As the horses fled down the hill, Gus clung tightly to his saddle horn. He could put a little weight on his wounded ankle, but not enough to secure a stirrup when racing downhill over such rocky terrain at such a pace. He knew that if he fell and injured himself further he would be sent home to Austin—all hope of securing promotion and matching his friend Call would be lost.
The sight they saw when they topped the next hill and drew rein with the troop was one neither Call nor Gus would ever forget. Neither of them, until that moment, had ever seen a buffalo, though on the march to the Pecos they had seen the bones of several, and the skulls of one or two. There below them, where the Brazos cut a wide valley, was a column of buffalo that seemed to Gus and Call to be at least a mile wide. To the south, approaching the river, there seemed to be an endless herd of buffalo moving through the hills and valleys. Thousands had already crossed the river and were plodding on to the north, through a little pass in the hills. So thick were the buffalo bunched, as they crossed the river, that it would have been possible to use them as a bridge.
“Look at them!” Gus said. “Look at them buffalo! How many are there, do you reckon?”
“I could never reckon no number that high,” Call admitted. “It’s more than I could count if I counted for a year.”
“This is the southern herd,” Captain Falconer commented—even he was too awed by the sight of the thousands of buffalo, browner than the brown water, to condescend to the young Rangers. “I expect it’s at least a million. They say it takes two days to ride past the herd, even if you trot.”
Bes-Das came trotting back to where Captain Falconer sat. He said something Call couldn’t hear, and pointed, not at the buffalo, but at a ridge across the valley some two miles away.
“It’s him!” Gus said with a gasp, grabbing his pistol. “It’s Buffalo Hump. He’s got three scalps on his lance.”
Call looked and saw a party of Indians on the far ridge, eight in all. He could see Buffalo Hump’s spotted pony and tell that the man was large, but he could not see scalps on his lance. He felt a little envious of his friend’s eyesight, which was clearly keener than his.
“Are those the bucks that whipped you?” Caleb Cobb asked, loping up to Bigfoot.
Bes-Das, a short man with greasy hair and crooked teeth, began to talk to the Colonel in Pawnee. Cobb listened and shook his head.
“No, we’d have to ford this damn buffalo herd to go after them,” he said. “I doubt many of these boys could resist shooting buffalo instead of Comanches. By the time we got to the Indians we’d be out of ammunition and we’d probably get slaughtered. Anyway, I doubt they’d sit there and wait for us to arrive, slow as we are.”
“Can’t we shoot some buffalo, Colonel?” Falconer asked. “We’d have meat for awhile.”
“No, wait till we cross this river,” Caleb said. “Half these wagons will probably sink, anyway—if we load them with buffalo roasts we’ll just end up feeding buffalo roasts to the turtles.”
Call was surprised at the Indians. Why did they just sit there, with a force more than one hundred strong advancing toward them? The scalps on the lance were probably those of Rip Green, Longen, and the man called Bert. Did the red men think so little of the whites’ fighting ability that they didn’t feel they had to retreat, even when outnumbered by a huge margin?
Slowly, more and more of the riders and wagoneers came up to the ridge and sat watching the buffalo herd. A few of the young men wanted to charge down and start killing buffalo, but Colonel Cobb issued a sharp command and they all stayed where they were.
Shadrach and Bigfoot stood apart, talking to the scouts Bes-Das and Alchise. They were watching the Comanches, who sat on the opposite hill as the great brown herd surged across the Brazos. Below them the Irish dog was barking and leaping at the buffalo, but the buffalo paid him no attention. Now and then he could see the dog nip at the heels of a straggling cow, but the cow would merely kick at him or make a short feint before trotting on with the herd.
“It’s way too many buffalo for old Jeb,” Caleb said, smiling at the sight of his dog’s frustration. “One at a time he can get their attention, but right now they don’t think no more of him than a gnat.”
Then he pulled a spyglass out of his saddlebag and put it to his eye. He studied the Comanches for awhile, and something that he saw gave him a start.
“Kicking Wolf is there,” he said, turning to Falconer as if he were delivering an important piece of news. Call remembered that he had heard the name before—someone, Bigfoot maybe, had suspected that it was Kicking Wolf who had shot the Major’s runaway horse, on the first march west.
