Caspion & the White Buffalo

by Melvin Litton

  “So…”—fanning himself now with the hat—“me an’ the boys was down at Gripley’s Store…bright ’n early Saturday morning, reading the papers from back East, gathering all the news as usual. Seen Sandy crossin’ the way an’ all made ready, trap set. Planned to snore him to silence. In he comes, full sail an’ blusterin’. Starts the old saw about how he finagled the railroad into droppin’ freight costs on his lumber. Good Lord, fellas, can you believe it? They take their cut, do the same up ’n down line…seed one to snooker all. But leave it to Sandy to crow of suckerin’ the best. ‘Yessirree!!’ he whistle-blows, like a locomotive comin’ to a halt. ‘I railroaded the mighty K&P!’ Then rares back an’ snaps his suspenders, waitin’ I suppose to gather applause from heaven itself. But Lawrence an’ me had already commenced snorin’, Port ’n Wagner the same. Soon the whole room was rhapsodizin’, wonderfully content as a shaded hog wallow in full chorus. N’er a lapse in harmony…

  “‘Boys…boys?’ he stammered, taken pause, chewin’ his cud. ‘What…what in tarnation? Why you…’ Then he took to cussin’: ‘God Almighty an’ the devil take ’em!’ Red as the day is hot. Liked to’ve choked on his words as he stormed out. I thought that little derby would pop right off his head. He never came back. Snored to silence. A voice the grim reaper will one day play hell scatterin’ to the four winds. Snored to silence, Sandy Johnston. An event to register in Smith County history.” With that he swung forth his hammer and played lively on the nails; a frame house to finish, more history to build.

  Daniel planned to haul out his piano for the housewarming, and planned to fetch along his cousin Weston to play fiddle. “When that laddie draws the bow…watch the ladies dance in tow,” he winked then set a nail without missing a lick. And Luther as quickly volunteered Caspion to accompany them, then glanced round hopefully. Caspion had been applying whitewash while the other two fit and framed the windows; he daubed unenthused—the task began with alacrity, but as the morning wore on his zeal waned. The job would likely last the week…possible and most likely.

  He raised the brush and directed it at Luther. “You put me to this then doubt I’d play guitar to piano and fiddle? Lift my hand to gladden the heart and set the soul to dancing? Why, rather than paint ’n piddle,” he daubed another spot, “I’d play guitar in fire, flood, or tornado.” To their hearty laughter he raised a brow. “Bless you brother and bless your house, but hang this paint. I’m only too happy to live in a lodge where I paint as I please, not as I must.” And therein lay all the difference between them: on the skin-lodge played colorful symbols of belief and daring-do, while here each grudging sweep was devoid of color, interest, or meaning—all drab and endless, grueling like the plow. Yet Luther loved him for the difference; loved him even more.

  Daniel had noticed the lodge upon approach that morning; its distinctive shape clearly visible at a distance. He found it a remarkable dwelling, commodious, practical, an alluring design. But other eyes would be drawn—others not at all sympathetic. And seeing Moneva and Ho’ne appear before the lodge, he thought to speak.

  “Not to cry wolf,” he carefully prefaced himself, his tone devoid of banter; “Myself…I’m Black Irish. So I’ve earned my share of scorn.” Caspion had noted his fight-scarred knuckles. “Some think us fit only for the pit, war, or prison. Not many men as generous in wage or spirit as Luther here. And they don’t much care for the Dutchmen neither…hate all Catholics. Call the lot of us idolaters.” Again, he glanced to the lodge, fidgeting with a nail taken from his pouch. “You’ve heard tell of the Ku Kluxers down South. Papers say Forrest himself leads the Clan. Hereabouts is a similar breed, maybe not as hard or as many…but some bad blood runs in their veins. Awhile back, night riders stripped a Gypsy of his wares an’ burned his wagon, you name it. Left the poor devil destitute.” Though Daniel didn’t say, he and his cousin found the man and set him on the train for Denver. “Me an’ mine, we stick together. They don’t rule us…can’t run us off. But they’re hereabouts just the same. Best you know.”

