“Good God!” he hollered; “Martha! Quick, come see. It’s Caspion!” Tears filled his eyes, blurring the image before him as Caspion reined in and leapt down to embrace his sweaty bulk; and that great strength and love wrapped round and clenched his brother for a time. At last Luther stepped back and wiped his eyes for a better look and saw how mistaken he’d been—only his deep longing had made him see Caspion in another, for none bore semblance to this steel whip of a man, his rakish smile and rich-blue eyes, and the questing spirit that only deepened in mystery like a wine that strengthens with age. A type struck once that the world and time would not repeat.
“Eight years, you rascal. Eight long years. And you gave me such a fright!” he laughed. “Thought I was about to be the first settler scalped in Smith County. How did you find us?”
Caspion stood silent, searching for words, ever grateful to the one who’d raised him.
“I had only to ask of the strong man who lives at the heart of the Nation,” he said. “And they gladly pointed the way. Though the last fellow, who burrows in the ground a couple miles back, was a bit hesitant, and fearful of Ho’ne. Of us all I expect…he didn’t say a word till I mentioned your name. Then he spoke up pleasant enough.”
“That would be Brewster…Doctor Higley.” And noting Caspion’s rugged attire and hair grown long, he added: “He may have taken you for an Indian…”
The last word died on his lips as the wagon arrived, for the attendant rider was a woman—one of strikingly different nature. And as Luther shortly witnessed, she was no companion to the teamster. Caspion helped her dismount; and lately, Moneva had grown more appreciative of the custom.
Martha now emerged from the sod-house, carrying baby-James. Her beige dress, worn thin from many washings, brushed the ground as she walked out to join them; she was barefoot due to the heat. Her thick auburn hair, neatly tied in a bun that morning, had loosened; here and there a strand blew free. A vigorous woman, of medium height and well-fleshed, her face still pretty in spite of many sorrows.
Hans had climbed down from the wagon to greet Luther; they appeared an even match, though the latter had greater girth. After their brisk, affable exchange, all held in abeyance while their eyes turned to the exotic one. Caspion urged her forth, introducing his Cheyenne wife with the simple declaration: “Moneva.”
“How lovely,” Martha noted, as much of her name as of her beauty. Moneva lowered her eyes and nodded respectfully to her husband’s true brother. But she gazed with unbridled admiration at the baby and excitement overcame her modesty.
“May I see your child, Marta?” she asked. This broke the ice; and Martha, much relieved that she spoke English, quickly drew her aside. Around the baby now cuddled and the one to come, the women struck a warm affinity.
Hans happily agreed to stay the night; the distribution center where freighters were to make delivery laid only a half-day’s pull north along the Republican. He would arrive by noon on the morrow. Luther proudly drew water from his new well while Hans unyoked his oxen and Caspion unsaddled Two-Jacks and the buckskin. After all were watered, Hans led the animals out to graze. Caspion started unloading the wagon and Luther lent a hand, intrigued by the lodge, its poles and other equipage, curious to see it raised. But the special surprise was the buffalo meat: three barrels of smoked briskets, humps, and salted tongues—all meant for Luther and Martha. And while they were by no means starving, they were certainly anxious of the coming winter.
“My…oh my,” Luther savored the rich booty after they’d set the last barrel down. “You know, I’ve been nigh a full season on the range and haven’t tasted buffalo meat, haven’t so much as seen a buffalo. Just bones, acres of bones. Unbelievable how you fellas gunned ’em down.”
Caspion gave a wry smile. “Yep, time for the speckled cattle and festive cowboy, I reckon.” Then he clasped his brother’s shoulder, “And good men like yourself, Luther.”
“I…didn’t mean to blame…”
“No, no need. You’re right as day. We gunned ’em down.”
In the last light, while the women prepared the meal, Luther showed the men his crops and the various features of his land; but his greatest enthusiasm was saved for the new house. As Caspion and Hans stepped through the door, it was evident how little remained to be done. “We’ll have a housewarming next Saturday…week from today!” Luther announced. “Have a real shin-dig, rouse the whole county, leastwise a passel of neighbors…with fixins and fiddles. Hans, you’re welcome too…no, I insist. Stop by on your return trip. I’ll not take ‘No’.”
