Caspion & the White Buffalo

by Melvin Litton

  Nor had baby-James awakened with his usual fuss and hunger; his breathing had grown shallow, his appetite indifferent. Martha, with milk enough for two, began dying inside; the bloom from the night before wilted like the corn in the field. Luther stayed with her, while Caspion saddled up Two-Jacks and rode through the hail of locust. He returned in a short time with Doctor Higley and his black bag gripping the cantle.

  “Summer cold,” he murmured, tapping the baby’s chest, listening to the wheezing cough; “Quite a nasty one too.” He quickly mixed codeine with molasses and whiskey, tied a spoonful of sugar in a piece of cloth, let it soak a minute then induced the baby to suck. Aside from this and applying ointment he said there was little more they could do but wait and pray that the baby survived the infection.

  To the parent’s mute gaze he added simply: “If he’s a fighter…he’ll make it.”

  When they had left, Martha stayed by the cradle, fearful to avert her eyes lest her baby be taken from her. A tuneless hum passed her lips, like a distant wail muffled by the wind. Moneva entered quietly and approached; she offered a bag of Red Medicine, “…good to help him breathe and end cough.” Martha slapped it away.

  “You witch!” she cried; “You poisoned me!”—clutching her breasts, crazed with worry, hardened, hollow-eyed, not a tear. Moneva calmly gathered up the bag and set it on the table.

  “This…it will help your baby, Marta,” she said softly, then returned to her lodge.

  Luther sought to blunt his anxiety by waging war on the hoppers. He stomped through the cornstalks, cursing all to Hell, whipping a horse blanket left and right like the Archangel enraged at sinners, slashing his sword on the Day of Judgment. Caspion stood back and let him vent his fury. The corn was already lost; but the oats stood to make a crop—if the locusts didn’t harvest it first. Luther shortly came to his senses; his assault futile, though in a desperate effort to draw them off the oats, he decided to burn the corn. He fetched a field knife and while he hacked away, Caspion bundled off the cuttings. By mid-afternoon the corn lay in a huge windrow, prepared for sacrifice. Luther struck a match and touched it to a dried tassel—in a swirl of white smoke it caught like a fuse, then the whole blazed to life. As Luther and Caspion backed away from the heat, a rude swarm descended, gathering in banquet, drawn like devils to the fire, gleefully carousing, roasting in the flames. The ruse worked; the oats saved, at least for a day.

  Luther—exhausted, his clothes singed and soaked in sweat, his face streaked with smoke and dirt, burned by sun and wind—cast a long desperate gaze over all his land, pointing out all he planned as if visible to the eye: the trees he’d plant, burr oak, walnut and cottonwood to shade the house, a fruit orchard with southern exposure and good drainage, a large shelter-belt of various deciduous and evergreens north of house and barn; and there, the granary and holding pen; over here, poultry house and hog-shed; out yonder, the white-plank corral where young James would learn to ride; and to the east, in that copse of cedar, the family plot—

  “And there’ll be none buried there before me…”

  His voice broke and his eyes filled with anguish as he turned to Caspion.

  “It was all my doing…the humors rise from the soil. And I put baby-James in that tomb of sod. From his first breath he breathed the deadly vapors. If…if he lives I swear no plow will touch my land again.” Then he broke down completely, laid his head to Caspion’s shoulder and wept, his great torso heaving with grief while his powerful arms hung limp, helpless to aid in his child’s struggle. And the brothers embraced as if the mother only one had known was there between them, gathering them in. Luther’s despair so crushing Caspion had to brace himself—and it seemed strange that one who’d always succored and protected, one so huge and able was now as needful as a child. Caspion sought to comfort him, speaking soft and low:

  “When our mother died giving me birth…as our father never tired of recalling…she left her first-born to care for me. I’ll always praise her and our father for the gift of you, Luther. But she gave me something more than life and my good brother…she left me her secret”—hearing this, Luther began to calm—“yes, and each night as I lay alone about to sleep, her voice was always near, whispering like her dying breath, ‘Dream, dream and live…for death is at hand.’ So you asked me how I will live, Luther. But what do I risk? My life? Moneva? Our baby? We are of the earth already. All endeavor is risk, all life is dust. But while our dust retains the mold of life, our one purpose is to cast the dream a bit further. Your dreams will live, Luther. Your son will live.”