  Grim news that gnawed at Luther’s fear; not for himself, but the ones untamed. How quickly the frontier’s fierce respect for the individual faded before the black cloak of rank, form, and prejudice; the commonality and its will swept like a scythe, leveling all. Caspion, long aware of such, named it the reaper and the plow.

  A goodly crowd showed for the housewarming, beyond a score, mostly neighbors and their children. Buckboards, horse carts, and three large freight wagons belonging to Hans all parked north of the house; the motley array of draft animals let to graze nearby. Some folks, lacking transportation, simply walked. Trude Darley, the water-witching gnome, rode down on his cream-colored oxen named “Rainbow.” Luther had even invited Sandy Johnston; as Daniel advised, “He’s bound to come anyway.” But Luther had further business in mind; after a brief respite, he planned to build a barn. From the heated activity in the corral that week, he judged Star Lady dully bred; she would foal come spring. There was little time to waste; but cutting costs was another matter. He’d met Sandy a time or two and had taken due measure of the man; the breeder’s eye and the gambler’s scent knew the kin. That bulbous red nose announced his love of whiskey, and those soft white hands gripped a covetous will. He’d cut cards to cut a deal, of that Luther was certain. Time to fleece him at his game.

  Through late afternoon into evening, the men and boys played baseball, a sport of growing popularity since the war. Though most were novices, Caspion and Daniel had each played, so they pitched for either side. Moneva quietly helped the women prepare the food, but followed the play with keen interest—and envy, for she loved the game of shinny, known as Oho-knit, or “knocking the ball.” What she now observed seemed quite familiar, nothing too refined: all caught bare-handed; a thick oak stave smoothly rounded served for a bat; a grain sack marked each base. The lone manufactured item was the ball. And when Hans finally connected on his third at bat, slamming the orb with a lusty swing as it whizzed down from Caspion’s hand, there popped the cover. Sawdust to the wind. The game ended like a shot quail.

  But timely enough, for the victuals were soon ready, laid out on table, wagon gate, and ground—and after a brief grace all set to with an appetite befitting a feast. And there was plenty of beer ladled out by Trude Darley, jubilant Master of the Brew, his eye to the child, his ear to the earth, scampering about with laughter that welled from the very maw. While Moneva declined the bitter juice, she tasted ice cream for the first time. To her it was “mystery snow.” She rolled it with her tongue and let it slowly melt, savoring its creamy descent down her throat; so cold it ached, but so irresistibly sweet that she quickly dipped her spoon for another bite.

  She didn’t wear the blue gingham dress that evening; only her best was suited for such an occasion and a festive dance. Moneva properly wore the soft white Antelope dress she’d recently finished—richly embroidered, of colorful beadwork and exquisite design. Her glistening black hair, carefully groomed and plaited, hung to her waist. Of singular splendor and height, she reigned among the conquerors of the People. Martha took special delight in showing her off as “my new sister.” And while the women were certainly less appreciative than the men, all were outwardly respectful. Only Sandy’s wife Gertrude, a particularly dour, hefty woman, pursed her lips and held silent; but she greeted others the same. Of course the children were thrilled to see a “real live Indian.” The little girls foremost; they called her “Princess” and smiled in adoration.

  Caspion, too, wore his best: the hair-shirt proudly laid out for him by Moneva. And many a young boy tugged at his sleeve, curious. But he calmed Luther with a quick side-wink, explaining when asked of the reddish blonde tassels that indeed there existed such a breed of varmint in the lower Indian Territory.

  The sun spread a brilliant flourish beneath the purple fold of the darkening sky. Soon the music played and the many danced. The house was clear of furnishing, except for the piano. Daniel sat pounding the keys while Caspion stood and
strummed along. Then Weston—a lanky, bright-eyed youth with slicked-back hair—cocked his chin to his fiddle, flexed his fingers and stepped forth, horsehair to catgut, laying on the bow with rosin-taut fury. And with the wicked reel the floor sprang to life, hands a-clap and each foot tapping. Lines formed, merged and parted; couples twirled hand in hand then dashed the gauntlet of arching arms, their flesh in sweat. The air stirred through the open door and windows; hanging lanterns flared and burned. Looking on, Moneva could not fathom the dance; its form and meaning, both elusive. Again, as at the table, she felt constrained and missed the comfort of the circle and the fire. Nonetheless she blushed with pleasure and joy, for it was exciting. Doctor Higley stood with her, protective to one of shy affinity; Hans also chaperoned, lest any rudeness pass her way. Caspion noticed her body moving in subtle rhythm; then he caught Hans’ eye and gave him the nod. The blonde giant gladly led her dancing. To his striding exuberance Moneva lent her ease and grace, soon mastering form and flow. Whatever the meaning, she enjoyed the lissome swirl, like riding downhill before a brisk warm wind.