“Sorry, I ain’t heard the name,” Captain Falconer said. Though watchful of the Indians, he was more interested in the buffalo, a species of game he had never killed, though hunting was his passion. Now as many as a million animals were right in front of him, but the Colonel had ordered him to hold off until they crossed the river. In his baggage he had a fine sporting rifle, made by Holland and Holland in London—it was all he could do to keep from racing back to his baggage wagon to get it.
“Buffalo Hump is the killer, Kicking Wolf is the thief,” the Colonel said. “He’s the best horsethief on the plains. He’ll have every horse and mule we’ve got before we cross the Red River, unless we watch close.”
He paused and extracted a cigar from his shirt pocket, as he studied the situation.
“If I had to choose who I’d have to harass me I might pick Buffalo Hump,” the Colonel said. “If I couldn’t whip him, he’d just kill me. It might be bloody, but it would be final. If I went up against Kicking Wolf, the first time I took a nap I’d be afoot.
“There’s places off north of here where I’d rather be dead than be afoot,” he added. “Ever drunk horse piss?”
He looked at Call and Gus, when he asked the question.
“No sir,” Gus said. “I never have and I don’t plan to, either.”
“I drunk it once—I was traveling with Zeb Pike,” the Colonel said. “We kept a horse alive just so we could drink its piss. I was so goddamn thirsty it tasted like peach nectar. When we finally came to water we ate the horse.”
To Call’s embarrassment his horse stretched itself and began to piss, just as the Colonel spoke. The yellow stream that splashed on the ground didn’t smell much like peach nectar, though.
“What will we do about our red neighbors, Billy?” Caleb asked. “Here we are and there they are, with a lot of goddamn buffalo in between.”
“Why sir, I expect they’ll leave,” Falconer said. “I can pursue them, if you prefer.”
“No, I don’t want you to pursue them,” the Colonel said. “My thinking was different. It’s almost time to make camp and prepare the grub. Maybe we ought to trot over and invite them to dinner.”
“Sir?” Captain Falconer said, not sure that he had heard the Colonel correctly.
“Invite them to dinner—I’d enjoy it,” the Colonel said. “A little parley might not hurt.”
“Well, but who would ask them?” Captain Falconer asked.
“How about Corporal Call and his compañero?” the Colonel said. “It would give the Corporal a chance to live up to his promotion. Just tear up a sheet and wrap it around a rifle barrel. Comanches respect the white flag, I guess. Send Bes-Das with them, to make the introductions. I expect they know Bes-Das.”
Gus felt his legs begin to quiver, as they had that day near the western mountains, when he stood near the patch of ground soaked with Josh Corn’s blood. The Colonel had looked right at him, when he gave the duty of Call and his compañero.
Captain Falconer had gone back to the wagons to find a sheet. The Indians were still sitting on the opposite hill. The long ridge where the Rangers sat soon filled up with men—the whole expedition arranged itself along the ridge to watch the great spectacle below. There was no end to the column of buffalo, either north or south. They moved toward the river and curled out of it like the body of a great snake whos
e head and tail were hidden. Among the crowd of Rangers, merchants, blacksmiths, whores, and adventurers Call suddenly noticed John Kirker, the scalp hunter who had left them on the Rio Grande. His large colleague, Glanton, was not with him. Kirker had a rifle across the cantle of his saddle—while everyone else watched the buffalo, he watched the Indians.
“You mean we’re supposed to just ride over and talk to them?” Gus asked. It was a shock to him to realize that he had been ordered to approach the Comanches. He felt that he had been foolish to hop out of the sick wagon so soon. He should have nursed his sore ankle another week at least, but some of the Rangers had been chiding him for malingering and he had started traveling horseback sooner than he should have.
“That’s what Colonel Cobb said,” Call answered. “I don’t know how we’re going to get through them buffalo, though. They’re thick.”
“I don’t want to go through them,” Gus said. “I don’t want to go. Buffalo Hump stuck a lance in me once, he might poke it clear through me this time.”
“No, we’ll be under a flag of truce,” Call reminded him. “He won’t bother you.”
“He ain’t holding up no white sheet,” Gus said. “Why would a white sheet matter to a Comanche?”
