Caspion & the White Buffalo

by Melvin Litton

  “Unt I own zose two as vell,” he announced proudly once they’d greeted.

  “Chrissake Hans!” Caspion joked; “You aim to haul the whole country away?”

  “No no,” he laughed, “for zat I buy ze railroad!”

  “Then the moon with the fence built round…”—Caspion gestured to the sky.

  “By Golly…you cuss,” Hans answered, still laughing, shaking his head; “Vhen you ride avay las’ summer. I zink you lose your scalp maybe.”

  “No Hans,” Caspion raised his hat to assure him; “My hair grows as long as your beard.” Then he added cryptically: “But there’s something else that grows. Come,” he beckoned, reining his horse around. Hans followed in the wagon.

  At the lodge Caspion jumped down and ducked inside; he soon emerged, leading a tall Cheyenne beauty. He introduced Moneva, now in her sixth month and showing like a ripe melon—but still graceful and slender, made more radiant by the life within.

  Hans was dazzled; and readily agreed to Caspion’s request to haul their lodge and belongings north, for theirs was a relatively light load and the intended route passed near Lebanon. As Caspion explained, it would greatly unburden their horses, and Moneva could rest in the wagon along the way. Although he urged a handsome fee, Hans would hear nothing of it, nor accept the going-rate.

  “No, you vill not pay. Ze army pays already. Unt you are goot friend.”

  That settled, within the hour all was loaded and ready.

  Cupé and Hatchet Paw also broke camp that day and headed back to Camp Supply. Barring the unforeseen, the foursome planned to rendezvous on Buffalo Creek, a tributary of the Cimarron, in the Moon When the Plums Ripen.

  Moneva rode briefly in the wagon that day, more out of curiosity than due to fatigue; her first and last ride. The wagon jostled terribly and abruptly swayed from side to side, which made the baby kick and jump. And she didn’t trust the wheels at all; not a living rhythm like the gait of horse or man, but cut relentlessly into the earth, tracing each edge and contour without regard, a protest lodged in every jolt. However fascinating, the great spoke wheels struck her as perversions of the circle—for the circle should bestow harmony, not constant rattle and vexation. So Moneva stayed on her buckskin thereafter, knew and trusted its sure footing; and to its gentle cantor the baby squirmed contentedly.

  Approaching the Arkansas, the once familiar environs of the Swift Fox, Moneva was stunned by the paucity of game and the expanse of buffalo bones littering the prairie; their stark bleached rib-cages arched above the grass. Like a scene bespoke by Sweet Medicine—Motsiiuiv’s grim prophecy. Even the wolf and raven, long shadowing the hunter, had vanished. The Vehos’ rude energy ranged everywhere in cruel mockery, plundering to the very edge of the Sacred Rim, as if with every act and effort they meant to slay the earth. Moneva witnessed the plow for the first time; watched it rip into the sod while the wailing wind bore dust from the living wound. And she grieved; for whatever mastery the Veho claimed, in their acts lay defilement. To The Listeners Above and to The Listeners Under the Ground, she begged forgiveness.

  They were delayed a morning at the river; as it had only recently carried the run-off from the mountains, slough grass was cut to build a causeway over the resultant bog. All hands joined in the effort; Moneva too. When the wagon train advanced, hooves and wheels pressed plaits of grass into the mud, and again she felt her hair trampled by the Dog. Saw defilement in many things, past and present.

  Beyond the Arkansas lay the true Dead Line. The black rails of the Santa Fe sliced like a gashing wound clean through the horizon—it halved the land and divided the People, split the buffalo north and south, opening all to the Veho.

  The buckskin, reflecting its rider’s unease, balked at crossing; it lowered its nose to the humming steel then tossed up its head. Caspion caught hold of the bridle and coaxed him over. No sooner across than the ground started to tremble; the buckskin skittished and reared, backing away from the track. Once Moneva steadied him, Caspion drew her attention to the hill east from where the unseen cause would soon appear. Moneva saw the black puffs of smoke and heard the distant pant; then the horrid beast topped the rise in its full sinister aspect. The earth shook as if taken with fever. Moneva tightened the reins and prepared to flee the rumbling mass that loomed her way. The Iron Horse, its dark thunderous stride propelled by piston, shaft, and hissing steam, the rigid bulk and deafening roar of churning wheels, sparks, cinders, and endless buckled length, like a harrowing twister thrown headlong it gnawed the earth in quest of power and speed, buffeting the air, the breath and blood of all in its wake. And gripped in its coils, lulled by the hypnotic Ka-thump! Ka-thump! of its raging rhythm, the people within appeared strangely lifeless and still, like rodents seized by a rattler, awaiting their end without struggle, strength, or will. For to Moneva it appeared a monstrous Shi-shin o’wats, a rattlesnake—she saw its head and fangs, the windows were its scales, and its threat was felt in the very shuddering of the earth.

