Caspion & the White Buffalo

by Melvin Litton

“Mayhaps, hunter…”—this from a side table—“‘At tin-horn cain’t savvy Injun!” Laughter erupted—cut short by the hard stare. Caspion held a moment then let it pass. From his saddlebags he withdrew the string of ears, the odor like musty cellar rot.

  “There,” he said, laying the foul wreath about Finworth’s neck, “I bestow the final chapter. The Krippit Gang…or what remains. By my count an even score. At current market rate, by your appraisal, easily worth the second hundred.” The room hushed, all attuned to the grim accounting. “Now listen right close”—Caspion clutched an ear to the other’s eye—“When alone in the dark of night, your lantern burning low, the wind rattling at the door…listen through these you wear and hear the haunting tale of grief, fear, and murder…in which they played part and witnessed. Mark well my tale. They killed the one I loved. And one by one I hunted each…wiped ’em out. Of me that’s all there is…or ever was to tell.”

  Finworth took the ear in his trembling hand; Caspion turned and slid the lone coin to the barkeep and ordered two bottles. The barkeep swept the coin with his stub neatly into his hand, then clutched two bottles from the back shelf and placed them on the counter.

  “Here”—Caspion passed them to Finworth—“Take these to those poor wretches lurking out the door. Be a man of mercy. Make it the epilogue. Act it out, jot it down, headline it to the world: ‘Snake Medicine Bequeathed By Veho Hand!’ Yeah, guaranteed to kill or cure the wounded soul.”

  Finworth stood completely baffled, stupefied.

  “By Jesus, fellas!”—again from the far table—“’E’s buyin’ fer the blamed Injuns!” Followed by a grand guffaw; in turn silenced by a murderous growl:

  “Them’s Cheyenne, you inbred curs!” His rifle leveled, threatening. “Cheyenne! Say it! Or the bullets start talkin’!” A timorous few answered “Cheyenne…”—then a rousing chorus sang: “CHEYENNE!” as he snapped the action on the Henry. “Yeah, I could kill the lot of you,” he intoned, fierce, hardened; “But likely there’d be more on the morrow…like infestation on the hides. Most likely your cur pups’ll fill the land.”

  “Easy now…Mister,” the barkeep calmly allowed; “No call for them harsh words. You’ve been dealt a bad hand, right enuff. None here what life ain’t harmed”—raising his stub, he pointed to the rifle—“I ask ya kindly ta lower yer iron. Bide yer wounds in peace.” In the anxious moment Caspion eased the hammer down, relenting to the gruff, reasoned appeal. Then the old barkeep hollered: “Drinks on the house!” And all made a mad rush for the bar.

  Finworth was left jostled in the swarm as Caspion took the bottles out. The Spirit Hunter set the Veho mah’pe to the edge of the porch. The wretched ones answered as beckoned and went forth to numb their whiskey-scarred souls—they who had once raced the Spirit Wind and hunted all the land.

  Returning to the bar, Caspion downed another drink and caught a furtive movement from the corner of the room. A crimson-haired woman retreated to the shadows.

  “Alice…?” he called, turning her way.

  The barkeep raised his hand in warning.

  “Watch it there, Mister…that’s Poxy Mary. Once a prairie flower, purdy as any. Come out from Hays a year or so back. None lay with her now ’cept they as got the same…opiate fools an’ Mexicans.”

  Caspion shrugged him off and walked to her. Drawing closer, he saw it wasn’t Alice, but sadly found another he’d known. Black-eyed Marianne, a dancing girl, once his favorite—so buxom, saucy, full of life; her flesh now pale, dry, and scabby. Five years in frontier saloons had ruined the flower. She shied away, glancing down, ashamed as he touched her hair.

  “Mistook you for Alice,” he said softly; “You’ve change the color.” Noting she wore a wig, he gently raised her chin. “You’re still a looker, girl.” She braved a faint smile, grateful for the lie. “Got a bed for me, Mary? A place I can sleep the night. I’m awful tired.” He offered a Double Eagle, more than she’d fetched in her prime.

  She grasped the gold coin and nodded, wouldn’t speak for fear of showing her rotted teeth. He followed her up the stairs and down the hall. It was more a closet than a room: cold and spare—bed, chair, and bureau. Dusk filtered through the tiny window. He hung his saddlebags from the bedpost and leaned his rifle by. Then he stretched out and lay, clothes still on, utterly fatigued, like he’d shed his skin.

  “Thanks,” he muttered, drifting off as she pulled the shade.