“Vell…,” Hans considered with a stroke of his long beard; “Yah, Lu’zer…maybe I vill. Zanks.” Then he bent his knees, testing the give of the floor—suddenly enthused. A festive breath to fill the empty land.
Moneva had never entered a walled structure, having always lived in a skin-lodge. The sod was nothing unusual, a familiar odor and substance; but the rectangular space was alien, dark and abrupt at the corners—and the ceiling sagged ominously like a cave set to collapse. Her impulse was to flee but she quieted her misgivings. And there were many fascinating items: the stove, for instance, like a miniature train with an inner fire and smoke stack. She was leery upon first approach, till she discovered it had no wheels and could not move. And though she perceived its benefits, all in all she remained doubtful; it heated the air like a sweat-lodge, only without the soothing mist. A large mirror on the corner bureau caught her eye and she’d never seen herself so fully except while bathing in a clear pool—but she only glanced, for it was unwise to gaze on one’s reflection else the Maiyun would trap you. It was the tall pendulum clock and its ornate column that rooted her. She was mesmerized by the oscillation and hypnotic beat; and therein, beyond the vapor of her own reflection, she sensed another being, waiting as if to speak. At that moment the big hand moved a click and the inner gong sounded the hour in eight deep metallic tones, more terrible than any growl. She jumped back and flinched at each, clutching her stomach protectively.
Martha, working at the table, witnessed her fright and rushed to her just as the men entered. “There now, dear…there’s no harm,” she said assuringly; then to Caspion: “The chimes have startled her.”
She was still trembling when he took her in his arms. “Another contraption, Moneva,” he quietly explained; “It’s called a clock. It tells the time of day.” Which left her unconvinced; but as he stood effectively blocking the threat, she was calmed.
“It is not day,” she answered simply; “It is night.” Her suspicion endured.
“Now there’s the truth of it,” Luther declared in support. “Who needs the nuisance of a clock. By Heaven, I’ve a stomach that says it’s time to eat!”
“Oh shush,” pished Martha with a playful swat; “It’s a wonder you stop to eat.” Then she voiced her exasperation to Caspion. “Maybe you can slow him down. Each day…up with the sun and go, go, go. Why, he dug half the well by moonlight. He will not sit, or rest…not unless Doctor Higley stops by. Every day…works till he drops.”
“Don’t you fret, Martha,” Luther chuckled. “There’s lots to do. Our life to build. And I’ve yet to miss a meal or a good night’s sleep.” In fact Luther did not look like a man who would soon be worked to death; he was a Sampson built for labor. Something Caspion knew well.
“Yeah, Martha,” he observed with a quick wink; “You’ve got him figured about right. Ol’ Luther would sooner harvest a field with the jaw-bone of an ass than stop to sharpen a scythe”—remembering a similar event long ago. They all had a good laugh over this and other fond memories as they moved the table and chairs outdoors. The heat was oppressive and the cool evening breeze would help shoo away the flies.
They enjoyed a sumptuous meal by lamplight under the stars—coffee, brisket, cornbread, and beans. Though Moneva was relieved to be back outside, she missed the intimacy of sitting around a fire; the table and chairs imposed a certain rigidity that kept each separate from the Spirit. But gradually she gre
w at ease, found the circle in the flow of laughter and lively conversation. Ho’ne sat at the periphery, poised for any scrap that fell to him. Later, with stomachs filled and dishes cleared away, quiet contentment reigned about the table; a steaming pot of fresh coffee and sugar bowl set at the center, each cup richly sweetened. At Luther’s request Caspion softly played his guitar while Martha nursed her baby, a shawl draped her shoulder to cover her breast. Falling stars streaked the sky, eternal fragments glimpsed then gone; a remarkably bright one passed over the horizon and vanished in a purple glow. Within that immensity the lamp lent a peaceful, more abiding cast. Martha’s brown eyes glistened as she experienced a flush of domestic joy heretofore absent in her harsh new home.
“Caspion…Moneva, I am so happy you’ve come,” she said. “You are welcome to stay as long as you wish.” And captivated by the intricate quill-work and beaded designs covering Moneva’s dress, she expressed her admiration. “Your embroidery, Moneva, is flawless. I hope you will share some of your secrets.” Then glancing to Caspion’s hair-shirt, which he now wore against the cool night air, she asked: “I’m curious of the fur you’ve sewn at the fringe of the sleeve…is it of a fox or lynx?”
