by Zane Grey
“You should not leave me — at all,” she had whispered then, very low.
“Why Milly, you’re safe here now,” he expostulated.
“I’ll never be safe until — until Jett has no right over me.”
“But he will not come for you. Captain Singleton and Sprague say the Indian scare has just begun.”
“Tom — I’ll never be safe — until you take me.”
“Dearest . . .” he had entreated, and then Hudnall boomed out, “Come on, break away, you young folks.” And there had been only time for a last embrace.
Milly’s last look haunted Tom. How big, black, tragic her eyes! How beautiful, too — and their expression was owing to love of him. His heart swelled until it pained. Was it right to leave her? He could have found work at Sprague’s. A remorse began to stir in him. If he had only not been so poor — if he had not been compelled to hunt buffalo! He realized that he was returning to the buffalo fields no longer free, bearing the weight of a great responsibility, — a lonely girl’s happiness, perhaps her life.
The summer morning was warm, colorful, fragrant with soft breeze off the prairie, full of melody of birds, and bright with the rising sun. But Tom did not respond as usual. The morning passed, and the hot afternoon was far spent before he could persuade and argue himself into something of his old mood. Common sense helped him. The chances of his returning to find Milly safe and well were very much greater than otherwise; yet he could not forget the last few moments they had been together, when under stress of fear and sorrow she had betrayed Jett’s real status and her own fatalism. All that day Milly was in his thoughts, and afterward, when he lay in his bed, with the dark-blue, star-studded sky open to his sleepless gaze.
It took Hudnall only two days and a half, hauling light wagons, to return to the Red River camp. Conditions were identically the same as before the trip. Pilchuck and his three helpers had killed and skinned three hundred and twenty five buffalo during Hudnall’s absence. The chief of the outfit was delighted; and late in the afternoon as it was, he wanted to go right at the slaughter.
“Take it easy,” growled Pilchuck. “We want some fresh grub an’ some news.”
Manifestly, Pilchuck and his associates had not fared well since the departure of the women folk. “Dam the pesky redskins, anyhow,” he complained to Hudnall. “Who’s goin’ to cook?”
“We’ll take our turn,” replied Hudnall, cheerfully.
“Lot of fine cooks we got in this outfit,” he growled. “Wal, there’s one consolation, anyway — reckon we won’t have to eat much longer.”
“An’ why not?” demanded Hudnall, in surprise. “I fetched back a wagon load of grub.”
“Wal, we’re goin’ to be scalped by Comanches directly.”
“Bosh!” boomed Hudnall, half in anger. “You plainsmen make me sick. You’re worse than the soldiers. All this rant about Indian raids! We’ve been out over two months an’ haven’t seen a single Indian, tame or wild.”
The scout gazed steadfastly at Hudnall, and the narrow slits of his eyes emitted a gray-blue flash, cold as light on steel.
“It’s men like you who can’t savvy the West, an’ won’t listen, that get scalped by Indians,” he said, with a ring in his voice.
Hudnall fumed a moment, but his good nature prevailed and he soon laughed away the effect of Pilchuck’s hard speech. Dread he seemed to lack.
Next morning Tom followed the others of the Hudnall outfit out to the chase, which they returned to with redoubled energy and a fiercer determination. Concrete rewards in shape of gold and greenbacks paid to them by Hudnall were the spurs to renewed effort.
Tom started that day badly. Just as he came within range of the first buffalo and aimed at it he thought of Milly’s reproachful dark eyes and he wavered so that he crippled the beast. It escaped into the herd. Tom was furious with himself for wounding a buffalo that could only limp away to die a lingering death. After that he put squeamishness out of his mind and settled down into the deadly and dangerous business of hide-hunting.
The day was one of ceaseless and strenuous labors, extending long after dark. Bed was a priceless boon; memory had little opportunity; sleep was something swift and irresistible.
Thus was ushered in the second phase of Tom Doan’s buffalo-hunting.
The vast herd of buffalo, reported by Pilchuck to be several miles wide and more miles in length than any conservative scout would risk estimating, never got farther north than the vicinity of the Red River.
Gradually it was driven west along the river to the North Fork, which it crossed, and then, harassed by the hunters behind and flanked on the west by the barren rise of the Staked Plain, it turned south, grazing and traveling steadily, to make the wide and beautiful Pease River divide in ten days.