  Suddenly a Veho boy leaned from a window and aimed his finger. Moneva flinched. Then all passed, the attenuating roar snaking west followed by a blood-red tail. Caspion sought to reassure her.

  “It’s only a contraption, Moneva,” he said. “A kind of wagon, only bigger and mightier. And completely dumb. All fire and steel, no life or heart. If it jumps the track, it’ll lay there like a hamstrung beast and slowly rust away. During the war I destroyed any number of the kind.” She was relieved to know he could slay the beast; for though it may lack a heart, she was not entirely certain it lacked a will. She’d known a heartless one with a brutal will.

  So the Iron Horse disappeared on the Black Road that ran east and west. Moneva was happy to journey again on the true path…in search of Caspion’s true brother on the Red Road that runs north and south.

  Two days shy of their destination they camped for the evening along the south fork of the Solomon. Following their meal, they heaped the fire with willow branches to keep the mosquitoes and flies at bay. Ho’ne snapped at the insects for a time before moving downwind to brave the smoke

  Caspion looked to Hans and asked what had become of Jezebel.

  “Ah,” he answered sadly, “she died in ze vinter. Vent to sleep von night unt next morgen does not vake. Unt Alice is not for having dog around.”

  “Sorry to hear that Hans,” said Caspion, then casually added: “I thought maybe ol’ Jezebel just got sick of ridin’ in the wagon.” Both men laughed. That day Caspion had tried to convince Moneva to ride in the wagon once more as he feared the rigors of the saddle would prove injurious to her. But showing a glimpse of her fierce nature, she’d knitted her brows and expressly answered, “No!”

  Recalling this, Hans shook his head with a chuckle.

  “Alice too is not fond of vagon.”

  “Al-leece?” Moneva asked.

  “Alice is my voman. She likes to ride ze train.”

  “Zee…tra-een?”—not comprehending the word.

  “The Iron Horse, Moneva,” Caspion answered.

  “Yah,” Hans confirmed; “Big train. Same vhat you saw. Unt Alice say vhen she come Vest, if not for ze train she vould valk.” But Moneva’s expression made clear she would never ride a train. “Ah vell,” Hans allowed, “vhat is goot for von is not for all maybe. I know…vhen I come to Amerika, I ride in boat across ze ocean. Unt I vill never ride in boat again.”

  Looking to Caspion, Moneva asked: “What is o-shin? What is bow’t?”

  “Ocean is Big Water,” he answered, then pointed to the river: “If those waters flooded all the land, Moneva…as far as the grasses grow, and you journeyed over it for an entire moon, you might reach land again. But there are even bigger waters…” Then he cupped his hands to show that a boat was like an inverted lodge that people lived in while crossing the waters. And a large boat, like a ceremonial lodge, could hold many people. Then noting her continued puzzlement, he said simply, “A boat is a kind of wagon, like Hans’s, for riding over the water, Mo
neva. Or like the People make out of bull hide for fording rivers.”

  Hans nodded in eager agreement: “Yah Moneva…only boat is made of vood like vagon. Unt vhen I ride ze boat to Amerika…ve are up zen down, up zen down, over ze endless ocean.” His hands mimed his meaning above the flames. “Soon I am so sick, I vish to die. But my fa’zer is joyful, he say, ’Ve plow ze sea, Hans, like sailors, like brave Odysseus!’ Ugh…I feel like Jonah swallowed by ze vhale. Unt vant never to plow.” He sat briefly silent before the memory of their passage; they could only purchase steerage, housed like cattle in the bowels of the vessel where the timbers and planking shuddered and groaned, threatening to shatter before the wicked pounding of the seas. “Unt ze ocean, Moneva…vas like jaws vith big teeth, snapping at ze boat, howling like big volf. Black deep vaters, Moneva, like ze big night sky…filled vith great sturm…vith zunder unt lightning, only is here, zere, all about unt underneath. Unt you ride in ze boat, Moneva, unt ze great darkness tries to pull you down.” A grave sigh swore the veracity of his words. “No, I vould never ride in boat again.”