“No Marta,” Moneva answered proudly; “Enemy hair. My husband killed three enemy.” In the immediate hush Caspion ceased strumming; Hans and Luther gazed on in quick puzzlement; even baby-James quit sucking a moment, sensing some disturbance in the breast. Martha, a devout Christian woman, sat silent before the dark implication which she saw and imagined quite clearly. But to her mind there lay no greater sin than in being an ungracious host—she would neither fault a guest nor show disfavor towards a loved one. And lest some hasty word or conclusion disturb their present tranquility, she touched her husband’s arm and quietly empathized:
“Why yes…there were some we would liked to have done the same with back in Indiana. Am I right, dear?” And with his confirming sigh the matter dropped. Luther would be the last to reproach his brother, ever his most staunch and faithful partisan. Whatever exploit, whatever extremity, he had always leapt to praise or defend; and if Caspion had killed, he did not doubt for an instant that there was justice in his severity. His sole reservation lay with the evident scalps; and his concern was not for himself and Martha, but for Caspion and Moneva. Not only did the scalps invite further hazard, but they were symbols of an embedded nature—one determined on a path opposed by the many. Luther was loath to advise; a word of caution would likely insult or incite the heedless one. But he feared for their sakes. This was no longer the age of the hunter and trapper; a modern world of railroads and settlements had arrived in force and number that would soon encompass all the plains. How long could they successfully defy civilization and its norms? If only he could induce them to stay, turn them from their spiraling path. Such thoughts kept him sleepless most of the night.
The sun was well up when Luther awakened. Martha was pleased he’d slept late for a change. And he didn’t let on about his worries—merely jumped up with a “By Jove!” and cursed himself as “a shiftless lay-about.” She pursed her lips and smiled, then gave him a peck on the cheek as he sat down to breakfast.
Hans was already well on his way to the Republican. Caspion and Moneva had raised their lodge and were making final adjustments here and there. Earlier that morning he’d drawn the water; Moneva refused to approach the well—said it was “dead water” and the spirits trapped there would harm her baby. She only trusted living water from a stream, yet the one nearby held nothing but stagnant pools. Caspion knew better than to argue the point; he simply drank a cup and commented on how cool and sweet it tasted; then he drank another. But the third he offered to her, tempting her thirst. When she again refused, he drew a deep breath and carefully explained:
“Look, Moneva…this too is living water. It flows from an underground stream, from the same place where the buffalo first came.” This partly convinced her; but she still wouldn’t approach the well, fearful of the spirits within. Whatever, he was happy to draw the water, so long as she would drink.
When Luther walked out to say good morning, he casually offered Caspion a fresh clean shirt. “A bit large,” he allowed, but suggested it might serve better in the summer heat and save wear and tear on that fine buckskin shirt, which was, of course, ideal for cooler weather—stressing the practical. Caspion caught the drift, but faced a dilemma: he didn’t wish to cause Luther or Martha any distress; by the same token, if he accepted the shirt, he might offend Moneva. But she decided for him, running her hand admiringly over the broadcloth, commenting on its softness, for she saw it as a gift and accordingly was careful to show her pleasure. At her urging Caspion immediately shed the hair-shirt, which she neatly folded while he pulled the other on.
“I have gift,” she said brightly, then ducked into the lodge and shortly reappeared holding a tiny pair of colorfully beaded moccasins. “For baby-James,” she smiled then dashed off to present them to Martha.
The fortuitous exchange was encouraging.
“Come,” said Luther with an ornery glint in his eye, “I’ve got something to show you”—the surprise he’d saved for morning. And Caspion guessed well enough, had waited patiently to hear of the mare kept safely corralled behind the sod-house. A fine chestnut, sleek, well-groomed, with black mane and white stockings; she reminded him of their father’s Lady, only taller and wider hipped. A classic broodmare.