Here began a fearful carnage. Hudnall’s outfit fell in with the thick of the buffalo-hunters, many of whom had been a year at the game. They were established in name and manifestly proud of that fact. “Raffert’s, Bill Stark’s, Nebraska Pete’s, Black and Starwell, Bickerdyke’s, Uncle Joe Horde, Old Man Spaun, Jack and Jim Blaise,” and many other names became household words in the Hudnall camp.
Tom kept eyes and ears open for news of the Jett outfit, but so far had not been successful in learning its whereabouts. There were hundreds of gangs strung along the rivers for many miles, and by far not all of the buffalo were in the great massed herd.
On a tributary of the Pease it was decided by Pilchuck and Hudnall to make permanent camp until fall.
“I want four thousand hides by November,” boomed Hudnall, rubbing his huge hands.
“Easy. I’ll show you how to kill a hundred to-morrow in three hours,” replied Pilchuck.
“When we’ll freight back to Sprague’s?” queried Tom, anxiously.
Thus each man voiced the thing most in his thoughts.
Next day Pilchuck outdid his boast in the estimated time, killing one hundred and eighteen buffalo — a remarkable feat. But he had a fast, perfectly trained horse; he was daring and skillful; he rode his quarry down and made one shot do the work.
Day by day Tom Doan killed fewer buffalo. He did not notice the fact until it was called to his attention. Then, going over his little book of record, which he kept faithfully, he was amazed and chagrined to discover that such was the case. He endeavored to right the falling off, only to grow worse. He wavered, he flinched, he shot poorly, thus crippling many buffalo. It made him sick. The cause was Milly. She dominated his thoughts. The truth was that Milly had awakened him to the cruelty and greed of this business and his conscience prevented him from being a good hunter.
Hudnall solved the knotty problem for Tom, very much to his relief.
“Tom, you’ve lost your nerve, as Pilchuck says,” said the chief. “But you’re the best skinner he ever saw. You’re wastin’ time chasin’ an’ shootin’ buffalo. We’re killin’ about as many as we can skin, an’ we could kill more. Pilchuck can, anyhow. Now you follow us an’ skin buffalo only. We’ll pay you thirty five cents a hide.”
“You bet I take you up,” declared Tom, gladly. “I didn’t know I’d lost my nerve, but I hate the killing.”
“Wal, it’s begun to wear on me, to be honest,” sighed Hudnall. “I’d rather push a plow.”
Next moment he was asking Tom to make accurate estimate of the stock of ammunition on hand. Tom did his best at this calculation and reported: three hundred forty six pounds of St. Louis shot-toner lead in twenty-five pound bars; about five thousand primers; five cans of Dupont powder, twenty-five pounds to a can; and three cans of six pounds each.
“Jude, how long will that last us?” inquired Hudnall of Pilchuck, who had heard Tom’s report.
“Wal, let’s see. I reckon August, September, October — unless we have to fight Indians,” replied the scout.
“Ho! Ho! There you go again,” derided Hudnall. “This Injun talk is a joke.”
With this skinning job Tom soon found himself in better spirits, and work
ed so effectively that he won golden praise from his employers.
“Shucks! What a scalper of redskins that boy would make!” declared Pilchuck. “He can keep a knife sharp as a razor an’ cut with it like a nigger.”
If Tom had been able to get some leisure he would have found much enjoyment in the permanent camp. It was situated on a beautifully wooded bench above the wild brakes of a tributary to the larger river near by, and game abounded there. Down in the brakes were bear, panther, wildcats in numbers too plentiful for wandering around without a gun. The wide belts of timber appeared to be full of wild turkey and deer. Antelope, tame as cattle, grazed on the prairie; and in the wake of the buffalo slunk hordes of howling coyotes. Bands of big gray wolves, bold and savage, took their toll of the buffalo calves.
The diet of buffalo steak was varied by venison and antelope meat, and once with wild turkey. This last trial of a changed menu resulted disastrously for Tom. It happened to be his turn as cook and he had killed several wild turkeys that day. Their flesh was exceedingly bitter, owing to a berry they lived on, which was abundant in the brakes. Pilchuck, who suffered with indigestion, made sarcastic remarks about Tom’s cooking, and the other men were vociferous in their disapproval. Unfortunately Tom had not cooked any other meat.