  Then he took a deep breath, like one resurrected. “Ah…I love zis land, so far from ze big vaters. I love ze soil, air, grass…ze great open space. Here, I do not fear to die. Here, I live my fa’zer’s dream.”

  In spite of his accent, Moneva had understood his tale, for his hands were quite expressive; but this last, voiced like a song or prayer, held her rapt attention. She liked the big blond Veho and thought him a good man.

  “But here, you cuss!” Hans suddenly slapped Caspion’s back; “You have dream too. You unt Moneva have family soon. She vill have strong child.” His eyes spoke of his admiration. “She has much beauty.” Moneva looked away; but modesty could not contain her smile. “Yah…she has much beauty. I am zinking Alice vould be jealous. Have great envy. Her eyes more green unt her hair more red even.”

  “How is it, Hans,” Caspion chanced to ask, “between you and Alice?”

  “Ah…is goot, Kaspin. Yah, ve are goot togezer still.”

  “I’m glad to hear it.”

  Moneva, taken by the notion of red hair and green eyes, marked well their brief exchange; and noticed how Hans gave Caspion extra scrutiny at the mention of Alice. She could scent the covetous male. Later, as they lay together on the robe, their heads resting on a saddle, their eyes gazing on the stars, she nudged him gently and asked: “A woman of red hair?”

  He turned to her. “Yes, Moneva. Red like a fox…like Wokseh.”

  “You know her?”

  “Used to know her”—hoping to end the matter.

  “Did many dogs chase the fox?”

  He squirmed uncomfortably. “You might say that. Look, Moneva,” he added, taking hold of her hand, “she’s an ember, an ash. You’re my fire.”

  “Has she much beauty?”—still curious.

  Caspion paused to consider his answer. “She has beauty, yes. But her beauty is cunning…like a fox.

  “Can she run fast?”

  “I doubt Alice can run at all,” he laughed; “She traps her prey with a fancy walk.”

  Moneva narrowed her eyes. “I know the ways of Wokseh, the little night trickster. I run fast. I would catch the fox.” Which was as near to a boast as he ever heard her make. And no doubt an understatement of what would happen if Moneva ever caught the red-haired creature near her lodge.

  XXVII. Luther And Martha

  A tall powerfully built man labored through the afternoon heat. A crumpled black hat topped the shovel wedged in the ground nearby. He was about forty years old and going bald. The hair graying at his temples swept forth in a gust of wind; he brushed it back with his hand and the sweat held it briefly. Suspenders dangled at his side for he’d also removed his shirt to let the air cool the dark mass of follicles that forested his chest and shoulders. Still, he glistened in perspiration as he hefted another stone, grimacing; his neck muscles bulged and tensed; then he eased the stone in place and relaxed. He was smooth-shaven—his broad face made handsome by a pleasant smile and kindly eyes. With a deft turn of the trowel he struck the mortar clean and prepared the base to set another stone. The wall was nearly finished. He’d built it waist high to prevent a child from falling in and packed and smoothed each joint as proof against the same. Their son would be walking within a year. He imagined the Nix in all waters, ever wary of her seductive wiles.

  The well had occupied Luther through the better part of a month. Their neighbor north, a white-haired gnome named Trude Darley, had done the witching. He charged little and guaranteed nothing; after marking out four locations, he’d frankly cautioned against hope.

  “Mebbe better ya dig fer gold than water. Huh?”—rueful bags sagging under his rheumy eyes—“Mebbe if ya climbed the rainbow an’ slid down the arch, thar ’ud be the place ta dig. Huh? I dunno…any witch can point ta water, it’s thar a’right. Like a cursaid ue ’at has no teat fer ’er lamb ta suck. Bah! This land covets her water like a maid savin’ ’er virgin trove. Dig here, thar or yonder if you’ve faith enough ta try. It’s oft beyond will o’ man, mule, or God Almighty. Yup! By Haggety, bring down Yer thunder, but I canna’ say it’s worth the effort!”

