Bear Claws

by Robert Lee Murphy

  He’d bet that was where he’d find the den. But he didn’t want to approach it from directly below. That’s the way the snakes would come and go. He walked down the roadbed a ways until he found a more gentle slope up which to climb.

  Fifteen minutes later he was on top of the ridge, looking back down at the railroad tracks. He could see his horse in the copse along the creek. But, unless a passerby studied the terrain carefully, he wouldn’t spot the mare’s hiding place.

  He eased along the ridgeline until he came to the spot above where he’d seen the snake’s track turn up the slope. He studied the cliff that fell away beneath him.

  Aha! Found it.

  Directly below he watched brown-speckled, scaly bodies glide in and out of an opening in the hillside. He checked the ground around him, rustling the bushes with his hooked tool. Not likely the snakes would approach the den from above, but best to be sure. Nothing stirred in the brush or among the rocks where he stood.

  He laid out the burlap bags one atop the other, then took the pole and stretched out on his belly on the edge of the cliff. He eased forward to get a good view below. He counted at least a dozen rattlers moving around in the open end of the den. He didn’t want a four-footer this time. That’d be too big. Three feet would be better.

  He studied the den, estimating the length of each of the intertwined snakes. He extended his pole down. The distance was perfect. The hook reached into the center of the twisting reptiles. He held it steady for a minute to let the snakes settle. They weren’t coiled, so they would be easy to grasp. He selected a likely one and guided the hook beneath the center of the snake’s belly, then lifted it. So far, so good.

  He rose to his knees as he pulled the pole upward. The snake’s long body draped downward on either side of the hook. The snake would be helpless in this position—or at least he hoped so.

  He took a deep breath, breathed out, and stood up. He kept the hooked end of the pole extended away from him. He glanced down to assure himself the burlap bags were within easy reach.

  Slowly he hoisted the pole and brought the hook end back toward himself. The snake writhed, twisted, and turned, trying to get off the hook. Paddy carefully eased the creature closer. He waited until the snake lifted its head, and when the head swayed in the direction away from him, he grasped its tail and lifted it free of the hook. He dropped the pole and held the snake up and away from him, allowing its weight to straighten and neutralize it. The right size for what he wanted—three feet long.

  Keeping a close watch on the thrashing serpent, he picked up a burlap sack and eased the head of the snake into it. When he had more than half the length of the reptile into the sack he let go of the squirming creature. He clasped the top closed and tied the neck of the bag with one of four pre-cut strips of rawhide he’d looped through his belt.

  One down. Three to go. More than once, a snake slipped off the hook, and he had to start his maneuvering all over. After an hour, he had a three-footer secured in each burlap bag.

  Now all that remained was to load the bags onto the travois without spooking his horse, get back to Lone Eagle’s cabin, use Bullfrog’s old ferry to cross the river without drowning his snakes, and pursue the count’s hunting party.

  CHAPTER 42

  By the second night away from Benton, setting up the count’s camp had become routine. Lone Eagle, scouting ahead, would locate a suitable campsite near where the North Platte flowed and Will would organize the layout of the facilities. To spare Lone Eagle from the embarrassment of performing manual labor, something that might be considered unsuitable for an Indian warrior, Will assigned Lone Eagle the responsibility of standing guard on a nearby rise. He’d decided not to mention to his mixed-blood friend the potential threat from Paddy O’Hannigan until he could find a time to discuss with Elspeth what the actual danger might be.

  Once the site had been selected, Will, Homer, and Rupert tackled the job of raising the count’s large tent, pitching a smaller tent for Elspeth, and erecting the cooking fly. Herr Eichhorn busied himself unloading and tending to the count’s array of weaponry, conveniently avoiding any physical labor required in preparing for the evening’s meal and the night’s rest.

  “Will,” Homer said, “it be downright wasteful, to my way of thinking.” He shook his head and waved a hand toward Rupert, who prepared to light the cook fire.

  Rupert extracted a wooden lucifer from a paper packet, struck the match against the side of the box, then held the flame beneath a pile of kindling.