  Luther stepped back and searched Caspion’s eyes. Dare he hope?

  “What tells you this?” he asked; “The white robe?”

  Caspion shook his head. “My heart…and Moneva. Weeks ago, when I received your letter and told her of the child, that night, in her dream, she saw baby-James grown a man. Tall like yourself, but with a full head of hair.” His smile infectious, convincing. “Cheyenne don’t dream as we do, Luther. Their dreams are often real.”

  Luther straightened, given faith, and walked briskly to the house.

  Early evening, Martha appeared at the lodge with the Red Medicine and her baby; she stepped through the opening and stood, awaiting the judgment of Moneva’s eyes. Moneva set aside her beadwork and indicated a place for her guest to sit.

  “Forgive me, my dear, I am so sorry,” Martha said, trembling as she knelt, strain and fatigue telling in her voice and person. “I have prayed to my God. Listened to my doctors. And I have buried three babies. Help me…?” Moneva spread the white robe close by the fire and bade Martha lay her baby there and remove its blanket and blouse. She placed a pinch of Red Medicine in some water to boil, then took a greater portion between her hands and sifted it to a fine powder, letting it fall over the baby’s chest and neck; this, gently rubbed into the skin. The medicine tea was fed through a small bladder sieve, let to drip slowly on the lips till the baby gave suck. Then surrendering the task to Martha, Moneva fastened a buckskin canopy over the fire-pit and robe; she poured water over the heated stones, letting the mist bathe the baby for a time—its lung infused with warm, healthful vapors. After daubing him dry, she laid the madstone next to his skin, briefly explaining its sacred nature; then she bundled him lightly.

  “Bring him each morning and evening,” she said; “Give him the Red Medicine tea each time he wakes and coughs. And do not sorrow, Marta…soon he will hunger for your milk. I had a vision…your baby was a strong young man. You and your husband were old and happy. It is good you have milk for two. For I saw also a beautiful daughter…her eyes reflected the Blue Sky Space. It is so.”

  Tears welled in Martha’s eyes; a flush of warmth and gratitude filled her flesh.

  “It is so,” she repeated happily. Although she did not sleep much that night, hers was a vigil of hope. She sat by, gently rocking the cradle, voicing peaceful lullabies to sweeten her child’s dreams. And each morning and evening, as requested, she returned to the lodge, repeating the ritual. Within the circle she sensed a power; her faith there affirmed. Moneva’s quiet grace and manner were a merciful blessing—while handling baby-James, her hands worked with such gentle assurance that Martha believed therein lay the source of the healing.

  By the third day the grasshopper infestation seemed to subside. While they’d ingested the better part of all edible plants, they were still evident in the meager leavings, like the steady drip following a violent thunderstorm, made more prominent in the bleak silence and heat of a land stripped bare. Early morning; it began like a ringing in the ears after a great blast—a heinous scream gathering power, a sentient wind. They appeared in the northwest, a low cloud advancing, building rapidly; then like a fire that flares beyond control, the locusts swarmed.

  Martha, holding baby-James, had just emerged from the lodge; Moneva peered out, curious. The men, busy trimming the horses’ hooves, stood and turned. Horses pricked their ears and whinnied; the mule brayed in alarm. Caspion and Luther quickly l
ed Two-Jacks and Star Lady to the lee of the sod-house, covering each horse’s head with a gunny-sack; the other horses and mule were left to fend for themselves. Martha rushed for the house; Moneva hurriedly buttoned up the lodge as Ho’ne leapt inside. The next instant they hit, descending like a Biblical curse in harrowing chastisement, creating a deafening, shrill chatter as multitudes rained against lodge, house, horse, and man.

  An unearthly stench arose amidst their sulfur-tinted swirl and constant hammering. Scores soon gained entry through broken screens, windows, and beneath the door. Each ghastly, devil-eyed creature fearfully magnified as they loomed in nightmarish proportion before the eye and clung like cockleburs to clothing, hair, and skin. Martha frantically covered baby-James in his cradle, then flailing her arms and legs she began crushing dozens with her bare hands and feet—screaming in terror and panic to protect her child, to save his precious soul from the hellish demons. But implacable as the wind they passed her by. Baby-James soon added his shriek and rail to the din; in red-faced fury he kicked off his blankets and angrily seized one of the fiends in his fist. Martha snatched it away, swept him up in her arms, and slumped to the floor, shielding him with her flesh and bosom.