  Then she went to see the Chinaman and purchased enough opium to eclipse the world and time for several days to come. All that night Caspion slept undisturbed, while she sat in the chair, wrapped in a blanket, inhaling the warm opiate, watching the ethereal smoke waft forth, lacing the darkness in moon-pale transparency. She sought no refuge in memory, neither the joy nor riotous swirl of youth and sensual abandon, of pliant flesh locked in pitching rhythm with the male’s deep thrust. The opiate blanked memory and obviated time—the past, the future, and mercifully drowned the present to let the soul emerge, however meager, and float suspended, indifferent as a feather caressed by silent lapping waves.

  And while she drifted thus, breathing forbidden nectars of the timeless womb, Caspion dreamed, tumbling through a soundless torrent till he swept free and was slowly borne aloft… A winged man, granted flight, gliding low over the prairie, watching his passing shadow undulate with the gently changing terrain. In the near distance a small band of buffalo calves appeared sprinting towards the horizon. Following close, he perceived a slender figure running in their midst; a woman clothed in a dun-colored dress. Closer still, he saw Moneva, not the hideous skin vision, but she, wholly formed and alive. And she cast her eyes to him, hopeful, expectant, then motioned with her arm, turning south, running gracefully with the calves. Time and again she motioned; and he followed, experiencing at once the greatest peace and exhilaration he’d ever known, as if he were spirit and she the flesh, and they were soon to meet and merge…

  That night Finworth, the journalist, neither slept nor dreamed. He was murdered. Around midnight, stepping out back to relieve himself, he was coaxed into the shadows and stabbed repeatedly by a ruthless pair. The body left cloaked in the blood-stained robe, yet stripped of the gold heedlessly flashed within; frozen stiff next morning when discovered, eyes glazed over, teeth bared in a grimace, robe clinched tight in either fist. Pockets turned out; robbed. The corpse was promptly dragged beyond the settlement and buried. None asked nor cared less of whom, why, or where he’d come; nor whether the two chosen for the burial task had performed the murderous deed. Lots cast, straws drawn, a stranger’s fate was best forgotten.

  As the pair picked and chinked through the frozen ground, shoveling to the likely depth, the older casually advised the younger: “None too deep thar, me lad. Jes’ nuff so’s it don’t foul the air come spring.” Life came hard; death was easy, always part of the landscape. All were strangers passing through.

  Since early dawn Marianne had sat gazing out the window, her dilated eyes haunting the sallow flesh from deep within that opiate fog. She watched Caspion ride down the muddy, snow-scuffed trail; man and horse soon vanishing in the cold gray mist that had settled over the plains.

  She removed the red wig and laid it on the bureau, then glanced in the mirror, her flesh so syphilitic that her hair only clung in a few thinning patches. A grotesque. Beauty so transient, was truth also? What poet had said that “Beauty was truth and truth was beauty?” Once quoted to her by Caspion. Was it all chimera, this life? And men such fools—poets, whoremongers, all—each bittersweet moment a mote of dust haloed by moonshine? And he had said: “You’re still a looker, girl.”

  What a fool…what a dear, benighted fool.

  XXXVIII. The Great Cave

  The year 1876 marked the centenary of Independence: the Declaration that asserted all men’s equality in the eyes of their Creator. What time wrought, what men willed, was welcomed by the many, extending their faith and hope into the future. But there were some who looked upon the tragic past and dread pres
ent, and wished not to see the next century, let alone another year.

  On the eve of winter as he rode alone entering the snow-swept plain, little did his heart know or his mind reflect on what awaited. Unbidden by all but the one he’d dreamed. With the constant winds hurling down cut banks, whistling their centuries old sigh through the tawny grasses, piercing the soul of the lost, the lonely, the night and the dead, to where was he riding, the exile? Towards the nether rim; towards warmth and wholeness; towards the one running beyond. And only vaguely sensed at first, like a dim memory invading the present, imperceptibly from the blackened distance came the hoof-beats of the other, the former self…following…closing rapidly. The same each night in endless combat, the conflicted soul grappled to exhaustion till the blazing dawn dissolved their violent embrace—and at last the other fell from him, fading like a shadow. But which had won?—his own shadow where he had stood, indistinguishable as the dust mingling with the wind. Then he heard the faint voice calling him, heard his name and knew which he was and from whence and to whom he answered.

  He rode on, seeking the shepherdess herding the dun-colored calves.