  “Flint and steel would start that fire jest fine,” Homer said. “They’s got a whole case of them lucifer matches. Never saw so much waste in my entire life.”

  “Don’t worry about it, Homer,” Will said. “The count has an excess of everything, it appears. Doesn’t seem to bother him any.”

  “An excess of everything about says it all,” Homer said. “Including cases of champagne. Can you imagine? And two cases of cognac, too!”

  “Homer,” Rupert said. “Take three bottles of the champagne down to the river and chill them. Then come back and prepare the count’s supper. We’ll roast that antelope he shot this afternoon.”

  “Yas, suh,” Homer said. He gathered three bottles from one of the many cases of champagne and tied their necks together with a cord, which he’d dangle into the swiftly moving stream that flowed beside the campsite.

  “I’ve got to water and picket the horses, Homer,” Will said. “I’ll be back later for some of that antelope. Save me a steak.”

  “Sure thing, Will.”

  As Will gathered the halter ropes of four horses in preparation for leading them to water, he could see Rupert setting the folding dining table with a linen cloth and china dishes. The protocol for the evening supper had been established the first night they’d camped, and it was evident to Will that it would be continued throughout the hunt. Count von Schroeder, Conrad Eichhorn, and Elspeth McNabb would sit around the table on folding chairs, waited on by Rupert. Following the meal, the count and Elspeth would engage in a game of chess. Eichhorn would polish and clean the arsenal of weapons while observing the game.

  The smell of the roasting antelope taunted Will’s taste buds as he tended the horses. With a dozen pack horses and the six saddle horses, it took an hour to see that all of the animals were watered, then staked out with picket pins to allow them to graze. Homer cared for Ruby and Lone Eagle took care of his own pony. Will was reminded of his first job as a wrangler with the Union Pacific the year before. That was when he’d first proved his worth to General Dodge.

  By the time Will finished with the animals, Rupert was commencing to serve supper to the three seated at the folding dining table in front of the count’s sleeping tent. Will, Homer, and Lone Eagle ate with Rupert using tin plates under the kitchen fly.

  After the evening meal drew to a close, the count lit his meerschaum pipe with one of the lucifer matches. Conrad Eichhorn puffed on a briar pipe, while Rupert cleared the dishes from the table.

  “Miss Elspeth,” the count said, “before we start this evening’s game, would you favor us with a song?”

  “Why, I’d love to, Wolfgang.” She pushed back from the table and stood. She brushed her hands down her dress, smoothing out the wrinkles. “What would you like to hear?”

  “How about that Stephen Foster song? Something about Jeannie.”

  Will added his tin plate to the pile of dishes Rupert was accumulating next to the wash pan where Homer did the clean-up following the meal. Will stepped out from under the cooking fly and slipped closer to the count’s table, finding a secluded spot beneath a cottonwood tree from where he could listen to Elspeth sing.

  Elspeth folded her hands beneath her breasts, shook her hair gently to settle the blonde curls loosely across her bare shoulders, raised her head, and opened her mouth.

  I dream of Jeannie with the light brown hair

  Borne, like a vapor, on the summer air

  I see her tripping where the bright stream
s play

  Happy as the daisies that dance on her way

  Elspeth did have a lovely voice. Her southern accent caressed the words a special way. Will smiled to himself as the words unfolded. The song had been one his mother had sung—a song his father had been partial to. That seemed a long time ago, but it had just been a year since his mother had died. His father had been gone the past four years, since losing his life at the Battle of Atlanta in 1864. Will was alone in the world, except for his uncle and his friends.

  Will brushed a tear from his eye. No time to get sentimental. He had to concentrate on keeping his job with the railroad. He knew General Dodge expected him to help the count collect the white buffalo as a specimen for his museum, but he also felt an obligation to Lone Eagle to not allow the count to desecrate the Indians’ sacred animal.

  CHAPTER 43

  As they neared the end of the third day after leaving Benton, Will guided the hunting party north, downstream along the west bank of the North Platte River. The hunting had been sparse so far, just a few antelope.