  Then it ended, suddenly as it began; the maelstrom fading to the southeast, the locusts gone. The baby’s lone wail sounded all-clear in the quiet of their passing; four days since he’d managed more than a weak cough or whimper—a cry as miraculous as resurrection. Luther nearly busted the door off its hinges as he bounded in and found mother and child still on the floor, baby-James nursing with a vengeance, tugging at Martha’s hair and breast. She smiled through her tears, “Lungs of a wolf and appetite to match.” Luther knelt beside her, adding his hand to hers, cradling the little head. Baby-James supped loudly, fever broken, anxious in his hunger; he cast a dark eye at his father then buried his face deeper in the breast, wary lest any intrude on his feeding.

  Caspion and Moneva looked on. Luther shook his head and laughed.

  “Do you see this?” he pointed proudly; “Fierce as they come!”

  Caspion nodded. “Likely give his daddy fits.”

  Luther just chuckled. “Never thought the day would come, I’d see a plague of locust and bless my luck.”

  In the aftermath they surveyed the damage: the house, beaten and splattered by the gale of insects, would need cleaned and whitewashed once more; windows and screens repaired; the lodge had suffered a few tatters that stitches would mend; and the oats, of course, were ruined—meager stems left standing as if a battle had been waged, as indeed it had. But the family was whole and hearty, which made all the difference. While the women began to clean, the men went in search of the scattered stock. Only Moneva’s buckskin had stayed close by. Caspion found Stump a full mile south, head bent low and slavering; the poor fool had kicked and brayed till near exhaustion, the recent clamor still buzzing in his ears. Gus and Dave, Luther’s draft horses, were waiting patiently by the creek, neck to neck in the shade, stomping at flies. The animals all soon led in and watered. After helping Martha clean the house, Moneva swept out the lodge. Ho’ne hunted wounded hoppers still twitching in the dust; occasionally he’d pounce or jump away as if a rattler had sprung, or shake one in his jaws then leave it for another. Now and again he’d pause to sniff the air, his keen nature suspicious, uncertain.

  Finished with supper, Martha pressed the madstone in Moneva’s hand and clasped it with her own, expressing in the silent exchange her deepest gratitude. Whether the child’s recovery was due to the sacred stone, the Red Medicine, the daily ministrations, terror of the locusts, or the babe’s own pluck and will, Martha saw all agents embodied in one angelic form—Moneva. Yet some in the region saw otherwise and deemed her presence an affront to their righteous efforts to settle the God-forsaken plains; in fact, blamed the heathen for calling down the plague of locust and numerous other misfortunes then current: too little rain and money; too much dust, wind, and molasses; a broken spoke, a spavined horse, a cow gone dry, a loveless marriage—whatever their luckless state, they cursed the Cheyenne Witch just as Martha had been tempted.

  That night a hail of bullets struck the lodge; a single volley aimed high in warning as the hooves of a dozen horses thundered past. Caspion made certain Moneva was unharmed then grabbed his rifle and rushed out, Ho’ne already in pursuit. He chambered a bullet then checked his aim—one shot risked all he loved, too many innocent at hand, odds too grave. Luther ran up with his shotgun and gasped—“For love of Christ…?”—as a six-foot cross staked at a hundred yards took flame. This followed by two quick shots and a wolf yelp and like some dark coven the riders fled. At the shots Caspion felt a burning in his chest. Moneva’s lips quivered as she whimpered “Ho’ne” and ran forth. Caspion numbly followed. Flames on the cross-beam fluttered in the wind; they found him nearby…shot through the spine, breathing his last. The dying one gave man a low growl in warning as Caspion knelt, but let Moneva raise his head to her lap; they shared a moment of quiet recognition before his eyes widened in the final spasm. Then his body went limp as the Tasoom leapt into the night.

  They carried him to the far rise beyond the creek of dead water to sacred ground as Moneva wished, to lay Ho’ne with the Mammoth, to let them share their timeless sleep and mix their bones. Before the massive skull and curve of tusk they laid him gently to the ground. The stars shone from the Hanging Road. The wind caressed his fur. They walked away.