“She’s only part of it,” Luther grinned; “I’ve got a secret”—long kept to himself, not spoken aloud, or even shared with Martha. “I don’t plan to farm.” Caspion cast a bemused look to the oats and corn growing nearby. “Gotta have grain for the nose-bags,” Luther enthused. “I’m going to raise horses and I need a partner”—there, the cat finally out. But the answer danced around the question implied.
“You must’ve had a string of luck to win her?”
“No, not poker,” Luther confessed quickly; “I used your half of the farm to buy her.” At which Caspion shook his head in deference.
“No, my half of the farm was yours the day I left the plow and went to war.”
Luther looked to the mare and smiled. “Her name’s Star Lady. I want to breed her with Two-Jacks. He’s just the one to sire a true blooded line.”
“I doubt he’ll balk at the prospect.”
“Then you’ll throw in with me?”
“Now, I didn’t say that,” Caspion countered, voice and eyes firm; “Only meant that Two-Jacks would likely oblige.”
Luther ignored the dodge and pressed on, still hopeful. “There’s a ready market. The Army has garrisons scattered all over the frontier…at Kearny, Fort Hays and Dodge, Laramie, Camp Supply…at Leavenworth and Riley. You’ve seen their shoddy mounts. The best are average, the rest are pugs. We could breed such a line of horseflesh, they’d be fightin’ tooth’n nail for the chance to buy. I breed ’em…you train ’em. We couldn’t lose. How about it, Caspion? What do you say?”
“How’s her wind?”
“She’s no gate-buster like Two-Jacks, but she’ll finish good as any. She’s got the heart and stamina. And look at her…what a beauty!”
Near the lodge, the stallion stood tossing his head and scenting the wind; he’d been nickering across the way all morning. The mare was in heat, her vulva swollen, dripping blood. Caspion eyed the situation.
“Well…,” he drawled; “Let’s see what Two-Jacks thinks of your beauty.”
All speculation ended; the play set to unfold. The mare trotted nervously about as Luther held the gate and Caspion sent the stallion in. An immediate ruckus ensued. The courtship, swift and violent, initiated by the mare’s strident whinny and savage kicks. In a swirl of dust the stallion bolted clear then charged the flank, gnashing at her neck and shoulders, and kept driving, turning her in dizzying forays around the corral, fierce and incessant till she gentled down and steadied. He stamped the ground in wait as her tail twitched and hung languidly, then his member pulsed and he prepared to mount. Like a sh
adow given muscled form he arched up and eased into her, entering with a mighty heave and thrust.
Meanwhile, hearing the lively commotion, the women walked out to witness. Moneva wore a dress Martha had given her: a sky-blue gingham print that accented her exotic coloring and fit well considering her present condition; though on Moneva it only reached mid-calf. Her smile beamed her pleasure; Caspion drew her to his side. Martha stood with Luther, holding baby-James who curled a moccasin to his mouth in wonder of its tactile warmth and flavor. But the men and women were drawn to the spectacle before them, and although they maintained a modest silence, their eyes shone in delight. There lay a deep affinity for the magnificence of the horse; not only its unrivaled speed and grace, but a sensual presence openly admired by man and woman. The stud’s grand potency, his dominant ascension, and the mare’s desperate wild-eyed receptivity marked an exquisite blend of life and flesh bound in fertile rhythm. Theirs, a truly majestic, hierarchical mating, envied by all.
“Reckon she’ll take?” Luther wondered, more in comment than in question, as the pair disengaged to quietly nuzzle neck to neck in confirmed intimacy.
“Possible and most likely,” Caspion allowed with rapt confidence; “A week of such, I’d guarantee it.”
“So…?” came the anxious query; “You don’t curse me for adding my number to the many who bring the plow?” Luther was still uncertain even after this favorable juncture.
“No, not me,” Caspion replied good-naturedly, nodding to the baby; “But do you ever worry your son might one day curse you for seeding him on these arid plains?”
“As God wills,” Luther chuckled. “And that would be reward aplenty…to sire a defiant prodigal. Such as yourself, my brother. Our one wish”—he clutched Martha and the child protectively—“so long as we both shall live, is to never bury another blessed innocent. If baby-James grows strong and spites me,” he laughed; “So be it!” Then he looked on eagerly, “Well, what say you? Have I a partner?”
Caspion & the White Buffalo Page 31