  Will rode at the head of the column of riders, leading one string of four pack horses. Each of the horses was tied to the packsaddle of the horse preceding it. Count von Schroeder, Conrad Eichhorn, and Elspeth usually followed in line behind him. Rupert came next with four more pack horses. Homer brought up the rear with the final string of four horses. He’d inserted Ruby into his string in front of the horses, because the cantankerous mule refused to budge if she were not right next to Homer. Lone Eagle ranged a mile or more ahead of the party, scouting for signs of buffalo and other game.

  Will sensed the count’s restlessness when the German aristocrat trotted his big stallion down from having ridden to the top of another of the numerous hills, seeking a better view as he searched for the elusive herd that reputedly included the rare white buffalo. He reined in beside Will. “When are we going to find them?” he demanded. “I thought that herd was grazing along this part of the river.”

  “Sir,” Will said, “we only have secondhand reports of recent sightings. Neither Lone Eagle nor I have seen the herd personally. If they’re out here . . . he’ll find them.”

  The count snorted and jerked the reins of his horse, turning back toward the rear of the party to rejoin Elspeth.

  Will led the way through a defile where a sweeping bend in the river had carved its way through a high ridge. The group emerged from the narrow passage onto a broad plain spread out around a smaller river that flowed out of the west and joined the North Platte a half-dozen miles ahead. Racing his pony back toward him, Lone Eagle circled a hand above his head and pointed behind him with his thumb, signaling he’d located the herd.

  Will halted and turned back in his saddle. “Count von Schroeder! We’ve found them.”

  The count spurred his mount forward to join Will. The two then walked their horses forward while they studied the valley ahead of them.

  The count reached out and slapped Will on the shoulder. “Ja! Goot job. Is the white buffalo with them?”

  “I don’t see it from here, sir. Lone Eagle can tell us.”

  In a few minutes Lone Eagle pulled up before them. “Not a very big herd,” he said. “That’s the Sweetwater River joining the North Platte down there. Provides good water and grass.”

  Lone Eagle, Will, and the count studied the buffalo herd grazing the lush grass along the stream. The rest of the hunting party rode up, and the entire party of seven halted, while they studied the shaggy beasts. The animals stretched for almost a mile along the near side of the small river.

  “How many?” the count asked.

  “Maybe a thousand,” Lone Eagle answered.

  “Is the white one with the herd?”

  Lone Eagle glanced sideways at Will before answering. “I do not see it.”

  “Come, Herr Eichhorn,” the count said. “Time to gather some specimens.”

  Conrad Eichhorn handed his employer a lever-action Winchester rifle, the successor to the Henry. The gun had been on the market for less than a year. Will admired the design of the new repeating firearm, with its side-loading cartridge receiver. He wondered if a single shot from the Winchester’s .44-caliber bullet could drop a one-ton bull.

  “Rupert,” the count said. “Find a shady place down by the river to set up camp while we shoot some of these beasts. Elspeth stay with Rupert, where you will be safe.”

  Elspeth guided her horse aside to join the count’s personal servant.

  “Come, Homer,” Rupert said, “let us prepare for a feast of buffalo tongue tonight.”

  Will and Lone Eagle accompanied Count von Schroeder and Eichhorn down the gentle slope into the valley, where they rode slowly along the outer edge of the herd. The animals grew restless and moved as one mass down the south bank of the Sweet-water toward its junction with the North Platte.

  The count selected one of the bigger bulls, which jogged ahead when the horseman and his stallion nudged nearer. The German’s leg brushed against the side of the buffalo. The big horse shied from the buffalo’s swinging horns, but the count held him tightly in line with the reins he grasped in his left hand. The bull picked up its pace, its shaggy beard bouncing as the large head careened up and down in time with its stride. Soon the entire herd joined in the race.

  The count leaned forward over the stallion’s withers, pulled the rifle against his shoulder, and shot the beast in the chest. The Winchester proved it had the necessary stopping power. The count only had to fire once and the big bull stumbled and dropped.