“If you’re scared you should just go on back and marry that girl,” Call said. “Unpack dry goods all your life. I aim to stay with rangering and be a captain myself, someday.”
“I aim to be a captain too, unless it means drinking horse piss,” Gus said. “I don’t intend to get caught in no place so dry that I’d need to drink horse piss.”
“Well, you might—the Colonel did,” Call said. “That damn Kirker is here—did you notice?”
“He slipped in while you were off on the chase,” Gus said. “I understand he’s a friend of Colonel Cobb.”
“I deplore traveling with a man who hunts scalps,” Call said. “I don’t know why the Colonel would be his pard.”
“Comanche Indians hunt scalps,” Gus pointed out.
“No, they take them in war,” Call said. “Kirker hunts them for money. I think Bes-Das is ready. Let’s go.”
11.
WATCHED BY THE WHOLE expedition, Call and Gus followed Bes-Das down the ridge toward the buffalo herd. Bigfoot came behind. No one had ordered Bigfoot to come, or not to come—he joined the parley because he wanted a closer look at the Comanches than he had been able to get during the rainy day on the Brazos. Bes-Das held his rifle high, the white sheet fluttering in the wind.
Across the valley, the eight Comanches waited. They had become as still as statues. The only movement was the fluttering of the three scalps on Buffalo Hump’s lance.
As the four horses approached the great moving mass of buffalo, they began to show some anxiety. Their nostrils flared and they tried to turn back—it was with difficulty that Call kept his little bay in check. Gus was having trouble too, made worse by the fact of his sore ankle. Bes-Das, the crooked-toothed Pawnee, whacked his mount with a rifle twice and the horse settled down. Bigfoot kept a tight rein on his gray mount—the smell of the thousands of animals affected men and horses alike; the dust they raised was as thick as any sandstorm.
“We’ll never get through them—they’re too thick,” Gus said. “They’ll trample us for sure.”
“Go quick,” Bes-Das said, turning his horse parallel to the herd. “Go with the buffalo.”
As Call and Gus kept close, the Pawnee slipped into the buffalo herd, moving in only a few feet and letting the horse turn in the same direction as the herd was going. Moving steadily over, giving ground and turning toward the river if there was no room between animals, Bes-Das was soon halfway across the herd.
“That’s the way, just keep a strong rein and ease on through,” Bigfoot said. Soon he was in the thick of the herd—Bes-Das was almost to the other side.
“Go on, you’re next,” Call said to Gus.
“I ain’t next, you go,” Gus said. “I’ll be right behind you.”
“Nope,” Call said. “I’m the corporal and I’m telling you to go. If I leave you behind you might claim your ankle’s hurt and get shot for desertion.”
“Why, hell . . . you don’t trust your own partner,” Gus said, so irritated that he immediately kicked his horse and slipped into the buffalo. In fact he had thought of finding an excuse to wait; he didn’t want to ride into the herd, and even more, he didn’t want to ride up to Buffalo Hump’s war party. But he was not going to let Woodrow Call slight his courage, either. He had always supposed he had as much guts as the next man; but his nerves had been somewhat affected by the bloody events of the first march, and were still not under perfect control. He felt sure, though, that he could match Woodrow Call ability for ability, and beat him at most contests. He could see farther, for one thing, though being in the middle of a buffalo herd didn’t give him much opportunity to test his vision. All he could see was the brown animals all around him. None of them seemed too interested in him or his horse, and he soon found that he could use the Bes-Das technique as well as Bigfoot or the Pawnee scout. Once he let his horse step too close to the horns of a young bull, but the horse turned just in time. In ten minutes he was almost across the herd—Bes-Das and Bigfoot were there waiting. He didn’t know where Woodrow Call was—slipping through the buffalo required all his attention. He was only twenty yards from being free of the herd when suddenly buffalo all around him began to swerve and jump. Gus’s horse jumped too, almost unseating him. All the buffalo on the far side of the herd were lowering their heads and acting as if they wanted to butt. Gus was thrown over the saddle horn, onto the horse’s neck, but just managed to hang on and regain his seat. He saw Bes-Das and Bigfoot laughing and felt rather annoyed—what was so funny about his nearly getting thrown and trampled?