  South past the Purgatoire, the Cimarron, Rita Blanca, the Canadian and Palo Duro, beyond the Red, past the headwaters of the Peace, deeper into Texas towards the Clear Fork of the Brazos where Fort Griffin overshadowed the town that bore its name and occupied the flat along the river—where lately the hide hunters thrived, virulent and unconstrained. Early spring of ’76, the New Western Trail had just opened, running close by, so there were lanky drovers mixed with the usual company of soldiers, hunters, gamblers, and whores. And beyond the town, a squalid camp of Tonkawa Indians; they, grown dependent on the hide trade, reduced to idleness, despair, and drink.

  But whiskey was the fervor tithing most every soul. A swinging sign of one saloon read: “In this hive we’re all alive, good whiskey makes us funny…So if you’re dry step in and try the flavor of our honey…” Laughter and wild oaths carried beyond its walls with vibrant strains of piano, fiddle, and thrumming guitar. Caspion tied Two-Jacks to the hitching rail and stepped inside. As his eyes adjusted from the light of day, he discerned a hell-den not only mirroring but outpacing his unbridled youth—passions more starkly drawn, distorted, run amok. Towards the back, through the hovering clouds of smoke, couples danced naked before the cheering throng, gawking, egging them on, applauding their lewd display. All wanton; abandoned of virtue, if not hope. Taking in the scene, he heard a husky roar blasted above the din.

  “What! Christ er Devil strike me blind! Pitch me muther ta the fire an’ curse me aim! If it ain’t the blackest snake ov’us all I see. Aye! All gad up in the garb ov’a savage ’e is. What? Do ya not know me now? Thunder Mike McKay!” he growled, standing from his table, thumping his chest, waving Caspion over. “Why, lookit ye, ya rascal…ya’ve kept yer hair. Though it’s whitened a mite. I’ve ’eard such tales as made me wonder. An’ the eyes…a crewlar blue. Yikes! They chill me bones. Curses man! Am I waggin’ to a ghost? Speak ta me!”

  “I am a ghost, McKay…long weary of the flesh.”

  Silenced by the words, McKay sucked his gums, toothless now, like the living flesh stripped of its bones, searching for erstwhile form and meaning in an old friend from long ago. Then heartened by Caspion’s wry grin, he slapped the jester’s back.

  “Bah! Ya be needin’ a drink is all. Here…better ’n Friar’s Balsam for what ails ye!” Eying him close, tempting him with a full bottle moved to the table’s edge.

  “Spot me three fingers, McKay,” Caspion challenged, “and I’ll suck it dry.”

  “Ah…that’ud be a grand swill. Wager me Hawkins agin yer Henry?”

  “Done!”

  “But ya do it standin’…no sittin’ on yer arse or wallerin’ ta the floor like a wounded Shag a’belchin’ blood!”

  “Agreed, McKay. But I’ll do ya better. I’ll walk out and ride…disappear like the ghost I aim to be.” McKay gave a lusty laugh—the duel was on. Uncorking the bottle, he slugged down a righteous three, then smacking his lips, passed it two-thirds full.

  “Here…,” he said, “slake yer thirst a’fore ya ride.”

  Caspion tipped back his head and raised the bottle, the contents lowering at each rash pull, the fiery anodyne flooding his throat till the last drop hung quivering at the neck and fell. Bottle emptied, he slammed it down—his barren soul by intoxicant inflamed. He began to laugh, red-eyed, manic with fervent joy.

  “I bested ya, McKay!” he railed, stomping the floor. Then he wheeled about and tossed the Henry. “There! It’s yours…I’ll not be needin’ it!”

  “Wha…?”

  “The hunt is over, McKay. I’m takin’ the buffalo home. Back to the Great Cave where they first sprung forth! Take your Hawkins, Sharps…your 44s and 50s…join a traveling show. Blast match-sticks and bottles, amaze the little boys and dazzle the girls. Breathe the rank smoke, drink your whiskey and dream of the buffalo…”—he leaned to the door, laughing as the room began to swirl. “The hunt is over, McKay. I’m takin’ ’em home. Back to the Great Cave. Adios, old friend… fare thee well!”

  “Aw, ya poor bastard…,” McKay murmured, watching him go; “Bless ’im, bless ’is maddened soul. He’s takin’ the plunge…he’ll meet me muther in Hell.”

  Caspion mounted up and rode out. At the river beyond the Tonkawa camp, he wretched his gut dry and quaffed the “living water.” Epeva…it was good. He glanced back on the Tonkawa: the naked children, the idle drunken men, the labor-burdened squaws—all condemned. He rode on, westering now, weaponless but for the knife sheathed in his cartridge belt; mind still raging from the whiskey surging through his veins. He rode hard, pressing his mount, seeking the grand conclusion, the summit from which to leap.