  Will and Lone Eagle rode some distance behind the count and the gunsmith, their presence forcing the herd to travel close to the river’s edge. Neither shot at a buffalo. The roar of the pounding hooves of a thousand animals made talking impossible.

  Will guided Buck closer to Lone Eagle. “Did you see the white one?” he shouted.

  Lone Eagle jerked his head back over his shoulder in the direction of the ridge they had ridden around. “It’s with a dozen others over there, in a small box canyon. It will be safe if it stays there.”

  The count continued to select the larger animals as his target, rode in close to them, and blasted them in the chest. When he emptied his rifle he handed it to Eichhorn, who replaced it with a loaded one. The hunting master didn’t shoot anything himself.

  From time to time Will glanced at Lone Eagle, whose clenched jaw mirrored his own frustration. The slaughter continued for over an hour.

  Then the herd slammed into the confluence of the two rivers. The pressure from the following animals forced the leaders to plow into the water. Their momentum broken, the buffalos milled about as they tried to find room to join their companions in crossing the North Platte.

  The count pulled up and ceased firing. “No sport in shooting sitting ducks, Herr Eichhorn. Let’s select the best specimens from those that are down.”

  The count rode back up the stream studying each of the bulls he’d shot. Will shook his head. Their small hunting party certainly couldn’t use all of the meat from the two dozen dead buffalos.

  The count reined his horse to a halt, turned to Will, and pointed at one of the dead bulls. “I’ll take that one back to Germany for mounting in the museum. I want the entire hide and head. Oh, and the hooves, too.”

  “And the others?” Will asked.

  The count shrugged. “Not handsome enough. Select the next best one and remove its head. I’ll mount that head on my library wall. Cut out as many tongues as you think we can eat and take them to Rupert. Let us test Homer’s cooking ability. We will have a feast tonight to celebrate a most successful hunt. Ja?”

  The count handed his empty rifle to Eichhorn. He and the Austrian turned their horses back toward the camp Rupert had established, visible a half-mile away at the river’s edge.

  The count reined in abruptly.

  Emerging from the box canyon a hundred yards away trotted the white buffalo.

  CHAPTER 44

  “Give me a rifle, Herr Eichhorn!” Coun
t von Schroeder shouted.

  Beside him, Will saw the count wheel his stallion closer to the gunsmith and reach out a hand. On the other side of him, Lone Eagle kicked his pony hard and raced toward the white buffalo and the dozen or so brown ones in the small herd that had emerged from the box canyon.

  “They are not loaded, mein Count!” Eichhorn replied. He swung one of the Winchesters off his shoulder and pulled a handful of cartridges from his vest pocket. He quickly fed the shells into the receiver on the side of the rifle.

  “Will!” Lone Eagle called back over his shoulder. “Help me drive the white buffalo across the river.”

  Will jabbed his heels into Buck’s flanks and flicked the reins. “Let’s go, Buck!”

  The black Morgan’s speed closed the gap with Lone Eagle’s pony and the two youths soon raced side by side to head off the white buffalo.

  “Check the ridge above us,” Lone Eagle shouted. His quick glance guided Will’s eyes to a spot along the ridgeline. Eight mounted men sat motionless on the crest.

  “Who are they?” Will asked.

  “Shoshones. This is their land.”

  Lone Eagle shouted and waved an arm in the air as he rode full speed at the white buffalo. The big animal stopped and pawed the ground. Will jerked off his slouch hat and waved it overhead. He kicked Buck in the sides to keep pace with Lone Eagle, joining in shouting.

  The white buffalo tossed its head, then turned away from the advancing horsemen and led its shaggy, brown companions at a gallop toward the Sweetwater River. The small herd did not slow down at the narrow stream, but plunged down the near bank, splashed straight through the shallow water, and surged up the opposite bank.

  Lone Eagle halted his pony when he reached the river. Will reined in Buck beside him. The white buffalo’s herd disappeared into the scrub brush, their progress visible only by the cloud of dust that rose around the bushes and stunted trees as they raced away.