  Point of fact Luther’s first three tries failed miserably. He’d dug past twenty feet and once to thirty, only to strike shale. Pick and shovel, bucket and hoist proved a hellish labor on the high plains, of bone-wrenching frustration. But on his fourth attempt, nearly done in—so sapped he let the pick fall of its own weight—water seeped through the gravel sixteen foot down. In an urgent fever he dug on to bedrock at twenty feet. Next day he excavated through a five-foot radius and dredged all clear. Then starting at bedrock, he laid up the wall. He now had a good reservoir of cool clear water that tasted sweet as the first day of spring. Presently, he dripped a drink from the bucket then doused his face and neck.

  It was a warm April day when he and Martha first arrived in the thaw following the Great Easter Blizzard. In the brilliant sunlight the prairie lay so green and alive with rivulets that he wondered how a man could ever want for water. The world made new, like in the Beginning, and like the first man and woman they would build everything from scratch. Their first dwelling was of sod, hastily constructed, for Martha was due within a month. The High Plains were blanketed with buffalo grass—nothing akin to blue stem which often carried the misnomer and grew as tall as a man along creeks and river bottoms. True buffalo grass crept in low profile and sent horizontal shoots in all directions, rooting for moisture as it grew, creating a tough interwoven mat so thickly rooted it held together extremely well for laying up walls. The trouble came in breaking out the sod for planting. The ancient root system yielded grudgingly to the plow, each tenacious inch of virgin soil bitterly contested, like prying open a fertile treasure sealed for millennia. And if not completed in the spring while the sod was relatively pliant, the task was all but impossible, for in the heat of summer the grass went dormant and the sod hardened like brick. But by late May Luther had successfully seeded two acres to oats and three to corn. The soil’s rich promise perfumed the air.

  The first evening in June, Martha’s labor began. Luther quickly fetched Doctor Brewster Higley who lived in a dugout along the creek two miles west. After a long night’s labor and many anxious, fretful hours, a baby boy was delivered at dawn; his birth-cry silenced the close chatter of the birds. Dr. Higley stayed on through the day to assure the health of mother and child. Although a somewhat reclusive man, shy and reticent behind a full beard, he and Luther had hit it off—both shared a love of literature and speculative thought. By day’s end they’d shed all formality; from then on Brewster, as he wished to be called, paid a visit each Sunday and often spent the night.

  It was he who suggested a carpenter to help Luther build the house—Daniel Kelly, a respected craftsman, age thirty, out of Smith Center, the county seat, which lay about twelve miles southwest. At first glance Daniel reminded Luther of Caspion, albeit a tamer version, not so willful and high-strung, but frolicsom
e and quick-witted. He was also a musician with a true gift for melody; all in all quite able and pleasant to work alongside. He drove out each Monday morning with a wagonload of supplies, stayed on through the week, putting in twelve to fourteen hour days, working for board and wages, and returned to town each Friday night. The house was nearly finished; they only had to whitewash the plaster interior and put up the clapboard siding, then set the door and five windows. Another week would see it done.

  The house occupied the high ground where they could view approaching storms, catch the cool evening breeze, and most importantly avoid any night humors lingering in the bottoms. Compared to their current dwelling it was a palace—one vast room sixteen by twenty feet with a hardwood floor, all covered by a high-pitched roof to keep them dry. At once modest and magnificent. A weather vane graced the center ridge, pointing north with the southerly wind now gentling down at the close of day.

  Luther set the last stone and heard the baby cry; its voice soon muffled as it found its mother’s breast and gave suck. Topping off the wall and securing their water supply profoundly eased his soul. The small stream that cut their property northwest only ran intermittently, and while it served to water the stock, the pools would likely dry up by mid-summer. The well was his taproot, his anchor amidst the hard vicissitudes of the plains. He reached for his shirt to wipe the sweat from his brow. Gazing west, the sun’s colossal rays colored the high-drifting clouds a glorious crimson.

  Below that luminous veil the land laid vaguely drawn, subdued in monochrome, a shadowed sea of indistinct form. A speck of movement appeared in the distance, like a mote of dust set slowly adrift. At a half-mile he discerned a wagon flanked by two riders, all heading his way. Perhaps Daniel had returned a day early; but no, it was a freighter’s wagon drawn by oxen. Presently, the lead horseman came on at a full gallop with such focused intent as to inspire unease. Luther thought to reach for his rifle, then recalled the splendid stride and the rider’s cool perfection and raised his fists in joy.