He spurred through the last few animals and turned to see what had caused the commotion—all he could see was a large badger, snapping at a buffalo cow. The badger was so angry he had foam on his mouth—the buffalo were giving ground, too. Woodrow Call’s horse was pitching with him, agitated by the snorting buffalo cow that was faced off with the badger. Woodrow hung on and made it through.
“Why would anything as big as a buffalo shy at a badger?” Gus asked, when he rode up to Bigfoot. “A buffalo could kick a badger halfway to China.”
“That badger bluffed ’em,” Bigfoot said. “He’s so mad he’s got ’em convinced he’s as big as they are, and twice as mean.”
“I wonder if they’re mad?” Call said, looking at the Comanches, who sat without moving on the hill above them.
“If they are we’d be easy pickings,” Bigfoot said. “We’d never get back through them buffalo quick enough to get away, and the troop couldn’t get through quick enough to save us, either.”
Call looked up at the Indians and back across the valley, at the body of the expedition. He wished Bigfoot had not made the last comment. The buffalo herd they had just slipped through was like a moving wall, separating them from the safety of the troop. All the Comanches would have to do would be to trot down the hill and kill them with lances or arrows. The thought made him feel wavy, and without strength.
Neither Bigfoot nor Bes-Das seemed concerned, though. They walked their horses slowly toward the hill, Bes-Das holding up the rifle with the white sheet on it. Call and Gus fell in behind.
“What if they don’t pay no attention to the sheet?” Call asked. He wanted to know what the procedure would be, if they had to fight.
“If they come for us put as many bullets into the big one as you can,” Bigfoot said. “Always kill the biggest bull first—then kill the littlest.”
“Why the littlest?” Gus asked.
“Because the littlest is apt to be the meanest, like the badger,” Bigfoot said. “That one standing off to the right is Kicking Wolf—he’s the littlest and the meanest. You don’t want to let your horse graze off nowhere, with Kicking Wolf around. He’s so slick he can steal a horse with a man sitting on it.”
“He’s
stumpy, ain’t he?” Gus said.
“Kicking Wolf always rides to the outside,” Bigfoot said. “Buffalo Hump is the hammer, but Kicking Wolf is the nail. He don’t like to be in a crowd. He’s the best shot with a rifle in the whole Comanche nation. If they go out and they’ve only got one rifle between them, they give it to him. Buffalo Hump’s old-fashioned. He still prefers the bow.”
With the Pawnee scout, Bes-Das, slightly in the lead, the party moved slowly up the hill toward the waiting Indians. Call glanced at the short, stumpy Indian on the right edge of the group and saw that he was the only Indian armed with a rifle. All the rest carried bows or lances. When they were halfway up the hill Buffalo Hump touched his mount with his heels and came down to meet them. When he was still some fifty yards away Call looked at Gus, to see if he was firm. To his surprise Gus looked nonchalant, as if he were merely riding out for a little sport with his pals.
“Here he comes, I hope he’s friendly,” Gus said. “I never expected to have to go and palaver with him, not after he stuck me with that lance.”
“Shut up—Bes-Das will do the palavering,” Bigfoot instructed. “You young boys keep your damn traps shut. It don’t take much to rub a Comanche the wrong way.”
As Buffalo Hump approached, holding his spotted pony to a slow walk, Call felt the air change. The Comanche’s body shone with grease; a necklace made of claws hung on his bare chest. Call looked at Gus, to see if he felt the change, and Gus nodded. They had entered the air of the wild men—even the smell of the Indian horses was different.
Bes-Das stopped, waiting. Buffalo Hump came on until the nose of his spotted pony was only a few feet from the nose of the Pawnee’s black mare. Then Buffalo Hump lifted his lance and pointed first at Gus, and then at Call. Though he sat erect on his horse, the great hump was visible, rising from between his shoulders behind his neck. When he spoke his voice was so wild and angry that it was all Call could do to keep from grabbing his gun. Call met the man’s eyes for a moment—the Comanche’s eyes were like stone. Buffalo Hump lowered his lance, glanced at Bigfoot dismissively for a second, and then waited for Bes-Das to speak. Bigfoot seemed not to interest him. Bigfoot returned the favor by looking pointedly up the hill, at Kicking Wolf.
The Lonesome Dove Chronicles (1-4) Page 18