning mixture, each surface was thoroughly rasped with the serrated edge of a femur bone. All this absorbed the effort of many days and there still lay the chore of softening the skins. With the lodge-poles trimmed to length, stripped of their bark, stacked and waiting, Caspion and Cupé offered to lend a hand; their weary mates gratefully accepted.
The men devised a clever means for stressing the skins, having spied a dead cedar with a fist-sized knothole passing clean through its trunk. Each skin, after soaking in the creek, was attached by rope to a horse and drawn through the knothole; this done repeatedly till the desired pliancy was reached. So the process was carried out in timely fashion. Over the next several days while the men worked in steady rhythm, Moneva and Hatchet Paw enjoyed their relative ease and passed the time splitting dried sinew into fine lengths of thread.
On the morning when all was deemed ready, Hatchet Paw—the designated lodge-maker, for she had long experience and the Northern Cheyenne were renowned for their skill—spread out eleven skins and positioned each, determining which would best fit where. Occasionally, she touched a finger to a daub of greasy paint at the part of her hair and knelt to mark off a portion that needed trimmed. Here and there she tacked a spot, leaving the thread long to later finish the seam till gradually a pattern emerged and the disparate skins drew together in a whole. Then the women began to sew in earnest; they spent the remainder of the day, all of the next, and so on through the following; each stitch precisely crafted. And Hatchet Paw was tireless; her maimed hand seemed utterly formed to the task.
By the third evening the completed lodge was raised. The skin, dampened with a final coating of white clay, stretched perfectly taut from the apex to its oval grounding; the entrance faced properly east. Soon the perfumed vapors of sweet grass and sage, burned to purify the inner space, curled out through the smoke-hole. The wafting transparency tinged red in the luminous sunset.
Moneva happily emerged and bade the men enter.
XXVI. The Hunt Renews
The fugitive youth, Willy Bremin, stood gaunt and half-starved when the Krippit Gang returned from Texas late that winter. Despite the loneliness and bitter cold Itchy had eked through on the meager supplies stashed at the hide-out. Early on he’d eaten Jesse and Gabel’s unfortunate mounts, and only the gang’s timely arrival had spared his own. His voice was strained and weak from his long ordeal, but Krippit’s rage shortly inspired a gush of words—he seized the tender throat and learned that while he hunted along the Red, Nimrod stalked his shadow. Itchy told of how they’d spied the hunter traveling with his Cheyenne squaw.
“Squaw?” the Chieftain roused. “Yes Sir, an’ a right beauty,” the youth affirmed. Krippit savored this bit of news, for it would ultimately double his pleasure; he eased his grip and bid the boy continue.
“We made ta ambush ’em,” said Itchy; “But then they’s nowhere. Jes, he sics ol’ Camp Dog down ’n he got swallared in the trees. Then all a’sudden, Nimrod…they’s two a’ him. One rides out a’shootin’ neath the white robe…the other lupt up like a hid ghost with ’is black wolf. An’ he drops Jes ’n Gabel with but three shots.”
Krippit rubbed his leg and nodded; he knew well that Nimrod could spring from nowhere—but now he’d appeared as two. The heavy brow bristled; the deep-set eyes gleamed in admiration, hate, and fear. What but a wild angel could double its form? Or had it only been a guise, a clever ruse to fool his men? Considering which, he sensed the protective gaze of Time Face—a true double. And his certainty grew that he was meant to track and kill this abomination, this wild angel; that a hidden hand guided the fate of both. One day they would meet in
judgment…foretold on the Biblical page.
“Let no man a’ ye,” he warned as he threw the shaken youth aside, “take aim on Nimrod. Else I smite ye dead. Vengeance is Mine!” he vowed. “This Wild Angel that lays with a Heathen Bitch. That sows his seed in Blasphemy! The Lord made man a’ mud, formed woman a’ man’s rib. I, His wrath, shall strike ’em down. Make man mud agin an’ flay woman a’ the rib.”
He knew there lay no exit from the Territory for the hunter and his squaw. They’d find no sanctum in settlements north or south; their Eden was their doom; they were more outlaw than he. Such became the bedrock of his faith. He would circle with the seasons, fill the shadowed night, sprout wings and ride the wind to seek them. Their range would narrow like that of the buffalo and Indian. Their time would be at hand.