  Luther, seeing all well set, gave Sandy a covert wink and ducked out the door, fat goose in tow. Lured him to the sod-house for a nip of whiskey, a bottle kept hidden in the wall. Up for a friendly game? Why not, let the rowdy youth and women carry on, we’re ripe for more manly pleasures. With quick consent he tossed off his derby and rubbed his hands by the lamp’s trimmed glow, well beyond view of prying eyes and nagging tongues. The cards soon shuffled, cut, and dealt. Luther, a gracious host, plied his guest with whiskey and leisurely charm, deferred to the dull braggart and surrendered over a hundred dollars in the first hour’s play. A tidy sum that put Sandy in a fluster and whetted his thirst. But gentle stroking and wolf-like patience in the second hour yielded this investment and more. How imperceptibly the table turned. So cunning, the victim was not alarmed. Luther deftly steered the conversation to horses and the sport of kings, touching on the relative worth of bloodlines versus training, rider’s skill and such. And naturally he sought the opinion of a business man, an eye and acumen honed through many dealings. Asked what he thought of Star Lady? Sandy most certainly admired the mare—a prize, as any fool could see…none finer. Why, she’s a dandy. His eyes glazed by whiskey and red with greed. Which Luther noted well, letting the matter slide.

  But a short while later he casually allowed that one of their wives was bound to come looking. Best cap the game on the present hand and a gentleman’s wager—Say, half interest in the mare and you take the first foal, against the cost of building a barn. Nothing said as to scale or quality. No bluff; a gambler’s hunch, played straight up; five-card stud, fold or call. Sandy licked his chops, held the edge; he took the plunge and lost. His regal pair and ace high beaten by two lowly deuces flanked by two stern queens, and in each he saw Gertrude’s visage framed. Sandy slumped like an empty sack. He would of course honor the wager, but preferred Luther not mention the game. To have this get out could…well, cause problems with wife and business. Luther gave firm assurance to stay mum and shook hands. But he drew out pen and paper to mark the terms.

  “What?” Sandy blanched, as if seeing the ax—definitely preferred the sworn to the written word; “Surely you don’t think…?” But Luther smoothed his feathers: “Can’t be too careful with the man who outfoxed the K&P.” So praised, like a general reminded of his greatest victory, he signed with a flourish “…for all costs attendant to construction of…etc.” Unaware in the blur of the moment that he stood to pay labor as well.

  Sandy emerged from the darkness looking singed and sober. Gertrude loomed the instant he stepped through the door and eyed him in chastisement.

  “Where have you been?” she scolded; “How dare you stray from sight?”

  “Only discussing horses, dear,” he answered faintly. But she smelled his breath and marched him straight out. They harnessed up and began the long journey home. Beneath her chilling gaze and that void of stars, he heard the coyote’s heckling cry. In the span of a week snored to silence and feathers plucked—nothing to crow about come morning.

  But Luther rejoined the dance never more pleased and happy; flush with winnings, nip of whiskey, love, home, and promise of foal and barn, he took Martha in his arms and swept her around and around the floor—his joy so infectious her beauty glowed anew. And they danced till the music died.

  Past midnight most departed. Those who stayed over journeyed home at dawn. Hans returned to Dodge. Doctor Higley, as customary, stayed on through the day, and along with Daniel and Weston, volunteered to help move furniture from the sod cave to the white frame house. That done, Luther herded all around the northwest corner, hinting of a surprise beyond. Nothing there but the hot wind, hoppers, and drought-burned crops. He began pacing off the perimeter, pointing out height to ridge, span of rafters, capacity of haymow, number of stalls. A huge barn. He wanted to lay a good stone foundation and start a week from tomorrow. Offered Daniel work through the winter; cash wages too—not one pint in molasses. All dumbfounded at the notion of a barn so soon.