  Past Fort Phantom Hill, Fort Concho, soon following the Double Mountain Fork of the Brazos past the future sight of Rath City and the more notorious “Robber’s Roast” perched beyond. By evening the Blue Vision yielded to a vast Thunderstorm Chain and his feverish quest had covered over forty miles. Seeking Hotoa, Moneva, and the Great Cave—pressing on past nightfall, in a bolt of lightning and a crack of thunder, man and horse suddenly merged with hundreds of buffalo running before the bracing wind and rain. Their indivisible mass advanced in a roiling black swarm while the rider spurred on, followed by the enveloping herd like a vast sea rushing forth.

  He whipped his mount and yelled: “Hotoa! Hotoa!”—urging them towards the mythic chasm. Each lightning burst created the world anew and reshaped the horizon, painting the foreground in a brief ochre wash, then sienna, umber, and violent purple, shattering the senses as all returned to the blackened void. In a blinding white flash the hundreds became thousands as warriors joined the buffalo, ghosts of many tribes running with their brothers, the wolf and the raven. And Ho’ne appeared in lambent lope, racing alongside. Then he saw Moneva, as in the dream, running with the calves; she vanished and reappeared in strobic patterns, cast now to the distance, now close at hand…so close he could nearly touch. And his heart echoed the broad thunder rumbling through the heavens as he rushed abreast, calling to her, reining Two-Jacks over the abrupt shifting terrain. All through the night, wherever she led, he followed, veering south between Lost Draw past the jagged breaks that join the Colorado, then northwest onto the naked plains heaved up and abandoned by ancients seas and raked by millennial winds. And there all vanished in the attenuating storm: the buffalo, the warriors, Ho’ne, Moneva, eclipsed with the wind and the rain…returning to the Great Cave. A gnarled tree, starkly illumined against the cloud-swept sky, stood on the upslope like the symbol of a soul marooned, dead yet rooted, anguishing in its earthly form. A woeful, lonely silence descended. He slowed Two-Jacks to a canter, entering the forsaken heart of the Llano.

  Haggard, fatigued, in the wee hours Caspion slid from the saddle and blacked out. At dawn he still lay where he’d fallen; Two-Jacks nibbled the meager grass nearby. He woke with a fever, mouth parched, eyes squinting from the
sun’s candent gaze…at an arm’s length a lone dung beetle rolled its proverbial booty, like an inured pilgrim under its black cowl—staunch, devout, unwearied—sharp-etched legs scratched the timeless slate of sand and dust as it journeyed on through the illusive distance, as if inhabiting a wholly different plane. Then he rose to an elbow and in the foreground saw assorted stragglers gathered around a rain-filled wallow. Three buffalo calves, a crippled coyote, an antelope; and the animals seemingly unperturbed by man crawling forth, kneeling at the edge to drink. The water, cool and fresh from the rain, held only a trace of gyp. In the riffling surface he glimpsed the shimmering form of woman. Moneva. He glanced up; the spooked calves tossed their heads and ran. The antelope, the coyote, and the beloved vision vanished with their flight.

  He gave Two-Jacks the last of the grain and sugar. Then dusted off his hat and mounted up. At an easy gallop they headed southwest. Sky, earth, Nivstanivo, cleansed by the passing storm. A bright April day. Beneath the wondrous blue vault the Staked Plains wore a glorious sheen of grass; the desert flowers bloomed in multitudes, gracing the slopes with iridescent color, glistening like jewels cast by an indiscriminate hand in variegated patterns of dominant gold and yellow, deep violet, pristine white, life-rich red and blue. A rare, transient beauty. Nostrils distended, feeding on the nectars wafting through the sun-warmed air, Caspion caught the scent of smoke and spurred Two-Jacks to the near rise.

  Below, a mixed party of Cheyenne and Comanche were breaking camp; not yet aware as he drew rein. Directly beyond, the vivid image of Moneva appeared then faded like a beckoning pulse. Sensing the rider’s will, Two-Jacks chomped the bit and snorted impatiently. Caspion stroked his mane and smiled.

  “Take me down, old friend. You’ve stood me well…”

  Then he reined back hard and set his heels and Two-Jacks reared high, pawing the air in a spirited display. Caspion whipped his arm and shouted her name, unleashing his mount, riding down, arm extended like a lance to grasp his beloved waiting beyond. The warriors spun in alarm. One knelt, taking aim as another rode to meet the charge.