“Tom, you’re a valuable member, but your cookin’ is worse than your shootin’,” remarked Hudnall, finally. “We’ll relieve you of your turn an’ you can put that much time to somethin’ else. . . . No offense, my lad. You just can’t cook. An’ we can’t starve to death out here. Reckon when you come to ranchin’ you’ll be lucky to have that pretty black-eyed Milly.”
“Lucky!” exploded Burn Hudnall, who it was hinted suffered a little from being henpecked. “Say, he is an’ he doesn’t savvy it.”
“Wal, we’re all pretty lucky, if you let me get in a word,” said the scout, dryly. “Here we’ve been days in hostile country, yet haven’t been molested.”
“There you go again!” protested Hudnall, who had become wearied of Indian talk.
“Wal, am I scout for this outfit or just plain plugger of buffs?” queried Pilchuck.
“You’re scout, an’ pardner, an’ everything of course,” replied Hudnall. “Your scoutin’ for buffalo couldn’t be beat, but your scoutin’ for redskins, if you do any, hasn’t worried me.”
“Wal, Hudnall, I don’t tell you everythin’,” rejoined Pilchuck. “Yesterday, ten miles below on the river, I met a bunch of Kiowas, braves, squaws, kids, with ponies packed an’ travois draggin’. They didn’t look sociable. To-day I saw a band of Comanches tearin’ across the prairie or I’m a born liar! I know how Comanches ride.”
“Jude, are you tryin’ to scare me into huntin’ closer to camp?” asked Hudnall.
“I’m not tryin’ or arguin’,” responded the scout. “I’m just tellin’ you. My advice to all of you is to confine your huntin’ to a radius of five or six miles. Then there’d always be hunters in sight of each other.”
“Jude, you an’ Burn an’ I killed one hundred ninety-eight buffalo yesterday on ground no bigger than a fifty-acre farm. But it was far off from camp.”
“I know. Most hunters like to kill near camp, naturally, for it saves work, but not when they can kill twice as many in the same time farther out.”
“I’ll kill mine an’ skin them an’ haul them in,” replied the leader.
“Wal, wal,” said Pilchuck, resignedly, “reckon advice is wasted on you.”
Tom, in his new job, worked out an innovation much to Hudnall’s liking. He followed the hunters with team and wagon, and through this hit by accident upon a method of skinning that greatly facilitated the work. Taking a forked stick, Tom fastened it to the middle of the hind axletree, allowing the other sharpened end to drag. Tying a rope to the same axle and the other end to the front leg of a dead buffalo, Tom would skin the upper side down. Next he would lead the horses forward a little, moving the beast. The stick served the purpose of holding the wagon from slipping back. Then he would skin down the center of the sides, and stop to have the team pull the carcass over. Thus by utilizing horse power he learned to remove a hide in half the time it had taken him formerly.
Often the hunters would kill a number far exceeding Tom’s ability to haul to camp. But with their help all the hides were removed generally the same day the buffalo were slain. If Tom could not haul all back to camp, he spread them fur side up, to collect the next day. Tom particularly disliked to skin a buffalo that had been killed the day before; because the bloating that inevitably occurred always made the hide come off with exceeding difficulty. Like all expert skinners, Tom took pride in skinning without cutting holes in a hide.
Tom often likened the open ground back of camp on the prairie side to a colossal checkerboard, owing to the many hides always pegged out in regular squares. Five days from the pegging process these hides would be turned fur side up for a day, and turned again every day until dry. They had to be poisoned to keep the hide bugs from ruining them. As the hides dried they were laid one over the other, making as huge piles as could be handled. To tie these bundles strips of wet buffalo hide were run through the peg-holes of the bottom and top hides, and pulled very tight. All bull hides were made into one bundle, so marked; and the others sorted according to sex, age, and quality. Taken as a whole, this hunting of buffalo for their hides, according to the opinion of all hunters, was the hardest work in the world.