  Caspion just smiled, knew well what goose had laid the golden egg.

  At high noon Daniel made for town with renewed prospects and high hopes, his cousin Weston plucking his fiddle. Luther waved them off and returned to the barn-site with Caspion and Doctor Higley. Huge and effusive, he cast his hat to the wind and laid a great paw on his brother’s shoulder.

  “Well? Still tempted?” he asked. “My aim is true and my luck’s velvet. Throw in with me, Caspion. Fifty-fifty. Raise horses and watch our children grow up together.”

  And Doctor Higley, hands clasped, braved an encouraging word. “Listen to him, Caspion. Make your home here…here with our zephyrs…you and Moneva.”

  Caspion stepped past Luther and slowly turned, considering land and people. Already the wind was hard erasing the sod house, driving its essence beyond the one of wood, enveloping the white-washed structure in a foreshadowing veil as all man’s efforts would one day leave but ghostly dust.

  “I’m tempted, Luther,” he answered in consolation. “But my home is out there, on the range. In the blue distance west…what the Cheyenne call the Blue Vision. I grow discouraged proximate to towns and labor. Out there, the earth’s rim is my only wall. Heaven is my abode. The stars like a mirror reflect a greater soul. Out there, I can still sing my song…and follow the buffalo through the blue distance.”

  “What of Moneva?” Luther pressed. “How will you live? The range is closing fast. Another four to five years…who knows?”

  Caspion’s blue eyes flared an instant then cooled.

  “You think I don’t fear for Moneva and our child? Of what’s to come? I see beyond my nose, Luther. But I abide my heart. I’m the man I am. And my home is on the range.”

  “Will you stay awhile at least?” Luther asked, moderating his hopes. “Chance may change your mind.”

  Caspion conceded to his last appeal. Inflamed by reason, appeased by chance; how well Luther knew his feral nature. Doctor Higley held silent but witnessed with a keen ear. And the sentiments expressed by Caspion, particularly one phrase—my home is on the range—imbued his mind and emerged some months later in poetic form, later set to music by one, Daniel Kelly.

  That evening Caspion and Moneva walked west beyond the creek of dead water, where even Ho’ne was adverse to drink, lapping briefly before racing on into the long shadows of the land. By nightfall they stood on the rise where the Mammoth bones lay, like pilgrims drawn to sacred ground, in empathy with the long-slain beast. Lanterns from scores of homesteads flickered in the darkness; while nearby settlements cast their faint glow east and west, north and south. Yet all the feeble lights of man were mocked by the flood of stars; there, they surrendered their gaze to escape the rude enclosure and their brief station in the world and time. Caspion saw her looking south and read her longing and assured her they’d soon camp by “living waters.” Ho’ne pressed his muzzle to her hand as she purred his name, her eyes again
laughing.

  Later in the lodge, they made love, careful of the life luminous in the moon of her flesh. Moneva sat astride and lowered herself to him and they slowly merged in tender passion. That night she dreamed of living water and ripened plums and a child nursing at her breast. But in Caspion’s dream the Iron Horse jumped the rails and marauded over the plains, multiplying like a breeding monster…hundreds soon driving through the night, each pulling a score of plows…one bright beam turned his way, then another, and still more…their Cyclops eyes converging with alien will…their quaking din, tremendous as battle, like shells exploding, ripping into the earth. He saw his father piloting the lead and awakened—sweat-chilled by his own prophecy.

  XXX. Locusts

  The day brought respite to none. Drought gripped the land and sapped the juice. Overnight the locusts multiplied, threatening a plague; thousands where hundreds had been. Their incessant voracity and ceaseless rattle at tent, door, and window unnerved the soul; their twig legs and husk-dry thrashing sawed at the ear. Demons in miniature emerged from the bowels of the earth to flay the skin—eating one another and breeding in wild frenzy.