  Upon their return, they immediately began dismantling the lodge, packing up, preparing to leave—not even awaiting dawn. Luther, embittered, deeply aggrieved at the violation to his land and loved ones, had dashed the odious, charred standard to bits; the cowardly assault more frightening for its anonymity. And the wound would linger and fester through the years, for he dared not guess if a neighbor or one he knew had been among them. But now he protested their leaving and begged them to stay.

  “They’ll not run off my brother. I’ll fight ’em! By God, I will…” But himself weary and drained by events, his pleas soon weakened, words lacking vim; he slumped his shoulders, fully silent, knew it was hopeless. As Caspion finally said:

  “If it was you and me, Luther, we’d fight ’em. But there’s Martha, baby-James, and Moneva. Tonight they killed Ho’ne. Next time, what? Burn the house, the lodge? Run off the stock, poison the well? Harm the women? I’ve seen it a hundred times during the war and since…a family ravaged in one swift raid, the survivors left stunned to live a slow death. Maybe someday, Luther…maybe. But it’s a hard land. You need the peace and friendship of your neighbors. You need time to root…to fence and provide. Save your fight for Martha, for baby-James and yourself. That’s your lookout.” Luther stood too beaten to speak; Caspion gripped his shoulder as he readied to mount up. “Don’t fret, brother. I have Moneva…Nameho. We prefer our path.”

  Then he swung into the saddle and with a parting smile, removed one last burden.

  “Best not forsake the plow, Luther. You’ll need grain for the nose-bags. That mare will foal a champion. Take care.”

  He tipped his hat to Martha and nudged Two-Jacks’ shoulder with his heel.

  The sun had just edged the eastern rim as Caspion and Moneva journeyed south, a travois trailing each horse and the mule heavily laden. Moneva, filled with child, already dreamed of ripened plums and “Sistato ese ma’peva…cedars by the water.”

  As the gray dawn filled with color, Luther stood with Martha watching them go. Before the travelers gained the distance he found his voice again and called; but it fell short like a faint echo swallowed in the great emptiness. He wanted desperately to run out and cry—“Don’t go!”—but could only coax forth the name.

  Once more he called: “Caspion!”

  And this time it carried through the distance. Luther saw him turn in the saddle, and through all the years of war and separation, he’d never sensed such finality—knew his last image of Caspion would always be cast in that far silhouette…his arm arching as he turned to wave good-bye.<
br />
  PART FOUR

  XXXI. Hickok Returns

  In the spring of ’73 Hickok returned to the plains. The wolf had licked his wounds and healed—clean shaven, mustache waxed, looking high-toned and fit—set to try his hand in Dodge City. He wore a silk-lined beaver hat and new suit of clothes, dark-gray pin-stripe with a Marshal badge pinned to the vest. Watchful, he took in the scene; day and night he patrolled the streets and alleys, banks and saloons, preyed on violence and thereby kept a modicum of peace within the wretched den of hunters, whores, soldiers, and thieves. But there were honest folk afoot, good citizens arriving in steady droves; it was Bill’s business to know all. He winked at the children, measured each man, and cast a leisurely eye after any woman he pleased. Few dared protest, having hired a wolf to keep the wolves at bay.

  His arrogance, however, had one worthy rival. He’d noticed her his first day in town. Her elegance and beauty impeccable—what a lamb. She paid him no mind as he stationed himself aside her path and leaned to a rail, twirling his mustache in delicious contemplation of times past. She rebuffed his smile with cold silence, did not so much as deign him a glance. And there was the problem of her usual escort—or “companion” as he was ironically spoken of about town—who warned all away and would not abide the shadowing eye, nor did he carry a gun, and Bill, a sly opportunist when not a killer, wasn’t about to risk fisticuffs with the muscular blonde giant. Though he checked on the teamster’s comings and goings—Hans, unlike most, did not broadcast his business, and his routine fluctuated day to day, week to week. Plus every eye was watching Alice; every tongue prepared to wag. Bill judged wisely that a misstep in this direction could prove fatal. So he let the matter pass; there were other diversions, other women.