One morning a couple of drivers, belonging to Black and Starwell’s outfit, halted their teams at Hudnall’s camp, and spread a rumor that greatly interested the leader. They were freighting out thirteen hundred hides to Sprague’s. The rumor had come a few days before, from hunters traveling south, to the effect that Rath and Wright of Dodge City was going to send freighters out to buy hides right at the camps. This would afford the hunters immense advantage and profit. The firm was going to pay regular prices and do the hauling.
These loquacious drivers had more news calculated to interest Hudnall. It was a report that the Kansas City firm, Loganstein & Co., one of the largest buyers of hides in the market, were sending their hides to Europe, mostly to England, where it had been discovered that army accouterments made of leather were much better and cheaper when made of buffalo hide. This would result in a rise in prices, soon expected, on the buffalo hides.
All this excited Hudnall. He paced the camp-fire space in thought. Ordinarily he arrived at decisions without vacillation, but this one evidently had him bothered. Presently it came out.
“I’ll stay in camp an’ work,” he said, as if answering a query. “Tom, you an’ Stronghurl shall haul all the hides we have to Sprague’s. You can see our women folks an’ bring back the straight of this news. Let’s rustle, so you can go with Starwell’s freighters.”
The journey to Sprague’s Post was an endless drive of eight long, hot glaring days; yet because each day, each hour, each minute, each dragging step of weary horses bore Tom closer to Milly, he endured them joyfully.
Making twenty-five miles the last day, Tom and his companions from the Pease River reached Sprague’s late at night, and camped in the outskirts of the settlements, where showed tents and wagons of new outfits. Early next morning Tom and Stronghurl were besieged by prospective buffalo-hunters, intensely eager to hear news from the buffalo fields. Invariably the first query was, were the buffalo really herded by the millions along the Red, Pease, and Brazos Rivers? Secondly, were the Indians on the warpath? Tom answered these questions put to him in the affirmative; and did his best with the volley of other interrogations, many of them by tenderfoot hunters. He remembered when he had been just as ignorant and raw as they were now.
Thus, what with bringing in the horses, breakfast, and satisfying these ambitious newcomers, Tom was held back from rushing to see Milly. Stronghurl said he would see the Hudnalls later. At last, however, Tom got away, and he had only to hurry down the almost deserted street of the post to realize that the hour was still early. He was not conscious of anyth
ing save a wonderfully warm and blissful sense of Milly’s nearness — that in a moment or so he would see her.
Tom’s hand trembled as he knocked on the canvas door of the Hudnall quarters. He heard voices. The door opened, to disclose Mrs. Hudnall, wary-faced and expectant.
“For the land’s sake!” she cried, her expression changing like magic. “Girls, it’s Tom back from the huntin’ fields.”
“You bet, and sure glad,” replied Tom, and could hardly refrain from kissing Mrs. Hudnall.
“Come right in,” she said, overjoyed, dragging him into the kitchen. “Never mind Sally’s looks. She just got up. . . . Tom, I know from your face all’s well with my husband.”
“Sure. He’s fine — working hard and making money hand over fist. Sent you this letter. Stronghurl came, too. He’ll see you later.”
Sally Hudnall and Mrs. Burn Hudnall welcomed Tom in no less joyful manner; and the letters he delivered were received with acclamations of delight.
Tom looked with eager gaze at the door through which Sally had come, expecting to see Milly. But she did not appear.
“Where’s Milly?” he asked, not anxiously, but just in happy eagerness.
His query shocked the Hudnall women into what seemed sudden recollection of something untoward. It stopped Tom’s heart.
“Milly! Why, Tom — she’s gone!” said Mrs, Hudnall.
“Gone!” he echoed, dazedly.
“Yesterday. Surely you met her on the road south?”
“Road south? . . . No, no,” cried Tom, in distress. “Jett! Did he take her away?”
“Yes. He came night before last, but we didn’t know until mornin’,” continued Miss Hudnall, hurriedly. “Had his wife an’ two men with him. Jett sold thirty-four hundred buffalo hides an’ had been drinkin’. . . . He — well, he frightened me, an’ poor Milly. I was never so sorry for any one in my life.”
“Oh, I was afraid he’d come!” burst out Tom, in torture. “Milly said I shouldn’t leave her. . . . Oh, why, why didn’t I listen to her?”