Mid-day in early June, the time When the Horses Fatten, a lone eagle soared like a lord at play through his airy realm, scanning the breadth of prairie. From the east a line of horsemen steadily approached the two lodges set in a sinuous thread of Kiowa Creek.
Caspion had observed the dust trail for some time; gripped his rifle and waited to discern whether friend or foe would veer their way. Ho’ne trotted to his side and pricked his ears; horse and mule likewise took notice. Cupé, weapon in hand, stood just back of Caspion. At a respectful distance the column eased to a halt. Caspion flattened his left palm before Ho’ne’s eyes, and wolf-dog obediently sat.
“Mon Dieu! Mon ami!” Cupé cheerfully hailed the young officer riding forth. Lieutenant Hastings greeted them “Good day” and doffed his hat to the women posed before the lodges. Caspion nodded in welcome, pleased to see that a year’s experience had groomed a man; the boyish face, the spit and polish, no longer so evident. The Lieutenant’s relaxed and cordial manner extended even to his men.
“Sergeant Cresage,” he addressed the burly trooper to his left; “Have the men water their horses, then let them graze. We’ll rest an hour by the creek. And Sergeant, lead ’em a bit south so as not to disturb our hosts. I’ll be along presently.”
The Sergeant’s smile flared beneath his broad mustache as his chevrons raised in sharp salute. “Aye, Lieutenant, will do.” Then he wheeled in his saddle and with a wave of his arm, barked: “Yo! Les take ’em ta water!” After a full morning’s ride the troopers were grateful for a rest; and their mounts, slavering at their bits, needed no urging as they headed for the shade of the creek.
Lieutenant Hastings waited till all filed past then took an envelope from his jacket.
“I hope you don’t mind,” he said, handing it to Caspion; “In the likelihood of finding you, I brought this along.”
A letter from Luther, of recent postmark; Caspion glanced up, surprised and curious.
“Is this the point of your visit, Lieutenant? To deliver the mail?”
“Not exactly, Caspion. There is another matter. Call this a courtesy…to a friend. If I may so address you?” Caspion cocked his head and slowly smiled.
“Well now, when the cavalry delivers the mail to the infantry, Lieutenant,” he answered with pleasant irony, “that’s friendship I heartily accept.”
The quip accepted with good humor as each gripped the other’s hand.
“But please,” the Lieutenant added, “as Cupé knows, my friends call me Nate.”
“Very well, Nate. I’m much obliged for the letter. But still curious of what brings you here.” Lieutenant Hastings promised to disclose all after watering his horse, then he excused himself and rode off to join his men.
Caspion opened the letter; the contents were of an entirely different tone from the one recently read. Luther and Martha had indeed moved West, having arrived in April and established themselves as planned near the settlement of Lebanon, Kansas. In Luther’s words they were “…at the very heart of the country, a stone’s throw from the nation’s geographic center. I swear we can feel the pulse.” The most blessed news was that Martha had given birth; mother and child were doing fine. “A healthy baby boy, long of limb, with strong lungs and wild eyes; a rascallion bound to thrive in this untamed land…” He extolled the prairie’s transient beauty, her gusting winds and glorious sunsets; yet conceded there lay a ruthless nature heretofore unknown to him. The past winter had visited considerable suffering on the settlers there bout; but those along the Republican had paid most dearly—scores had frozen to death and many still languished near starvation. Some had given up and returned East. “I confess, said events are sobering, but neither Martha nor I are discouraged. Each day we sense the pulse of new life; a promise that springs from the land despite its cruelty. One can fight against cold and hunger; stick it out and see it through, better this than hazard disease…” They were determined to build their home; in fact were already hard at work. And the trials they faced favored the strong. Martha was again robust and rosy; her faith restored. As for himself, he’d never possessed such strength of will. They were anxious that Caspion should visit soon and see his namesake; for they’d christened the boy, “James.”
Upon returning, the Lieutenant broached the nature of his business.
“What with last summer’s drought,” he said, “and the harsh winter, settlements north are experiencing severe hardship. Testimonials have drifted East and the press is up in arms. So the Administration has ordered the Army to secure provisions. We are to freight buffalo meat north to the areas of gravest want. Initially, troops from Fort Dodge were given the duty, but there being no buffalo along the Arkansas, the order was relayed to Camp Supply and these environs…where the animals still graze in number.”
Hearing this, Caspion’s features hardened.
“I thought the Army’s mission was to prevent hunting below the Dead Line.”
“So it was. But with circumstance, all has changed. Surely you see the need?”
Caspion nodded quietly. “I see the need, Nate. I doubt the Indian will.”
“You could be right,” the Lieutenant conceded; “It may breach the peace, which I would deeply regret. But present needs outweigh the risk of a limited incursion. Simply, I am to secure buffalo meat, upwards of fifty tons, and to this end I may enlist the aid of any hunter already in the Territory. Certainly, my men can kill buffalo in sufficient numbers. But to skin and butcher a carcass without undue spoilage, I have my doubts. And the process of curing the meat for freighting is better known to you. I had hoped to employ your advice and expertise. I am authorized to offer an inducement of ten dollars a day for services rendered.”
This was a princely sum unequaled by officer or scout.
“Are you aware,” Caspion advised, “Colonel Muldarrin was not wholly pleased with my services of late? And may not look favorably on our current association?”
“I’m aware of my duty and act accordingly. Colonel Muldarrin stresses initiative, and therefore allows his officers to select among available options, in tactics and in men.” Then he smiled. “Perhaps the Colonel does at times regret granting too free a rein. But I have confidence that in this case he would respect my choice.” Indeed, as the Lieutenant prepared to leave that morning, the Colonel had remarked off-hand that it might prove provident to cross paths with Jim Caspion. This taken as an implied endorsement; though the more expressed desire was that the Lieutenant convince Cupé to return. Nate wisely mentioned neither instance; the first, out of discretion; while he was decidedly against the latter. For he and Cupé had formed a friendship over the winter, naturally enough as the Lieutenant spoke fluent French and wished to deepen his knowledge of the Indian. He respected Cupé’s wily independence—unless the little scout thought to return of his own accord, any prompting would only prolong his absence.
“What of the men?” Caspion asked.
“No problem. We’ve talked it over. They’ll defer to your direction. It’s your sympathy for the Indian they distrust. And some are rightly envious,” he nodded to Moneva and smiled. “Otherwise, as Sergeant Cresage reckoned, they’d sooner hunt with Jim Caspion than that damned peacock, Bill Cody!�
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Both men laughed, as this was dubious praise, but a forthright opinion spoken without guile. Gruff soldier words, void of art or flattery. Still, Caspion felt a flush of pride: his hunter’s pride restored in recent weeks. He’d never sensed a keener purpose than in hunting buffalo for Moneva’s lodge—the hunt distilled to its essence, with no regard for pelf. In light of which he considered whether to join the present hunt. Despite the money, the factors were not solely mercenary. While the settlers’ plight, confirmed by Luther’s letter, moved him in part, there lay his brother’s possible distress. So the concern was personal. If nothing more, it gave him cause to visit Luther and Martha, to see his namesake and share the pulse of life that chance had vouchsafed him.
Moneva sat nearby, absorbed in fashioning a cradle, or “baby-board” as it was called. In the lull of conversation she sensed the weight of his gaze and glanced up. At his question, he saw in her eyes a mix of fear and wonder, like a raw recruit about to see the “Elephant” for the first time.
“Would you like to see the Iron Horse, Moneva?”
The hunt became the fulcrum that turned their journey north. Many days were consumed in “making meat.” To Moneva’s eyes it was a haphazard harvest; certainly in the beginning, a butchery to which the Army was neither accustomed nor skilled. And soldier’s pay offered poor incentive against the blanketing heat and flies. Initial efforts were grudging, like a child set before a sour broth. But when Caspion suggested that Nate organize rival teams of hunters and skinners, the bloody labor shifted to an urgent sport—for to the losers fell the irksome task of preparing the evening mess. From then on all proceeded apace. By late June the requested tonnage was ready.
In addition to its own, the Army had contracted civilian freighters. And of the thirty assorted wagons that arrived below the Cimarron for loading that day, Caspion was none too surprised to see one driven by Hans Mustrieg, a large “bull wagon” drawn by eight oxen that dwarfed the Army’s six-mule teams.
Caspion & the White Buffalo Page 29
